7

The third building down from Coney Island Avenue loomed like a cold giant, its gray-brick façade adorned with multiple AC units jutting out like unpressed buttons. Standing among the Brighton numbers, the tenement was a typical six-story bracket styled in the least brutal Eastern European aesthetic.

Toy trucks and sand pails littered its tiny courtyard, while the front door glass felt more industrial than residential. There was no real lobby, just a foot of white tiles flanked by built-in postal box walls, each wearing a name ending in -nik, -ovich, or -ski.

Andrew entered the elevator first, putting his back to the wall as the doors came together and keeping it there until they parted on the chosen upper floor. He fell in behind Niko, getting a whiff of the lofty man’s soapy skin and dandruff shampoo.

A dance song boomed from the last door on the left, its carnival-style percussion reminiscent of high school football games and those acrobatic cheerleaders his matka adored. The door opened, letting out liquor-scented smoke.

A rack filled with hats and belts stood at the end of its narrow entry hall, where a shoe hill lay beside two bike tires, the most orderly pairs supporting this pile of lace and rubber. In the living room, quilts shivered against the walls as the ceiling fan worked overtime to cool the crowded space.

The large television blared something on MTV, its screen wide enough to reach the room’s two white-framed windows. An AC unit hummed in one window, its front panel marked with an array of stylish signatures written in glittery ink.

This place was testosterone-dominated, with men far older than Andrew’s matka outnumbering the youngest, most of whom greeted Niko with hugs and chaste kisses. Two of these elderly types sat on the long leather couch, discussing their day in Polish while a trio of much younger men pollinated the area.

One narrow blonde latched onto Niko while his shorter, older companion rattled off questions about Riker’s. Samil disappeared into this sea of smoke and manly voices, leaving Andrew to linger aimless near the television.

Cyril Belyaev, the apartment’s owner, announced himself as he approached, and after giving Niko a long hug, he fixed his thick, round glasses on Andrew.

“You are Sam-Sam’s friend?” His accent was heavy, and his light blue eyes came clouded with fatherly concern.

Andrew nodded. “We’re in the orchestra together,”

The aging man cleared a chair of some plates and then turned down the television before offering it to Andrew.

“You play cello?” he asked, remote in hand.

Andrew shook his head. “I play violin.”

The old man grinned, his thin lips flat, before excusing himself with a raised finger. Moments later, he returned with three shot glasses and a frosted bottle of Sobieski under his arm. This vodka was his matka’s favorite, and she often scored some from visiting Europeans at the casino where she worked.

Matka kept her Sobieski in the freezer, just like his new host.

“From my home to your lips.” Cyril raised his filled glass and handed one over. “I welcome you.”

Andrew downed the chilled-thick vodka without choking.

“Watch drinking with him.” Samil emerged from the crowd with a beer as Cyril poured three more shots. “He’s like a Russian. He’ll toast to everything,”

“To Poland,” Cyril declared.

Samil and Andrew downed the shots handed to them.

Cyril poured three more and raised his glass.

“To drinking,” he shouted, and the room roared in agreement.

Samil and Andrew took one more shot, but before Cyril poured another, Samil grabbed Andrew’s hand and dragged him away.

“To Andrej,” Cyril shouted.

Niko snatched up one of the filled shots. “To Andrej,” he said, fixing it to his bottom lip. Head tilted back, he emptied it in one swallow.

Sam whispered, “He’s trying too hard.”

“Tell me about it,” said Andrew.

They fell onto the leather couch, its worn cushions webbed with stress cracks. Here, the social chaos continued as Samil abandoned him again. Before long, Andrew felt overwhelmed. He studied his sneakers, hoping to disconnect from the unfamiliar crowd, but soon, Niko appeared, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“Sam-Sam says you need a beer,” he offered up a brown bottle.

Andrew shifted his gaze to the window.

“You’re just going to let me sit here without talking?” Niko pouted.

“I didn’t invite you over here,”

Then, a heavily scented man fell onto the loveseat across from them.

A true beauty, he kept his wavy brown hair trimmed above the ears with a portion dangling long over his right eye. Over his arm was a pale brown suit jacket made of the same silk as his trousers which barely rose from his ankles when crossed his legs and complained in Polish about traffic in the Battery.

