Dead Man’s Footsteps

68

Ronnie was feeling a whole lot better now that he had money in his pocket again. In the left-hand pocket of his suit jacket, to be precise. Holding folding, he liked to call it. And he kept his left hand in there, holding the folded wad of crisp new one-hundred-dollar bills tightly, never once letting go, all the way back in the L-Train from midtown Manhattan to Brighton Beach station, where he got off.

Still without removing his hand, he walked the short distance back to Mail Box City and stashed five thousand and six hundred of those dollars safely away in his deposit box. Then he walked back along the street until he found a clothing store, where he bought a couple of white T-shirts, a change of socks and underpants, a pair of jeans and a lightweight bomber jacket. A short distance further along he went into a souvenir store and bought himself a black baseball cap emblazoned with the words brighton beach. Then he popped into a sports outfitters and bought a cheap pair of trainers.

He stopped at a stall to pick up a hot corned beef sandwich with a gherkin the size of a small melon and a Coke for his lunch, then returned to his rooming house. He punched on the television and changed into his new kit, putting all his old clothes into one of the plastic bags his new gear had come in.

He ate his sandwich watching television. There wasn’t much that he hadn’t seen on the news already, just recaps, images of George Bush declaring his War on Terrorism, and comments from other world leaders. Then images of joyous people in Pakistan, jumping up and down in the street, laughing, proudly displaying crude, anti-American banners.

Ronnie was actually feeling rather pleased with himself. His tiredness had gone and he was on a high. He had done something brave: he had ridden into the war zone and back out again. He was on a roll!

He finished his meal, then scooped up the bag containing his old clothes and headed out of the door. A short distance down the street, he crammed the bag into a stinking garbage can that was already nearly full to the brim with rotting foodstuff. Then, with a spring in his step, he made for the Moscow bar.

It was just as empty as yesterday, but he was pleased to see that his new best friend, Boris, was sitting on what looked like the same bar stool he had sat at yesterday, cigarette in hand, mobile phone pressed to his ear and a half-full bottle of vodka in front of him. All that was different was his T-shirt, which today was pink and carried the legend, in gold lettering, Genesis World Tour.

The same shrimp of a barman was there, wiping glasses with a dishcloth. He acknowledged Ronnie with a nod of recognition.

‘You back,’ he said in his broken English. ‘Thought you maybe gone to help.’ He pointed at the television screen. ‘They needing volunteers,’ he said. ‘They needing people help dig bodies out. I thought maybe you gone to do that.’

‘Maybe,’ Ronnie said. ‘Maybe I will do that.’

He hauled himself on to the bar stool next to his friend and waited for him to finish his call, which sounded like some kind of business deal, then slapped him on the back. ‘Hey, Boris, how you doing?’

Ronnie received a resounding thump in return, which felt like it had dislodged several of his fillings.

‘My friend! How you doing? You found the place last night? It was OK?’

‘It was fine.’ Ronnie leaned down and scratched a particularly itchy bite on his ankle. ‘Terrific. Thank you.’

‘Good. For my friend from Canada, nothing is too much trouble.’

Without any prompt, the barman produced a shot glass and Boris immediately filled it to the brim.

Holding it daintily between his finger and thumb, Ronnie raised it to the level of his lips. ‘Carpe diem!’ he said.

The vodka went down well. It had a lemon flavour, which he found instantly addictive. The second one went down even better.

The Russian waved an admonishing hand in front of Ronnie’s face, then he raised his glass, staring Ronnie in the eye, the rubble in his mouth formed into a smile. ‘Remember yesterday, what I tell you, my friend?’

‘What was that?’

‘When you toast in Russia, you drink entire glass. All way down. Like this!’ Boris drained the glass.

Two hours later, after exchanging more and more outrageous stories about their backgrounds, Ronnie was reeling, barely able to remain on the bar stool. Boris seemed to have fingers in a range of dubious activities, which included importing fake designer-brand perfumes and colognes, fixing green cards for Russian immigrants, and acting as some kind of middleman for Russian hookers who wanted to work in America. Not a pimp, he assured Ronnie. No, no, absolutely, one hundred per cent not a pimp.

Then suddenly he put an arm around Ronnie and said, ‘I know, my friend, you are in trouble. I help you! There is nothing I can’t help you with!’

Ronnie saw to his horror that Boris was refilling the glasses yet again. The television screen was going in and out of focus. Could he trust this guy? He was going to have to trust someone and, at least to his addled brain at this moment, Boris did not seem like a bloke to make moral judgements.

‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I need another favour.’

The Russian didn’t take his eyes from the television screen, where Mayor Giuliani was talking.

‘For my Canadian friend, any favour. What I can do?’

Ronnie removed his baseball cap and leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper.

‘Do you know anyone who could create a new passport – and a visa?’

The Russian gave him a stern look. ‘What you think this place is? An embassy? This just a bar, man. OK?’

Ronnie was shaken by the man’s vehemence, but then the Russian gave him in a broad grin.

‘Passport and visa. Of course. Don’t you worry. Whatever you want, I fix for you. You want passport, visa, no problem. I got a friend can fix this. He can fix you anything. So long you got money?’

‘How much money?’

‘Depends how difficult the visa. I give you his name. Me, I don’t want nothing, OK?’

‘You’re very kind.’

The Russian then raised his glass. ‘Carpe diem!’

‘Carpe diem!’ Ronnie replied.

The rest of the afternoon became a complete blur.