19

Andrew holed up in his room for several days, stealing the daylight after work to play the Pilar. Fiddling by day didn’t bother his neighbors as much as doing it by night.

A knock at his door brought an end to today’s melody.

“It’s me, Sam,” his friend sang. “I know you’re in there,”

Andrew put the Pilar back in its case and slid it under the bed.

“Did I interrupt a jag-off session?” Sam asked when the door opened.

“No,” Andrew smirked. “Get in here,”

“You’ve butched up your door greeting since I was last here.” Sam smelled like Drakkar Noir and wore a hoodie long enough to cover his shorts. “Niko says you’re mad at him,”

“I’m not happy.” Andrew sat cross-legged on the floor as Samil fell onto the bed. “Did he send you here?”

“Cyril’s birthday is tonight,” Sam said. “I was told not to come back without you.”

“Why is he so sweet?” wondered Andrew.

Samil softened his gaze, “Cyril didn’t send me,”

“You look like shit,” Andrew whispered. “You can talk to me, Sam,”

“Can I really?” he asked.

Andrew joined him on the bed. “Of course, you can.”

After a beat, the chubby boy sat up. “I think my brother is dead.”

“He hasn’t called?” asked Andrew.

“My mother got a postcard from South Carolina.” Sam pursed his lips. “It’s postdated the week Tadeusz was supposedly in Florida,”

“Maybe he just took off.” A knot tightened in Andrew’s stomach. “Cops are looking for him, right?”

“A couple of Feds came by the house. Said they hadn’t seen him in weeks.” Samil’s voice went flat, though his eyes shifted. “They asked if we heard from him, but my Mom didn’t say shit about the postcard,”

“What did Radek say?”

“Radeki was the last to see Konni,”

“Why are you still with him?”

Samil closed one eye. “Sash says to keep your enemies close,”

“You’re listening to that bitch?” Andrew frowned. “He probably pulled the trigger,”

“I checked his gun before he left for Atlantic City.” Sam’s tone darkened. “Wasn’t fired, and he hadn’t cleaned it,”

Andrew’s chest tightened. “He was in Atlantic City?”

“I think so, yeah.” Sam pushed air out his nose and then regarded him warmly. “Get dressed. I don’t want to show up without you,”

“Should you even go back there?” asked Andrew.

“I’ve known them most of my life,” Sam said. “They wouldn’t hurt my mom or me,”

“If they killed Konni,” said Andrew. “They don’t care about you,”

Samil’s nostrils flared as if tears were on the menu.

“I’ll come with you,” Andrew said. “First, we’ll hang out here for a bit.”

Sam readily agreed to this, so they spent the evening gobbling snacks and sharing a forty while playing multiple rounds of Super Mario.

Long after nine, they departed, a full moon giving the streets a strange glow.

♪

Sam and Andrew walked into a serious yet hilarious situation.

Cyril sat in the kitchen, dressed like a good birthday boy in his best tracksuit, but that wasn’t the funny part.

Sash stalked out the bathroom doorway, clad only in black boxer briefs, a black a-shirt, and snowy white socks. His face twisted in revulsion as he pointed at Radeki and demanded to know, in Polish, how anyone could leave the underside of a toilet seat so disgusting.

“I didn’t do it, Sasha,” Radek defended, shirtless in a pair of red trainers, the pantleg’s three stripes no longer white after years of wear.

 Nikola strolled out of the bedroom, pulling on what looked like the red sweatshirt that matched his brother’s pants. “What’s going on?”

“Look at that toilet seat,” Sash insisted.

The lumbering Ukrainian poked his head into the bathroom.

“Just put it down,” said Niko, “then you won’t see it,”

“You would sit on that?” Sash questioned. “Knowing it looked like that underneath?”

“I didn’t know I made that much of a mess yesterday,” Niko shrugged.

Sam giggled beside Andrew, who had suspected it was Niko all along.

“You?” Sash accused. “Get in there and clean that mess,”

Cyril’s laughter soon followed.

“It’s not that bad,” Niko said. “You’re being weird.”

“Oh, I’m being germ-phobic?” Sash looked at Samil. “Come look at this Sam-Sam, tell me if you would take a shit here, knowing this was what underneath your ass,”

Sam came between them and glanced into the bathroom, with Andrew following and spying over his shoulder. The white wooden seat was up, its underside covered with brown specs and tan spots.

“That’s fucking gross.” Andrew quickly walked back to the kitchen.

“There is spray soap behind the toilet and rags in the basket,” Sash scolded him in Polish. “You take a shit, you lift the toilet and clean it, Nikola,”

“More like Nik-eColi.” Sam stared at Niko. “Girl, what the fuck are you eating?”

