“And I don’t speak Russian,” he added.
The man in the sports cap took a gun out of his pocket and pulled it on him.
“Whoa, whoa, buddy!” Ramses said, holding up his hand, fingers spread. “What’s that for?”
The Sports Cap didn’t reply.
Ramses squinted at the weapon. It was a Makarov pistol. It could be the authentic heater or a replica. Could be a rubber-bullet handgun, as well. There are far fewer firearms in Russia than in the US. If Ramses were in San Francisco, Chicago or Detroit now, the authenticity of this baby wouldn’t be in question.
But he couldn’t take his chances now. One cannot be too careful.
“Money,” the big man said with a thick Russian accent. One of the few English words the guy probably knew. “Bistro.”
“Okay now,” Ramses said and raised his other hand. “You settle down, all right? Are you offering me your money? Well, you don’t owe me anything.”
The trio looked at him dumbly.
The young thug frowned. He looked at his comrades. He had probably never heard so many English words in a row before in his whole life.
The gun clicked. The safety was off.
“Give money.” Their elder companion seemed to be better educated and had a better command of English.
His surly face was covered with deep lines. There was a scar on his cheek. This one was definitely a former zek, a convict.
The zek drew out a big knife. Its blade glittered in the dim street lamp light.
“Give money, nigger,” the zek repeated.
“C’mon, guys. It’s late,” Ramses said. “I’m gonna cruise.” He turned his back toward them to walk away.
“Stop, bitch!” The Sports Cap shot in the air.
Ramses turned swiftly back to the hoodlums. His dreadlocks swooshed through the air. He hit the nearest of them, the zek, in the lower jaw.
The man cried out and coughed. He pressed his hand to the injured jaw and let loose of the knife. It vanished in a snowbank.
The Sports Cap fired his gun. Ramses ducked. The bullet zinged past.
He sent his fist in the man’s groin. The Sports Cap bent over. A dark stain spread across the front of his jeans. Ramses drove his knee into his attacker’s stomach. The man fell down and dropped the handgun.
The big guy went for the pistol. Ramses acted like a lightning. He gave a punch to the thug’s nose. Blood sprayed the snow. The big Russian guy groaned.
In a second Ramses grabbed the thug’s hand, which held the bottle. He used it as a weapon against the man and gave him a quick hit on his forehead. Then one more hit in the temple.
The bottle cracked with a wet sound. Ramses smelled the beer immediately. The thug collapsed like a cut tree.
The other two scumbags saw their comrade lying on the sidewalk and ran to their car. They jumped into it. The car screeched its tires and drove away.
Ramses wiped the sweat off his forehead. He was panting. He pulled off his gloves, bent down to the lying thug and felt his neck for a pulse. Nothing. He tried the wrist. No pulse either.
“Fuck!” he said.
A halo of blood was spreading around the hulk’s head. The snow absorbed it like a sponge.
The night sky got cleared, and the moon pierced through the clouds. He heard the wailing of police car sirens in the distance. He remained standing there on the sidewalk, waiting for the police car to arrive. He took out his cell phone and dialed Steve’s number. The line was busy.
“Damn! Unbelievable!”
He looked around, seeking for help.
A young couple went out of the nightclub, but when they saw what had just happened, they hastened to walk away. No one wanted to spend their weekend in a police station office as a witness or to be pulled out of their jobs, later on, to act as a witness in court.
The blaring sirens were close now. The police car turned around the corner with flashing lights. Four cops jumped out of the car onto the crunchy snow, handguns at ready.
They shouted at him in Russian. He did not understand exactly what they were saying, but he was a good guesser. He stepped away from the dead body and put his hands up in the air.
It stopped snowing.
TWO
The journey to the police station took about fifteen minutes. It was a noisy environment. People walked to and fro, shouting and slamming doors.
A bald policeman with a bushy walrus mustache emptied Ramses’s pockets. They took off his shoelaces and jeans belt. Then they made him go through mug shots and took his fingerprints. No one spoke English here, and his driver’s license was the only piece of information they could use.
The Walrus filled in his police charge sheet, put it before Ramses and offered him a pen.
Ramses pushed the document aside. “Dude, I ain’t signing anything until I get it translated for me, all right? Into English.”
The Walrus lifted his hands in dismay.
Ramses spent the night in a “monkey house”, as they called holding cells in Russia. It smelled of stale urine, puke, and disinfectant. Half a dozen prisoners sat with him on a long wide bunk. Boozers, thieves, abusive husbands.
At the crack of dawn, the door opened, and the Walrus pointed at him and gestured to step out. He clamped his wrists with handcuffs.
The cell door closed with a bang. Ramses winced. “Oh, what a dump!”
He turned and saw a young blond woman in the corridor. A strict suit. Modest make-up. An impenetrable face.
“My name is Ksenia Romanova,” the woman said in English in a cold voice. “I’m going to act as your interpreter.”
“Morning to you, missy,” Ramses said, offering his hand. “God, I’m thrilled to have someone speaking English here. You’re a godsend.”
She ignored his extended hand and started walking. The men followed her. They threaded their way through the five-storied building into the interview room. It was spartan. A table. Three chairs. A lamp over the table. No windows.
An old man in uniform was reading documents at the table.
The interpreter said, “This is Alexander Petrovich Romanov, the police chief of this police station. He will also be the investigator of your case.”
Ramses nodded and sat at the opposite end of the table. He looked at the old man and leaned back in his chair. “Hey, wait a minute. His last name is Romanov, too? So it’s your dad who’s running this funny farm here, ain’t he?”
Ksenia Romanova frowned and turned to her father to interpret the American’s words. The man frowned, too. Even the way they frowned was the same. Father and daughter, no doubt.
“Okay, I got it.” Ramses sat upright. The handcuffs clattered against the table surface. “I’m in no position to open my mouth here. I’ll keep silence, no worries.”
“That would be better,” the Russian woman said with no trace of emotion. She opened her notepad and uncapped her pen.
They asked him all kinds of questions about his name, occupation, relatives, place of residence.
“Did you kill that young man?” the police chief said.
“That heavy mob tried to rob me,” Ramses said. “There were three of ‘em. Armed. That was self-defense on my part. This