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TWO

With his elbowssupporting his weight on the bar, he asked for a water and stood watching thecrowd. The denizens of Malaya Moskva shuffled to their places on the stands.

The stench of sweatfrom coal stained skin crawled over every surface, Velikofky's sharp nosewrinkled as the water, fresh from a purifier, seemed to have absorbed thesmell. His eyes went to the tables arrayed around the arena.

A bear of a man,dressed in a black turtleneck and sleeveless vest and sporting a heavy beard,moved ponderously around the table area. Velikofsky sipped at his water as hewatched the bouncer jump to the raised hand of a much smaller, pony-tailed man. He recognized the man as a lieutenant of the Mayor, sitting across from whatVelikofsky presumed was a bodyguard. With interest he watched as the bouncer knelt by the table, hands disappeared beneath and for the briefest instant he saw an envelope before it disappeared underneath the rising bouncer's jacket. This worried him.

An electronic clock, suspended from the tall ceiling over the arena counted the time in glowing red figures for all to see, it read: 05:35.

Curiously he observed as the bouncer noisily ascended the steel staircase beside the wooden bar to a small office, no more than a box which was bolted to the steel girders which acted as the structure of the building. The fat announcer rose from his seat behind the glass, his concerned face hung as something was whispered into his ear.

Engrossed in the exchange Velikosfsky almost started at the grinning fop, standing at his shoulder and staring. 'You're Ivanov Velikofsky aren't you?' he said in stumbling Nieu-Rus slathered with layers of an enthusiastic American accent.

Ivan's own coat was a utilitarian piece of survival gear; deep pockets, scavenged plates of steel sown to the interior corresponding to his vital organs, loops, hooks and satchels were all hidden under a grey, poor looking garment of thick leather; the fop's clothing was none of that. Apart from the grey overcoat, Ivan could see rich sequins of stone finely stitched onto the linings of the slender man's flashy white blazer. The hair under his Stetson was as blonde as his hat was white.

He decided to ignore the man who was straining to be heard over the crowd. 'I've got a proposal for you Mr. Velikofsky,' he said flashing a delicate, almost effeminate smile at Ivan 'You see, I have a bit of money at my disposal and I intend to return to New America with a special Mut.' Velikofsky's attention remained squarely on the clock. The American's smile dimmed.

The fop's voice grew more serious 'I am trying to reach out to you here with something that will benefit us both.' as if remembering, 'Ah yes! I have some Tennessee whiskey here. It cost a lot of money Ivan. But you know what? This bottle,' he produced a stubby, dark rectangular bottle and held it up for Velikofsky to inspect, 'means nothing if you don't say yes tonight.' For a long moment he stared unhappily at the larger Russian, 'C'mon Ivan, why won't you talk to me?'

Fed up, Velikofsky turned to the other man and buried a strong finger in his chest, rumbling 'To me you look like a stereotype. You come to a place like Little Moscow dressed as if you want to die and speaking very bad Russian, because why, you are bored and rich. And a stupid boy, someone stole your money; Tennessee was drowned with most of your continent.'

At the last the American's smile returned 'Ahh but do you realize what that means! It means that everyone involved in making this bottle of liquor has been dead for forty years! Doesn't that just give you a tingle?'

Squaring his shoulders, Velikofsky eyed the excitable man with barely disguised confusion. Finally he turned back to the clock reading 01:39. 'They will kill you here, for your money and the clown clothes.' he said dismissively.

'I know!' the American exclaimed happily, snatching his hat from his head with his unoccupied hand he held the backside up for inspection 'They already tried. And none of the blood is mine!'; from the corner of his eye Ivan saw ragged blotches of crimson spattered on the hat and frowned. 'What will it take for you to talk to me Mr. Velikofsky?'

He thought for a moment, 'You have Roubles?'

'Yes,' almost ecstatically 'thousands.'

With an outstretched palm 'Give me four thousand, now, and maybe we talk.'

The American's hand was digging in his pocket before he stopped and said 'Hey now, wait a minute. Usually money is exchanged at the end of the negotiation.'

'We are not negotiating.' The American stared balefully 'You dress fancy but you stink, your leggings are mud stained and you carry all your money with you. You came this afternoon on a grain freighter, I suspect hiding or more likely bribed your way on. Much trouble just to negotiate with one Russian on Mut training in this shit-hole. We are not negotiating unless your life is also on the table,' Ivan pointed over the blue eyed young man's shoulder towards the entrance where four ragged ruffians pretended to hide their interest in the misplaced American, 'those men know me, so you are safe. But you will not leave here alive without me you stupid boy.' For emphasis Velikofsky placed his palm right under the other's nose.

Four five hundred Rouble notes fell into the Russian's open palm 'Two thousand! And not a penny more will I give to you sir, because you think you see much. Of all the shit-bags in this place, I would bet, not a single one of them has ever seen an American much less know the name of a dead state in New America. But I know why you know Mr. Velikofsky. So here, take the mone--' he was cut off by a deafening buzz. All noise ceased for a moment before the crowd surged as one towards the edges of the arena. The clock read 00:30.

Reading murder in the Russian's unwavering eyes the man shrank back. Coldly Velikofsky informed him 'If you speak of what you think you know I won't be alive three months from now but you will never see the miserable plantations of NA again.'

'Deal!' the American shouted over the noise. Flapping his ostentatious hat back onto his head he proceeded to break the seal on the bottle of Jack Daniels. Velikofsky stopped him, 'I want Vodka. Russian White Duck, not that French Grey Goose piss they bring on the boats.' Indicating an open table at the far side of the arena, 'My Mut is fighting now, come with two shots vodka.' and with that the large Russian hurried off.

The clock read 00:00. The announcer from the office blared over the public address speakers "Silence please." The noise died down to a whisper. "Presenting!"