Читать книгу Creatures of the night - Viktoria Koshkina - Страница 6

In ten minutes I drove up to bar where killed the other day as it is already known, Sergey Sokolov. This type had a little daughter. I don’t know the name of the girl, but I hope to find it out soon.

I parked the car at a roadside, near two high buildings. On the first floor of one of them the institution necessary to me just settles down.

Having passed couple of steps from the car, I stopped, having seen ahead the drunk company of people. Their behavior guarded me. Leaving Lexus alone with these types, I doom my car to “violation”. I hoped that it isn’t necessary to do, but it was necessary to park the car on the alarm system.

Having left Lexus under dim light of streetlights, I moved to bar. Over an entrance to an institution, casting on dark asphalt pink shadows, a big neon sign with the name of the bar “Flamingo” blinks. Before doors I was stopped by some drunken type.

– Hi son, – he told, then inhaled a cigarette.

What the hell I’m his son?! This word isn’t applicable in my case at all. If he would know that with my real father, and how old is he, the jaw would droop lower.

– Can I can help you? – I inquired, with severe a look removing points.

– Have you got any cigarette?

– It seems to me, it isn’t necessary to you.

– Don’t pay attention to this, – the stranger grinned. – It now will come to an end.

In a hand of this man the two-centimetric bull-calf smoked. He made the last inhale and having thrown the cigarette rest under feet, crushed. The stranger was similar to the biker. Clothes and a hairdress eloquently told about it. The leather vest which is put on on a naked torso was unbuttoned, and gave out on display a huge, roundish stomach with the black hair, a path going from a navel. As footwear black berets on a heavy sole serve. The leather bell-bottoms fixed by a wide brown belt on a waist. Yes what to list, all clothes on him were from leather, certainly from artificial, I understood it on a smell (about other smells I will keep silent). On a neck the choker lengthways covered with thorns is tense. On the head of the biker the leather bandana from under which down to shoulders the light brown, greased hair hangs down is dressed.

– I am glad for you, – I indifferently hemmed and stepped forward. But the importunate interlocutor partitioned off to my way.

– E-e., hang on. You don’t want to drink? I will adjust a woman for you, – the type wasn’t appeased; he pointed a finger at group of the people standing near an entrance to bar.

The company consists of not many, five people. For three men two women. They are dressed as well as my annoying interlocutor, in leather, is a match for him. One of women carried the hairdress which is found seldom in the nature – a mohawk, but in this case it isn’t surprising. The lady with an exotic hairdress is dressed in a short leather skirt, on a neck a collar without thorns, the torso covers a red small topic without straps. I got such feeling that she simply pulled on a breast the shortest skirt in her wardrobe. Feet are packed into the stockings in a big grid and put in the varnished boots on a high stud, and on a face the deadly and awful make-up flaunts. Other woman looks more humanly. Long black hair, a directly going to shovels close a half of the face with a modest make-up. Black jeans, tiny sneakers on a small foot, a leather biker jacket under which the blue undershirt closing all maiden zones of bikini and a décolleté hardly disappears – here everything that makes a getup of this quite even the lovely young lady which to call the woman, is the same that to call a donkey a horse. I will give her about seventeen years, no more.

– Doesn’t interest, – with irritation I waved away. Ask why I talk to him instead of striking on a physiognomy?! I came here not as strong and immortal which can turn a stone and as the ordinary visitor into dust. It is masking.

– Well wait, – the man protested. – I didn’t even present myself. I am Mitya. And you?

– You are gay perhaps?

– What? – the interlocutor dumbfounded by my question, stretched the last letter “a”. His face accepted such ridiculous expression of surprise.

– Clung to me as the pederast, – I told with the drop of loathing reflected in my face. – You haven’t enough your blockheads?!

