Page 16 of Vasily the Nail

He nods like this isn’t the first or even the thousandth time he’s heard that. He jots down two numbers, and they’re both gutting. The higher one, though, it might be enough. Not enough for the last gift my father ever gave me, but enough for me to escape and live on until I can find a job.

He taps the smaller number. “This is what you want. This is a payment plan. Up to two years. You make your payments plus twenty percent interest, and in two years, you get your necklace back.”

“And the other number?”

“I buy it and send it out to auction next month. You’ll never get it back.”

That’s what I was expecting anyway, having never gone to a pawn shop before, but my eyes shift to the smaller number. I do some quick calculations, try to figure out how quickly I’ll blow through it, but I don’t even know how much a ticket out of here will cost.

I don’t know anything.

I bite down on my bottom lip to keep it from quivering as I sift through memories. Conversations overheard on campus, commercials on TV, anything. I feel like I’ve seen plane ticketsfor around $50, so buses must be cheaper, right? But are those prices for real?

I don’t want to sell the necklace.

I don’t have a choice.

I’m about to say I’m going to take the bigger number when I’m surrounded by the scent of stale cigarettes, although I can now discern blackcurrant and oakmoss aftershave.

Vasily’s arms reach past me to take the necklace from the pawn broker and draw the chain around my neck. For a moment, I think he’s going to choke me with it, but then he simply fastens it and lets it fall back in place.

One hand grabs me by my ponytail, wrapping it around his wrist and yanking it so I’m suddenly staring at him, upside down. His expression is unreadable.

“Ovechkahas nice adventure, yes? Time to go home.”

Vasily

The truck takes hoursto sort through. I swear Artyom told the driver to pull over in the middle of the night and rearrange everything so it’d be impossible to inventory. When one of the skinheads from the Blazing Hell MC swings by to pick up a crate of Yeezy counterfeits and sees the mess I’m dealing with, he even gives me his thermos of biker coffee.

Yeah, that’s coffee with cream and sugar and meth.

Yeah, I drink the meth.

It gets me through the Gucci and the Rolex, the Adidas and the jewels. Through the bootleg DVDs— I don’t even know where that market is, but they still move, so we still move them— and finally make it down to the computer supplies. Integrated circuits, networking equipment, semiconductors. It’s where our best money comes from these days, as long as we can move it.

It’s a different beast entirely from selling a Balenciaga for $300 to someone who knows deep down inside that it’s far too cheap to be real but looks authentic enough that their friends won’t know. These guys need to be mixed into batches of authentic supplies and sold wholesale to suppliers who will then unknowingly include them into their builds. Some of them are made with inferior supplies, but the ones that are most profitable are the ones that have extras added on.

The sort of extras that steal bank accounts and social security numbers.

I don’t deal with any of that, though. Way above my pay grade. I’m paid to get them distributed, and by the time I get the last crate divvied up, I feel like I’ve done my job.

As I’m packing up, I get the message from Igor that Ana’s on the move. I smile at the message and get a ride back to that side of town. By the time I’m a couple blocks away, Igor lets me know she’s at the pawn shop and they’re stalling her there to give me time to collect her. I tell him to have Gregor take her to the office so she’s not just standing there where everyone can see her.

According to Igor, she tried to go back in as soon as she left the apartment.

The only thing I asked of Igor was to make sure she didn’t do anything that couldn’t be undone. Now that she appears dead set on selling that monstrous cross of hers, I really do need to intervene.

She gives me the most baleful look as I fasten it back around her neck, thank Gregor for entertaining her, and lead her back to the apartment. The docile lamb that she is, she doesn’t even attempt to stab me. In fact, she puts both hands on my arm like she’s relieved that she’s being brought back. She’s silent and tense, but I would expect nothing less.

There’s a normalcy in this to me, a peace I haven’t felt in a long time simply from her finding some comfort in holding onto me, but I don’t expect her to feel the same.

I’d like to have a couple hours to hang out at home. Help Ana with the groceries and make lunch, see what will keep her from pawning the only thing she has of value. But my phone buzzes as I’m unlocking the door, which means the next part of my day is visiting with Artyom. I call Igor to meet her in hopes that she’llfeel more comfortable knowing who’s on the other side of the intercom, an actual grandfather who still keeps Korovka candies in his pockets for me because they were my favorite growing up in Russia. Then I head back out.

There are three restaurants Artyom’s willing to eat at in the few blocks we consider our territory in Flagstaff. The shadow of my apartment complex looms over me as I enter the family-owned Greek joint across the street.

Artyom is like a mirror reflection of myself, except he’s not what I am. He’s what I should be. His hair, every bit as pale as mine, is short, well groomed, shaved cleanly to frame his face, and combed forward in a classic Caesar. His skin is even and unscarred, his nose straight. His hands are steady enough to do surgery.

I’m one of the few people who know that dirty little secret of his, that he likes to play in the blood, keeping his victims alive for hours so every one of the thousands of cuts continues to ooze.

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