Page 68 of Kingmakers, Graduation

The mostly male patrons are accompanied by women too tarty to leave any doubt of their profession. Sabrina—the only woman in pants, and clearly foreign—draws plenty of eyes.

If the Soho Rooms differentiate on beauty and wealth, an entirely different principle operates here. Age and ethnicity are diverse, as well as apparel: while some wear suits, jeans, trainers, and tracksuits are just as common. The real unifying characteristic is the sense that every person here has been battered by time and circumstance. Scars and injuries are common, the indelible marks of experience even more so. Even the youngest whores look old before their time, bearing the hollow expressions of those who have seen too much.

We order our drinks at the bar.

“Mykah,” I say to the bartender, “this is Sabrina.”

Mykah has the build of an enforcer—body like a refrigerator, hands like catcher’s mitts—but his voice is soft and gentle. Whenever he’s working he wears a cloth beanie and an oilskin apron, a pair of spectacles perched low on his nose like a babushka.

“Zdravstvuyte,” he says, taking down the vodka for our drinks.

“Dobryy vecher,” Sabrina replies, trying out one of her newly learned greetings.

“Very good.” Mykah nods his approval.

“It’s shit,” Sabrina sighs, “but I’ll learn.”

“Russian is very easy language,” Mykah agrees. “It only take me three years to learn, and I was baby at time.”

He roars with laughter, Sabrina laughing too, though more at Mykah himself than at his witticisms.

“What you do here with this one?” Mykah points his bar towel at me. “You know he is very bad guy.”

“Adrik?” Sabrina says, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “He told me he was an Elvis impersonator.”

“Elvis!” Mykah chortles, spraying my arm with a little bit of spit. “Get me comb, I see it now.”

He holds up his hands, framing my hair, squinting and picturing me with a pompadour. With his fingers spread, I can easily see the missing fingers on his right hand.

“Buy your own comb,” I say, throwing down some cash and picking up our drinks.

“Privet,” Mykah says, leaning in before I can leave. “Krystiyanzdes’.”Krystiyanis here.He jerks his head in the appropriate direction without looking or pointing.

I glance the same way, without letting my eyes rest on the group crammed into the far corner table.

“Blagadoryu,”I murmur, turning away and leading Sabrina to our own table.

“What did he say to you?” she demands once we’re seated.

“He was letting me know we’ve got an old friend in the house.”

“The table in the corner?”

She doesn’t miss a thing.

“Yeah. The pretty boy in the too-tight suit.”

Sabrina laughs softly. “How do you know him?”

“From school. ‘Friend’ was an exaggeration—I fucking loathe him.”

Sabrina looks at me with curiosity.

“What does it take to get on your bad side?”

“I told him something in confidence. When it got out, I knew he couldn’t be trusted. That was the first reason … I’ve had plenty since.”

“Well, don’t worry,” Sabrina says, giving me a sly smile. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

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