– Not, you that? I am as to the friend… No-no-no…

Having kept silent, I bypassed a barrier in the form of the annoying punk-biker and went further. He waved on me a hand, having thrown in a trace something like: “Moron”, and went. Before doors to the bar I stopped, having postponed an entrance inside for some seconds. My look fell to the girl with black long hair to shovels that stays in the company of nonconformists who loudly laugh, impudently drink alcohol from bottles and swear various curse words. On her face the unwillingness and even contempt for everything that happens to her now was visible as though something, or someone forces her to go to the wrong way. The little rebel, one and a half meter in height, in a protest to her parents makes mad hellbenders, boozes to fray to “ancestors” nerves. And where this silly found out these morons. The girl stays, pretending that to her it is cheerful and good. She caught my eye, and we silently about ten seconds looked at each other in the face. Having understood that glancing were tightened the little girl hung the head, I entered the bar.

Having appeared inside, the first that came to mind – punks on the street, and even that not absolutely pleasant type, not the worst subjects on the way for short time of travel to the Flamingo. I felt some strange smell as if one of drunken visitors fell asleep behind the most imperceptible little table, and died, and “aroma” of carrion dominates in the atmosphere now. But the others, persons interested to drink the cheap, diluted beer have a rest here despite everything. Such surprising, officer firmness. And where is the smell, garbage.? The bar counter at a distant wall is surrounded with a chaos of tipsy men on the right. One just barfed on another and a fight burst. The most sober, and on dimensions the huge character with a severe grimace, the height reaching two meters, grabbed with both hands of two robbers, burst foreheads of one about another, dragged up to an exit, kicked with a foot one of doors, and threw “a sweet couple” outside. All others stood still, and, seemingly, are afraid this strapper.

The space is filled everywhere by the round little tables arranged with small stools. In the center a platform of a square form with a pole round the fat stripper in a blue wig turns. Rare ugliness. I like the women with a natural hair color, with a slim figure and big, expressive eyes.

I approached the bartender.

– Fellow, you know Sergey Sokolov? – I addressed to him.

– Sorry, no, – the young man answered.

The bartender looks like no more than twenty years old. When I started talking to him, he furtively raised the head, continuing to polish the glass which already was sparkling crystal purity. His tidy, beige apron, tells about integrity of work of the young man, and about it tells his diligence nearly to wipe in a glass a hole a dry towel, so diligent it carries out the mission. And I on its place wouldn’t try so for these morons.

– Maybe you saw him?

– Sorry, – the guy said. – But you can learn from visitors.

The young man with light brown hair, a little gray, with big, blue eyes and long eyelashes, reminded me a prince which was stolen by awful trolls. His blue t-shirt completed a royal image and gave him big innocence.

– You don’t wish something to drink? – wearily the bartender took an interest, continuing to clean a glass.

– No, thanks, – I answered, looking round on the parties.

– As you want.

– And you why you are so sad?

– I didn’t see you here earlier.

– I wasn’t here earlier.

I see. Usually daddy’s son like you look for entertainments in more decently places, – with certain badly disguised by offense and contempt the young man stated.

– From what you took that I am a posh?

– It is visible.

– Hmm, – I timidly smiled. – What’s your name?

– Me? Vasya.

– I am Kolya. It is pleasant to get acquainted, – I gave a hand through a rack, the fellow unwillingly reaped it.

I smiled to Vasily in a half of a mouth and went to study the territory.

It is noisy around. Someone dances under hard rock. Someone loudly laughs at trite jokes of the friends. Someone throws into the stripper a cheap trifle and iron traffic jams from glass bottles from beer, thus crying out something loud with cool laughter. Here it, local entertainment! How this remote place lagged behind the modern city. All behave as savages, as the criminals as animals who ran away from prison from a zoo.

Behind a little table at a window, near a main entrance I caught sight of one bearded little man. He sits in the place as if it – his own and personal. The drunken man in proud loneliness finishes drinking the remained two drinks of beer from the mug. Look its sad, lonely; and it seems, that he simply wants to sleep.

I returned to a bar counter, and asked the acquaintance already to me bartender to fill one and a half liter mug with beer.

– Hold, leave the rest to yourself. – I put one thousand rubles in front of the bartender, and having taken beer went to the man with a gray-haired beard.

I sat down to him at a little table, having put in front of the alcoholic’s nose a glass with amber liquid. He has being stared at me with drunk eyes, then at the bubbles in the favourite drink going from a bottom to top. I sat down at a little table, opposite to the man.