“You see,” Sash yelled as Sam walked away. “I rest my case,”

“Your case?” Radek asked, looking at Sam. “Case of what? What this mean?”

Cyril cracked open his metal box and noisily flooded the tabletop with dominos.

“It’s what lawyers say,” Sam told him. “Like when you’re in court and the persecutor tells the judge what you did wrong, then he says, I rest my case,”

“Oh, I know this,” Radek nodded. “You a solicitor, now, Sash?”

“In this country, we do not call lawyers that,” laughed Sam.

“What is solicitor then?” asked Radek.

“A prostitute,” Sam said.

“Solicitation is the crime,” Andrew clarified, smiling.

“The crime,” Sash appeared and pointed at the bathroom. “Is what your brother did to that toilet seat,”

“You’re leaving soon,” Cyril laughed. “You no worry about filthy toilet bowls anymore,”

Niko appeared with a small trash bag full of dirty paper towels.

“I cleaned it and emptied trash,” the Ukrainian assured in broken English, tossing the tied bag into the kitchen can. “Make sure you put note in next bathroom you share for anyone that might take shit in the toilet,”

Sash stared at Cyril. “He has the temerity to try and make me feel like I’m overacting,”

Andrew began playing dominos with Cyril and Sam after Sash retired to his room. The brothers changed before more men arrived, trading glances when one of them brought a young woman.

From his viewpoint at the table, Andrew noticed the subtle differences around the apartment since Sash’s return; food filled the cabinets, boxes of booze sat in the kitchen corners, and there was a new stereo sound system by the window chair. Sam loaded some silver disks into its multi-changer, and after pushing a few buttons, a song about being better off alone began its synthesized beat.

Andrew celebrated close to Cyril, who offered vodka shots that dulled the sweetness of the celebratory golden marshmallow cake. A faint knocking took Sam to the front door, and when he returned, he whispered a name in Andrew’s ear.

He rose from the table and fled the kitchen, his backside unintentionally pressing against someone with a larger-than-average something in his pants. Months ago, he would’ve seized up in flight or fight mode, but the man behind him smelled divine, and he took solace in finding himself interested.

When he turned, though, he found Sash with a beer raised high and his hips back, affording Andrew safe passage.

There was no time to fret over the interlude.

At the door, Andrew peered through the spyhole and found Dmitri Boscov shifting nervously from one foot to the next. He surveyed the empty hall before opening the door and quickly closing it behind him. Taking the young man’s arm, he guided him toward the elevator.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, pushing the call button.

“I got to tell you, Drew, or I’ll go crazy.” Dmitri’s hand found Andrew’s back as the elevator doors parted. “I got accepted to the dance school in Berkeley,”

They howled and jumped like two children.

“Wait,” said Andrew, vodka warming his brain. “I thought you weren’t doing this,”

“Well, I decided not to go to California for William,” Dmitri explained. “But room and board for one semester in San Francisco. I’d be an idiot not to go.”

Then, his smile vanished as he gazed at something past Andrew’s shoulder. “I’ll see you at work, Drew,” he said, quickly entering the elevator.

The doors came together as the hall rug beneath Andrew’s feet shifted.

“He’s not your friend, Andrej,” came Sash’s voice.

“You’re not my friend either,” Andrew said, facing him. “Neither is Niko,”

“What’s wrong with you?” Smoke curled from the cigar in his mouth. “Nikola cares for you, I think he loves you.”

Andrew confronted his reflection in the man’s glass eye. “That’s a shame,”

“You have your problems,” Sash moved off then. “This is forgivable,”

Andrew moved with him. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not going to argue with an emotionally wounded man,” said Sash.

Andrew felt his nerves plucked.

“When you leave,” he taunted. “Will you tell Cyril that Niko’s fucking Dmitri?”

A hand cut through the smoke and thumped Andrew’s chest, pinning him to the wall. No sooner had it happened did Sash retreat, his scarred face colored by shame.

“I’m sorry, Andrej,” he gasped in Slovak.

Vodka soured his stomach as he fell against the wall and slid slowly to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Sash whispered again.

Terrified, he watched Sash stumble back to the apartment. Music entered the hall as the door opened, fading echoes as anxiety wrapped a shroud around his head. Thoughts of chasing after Sash overtook any need to flee—that grasp, a slap, anything to bring their skin together again—it was all Andrew could think about, and it made him sick.

Without warning, Niko flew out the apartment door, and his tall, gangly body folded as it hit the wall. Sash followed, kicking him as he rolled onto his back and shielded his head with his arms. Sash cursed him out in his language for being stupid and a fool.

The others emerged, Cyril pulling Sash back to the apartment as Radek came between them. Angry words passed in the doorway, and Sash revealed that ‘the idiota’ was fucking ‘Boscov.’ Cyril stared at Niko as if his heart was broken.