Vlad leaned back on the rickety wooden chair, balancing his long body with grace, fixing Max with a smile that would have even disarmed the seasoned cop. That is, if he hadn't known Vlad for a few years already.
Max looked up from the immaculately clean tumbler Vlad had served a shot of vodka to him in, fixing Vlad with his own gaze. Sitting in a fashionably rickety chair, his feet propped up on the edge of a pile of beams, Vlad managed this balancing act with enough ease to make Max wonder whether or not Vlad had tipped over. Ever.
They talked a while, light stuff. What brand of gun was the most reliable, what the economy looked like from a consumer and marketer's perpective. And finally, some snot wad politician who had made a minor seat, and made his power influential. To the worse. Max made a scoffing, passing remark on how American politics were going to the shits. Vlad had chuckled at Max's forever colorful terminology, and then his sharp, handsome face faded from it's genuinely amused grin. "Really, Max. It isn't that bad. You can always kick him out in a year or two."
Max snorted, draining his glass. Vlad unfolded himself from the blood-draining position, and plucked Max's tumbler away, leaning over to the bottle on the pile of planks to refill it. He seemed to contemplate giving another shot at changing Max's mind. "Max, you have no idea. At least not about how bad politics can be." Max made an incomprehensible sound, indicating his persisting disbelief. Vlad chuckled in response, the bottle somehow remaining steady. "Until you've stood in a soup line for two hours, you have no idea." He handed back the tumbler, and threw his chair up on two legs again. Max was hunched over his own chair, almost brooding. Vlad's features, although nearly unreadable, hinted at a remote sort of worry, as if fearing Max was doubting him. "Until you've worked in a shit job making thousands of handkerchiefs a week with barely a ruble to show for it, you can't complain that the politicians are really fucking up the American job system." Max looked up, his ingrained cop attitude taking over: listen and observe. Vlad, upon seeing this look surface abruptly cut off, and took to looking down at his own glass. Probably the third one, if Max knew Vlad any.
Max took another gulp of the burning liquid, still quiet. It was rare, if ever, that Vlad ever talked about his backround. And no one had ever gotten him drunk enough to talk about it. True to the Russian stereotype, Vlad had a copious tolerance for booze, despite his thin frame. Max decided to take the plunge. "Was it bad for you? In Russia?"
An ironic smile cut across Vlad's face. He made a small huffing laugh, letting his chair slam back all four legs, and then stood, wandering about the cramped room. "Comparatively? I don't know Max."
There was a slight silence. Both were too afraid to bring it up, neither wanting to offend the other.
Finally, Vlad, with his back turned to Max, as if intensely interested in the wall speckled with the light of a bare bulb, said, "It taught me a lot. America frightened me at first. Nobody was seriously threatening to kill you because you touched their car. People were happier, I think, here. It's so warm, too. And even the poorest of the poor, excluding the homeless, had food everyday, had a place to sleep, and cable TV. Fuck, Max! They have TV here, and they're 'poor'!"
Max listened, waiting. Usually a few more edifying remarks were made before a person clammed up. This much Max knew an incensed person would do. "Did you know what I had to do as a child? Well, not whore myself out, at least. It was too cold." Vlad gave a short bark of laughter. "I begged. I was too small to work. It was illegal, of course. Communism didn't allow it. Everyone was supposed to have as much as everyone else... Well. We all got fucked over equally, didn't we?" Vlad turned for an instant, so Max could see that a wry grin had eked its way across the Russian's face. He gave a chuckle that Max couldn't interpret, and turned away again, turning a lazy half circle as the soles of his dress shoes gently scuffed against the worn, unfinished wooden floorboards. "Do you know what I miss most about home?" Max caught the referrence of 'home'. Clearly Vlad still considered himself on unsteady footing in America. "The food. I love food, Max. I mean, who doesn't miss their mother's cooking, neh?" It was almost 'nyet', to Max's ears. This was as close to regression Max had ever heard Vlad come to. "That's why... I'm opening the restaurant. It'll be mixed dishes, of course. But I want Russia in there." Another pregnant silence. "People need to know that Russia isn't all politics and black market gun running." Vlad then burst out into cackles. Startled, Max glanced up from the glass he had unknowingly drained, his red rimmed grey eyes fixing on the tall, lean Russian.
Vlad torqued his upper body to face Max, a grin large anough to eat his own head spread across his face. "You shouldn't feed me vodka, Max." His tone was mockingly accusing, chiding, amused. "I get philosophical."
He strode across the room, clapping a hand on Max's back as he swept up the two glasses and the bottle in one hand. Like a magician performing a trick, his blue eyes fixed on Max's grey ones, he deftly tossed a glass to spinning in the air before he recaptured it, the two glasses barely clinking.
