Stuart Kaminsky - The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

Oleg was well trained in his hatred of Germans. He and two generations before his were taught in school with graphic photographs of staggering numbers of dead Russian soldiers, women, and children. Those who had survived and helped repulse the ob-scene invasion of their country told tales of German atrocities and the horrors they had endured and witnessed. The teachers, the survivors, the books did not differentiate between Nazi soldiers and German citizens. They were all born with a madness to conquer.

This one was no different.

“Yulia and I were waiting for the proper time to suggest a lu-crative business proposal with you,” the German said. “Your coming now is a fortunate act of fate.”

Yulia had now put on a flimsy robe, a white one through which you could see. Oleg, though his sexual interests were with another gender, recognized the long-legged beauty of the woman and understood his friend Yevgeny’s obsession with her.

She handed Yevgeny a drink: vodka, no ice. She offered Oleg nothing. In the several years his friend had been having binges with her at his side, Oleg had met Yulia only twice. Oleg did not drink.

He did not carouse and so he seldom saw Yulia, though the two had formed an instant dislike of each other from the moment they had met. The source of their dislike was obviously Yevgeny, whom she quite successfully manipulated when he was drunk and whom Oleg tried, with almost no success, to wean back to sobriety and safety. Yevgeny was too prominent a man to continue to avoid being exposed by the press for his drunkenness, his gambling, his being seen around with a beautiful woman who was obviously his mistress. And Yevgeny was not one to fade into the shadows when he was on a drunken spree. Oh, no. He was loud, very loud. He practiced speeches in the streets and stopped individuals to tell them what had to be done to save Russia and return it to a power its people deserved. If anyone recognized him, they did not admit it. Most people simply walked by.

While Yulia and what little she wore had not disturbed Oleg, the German sitting naked on the sofa had disturbed him deeply.

He was sitting there like an Aryan prince, smiling with perfect white teeth. He was enjoying the surprise visit and made no move to cover himself. In spite of his instant dislike of the man, Oleg had found himself engaged in a sexual fantasy. He had managed, however, to put it away, though he knew it would come back sometime in the future and he knew he wanted to remember.

“Please sit,” the German had said, pointing to two chairs that matched the sofa from which he reigned.

Neither man sat, nor did the woman.

“As you wish,” said the German, standing and smoothing back his hair. “Yulia.”

The name had been spoken as a command, and the woman moved across the room, drink in hand, to the desk neatly tucked in a corner. She opened a drawer and removed a wooden box. She crossed the room again and handed the box to the German, who took hold of her arm and clearly ordered her to stand at his side, though he said not a word.

“In this box are items, not the originals but copies,” the German said. “The originals are someplace safe. Open it. Gaze upon your fate. Das ist dein Schicksal gaverin, your fate.”

The dazed Yevgeny had taken the box. He stepped back to Oleg’s side and opened the box. Inside were small cassette tapes and photographs. Some of the photographs were of Yevgeny in bars, casinos, laughing, looking drunk and red-faced, Yulia at his side. Most of the photographs, however, were of Yevgeny and Yulia in sexual embrace. As Yevgeny went through each photo and Oleg watched, the soccer coach’s initial response was that his friend had no sexual imagination. In all the photographs in which they were engaged, Yevgeny was in the traditional male position, face to face and on top. Oleg was more interested in the look on Yulia’s face. It was almost identical in each picture in which her face could be seen. Her head was turned away. Her eyes were closed. There was no smile on her beautiful face. Apparently, the sexual performance of Yevgeny Pleshkov left a great deal to be desired.

“Those are yours,” the German said. “Keep them. Destroy them.

Listen to the tapes. Some of them are difficult to understand.

Many of them are of indiscretions on your part, in which you reveal information of a highly sensitive nature about others in the government and secret actions, which I am sure were not meant to be revealed outside of a very small circle in the Kremlin. Some might even say that the sharing of such secret information with a woman would constitute treason.”

“I don’t have money,” Yevgeny said, closing the box with a sudden snap and handing it to Oleg.

“Money,” the German said, running a hand down Yulia’s body.

“No, I am not after money. I need your power, your influence. I need to be able to go to business and political sources in other countries and guarantee them certain things from Russian governmental agencies, things which you can arrange.”

Yevgeny had swayed slightly, his eyes on the German. Oleg had no idea what his friend was thinking. Yevgeny cheated on his wife-which, considering his friend’s wife, was completely understandable. Yevgeny was often away from his role in running the fragile government; he gambled away his money and was ever prepared to take offense at a look or a comment. He was easily swayed by a pretty face.

On the other hand, Yevgeny Pleshkov was an honest man who stubbornly held to his own principles in spite of pressure from his own party, from outside lobbies, and sometimes from the press.

The people seemed to love him. An honest man in a dishonest world. A compassionate man who was frequently quoted. Once he had said, “To err is divine. To forgive is human.” People who loved Yevgeny and did not know him smiled when they spoke these words. In the valley of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. Yevgeny might well become a political king. Oleg didn’t always agree with what his friend said and stood for, but he admired and respected his courage in saying what he thought, doing what he believed was best for Russia.