– Who are you? – having transferred an amazed look to me, he asked with the braided speech.

On the head of the drunk man the small spotty hat with round fields rises, and the mouth is completely hidden behind the gray-haired beard which extended to a breast. His small eyes and the extended aquiline nose are in harmony with other features, including with an amusing beard which gives to the owner similarity with the children’s New Year’s hero Father Frost.

– I am the one who wants to talk to you.

– And about what, lovely person? – the drunk man interrogatively began to blink.

– Now you’ll learn, – I began.

– How to call you?

– Nikolay.

– Me, Valentin Mikhaylovich.

– So we got acquainted, we will get down to business, – I slightly irritably uttered. – You know Sergey Sokolov?

– And who doesn’t know him…, – my present interlocutor exhaled, a loving look having taken of a mug with beer. He put his hands in front of himself, and asked a silly question – is to me?

I silently nodded.

– Thanks, – having told it, the man grabbed a glass and began to devastate it.

– How I understood, you know Sergey Sokolov that is, you will be able to tell something about him?!

– How can I not know everything about the best friend, – having come off beer he told and with knock put on a little table surface a thin glass.

– Tell me, has he got children?

– Children… yeah, the daughter, little.

– And the wife – the child’s mother?

– It is an old story, – the man frowned a little, – it came to a bad end. In confidence I will tell, Seregi in general has no children, at least, he told me so, – he added having held up a palm vertically to a mouth corner.

– And…

– And… I don’t know, why to you to know everything about Sokolov.

– It is possible to repeat, – I made the corresponding gesture, having asked the bartender to bring a new portion of beer.

In twenty seconds the bartender obligingly presented a fresh glass of beer to our little table. It seemed to me that the person with whom at present I conduct dialogue, considered insufficient that “gift” that I presented to him on arrival for his little table. That glass of beer it appeared little, and I simply had to order another from an urgent need. Amazingly!

– Is it to me? – the man asked modestly.

– Like you don’t know! – I grinned.

Having understood what I want, my interlocutor began to spread obediently a tragic story. Having listened to it, I learned the sea of the interesting facts. It appeared that Sergey Sokolov’s daughter not his native. It wasn’t secret. The matter is that the child’s mother, young eighteen-year-old Darya was disgraced by some guy. When Sergey learned about it, found the bastard and punished, but made it accidentally. Court recognized murder on imprudence and sentenced him for five years. When Sokolov was released, Dasha wasn’t alive any more. After violation she became pregnant. It appeared that having given birth to the child, Dasha couldn’t reconcile to that fate which she had to test and committed suicide, having jumped off from the fifth floor. This height was enough that from the young woman there was a big red spot on asphalt. The child’s grandmother on the fatherly line became the trustee of the newborn girl. After releasing from imprisonment places, Sokolov didn’t hurry to take part in education of the girl, or at least to help the mother with it. Instead the man began to drink much. He took out all valuable things from the house. So to speak, he filled with alcohol the immortal grief. Dasha was Sergey’s love, and he loved her very much. He told the friend Valentin more than once about the dreams in which he is visited by dear Dashenka and she calls him with herself.

– And after all, the little girl was young, only eighteen years, – Valentin Mikhaylovich added, having sent a thoughtful look to a floor.

– Were they married?

– Yes, they were. Sokolov was older than the Dashka for ten years. But it’s said, all age are obedient to love.

Later half a year, after Sokolov’s release, his mother got a heart attack which was promoted diligently a grief by the killed sonny, the ungrateful egoist. As a result, the girl lost her grandmother who died directly at home as there was nobody to call an ambulance. The five-year-old child was sent to orphanage. For that time Sokolov was already deprived of the parental rights. And everything ended with that the little girl wasn’t necessary to the only remained native person, on the earth. What to speak, in the world didn’t remain the person whom the child in general somehow interested.

– In which orphanage the girl is?

– I have no concept, – Valentin Mikhaylovich shrugged shoulders. – She was taken away more than three years ago, just when the grandma died.