"Come, my friend. I'll show you what I've done with the place so far." With that, Vlad sauntered out, hailing an unseen person in rapid Russian as he cleared the door, raising his unoccupied hand in greeting.
Max stood for an instant, chewing on his lower lip. The taste of the strong liquid lingered in his mouth, as he thought of the brief snippet of revealing information Vlad had divulged.
A grey morning. Wonderful- had it been sunny the day before, or even the week before, Max suspected a yawning hole would have opened in the ground and swallowed New York city for such a breach. Max remebered the sun once- when it pulled itself from its watery bed, when it shone with splintered force through his office windows, and as it set, as if framed in a picture, outside his living room window.
Max brooded reflectively, not noticing the swath he cut through the early morning throng as he shambled through the suite of offices, nor how the regular squad at the coffee pot had drifted away upon sight of him. There was just something about Detective Max Payne that stilled your tongue and brought an uneasy feeling to your chest.
One officer, having known Max since his start at the precinct, ambushed him fearlessly. "Hey, Max. Heard there's a friend of your down in questioning."
Max looked from steadily draining the coffee pot. It was news that any of Max's 'friends' were in custody, whether the meaning was taken ironically or figuratively. Most were too clever; others were quietly sealed in black bags, or in steel lockers- most, by now, had granite slabs over thier heads. Good. Another cheerful thought to dwell on. Max's badge felt uncomfortably heavy on his chest. "Yeah? Who?" It almost sounded like a challenge.
"Some Russian. He looks like someone tattooed him with an aluminum bat." Oh, that sounded great. Frankie 'The Bat' Niagara all over again.
The styrofoam cup felt too hot in his hand, the coffee smelling like someone had botched the pot. The interrogation room in the homicide section was occupied by Det. Miller, and a familiar, seat-leaning person. As the door quietly clicked shut, the blonde head twisted to get a look at the new comer, revealing two magnificent black eyes, a split lip, and a cheek that looked like hamburger. As he caught sight of the half shadowed detective, a familiar grin spread across his face, making his split lip reopen, a bead of blood forming. "Max- dearest of all my friends. How was your night?"
Have no fear- Vlad is here.
I nodded to Vlad, offering him the cup of coffee. He smiled, flashing that toothy grin of his, and reached for it, saying, "My friend, you are a life saver, literally." As he took the cup, his red-spattered white shirtsleeve rode up, and I saw hand prints on his wrist- whoever had jumped him must have had hands like trash can lids.
I shambled my way around him, finally planting myself on the edge of the table as I listened to him sip on the coffee, making it purr. I was too tired to ask questions immediately, but Det. Miller wasn't picking up the slack. I didn't care- a little silence never hurt anyone.
My wife half-laying on the bed, her arms splayed- silent. I scooped her body to mine, her chest to mine. But her heart was silent
The baby, one tiny, chubby arm spilled from her faded blanket. Her cries were so loud and piercing. She was silent
The smoker's voice, too calm, too female, over the line, and then a click, and silence
I snapped up my head from pinching my nose bridge, stifling a gasp. Over the past five years, I had gotten good at that. Unfortunately, if you stifle that gasp, your body still takes about half a minute to get back on track- no sudden reaction, no sudden subsidal. I cleared my throat, shifted positions against the table egde, and began to talk. "What happened, Vlad?"
Vlad had, momentarily, stopped sipping the coffee, watching me. That was the bad thing about Vlad- if there ever was a person who could read you, Vlad was the king of them. He grinned around the lip of the cup, took another sip before answering. "Not much to tell Max."
"Then what's up with the wife-beating marks?" I craned over the expanse of the table between up, took a high grip on his arm with one hand, and slid up the wilted shirt sleeve with the other. The purpling hand marks stood out as if they were blood under a black-light. Vlad's blue eyes danced from them to me, evaluating, considering his position and what he had to loose or gain if he told me.
Before he could say anything, I silently went about pointing out to myself, Miller, and Vlad where the marks were. Vlad needed to see that hiding anything now wasn't going to help him in the future. Miller needed the locations for his records. And I- well, I was curious to see what kind of damage Vlad could rack up. Finding a hand print on the side of his neck, one that easily spanned from his voice-box to his spine, I gently placed my hand against it, assesing the size against mine. I told Miller the attacker would have to have hands almost half a foot wide. And then, Vlad began to talk.
"It was a rub out. Just a bunch of Italians down by the docks taking care of business. They saw me, seeing them, and decided, 'Hey, why not?' So this massive bastard runs me down, snatches me up, and tosses me back. They had their fun, left me for dead, and that's when the nice policeman found me."
