Tsar After Shave

"What do you know about art, Volk?

Maxim Abdullaev Launches question through the airwaves as if it were an ax, cleaving pretense.

I CRAM my Nokia mobile phone against my ear. Clattering flat voice, jostling diners, and raised me an excuse to delay answering his question. "Look, I say, then step down to my table in the basement of Vadim's Cafed near Staraya Street, where I do my office.

Maxim could be anywhere. Its headquarters is located in the district Solsnetskaya only a few blocks away, but changed his personal space in Business Weekly, sometimes daily, making it impossible to develop a mental picture of where he is or what it did.

Once I left the DIN, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. Art? I have an MA in art history from the University of Moscow. "

I'm sure Maxim knows enough about my life to take sarcasm. dead mother, dead father, the poverty end of the Soviet era, and five years of killing and worse in Chechnya unsurprisingly failed to harmonize into a world-class education. Things I've learned are not taught in universities. He barks a laugh deep gorge that offers no comfort. A polar bear is probably the same sound, just before he eats.

"Listen," he said. "You do something for me. Talk to Gromov. Yes?"

"Yes," I said, as if I had the choice, and Maxim disconnects.

Two hours later, almost midnight, Gromov clumps like a plow horse in my office basement. The flesh on his bald head and bloated face bows, like the skin of a shar-pei and slits his eyes, which are unstable, nervous, with reason. Valya lurks hidden among the shelves of cafed sundries behind him.

"You talked about Maxim? He says.

I grunt acknowledgment.

He collapses into a padded chair with wheels that disappears, creaking under its weight. Even its silvery round feet are covered by the folds of his coat hanging, where one part remains buried in a deep pocket. He likes to show a Colt .45 Peacemaker Chrome, an outdated cannon that rends large holes in the body, a good weapon for a man whose business is intimidation.

"I had a business opportunity," he begins. "Maxim says you're the guy to help me evaluate it."

"I do not partners."

He knows. My rule is a source of friction between us. "Yeah, yeah." Scarred biker boots twirl the leather chair he takes in the surroundings.

There is not much to see here in the basement. Black slate floor, rows of shelves, exposed raw wood beams, plaster walls randomly damaged to show the red brick underneath, and dusty 60s Slots at the time. Gromov is looking for Valya, I know, but it will not be visible unless she wants to be. He finished his investigation and smiled at Crooked Teeth black stripe omnipresent chewing tobacco.

"Maybe you should be partners."

"Say what you just said." I draw your attention to the empty table before me. "I have work to do."

"You know diamonds?"

"Maxim says art, you say diamonds. What is it?

"It's the same thing, asshole."

When he pulls his hand from his overcoat pocket, Valya materializes behind him and aimed the barrel of a pistol grip short, 12 gauge Mossberg at the back of his shaven head. But instead of drawing the Colt, he launched a rectangle of sparkling crystal drops in the air before slamming into my palm.

Valya withdraws.

Gromov leans back, blissfully oblivious to the proximity of death, while I examine his prize. The stone is about one centimeter square by three long. One end is broken, jagging a hectare in tatters.