“Nikola, your first day out of the box?” His accented voice came out nasally. “You must be hungry if you’re sitting here all alone,”

Niko pursed his lips. “I could eat.”

“You could use a haircut,” the man frowned. “I can’t believe they let you keep it long.”

Samil plopped down onto the loveseat’s armrest.

“Hello, Tadeshi,” he said, overplaying his joy.

The pretty man hardened before rising from the chair and retreating to the kitchen. Niko jumped up to follow, looking back at Samil and wagging his finger.

“What was that shit about?” Andrew asked.

“That shit is Tadeusz, and he’s a bitch,” said Sam. “He’s like the oldest cock here, not counting Cyril and those old farts there,”

Andrew glanced at one of the geriatrics with a boy on his lap.

“Wait, how old is Cyril?”

“Almost sixty,” Sam said. “Tadeshi is thirty, a little older than Radek.” He stood then as if he remembered something. “I’ll be right back,”

Abandoned once again, Andrew gathered the courage to leave. Gingerly, he stepped through loud clusters of drunken men, twisting himself like a dancer to avoid accidentally touching them. He heard Sam’s familiar guffaw in the kitchen, where he found Niko and Cyril drinking shots at a metal-trimmed table.

Tadeusz sat with them, sorting out an open tin of dominoes.

“Hey, Slovak,” said Niko. “Come here and meet my friend,”

“I already met him,” Andrew said, his back against the fridge.

“Not Teddy,” Niko said. “I never introduced you to Cyril,”

Andrew stared at the sophisticated Tadeshi. “I’d think with a name like Tadeusz,” he said in Polish. “You wouldn’t suffer being called Ted,”

“I suffer,” Tadeusz regarded him with thoughtful eyes and, in English, added, “Niko’s an Eastern Bloc redneck. This neighborhood is full of them,”

“What’s a redneck?” Niko demanded.

“Don’t worry, it’s not an insult,” Andrew said, feeling confident enough to ignore Tadeshi running a humored hand down his arm. “Have you seen Sam?”

A lewd grin flashed on Niko’s face. “He’s with my brother,”

Tadeusz sucked his tongue before abandoning the table.

“What’s wrong with him?” Niko asked Cyril in Polish.

“Tadeshi and Radeki don’t play no more,” Cyril replied in English.

“Uh oh,” Niko mocked, domino in hand. “Foh Pa!”

“Foh Pa,” Cyril parroted.

Andrew laughed at their idiot French.

Over the music, someone shouted, ‘Szklane Oko!’

Cyril rose from his chair and vanished down the hallway.

“About damned time.” Niko grabbed Andrew’s arm. “I want you to meet my friend,”

Andrew yanked free of his grasp. “I can walk,”

“His name is Sascha. We call him Sash,” Niko spoke, bounding to the door. “Some people call him Glass Eye. He lost an eye, so he has a glass ball in the hole,”

Andrew turned and spotted Samil down the hall. The chubby boy moved into Radek’s embrace, kissing him as if eating his face. Tadeusz appeared beside them on his phone, and without hanging up, he reached between them and rubbed at Radek’s crotch.

The trio moved sloppily into the bedroom, hands pulling at hems, eyes rolled over in lust behind drooping lids.

Andrew’s feet became lead, and as he stumbled down the narrow entry, the eggshell-painted walls began spinning. Cyril rushed past, holding a case of beer given to him by some new arrival in the doorway, and Andrew tripped on his foot and fell into Nikola’s long arms.

The world spiraled as the taller man pulled him into the hall.

“He’s real nice,” Niko’s voice faded. “You’ll like him.”

In the elevator, Andrew’s back collided with the wall.

Niko’s warm lips pressed to his mouth, releasing painful memories that crashed ashore like a tsunami, cresting only when he pushed the taller man away.

“I don’t know you,” he yelled.

Niko stared at him, hands up. “I’m sorry.”

They stood without speaking, Niko’s long body stopping the elevator door from closing. Tired of its incessant binging, Andrew pulled the lanky man inside. This time, he stood alongside Andrew and kept his hands to himself.

“Why’d you do that?” he demanded in Slovak.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since I met you,” Niko replied. “You have a beautiful mouth,”

“You just got out of prison,” Andrew spat in English. “A vacuum cleaner would have a beautiful mouth.”

Niko pushed the emergency stop button, then turned and placed his palms on the wall over Andrew’s head. “You think I didn’t get any in prison?”