Okay. That's nice. "How many?" My tone was calm, and I was writing Vlad's responses down, since Miller seemed to forget he was a cop. He was gawping at us- probably because he couldn't believe the nonchalance in which we were conducting this. Both Vlad and I had been through this drill too many times to be scrupulous about it.
"Eh... five or six." A wry grin. "Could you count the big guy as two?"
"Okay. You say the big guy 'ran you down'. Could you clarify? Did he do this on foot or in a vehicle?"
"Oh, on foot, of course." He took a pause to test the coffee's temperature. "He ran like a fucking deer."
Okay. So we have a mutant Italian on our hands. Probably lurking in the sewers. "Was he the only one that contributed to your beating?"
"Nyet. Ahh... No, um- one, tall, skinny, gave me the facial decs; two worked on my body. Big guy held me down."
"Okay. Could you identify any of these men?" Assuming they were all men, that is.
"...No." Vlad was evading, I knew. If he said 'yes', that meant he would have to swear on trial about his statement. And he wouldn't even have to press charges- they were already wanted for murder. He was just a witness to their placement, and he happened to be one less murder charge. Or, rather, he happened to be an added assault and battery charge. With attempted murder.
"Vlad, if you tell me who they were, that's a severe hamper on the mafia."
And my day went downhill from there.
By the time Vlad and I had finished with our verbal sparring and manuvering, I had so much ardrenaline coursing through my veins, I was pretty sure I could take on the big guy myself. Vlad and I departed, Vlad headed for the exit and Miller's car destined for the hospital, and me for my desk. I hated desk work. It always wanted me to prove something that was just in the pit of my stomach, but what was always right. Winterson helped me in that regard. She was a genius when it came to paperwork- and usually handled mine, and then rushed to catch up after I mowed a bloody path through the field on toughs and guns.
Sometimes I felt sorry for her, having a partner like me. I had gotten the reputation of being the guy that fate liked to fuck over by putting me in the worst situations (usually involving shootouts), who had a latent painkiller dependency, and who tended to have minor mental breakdowns. You don't waltz through three years of blood and come out unstained. Thankfully, it took a lot to kill me. More than once, Winterson had found me in various states of the puddle effect. It sounds fluffy, but it isn't- puddle of blood, or booze, or bile, or tears, and once lighter fluid. Each time, she would mop me up, brow-beat me into explaining, and then we would take it from there. She was about 12 years my senior, and had been through the hoops in the force. She was methodical, ruthless when need be, and sympathetic when called for. She really was the perfect cop, always with her (and my) paperwork in on time, always dressed for the part, always punctual.
Lots of guys would hate her. I was had joined the force too young, and had been undercover too long, and had seen to much to hold any kind of resentment against her. She kept my ass on the line, and my methods and personality in check. We were possibly the two most different cops that ever worked the force. Thank you, Bravura, because although you're an old fuck, you still can read your workers like your log book.
I stalked out of the homicide's interrogation room, giving a terse nod to Winterson as I passed her desk. Without realizing it, I nearly drew my weapon to check if it was loaded, but stopped, my fingers dancing on the butt of my gun. It wasn't my case, I reminded myself. The responding officer was Miller, and I just helped out because the witness was a friend of mine. Winterson had told me, after seeing the expression on my face, that I couldn't bulldoze people to solve the case. Especially when it wasn't mine.
So I concentrated, for the next hour and a half (which was through lunch, as I vaguely remember Winterson reminding me that I was missing it) on a case that was my own.
Until I got a call from Vlad, in the hospital.
His voice was faint, overlain by other voices and miles of faulty telephone wiring. "Max! Thought I wouldn't get you! Look, we can talk about this morning at Vodka, eh? If you want to."
Want to? Christ. I would be overstepping my jurisdiction by a mile and a half, and loosing time on my own case. But still. Things with Vlad begged to be explained.
My long silence seemed to unnerve him. "Max?"
"Yeah, I'm still here. Just thinking." I ground the phone into the side of my head and chin. "We'll do it. When?"
"Perhaps... Nine? I'll be done with my work by then."
Work- that didn't sound good. "You can't go bulldozing people, Vlad. You're out of that, now."
Vlad sounded amused, not at all offended, "No, no! I have to talk to the construction crew, and do some paperwork. And get out of this place. God, I hate hospitals." Another story that begged to be told.
"Alright. At nine. Later, Vlad."
"Bye, Max."
I hung up, looking at, but not seeing, my phone. Nine. It would give me enough time to clean up my case.