Maybe he was thinking about such things as he looked down at the wooden box. And then he looked up and saw the German’s hand move under Yulia’s gown and between her legs. She neither protested, moved, nor indicated in any way that she welcomed being used.

Oleg knew what was coming. He had seen Yevgeny like this before when he had been drinking. Oleg wondered if Yulia had warned the German, and if the German knew some kind of mar-tial art or had a gun, but he was stark naked. There was no place to hide a weapon.

The German stood, working his hand between Yulia’s legs, under her open gown.

Oleg reached for his friend’s arm as Yevgeny strode forward toward the couple and made a deep animal sound. The German spread his legs, amused for a moment, but only a moment. Oleg had no idea what the German had expected, but he certainly didn’t expect to be hit in the face with the wooden box. The German staggered back in surprise and pain. Blood spurted from his nose.

A purple welt like a fat worm streaked over his left eyebrow.

Yulia stepped away, watching, no sign of fear or a move to escape the room or step between her lovers. She was, Oleg thought as he rushed quickly forward to restrain his friend, indifferent. She takes drugs, Oleg had thought. A normal person wouldn’t act like this.

Oleg put his arms around Yevgeny, but the drunken man of the people was beyond restraint. He shook Oleg off. The German, his left eye closing quickly, started toward a door that must have been the bedroom. He moved on legs far less steady than the drunken Pleshkov. The German got about five feet before Yevgeny caught him and with a two-handed grip slammed the wooden box against the side of the fleeing man’s head.

The box splintered and came apart at the hinges. Photographs and cassettes sprayed around the room. The German was on his knees now, holding the side of his head. Yevgeny stood over him, breathing heavily, a piece of the shattered box in each hand. The piece in his right hand was a jagged splinter.

Oleg was afraid to tackle his friend again but he knew he had to try. But before he could do so, the German turned on his knees, a dazed look on his face, blood trickling down his lips and into his mouth.

Yevgeny plunged the splinter into the man’s neck.

The German said something like “Ahhggg,” and Yevgeny stepped away, watching the German fall to the floor on his back and attempt to remove the sharp broken wood from his neck. It was useless. He rolled over atop photos and cassettes and died trying to curl up into a ball to escape the pain.

Yevgeny was breathing hard. He looked around as if he did not know where he was. First he looked at the piece of the box in his hand. Then he looked at the German and at Oleg and finally he looked at Yulia, who walked over to the dead German and poured the remains of her drink on his body.

She placed her glass on a small table next to a lamp and took two steps to the bewildered Yevgeny Pleshkov.

“Sit, Yevi,” she said, leading him by the arm to one of the chairs the German had offered him. Pleshkov sat and Yulia took the remains of the box from him and dropped them on the floor.

“Yevgeny,” Oleg said, “let’s get out of here.”

Pleshkov looked at his friend as if surprised to see him there, wherever there might be. Yevgeny did not rise. In fact, he sat back and closed his eyes.

“Help me clean up,” Yulia had said to Oleg.

“The body?” Oleg asked.

“We’ll think of something when we come to that,” she said. “I’ll change into something that won’t be ruined by the blood.”

Oleg got on his knees and began picking up photographs, many of them splattered with blood, and cassettes, some of which had broken and flown across the room, leaving a brown vinyl trail of thin tape. And there were dozens of pieces of wood. In his hurry, Oleg picked up a splinter in the palm of his hand. There was enough visible to pull it out, though his hand was shaking.

Oleg found a wastebasket and was filling it when Yulia reappeared in faded blue jeans and a blue sweatshirt.

“No,” she said, handing Oleg a large green plastic garbage bag.

“Fill this. I can dump it in the trash. It will be picked up in the morning. Put in everything.”

The man and woman worked together. Yulia produced a blanket to wrap the German’s body, which they did with surprising ease, though Oleg did his best not to look at the grotesque naked man with the battered face and the sharp piece of wood buried in his neck. Without hesitation, Yulia pulled the wooden stake from the neck of the man who had humiliated her. She wiped it to remove any possible fingerprints and dropped it into the rapidly filling bag.

Then she produced two electrical extension wires and used them to tie the top and bottom of the makeshift shroud in which what was once a man was wrapped.

The blood was the most difficult part of the operation. Yulia said, “I’ll be right back. Try to rouse Yevi. We will need his help.”

Oleg did as he was told and tried not to look at the bundle on the floor. Yevgeny Pleshkov did not respond to his entreaties, but he did look into Oleg’s face as if trying to recognize him. Oleg gave up and resumed his cleanup, wondering if Yulia would suddenly appear with armed policemen and point her finger at the scene, denouncing Oleg and Yevgeny.

She did reappear with a bucket containing a variety of plastic cleaning items, a pair of brushes, and some towels.

“Took them from the storage closet on the next floor,” she explained. “I will have to get them back soon. Let’s put the body by the door. See if he is leaking through first.”