Page 72 of Assassin Anonymous

“Some of the kids from NYU call him P. Kitty. Like the rapper?”

I stroke the back of the cat’s head and he nuzzles closer to me. “Stupid name for a cat.”

Ibrahim laughs. “I think it’s an awesome name for a cat. You want him? I can’t take care of him.”

“You literally sell cat food. Every good bodega has a cat.”

He nods toward the cook station. “You know Manny, on the morning shift? He’s allergic. I can’t lose him.”

“Yeah, Manny makes the best sandwiches.”

“The guy is in demand. Someone else will snatch him up if I’m not careful.”

I scratch P. Kitty’s neck. He exposes his throat, giving me better access. “No one else wants him?”

“One of the kids wanted to take him, but they’re kids. I don’t trust them. You live in the neighborhood. You’re not going to ditch him soon as you go home for the summer.” He smiles. “And the little guy seems to like you.”

Animals have a sense, right?

If he feels safe with me, maybe I’m not a monster.

Easy enough to say, harder to believe. I did just brutally kill a completely innocent man in front of his sister—the woman I love, who is carrying my child—on Christmas Eve. Right in front of the tree.

The only thing I know for sure in this moment is: I can’t kill myself now.

What would happen to the cat?

11

You hit bottom when you stop digging.

—the Big Book

Brighton Beach

Now

We make our way down the boardwalk, the shuttered attractions of Coney Island disappearing into the night sky behind us. The unencumbered wind hurtling off the water bites and claws at our skin.

We could have walked down Surf Avenue, gotten a little shelter from the weather, but I think Booker and Valencia feel the same way I do: the cold air is clarifying, and we’re all processing the weight of what could happen.

Our destination appears in the distance: Ekaterina, a Russian restaurant and nightclub that spills onto the boardwalk. This part of the neighborhood is referred to as Little Odessa, for the Russian and Ukrainian immigrants who settled here in the 1970s. Even though the Russian Orthodox Church follows the Julian calendar, putting their celebration of Christmas on January 7, the place is decked out for the holiday.

People are crowded onto the worn wooden planks, smoking and chatting, many of them wearing novelty necklaces strung with flashing Christmas bulbs. In the sea of slacks and mink coats and sparkling jewelry, we are drastically underdressed.

As we approach the door, Booker pulls the wooden rosary out from inside his shirt and presses the cross to his lips, then breaks off and goes to the maître d’, a man as short as he is wide, wearing a heavy coat and a black ushanka. A few cries go up from the people waiting in line. Booker and the maître d’ lean into each other and whisper, first in a way that is not friendly, and then they warm up, before getting even more unfriendly. I still do not like putting the two of them in this position.

Especially because we’re here to see Zmeya.

I’ve never met her. I don’t tend to deal much with the Russians, though I killed more than a few. They’re a different level of crazy. But you can’t be in this line of work and not know who Zmeya is. She owns this neighborhood and, the whispers say, has a direct line to the Kremlin. In Russian folklore, the zmeya is a many-headed dragon, so I’m suspecting this isn’t going to be a super-chill conversation.

Booker and the maître d’ clearly come to some kind of understanding and he waves the three of us in. We walk through the outdoor patio, where people are huddled under space heaters, and then into the restaurant, where klezmer music slams into us. The place is all gilded and lined with heavy velvet drapes, that ostentatious Russian design sense that seems like a direct rebuke of the brutalism of communism. There’s barely room for the servers to navigate the sea of crowded tables, and across the room is a large stage full of showgirls in sparkling silver dresses and elaborate headpieces just finishing some sort of performance.

The three of us invite a lot of stares. At first, I think the restaurant is almost exclusively white, so a Black man and a Hispanic woman stand out. Then I realize the stares are directed at me. One man stands up, whom I don’t recognize. Then another, and this one I do: Alexsei Zaitsev, a KGB directorate chief.

It’s not every day the Pale Horse walks in, I guess.

My chances of getting out of here alive seem to be trending downward.

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