Moscow Noir Read Online Free Page A

L—L—L—”
    “Lee? You must be Foxy Lee with your red hair,” Stary suggested, laughing, and when she stopped crying she said, “Foxy, I like that. I’m Lisa, actually.”
    “Monsters Ball, I like the sound of that. Monsters help the homeless! You’ve got some smarts, all right! Monsters. I’ll get ’em all over here to the Atrium.”
    “But—”
    “I’ll rent the Atrium for the night, no problem.”
    … And how they laughed afterward, and how “Lisa” didn’t really stick, but that sweet Lee did. That Lee really did stick. Foxy Lee, it almost sounds Chinese.
    Foxy Lee, my red-haired little girl.
    She said that she liked me from the very beginning. I could never figure out whether she really liked me, or whether I just didn’t disgust her. Or maybe she didn’t really care one way or the other. On the whole, Foxy acted like a typical female of the species: she didn’t get uppity, and she deferred to the strongest male, never forgetting that there were other males around grazing, and that his status as “strongest” was always temporary.
    When Stary wasn’t looking she never missed a chance to make eyes at me. Although, no, come to think of it, I’m exaggerating. She didn’t really make eyes at me. She just looked me right in the eye, staring; but for too long, and her gaze was too moist. The blood from my head rushed to the pit of my stomach and the skin on my back would be covered in goose-bumps. Then I would recall (genetic memory should never be underestimated) how the backs of my ancestors were covered in hair, and that their hair was said to stand on end at the sight of such females.
    But Stary was the strongest, the alpha male; and she was afraid of him.
    Stary owned millions, and sometimes killed people (although not by his own hand, of course). Stary had gotten the nickname back in kindergarden, because his last name was Starkovsky. He was five years older than me. He was only forty when he died.
    And today was the day he died.
    Our bus is driving from one train station to the next. By the end of the night it will have been to each one in the city. At each stop the men in masks drag in more half-dead bums, until the bus is totally full, until the smell becomes completely unbearable, until we come full circle and end up back at Kursk. This is a mission of mercy. This is the route of suffering.
    At Three Stations Square there was a whole line of frozen beggars. They all wanted to get a place on the bus, but the merciful took only those who couldn’t stand up. Only those who were lying in the dirty snow outside the line.
    That seems pretty dumb to me. Why pick up only the weakest? If you’re going to try to rescue someone, it makes more sense to save the ones who can stand up. They’re stronger. They have a better chance of survival.
    Hey, guys! Save the strongest! You can’t save the fallen ones anyway.
    * * *
    She kissed me for the first time at the Merciful Monsters Charity Ball.
    She wasn’t wearing a costume. (Stary didn’t want his woman looking grotesque.) She was simply wrapped in expensive furs, her red hair down and a fox mask over her face. A simple one like the kind for kids. She was the most beautiful of all—not because everyone else came wearing fangs and bloody or half-decomposed faces, but just objectively. Because she was.
    But I had other things on my mind. Her beauty paled in comparison with that of my new bank card.
    On that night (as always) Foxy stuck close to Stary, and I (for the first time) tried to remain as far away from him as possible.
    On that night Foxy was just a vague red spot, a red spot that was no longer important and that would remain part of the past.
    On that night I ignored Foxy. I was busy thinking about my bank card, about its golden sheen, about the fifty grand on it. Everything turned out to be so much simpler than I’d expected. Destitute Russia, the fund that we had started, got good press, and the Merciful Monsters Charity Ball was covered