20

Nikola’s voice woke him from a restless sleep.

Through the adjoining wall, the lanky Ukrainian claimed that sex starvation drove him to fuck Dmitri Boscov. Such marvelous nonsense brought a smile to Sash’s face.

Niko swore he learned his lesson, delivering a heartfelt apology to Cyril.

For some damned reason, though, Niko refused to own his mistake before Andrej, and no amount of bullshit flew past that clever boy’s radar. With typical indifference, Andrej suggested that Niko must’ve been starving to death if he was willing to hurt Cyril to feed his appetite.

Samil’s laughter sent Niko to the front door. It banged shut, rattling every shelf in the apartment. Beaten by Sash and reprimanded by his brother, he wouldn’t take a scolding from Andrej, the boy he blamed for all of it.

Sleep retook Sash as his head returned to the pillow.

The faint smell of food woke him, and he glanced at his watch to find four hours had passed.

Sash slipped from the sheet and pulled on his briefs. He followed the smell to the kitchen, where Cyril’s old crock pot simmered with a brisket inside. His stomach growled as he touched the pot’s worn metal siding and, through the moister clogging its lid, saw some peeled potatoes and carrots in the juice.

A glass of ice water in hand, Sash shuffled to the bathroom. He emptied the glass in one swallow before removing the laundry basket from the tub. Hot water on full, he opened the case that housed his glass eye, hoping the steam would make it slick enough for comfortable insertion.

Hot water sluiced over the scars on his back, the heat lulling him into standing there without washing. Outside, the bathroom door opened, and the toilet seat lifted.

“Cyril,” he called out in Polish. “Oil my back.”

Sash presented his back when the door slid open. Coolness coated his skin. The ointment, bought for him by Cyril, protected his scars from drying against his need for long, scorching showers.

“Cross your arms over your chest.” Andrej’s voice startled him. “Sorry, Glass Eye, there’s no one else here but me,”

Sash did what he asked, his shoulder blades flat and stretching his deepest scars. Excess oil slipped between his buttocks, appearing as translucent bubbles around his toes and the tub’s drain. He dipped his head, hiding the empty socket until Andrej closed the shower door.

Afterward, Sash dried in silence, listening for movement in the hall.

Once the glass returned to its socket, sinus pressure returned. He popped two Advil and pulled on a pair of sweats. He needed to air-dry his oiled back by forgoing a shirt, but the boy’s presence didn’t allow for such things.

Andrej sat at the kitchen table, his shredded brisket dotted with yellow mustard, his potatoes smashed flat and coated with butter, and his skinny legs covered in fine hair and hidden in a pair of Samil’s oversized sweatpants.

“Niko won’t be back until seven,” said Sash.

A sleeveless half-shirt clung loosely to the boy’s knobby shoulders, and around his neck hung Dmitri Boscov’s rosary, a beaded chain of faded blue and white, its cross dangling below that indented navel.

Andrej sipped ice water from a tall glass. “He told me four,”

“They’re making an extra trip for Radecki,” Sash said.

Andrej’s eyes studied him. “I can wait.”

Sash loaded a plate with meat, potatoes, and carrots. Like Andrej, he enjoyed mustard on his brisket. “That’s not a good idea,” he said, sitting down. “But you do what you want,”

“I usually do,” said Andrej, licking his fork. “That’s how adulting works.”

Sash cut into one of the whole potatoes.

“May I ask you a question, Andrej?”

The blond boy pushed the pitcher of water toward him.

“I may not answer it, but go ahead.”

Worn ice plunked noisily into the glass as Sash poured.

“When you and Sam-Sam cleared out Konni’s place—”

“-I didn’t see any guns.”

Sash laced some stringy meat onto his fork and pushed some mashed carrots onto it with his knife. “Have you ever fired a gun?”

Andrej walked his plate to the sink.

“I’ll be back after seven,” he said, entering the hall.

Sash sat back in his chair. “Do guns make you uncomfortable?”

“Who said I’m uncomfortable?” he asked.

“You’re leaving,” said Sash, sending the boy behind him.

“I said I wasn’t uncomfortable,” he told him. “But that’s changing,”

Sash turned around and stared at his face, though the boy’s nipples hardened under his shirt. “Your discomfort is not my intention, Andrej,”

“What you just said,” the boy cocked his head, and for a moment, his pale blues seemed gray. “Makes me think otherwise,”

Sash grinned when the boy turned on his heel.

“Goodbye, Ahn-dredge,” he sang as the front door closed.

♪

Andrew stood in the hall holding a dish soap bottle and determined to fulfill Cyril’s request. The old codger forgave Niko, and while he didn’t expect Andrew to do the same, he had begged him to make amends with Glass Eye.

