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.

Last night, Niko swore he had 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 broke off when the front door banged shut, rattling every shelf in the apartment.

Niko fled the scene; 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 when 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. He slipped from the sheet and pulled on his briefs. He followed the smell from the dark bedroom to the kitchen, where the crock pot steamed with a brisket inside.

His stomach growled as he touched the pot’s worn metal siding and, through the gathering moister under its glass lid, saw peeled potatoes and carrots in the juice.

With a glass of ice water in his grip, Sash shuffled to the bathroom, emptying 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. Steaming water sluiced over the scars on his back, the heat lulling him into standing there without washing.

Suddenly, the bathroom door opened, and the toilet seat lifted.

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

Sash presented his back when the plyglass 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 brought his head up. “Sorry, glass-eye, there’s no one else here but me,”

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

Afterward, Sash dried in silence, listening for movement in the hall. Sinus pain let up once the orb returned to his eye socket. Pulling on a pair of sweats, he heard a cabinet door close in the kitchen.

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.

“Niko won’t be back until seven,” said Sash, avoiding his skinny legs, covered in fine hair and hidden in a pair of Samil’s oversized sweatpants.

A sleeveless half-shirt clung loosely to his bony shoulders, and around his neck hung Dmitri Boscov’s rosary, a beaded chain of faded blue and white, its cross dangling below his indented navel. He sipped ice water from a tall glass.

“He told me four,” said Andrej.

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

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

Sash loaded a plate with meat, potatoes, and carrots. He liked steeped soft carrots and, same as Andrej, 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 he poured.

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

“-I didn’t see any guns,” he said.

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

Without responding, 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, turning to find the boy behind him.

“I said I wasn’t uncomfortable.” The boy’s dark nipples hardened under his shirt. “But that’s changing,”

Sash stared into his face. “Your discomfort is not my intention,”

“What you just said,” Andrej cocked his head as he spoke, and for a moment, his pale blue eyes 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 carrying a bottle of dish soap, determined to fulfill Cyril’s request.

The old codger forgave Niko, and while he didn’t expect Andrew to do the same, he begged him to make amends with Glass-Eye.

Andrew touched his chest where Sash had pushed him. The man was violent by trade, yet his touch barely qualified as an altercation, and the look on his face afterward made Andrew feel guilty.

Inside the apartment, he found a suffocating warmth.

Sash sat in the living room, boxer briefs clinging to his muscular buttocks as he tinkered over the innards of the AC unit. Dust covered its metal bones and coated the loose wires, all unwound with their colored casings split.

“Welcome back, Andrej,” he said without looking at him.

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

“Fixing this,” he answered.

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 chose to stir the pot.

Andrew retrieved the cigar burning in the ashtray at Sash’s foot.

“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,” said Andrew.

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, filling Andrew’s mind with 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?”

“Only when I’m alone,” Sash said.

“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 on the AC Unit.

“Late September shouldn’t be this hot,” he added.

Sash and the unit blocked the only free window, forcing Andrew to reach over them to open it. The man quickly pulled the cigar from his mouth before it could burn Andrew’s hip bone. Struggling with the locks, Andrew’s groin nearly collided with Sash’s face.

“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 looked at him, focusing on that black glass because concentrating on the torn tissue around it quelled his interest. “Can I ask you something?”

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

Andrew fell onto the couch and felt the leather cold 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,” he said.

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,”

“How about a truce until Halloween?” Andrew hugged his knees, the vanilla smoke relaxing his sinuses. “You’re leaving then, right?”

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

Andrew’s heart pounded. “Why would you ask me that?”

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

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

“Running away again, Andrej?”

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

“A few moments ago, I was close enough to that vein between your hips 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?”

And with that, Andrew fled the apartment without a word.