“Personal space.” Andrew stabbed a finger into the taller man’s chest. “You clearly didn’t get any of that in prison.”

Niko retreated with a devilish smirk and reactivated the elevator.

“Can I kiss you, Andrej?” he asked.

Andrew huffed a sigh, but allowed it when Niko came in for another kiss. Vodka-flavored lips felt cold as a gentle hand warmed his neck. When the elevator stopped, Niko stepped away and pushed through the parting doors.

Andrew followed him into the night, unsure why his anxiety hadn’t taken hold during that kiss. Across the street, a large oak tree grew from the sidewalk, and on the bench beneath its branches sat a man whose bald head shone in the streetlight.

“Nikola Kravets!” The blue eye on his rugged profile beamed warmly, and his accented baritone offered well-versed English. “When did you get out?”

“Today,” said Niko, stepping into the bald man’s embrace.

A black tank stretched across his broad chest, and gray Armani trousers cradled the swell of his buttocks. He turned to Andrew then, revealing a long-healed rip over his left eye. Faded scar tissue framed a patina of black glass.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

“My name is Andrew,” he said in Slovak.

“He’s a Slovak,” Niko added in Polish.

“My ears work, Nikola,” the man said, cigar in hand. “How’d you get a name like Ann Drew?”

He focused on the man’s face, remembering what his matka said about respecting the deformed or scared by never looking away. “My mother is a Drusilanya, my father was an Andrej,”

“If your father was an Andrej,” the man’s Slovak was perfect. “Then you’re an Andrej,”

Andrew forced a grin. “Does that make me special?”

“Don’t make yourself smile if you’re not happy.” Cigar smoke curled from Sash’s. “And, no, it makes you tolerable.”

A knot tightened in Andrew’s gut.

“Do me a favor,” Glass Eye spoke to Niko. “Go get Konrad,”

“Konni isn’t up there,” Niko said, hands in his pockets.

The man fixed upon something across the street.

“That’s his car, right there,”

“He’s not up there, Sash,” Niko said again.

They stared at one another for several moments before Glass Eye rubbed the back of his bald head. “Go get the others, then,” he ordered.

Niko grabbed Andrew’s hand. “Come on,”

“No,” said Andrew, jerking it away. “Samil’s busy right now.”

“Sam-Sam’s always busy,” Sash mused. “Where there’s beer, there’s a blow job,”

Niko grinned before turning to Andrew. “Don’t go anywhere, promise?”

“What am I going to do,” he said, then spoke Slovak. “Sprout wings and fly?”

“He’s not a fairy,” Glass Eye said, chuckling.

Niko smirked, “Be here when I get back.”

Left alone with this man, Andrew folded his arms. No words passed for several moments until this Glass Eye stubbed out his cigar on the sole of his sneaker.

“Where are you from, Andrej?”

“Atlantic City,”

“How did you meet Sam-Sam?”

“We work together in Manhattan,”

“Is Drusilanya here too?”

Andrew swallowed. “My matka is in Atlantic City,”

“I heard that Sam-Sam introduced you as Saint Mark,” said Glass Eye. “Is that where you’re staying?”

The knot in Andrew’s gut came undone. “If you heard about Sam and me being here, then you know Konrad’s not up there,”

The man’s good eye drifted to the building.

“You just met Nikola, yes?”

“We were introduced today,” he said, sitting on the curb.

“How old are you, Andrej?”

“Since this feels like a job interview, I’ll give you some slam stats, and then we’ll be done with it.” Andrew no longer cared about politeness; he couldn’t explain it, but something about Glass Eye made him angry. “I finished music college up in White Plains, and I’m here for the summer to decide what I want to do next,”

“A gap year?” Glass Eye nodded. “Does Drusilanya know—”

“-Stop saying my mother’s name like you know her.” Andrew hugged his legs when the man’s bold blue eye fixed upon him without a word.

Before anything else could be said, Niko appeared with a wet-haired Radek on his heels. Tadeusz walked with Cyril while drying his hair with a towel. All converged under the tree with beers in hand, and though none saluted Glass Eye, it was clear he was their commander.

“Let’s go for a ride,” Cyril said in Polish.

“I parked at the drug store,” said Glass Eye.

Instead of grabbing Andrew’s arm, this time, Niko held out his hand.