Thoughts turned to the spot on his chest where Sash thumped him. The man was violent by trade, yet his touch last night barely qualified as an altercation, and the look on his face afterward—vulnerable and remorseful—Andrew couldn’t get it out of his mind.

A suffocating warmth had taken hold of the apartment.

Sash sat in the living room, shirtless, with boxer briefs clinging to his muscular buttocks. He tinkered over the innards of the AC unit and its dust-laden metal. Coated, loose wires lay unwound with their colored casings split.

Andrew folded his arms. “What are you doing?”

“Welcome back, Andrej,” he said without looking up.

After several moments of silence, Andrew tossed the dish soap into the sink and joined him in the living room. He waited for a clever word or some pointed questions, and when none came, he turned on the television.

MTV rarely played anything worth listening to, but a Depeche Mode video began, and Sash reached for the remote. The song “Nothing” made the man turn the volume higher.

“You like these guys?” Andrew asked.

“I do,” said Sash, focused on the AC unit.

“I prefer Duran Duran,” said Andrew.

“Not the same kind of music,” Sash said, head shaking.

Andrew rose from the chair. “Sounds the same,”

“No,” Sash reached down and took up the cigar burning in an ashtray beside his foot. “Duran Duran hasn’t been new wave since Seven and the Ragged kitty,”

“I’m not old enough to remember new wave,” Andrew said. “But I will say, Violator is a great album,”

“Violator is a masterpiece.” Sash put the cigar back in its tray. “That’s why Depeche Mode is a better band,”

Andrew picked up the cigar. “What kind are these?”

“It’s an Ashton,” the man said, focusing on the unit.

Andrew sniffed the smoking brown log. “They’re expensive, aren’t they?”

Sash took it from him and put it between his teeth. “Yes,”

“It smells like vanilla,” he said, sniffing it.

Sash grabbed his beer bottle from the windowsill, stretching his black A-shirt tight across his chest. Faded gashes peeked out of the shirt’s underarms, and Andrew recalled how the oil pebbled upon the man’s skin in the shower.

“You don’t like sitting with your back to the door, do you?” he asked.

Sash didn’t answer.

“It’s hot in here.” Andrew rolled the loose waistband of Samil’s pants below his hips and tucked the rosary into his shirt before removing it. Using it to wipe away the sweat under his arms, he found the man’s eye trained again on the AC Unit. He hummed the song’s melody and began moving to it, spinning around to catch Sash returning his attention to the wires.

“Late September shouldn’t be this hot,” said Andrew.

Sash and the unit blocked the window, so Andrew reached over them to open it, forcing Sash to quickly pull the cigar from his mouth before it burned Andrew’s hip.

Andrew’s groin nearly collided with Sash’s face as he struggled with the locks.

“This place never gets enough air,” he said, enjoying the blast of warm wind from his efforts.

Sash folded his arms, creating a cleave in his chest.

“Maybe you should go to the boardwalk, Andrej,”

Andrew concentrated on the torn tissue around his eye.

“Can I ask you something?”

“No, I cannot see out of it,” Sash said flatly. “I’ve no eye in the socket, no optical nerves in there, just a big black marble.”

Andrew flopped onto the couch and felt its leather against his stomach.

“They all want to be like you,” he mused. “So slick,”

Sash wondered, “Slick like oil?”

“No.” Andrew narrowed his eyes. “Slick like an eel.”

Sash focused on the AC unit. “Why are you still here, Andrej?”

“We have to be nicer to one another,”

Sash’s blue eye regarded him. “Cyril talked to you too, huh?”

Andrew rose on his arms, the leather sticking.

“Yeah, he talked to me,”

“Niko needs peace of mind for the next job.” Sash returned to his task. “The strife between us isn’t helping him,”

“Okay. How about a truce until Halloween?” Andrew hugged his knees, the vanilla smoke relaxing his sinuses. “That’s when you’re leaving, right?”

“I’m leaving before that.” Sash wrapped black tape around some loose wires. “Will you go home before the trick-and-treat holiday, Andrej?”

His heart pounded as the song ended.

“Just making conversation,” said Sash, staring at him. “Part of the truce,”

Andrew collected his discarded shirt. “Well, this was fun,”

“Running away again, Andrej?” Sash said. “You’re good at that,”

He slowly turned. “What business is that of yours?”

“A few moments ago, I was close enough to that vein above your cock hairs to kiss it.” Sash turned on the AC unit, sending cool air over Andrew’s bare feet. “We are each other’s business, yes, Andrej?”

Without replying, Andrew left the apartment.