16

Atlantic City greeted him like an unwashed whore. Nothing good happened in here after sunset, at least not until summer. Lofty casinos lorded over paved grids of daytime traffic, while their parking towers never afforded free space before the first two levels.

Gregory Tangela wanted an anonymous cleaner to eliminate his foes, and the covert aspects of such a position had lured a man like Sash to a sit-down. Sash wanted no part of the made-man culture native to such a life, like the orchestrated nonsense displayed by these two burly goons standing shoulder-to-shoulder behind Tangela.

Their cautious eyes roamed familiar territory, his marred face and that smooth black ball in his socket. At the same time, the hulking Tangela looked fresh from a Scorsese film in his designer pantsuit, narrow mustache, and moon-faced machismo.

The man had survived sixty years without taking a bullet, and for this, he sacrificed his looks and hairline.

“Being behind the scenes,” Sash said after hearing his offer. “Means different things for you and me,”

Tangela’s thick legs parted. “What do you mean?”

“When you go down,” Sash stood and smoothed the wrinkles from his gray suit jacket. “The first person to get fucked is me,”

Tangela was annoyed yet respectful. “No, dammit.”

“Explain it to me, then,” Sash said. “Like I’m a child,”

“Your name never gets spoken,” the man assured, hands moving with each word. “No one takes responsibility for your hits except me. Trust me on this. Fall guys come cheap these days.”

Sash mulled his words; a revolving door of desperate men willing to do jail time for debt forgiveness was a fact of life.

“Listen, I can pay you ten times more than Dr. Zhivago up there in New York,” Tangela said, referring to Sash’s current boss, Vladimir Kotwiki. “Down here, you get anonymity and a place to call home,”

“Now, that is a situation that tempts me.” Sash nodded, hand in his jacket. “But first, I must do what I came here to do.”

Pistol drawn, he fired.

The flesh between Tangela’s eyes split, weeping blood as the men alongside pulled their guns. Sash aimed again, firing two more rounds. Each man took a bullet to the head, their legs folding like stringless marionettes.

Sash strolled calmly from the garage and inserted himself into a group of passing pedestrians. Safe in the driver’s seat of his rental, he watched as five men stormed out of the garage’s two large doors. They pushed their way into a gaggle of walkers, and finding no one resembling Sash, they jumped into their cars and fled the scene.

♪

Sash’s actual employer, Deandre Regal, spoke Polish, which is unusual for a black man in this country. Braided and lean, he carried out business with a calculating yet sophisticated air that put Sash at ease—he also paid in conveniently small bills.

Regal’s panther-like eyes examined Sash as he counted his cash. He wondered aloud if his father’s offer was transferrable, reminding him that a modest community like Margate, full of old Jews living in brand-new condos, would make him invisible.

Sash considered his words over some bourbon and a damned good cigar.

On the way down from New York, he’d revisited the abandoned rest stop where he and Oleg viciously parted ways. Overgrown grass had swallowed up any evidence of their brutal altercation, and miles down the road, he found no sign of the abandoned car, though crime scene tape still clung to nearby trees.

If the police had Sash’s gun, why hadn’t they come for him? After everything with Oleg and Konni, he desperately needed a new life, so Mister Regal got his answer before Sash returned to his motel room.

The brochure on his nightstand told of the Mid-Atlantic Symphony Orchestra’s residency at the Royce Casino.

He hadn’t seen his instrument since Samil cleaned out Konni’s apartment. The fat-ass spoke only to Radeki these days, and he never mentioned Sash’s violin—nor had he sold it since Sash checked nearly every pawn shop in Brooklyn.

Nothing calmed him more than playing that violin, not even a shot of freezer-thick vodka. Radeki offered to ask after it, but Sash advised him not to; he didn’t need that fat brat getting nervous with Konni missing.

The air-conditioned room felt frigid after a hot shower.

Sash fell onto the bed and let the crisp sheets dry his wet skin. He gouged the black ball from his orbital socket with a carefully placed thumb, releasing the pressure in his temple.

A lazy examination found a faint smear on its glass.

Tongue heavy with bourbon, he closed his eyes and heard the first strings from Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun. His fingers strummed upon the sheet, pressing phantom cords while flutes, horn harps, crotales, and clarinets dulled his sinus pain.

His gun falls, and he lashes out, blow after blow, sending fire into his blood-stained knuckles. Oleg rolls free and charges into the woods. Sash gives chase, and the trappings of a violin grow louder.

Trees blind his charge as Oleg’s footfalls grow distant. Branches nip at his arms, and a pistol pops off somewhere ahead. Coming upon broken fauna, he enters a clearing where a group of young, lithe men twist to Debussy’s symphonic poem.

Sinewy bodies surround him, and their long, dark locks tickle his eager hands. Gleaming, youthful skin surrounds him. Hungry sighs bring warmth to his skin. He breaks free of their seductive embraces as the symphony fades, leaving the wail of a lone violin.

Through the high grass stands a naked blond in a circle of stones.

His bare back is like milk against the darkened woods, his narrow arm drawing a feathered bow over the strings of Sash’s violin. The sun dies along the treetops, and the sparse hair covering this angelic blonde’s legs and arms shimmers with captured light.

This imaginary beauty isn’t Rudolf Nureyev, a man Sash saw dance this ballet as a child—but knowing this doesn’t quell his desire. Crickets quiet when Sash’s trigger finger touches a nub in the blonde’s spine.

The music stops, the arm drops, and Andrej imprisons him with those angry eyes.

Sash woke abruptly, having ejaculated on his chin and chest.

He sighed, frustrated; another shower, the water would dry the scars on his back and make the drive home uncomfortable. He lay there in the dark, deciphering his strange dream and making connections.

The day was longer than it should have been. His brain conjured ridiculous notions, given merit when he remembered that Andrej had played violin. Suddenly, his impossible theory began germinating, a seed planted too deep.