Looking at the interlocutor, I feel hostility and even hatred to him and to the girl’s father. This indifference, this self-love simply enraged. It is simple to these fiddleheaded alcoholics to spit on all except themselves. But that is already not present in live, he was responsible for the behavior. Now I am not sorry for killing Sokolov Sergey. And that pendent that he so carefully stored, now doesn’t say about anything to me unless how he grieved for the suicide-wife and he dreamed of death.

– Guy, beer ended, – Valentin told and carefree smiled. – Listen, I can tell Sokolov’s address.

The man got the grown old rumpled tram ticket from a breast pocket.

– Is anybody has a pen? – he asked loudly to the visitors of bar. And right there the simple pencil ground to the small sizes departed to its party and fell to it under feet. – Thanks, friends.

Valentin Mikhaylovich lifted a pencil from a floor and scratched something on the ticket. After, I stretched it to me. I didn’t manage to read note contents as on the street the alarm system outside raised a howl.

Having jumped out of bar, I began to look around, didn’t stop a look till I got the car. Before eyes the shocking picture appeared. On a back wheel of brand new Lexus the type which I initially faced before getting in bar started up a stream. On the street still there was that company, and it with pride watched “feat” of the cranky friend.

– What are you doing? – I shouted maliciously to him, then approached and pushed away from the car.

Being unsteady and faltering the offender of my transport jumped aside.

– You went nuts, – he began to roar with a drunk voice.

Meanwhile I inspected a bumper of the car on which there were wet spots too which appeared thanks to this “the pissing boy”.

– I will show you, son of a bitch …, – sounded nearby.

Having turned back, I right there managed to evade from the fist flying to my party. From running start the man fell to the ground and tore apart to himself an elbow about asphalt. He began to roar from pain, talking smut in my address. But I didn’t catch these words as it was occupied with something. His blood! His blood! His blood! The head stopped only on it. I am not hungry, but this liquid simply dements. And his hands are soiled by it.

– You are a freak, asshole, a stupid motherfucker, – hysterical growled the man.

– Hey, you don’t want to apologize? – the female voice shouted. And right there on eyes there was a lady with a mohawk.

There was such feeling as if I am the animal driven into a corner. In total because of the blood which flowed out from a wound of this type. He sat, having grabbed the torn apart elbow, rocking forward, back. I felt as eyes became covered by a black film. You know what feelings I give out it? As if the sharp needle entering more deeply and more deeply sticks into the center of a pupil.

– What’s wrong with you, guy? You are crazy? – the same woman told.

Well, no one called me crazy yet. When there come such moments, I can’t simply control myself and the acts. Don’t think that I am really crazy and the washed-up freak. Get it, I am an animal, a predator.

– What did you say there? – I asked silently.

– The fucking loony, look what you made with him.

– I didn’t even touch him, – quiet and laconically I said, approaching closer.

– Hey, steer clear better, – with an easy fright in the eyes the woman with a freak hairdress uttered.

– And so what? – even more silently as if I was inhaling a smell of rose told and doing it a compliment.

– Zhora, it he that, runs, perhaps on me? – the excited lady opened a dribbling mouth.

– You thrust, – the wounded man said whom now as I understood, call Zhora. He rose from a sitting position, and went to me. Other part of their company silently watched the events, being in a shadow and drinking beer from bottles.

– Is it visible little for you?

– It now won’t seem to you a little.

Everything occurred literally for some seconds. The type again flew on me with fists, and I again evaded, twisted his hands and threw on the earth. He fell and fainted.

– What have you done? – his girlfriend began to yell and jumped up to the Zhora.

– Don’t cry, he’s alive, – I threw, having opened a car door.

Having sat down in salon, I got a piece of paper which to me was given by Valentin Mikhaylovich from a pocket. On it he wrote the address of the house of Sokolov Sergey. Reading a small note took away from me no more than five seconds.

I started, and my car soon was gone from a field of vision of those Neanderthal men. Finally, I looked through tinted glass. Aside bar I noticed how Zhora, to whose prompt falling I just promoted, slowly rises to the feet, holding a free hand the blood-stained chin. His girlfriend diligently tries to help him to get up, but he, having standed, pushed away the woman from himself, having shouted at her.