Red Square - Martin Cruz Smith [100]
The woman in pink came over with her friend and asked for champagne.
“Sure.” Everything seemed like a good idea to Tommy.
The four of them took a table in the corner. The woman in pink was Tatiana; her friend in the body stocking was Marina. Tatiana had dark roots and an elaborate blond ponytail; Marina wore black hair brushed over a bruised cheek. Tommy, playing host, introduced “My pal Arkady.”
“We knew he was Russian,” Tatiana said. “He looks romantic.”
“Poor men are not romantic,” Arkady said. “Tommy is much more romantic.”
“We could have fun here,” Tommy suggested.
Arkady watched a woman walk, hips slowly marching toward another battle as she led a soldier through a beaded curtain to the back rooms. “Do you see many Russians here?” he asked.
“Truck drivers.” Tatiana made a face. “Usually we have a more international clientele.”
“I like Germans,” Marina said in a reflective mood. “They wash.”
“That’s important,” Arkady said.
Tatiana lowered her champagne under the table to reinforce it from a flask and generously did the same for the other three glasses. Vodka once again subverting the system. Marina leaned over her glass and whispered, “Molto importante.”
“We speak Italian,” Tatiana said. “We toured Italy for two years.”
Marina said, “We were with the Bolshoi Piccolo Ballet Company.”
“Not necessarily connected to the original Bolshoi Ballet.” Tatiana giggled.
“We did dance.” Marina sat straighter to emphasize a sinewy neck.
“Small towns. But so much sun, such music,” Tatiana recalled.
“There were ten other so-called Russian ballet companies in Italy when we left, all copying us,” Marina said.
“I think we can say we spread a love of dance,” Tatiana said. She poured Arkady a second shot. “Are you sure you don’t have any money?”
“She’s always attracted to the wrong men,” Marina said.
“Thanks,” Arkady said to both of them. “I’m looking for a couple of friends. One named Max. Russian, but better dressed than me, speaks English and German.”
“We never saw anyone like that,” Tatiana said.
“Or Boris,” Arkady said.
“Boris is a popular name,” Marina said.
“His last name was something like Benz.”
“That’s a popular name here, too,” Tatiana said.
“How would you describe him?” Arkady asked Tommy.
“Big, good-looking, friendly.”
“Does he speak Russian?” Tatiana asked.
“I don’t know. He only spoke German around me,” Tommy said.
Benz was such a nebulous creature, nothing but a name on a registration form in Moscow and on a letter in Munich, that Arkady found himself relieved to meet anyone who might have met the man in the flesh.
“Why would he speak Russian?” Arkady asked.
“The Boris I’m thinking of is very international,” Marina said. “I’m only saying that his Russian is very good.”
“He’s German,” Tatiana said.
“You haven’t been to bed with him.”
“Neither have you.”
“Tima was. She commented on it.”
“ ‘Commented on it’?” Tatiana affected a prissy accent.
“We’re friends.”
“What a cow. I’m sorry,” Tatiana added when she saw that Marina was hurt. She told Arkady, “He’s a Polish sausage, what can I tell you?”
“Is Tima here?”
“No, but I can describe her to you,” Tatiana said. “Red, four-wheel drive, also answers to the name ‘Bronco.’ ”
“I know where she means,” Tommy said, excited to get back into the conversation. “It’s right down the road. I’ll take you.”
“I wish you did have money,” Tatiana told Arkady. Under the circumstances he thought it was the biggest compliment he could expect.
A dozen Jeeps, Troopers, Pathfinders and Land Cruisers sat in a highway turnout, a prostitute waiting behind the wheel of each car. Clients parked on the shoulder to shop. Once a price was set, the woman turned off the red lamp that announced her availability, the client climbed in and they drove to the far side of the turnout, away from the passing lights