sharp crack of crab claws and shells bursting loud and distinct out of the low rumble of talk and laughter. The wood of the tables and chairs has been waxed and rewaxed for so many years it looks black. On the walls are old but almost grainless and glowing photographs of fleets of Chesapeake skipjacks under sail dredging for oysters, Bay watermen tonging from skiffs or hauling in wood-and-wire pots full of blue channel crabs, armadas of log canoes heeling hard during a race. A lost world. I get lost in it for a minute. Slack. I go to superscan, checking every face, hearing every sound, totally alert to movement, to comings and goings.
Not alert enough. Strong, thick-fingered hands seize my head before I sense the presence behind me, pull it back almost as far as my neck will bend. I feel my hand moving for the HK, just manage to freeze the reflex. The fingers are probing all around my skull. One finds the dent. Almost strokes it for a moment. Then the hands are gone. Somebody's laughing.
"Shooter! A lot you changed, these years. I don't recognize you." I turn and see Vassily beaming down at me. He's wearing a navy linen suit, hair's cropped so close it's just a white-blond stubble, face round as round can be except that his cheeks are bulging 'cause he's grinning so broadly. "But
77
hole in the head, I know it's you. So, they put a plate in there, yes? You more crazy now than then?"
"Guess about as crazy as you." I stand up. "You scared the shit out of me just now."
"Oh sure, I see how you tremble." He chuckles. "Very frightened man." He seizes my head again and plants a big kiss on the top. No trick, since he's about 6'6". Then the big Russian hug, meaty arms almost cracking my ribs. "Thin like a bird. Nobody would believe little guy like you could do some things I see with my own eyes. Nobody!"
Then that laugh again. Eyes cold blue like a Siberian husky. And shiny, a little wet. He releases me, rubs his eyes with those huge hands. "Excuse me please, too much emotional. So much time ..."
"The river flows, Vassily," I say, moving the talk into Russian. He follows my lead.
"Ah, it's like some miracle, our paths crossing again," he says, moving around the table and sitting down. "Never did I think to see you again, my friend. It is too good. Some times we had, no? Remember the night we go up that hill?..."
"We did that. In another life."
"Da, da. So no history," Vassily says, eyes dampening again. I feel something close to affection for the man, despite what he was, and probably still is. But then what am I, if not the same? "No history. We drink, we eat, we celebrate new life, okay?
"But fuck God, it's so damn good to see my little brother," he says, waving over one of the waitresses, an aging lady with stiff hair the most unnatural shade of platinum I've seen.
"What'U it be, hon?" she says, smiling at Vassily. There's a little bit of bright red lipstick on one of her front teeth.
"Vodka, you beauty," Vassily roars in English.
"Vodka? You mean like just a straight glass of vodka, hon?"
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"I mean bottle, big bottle, very cold." Vassily beams at her.
She lowers her order pad, the little stub of pencil in her right hand bobbing up and down. Then she laughs. "A bottle, hon? Sure thing. You look like a man who can handle a bottle."
When it comes I have to explain to Vassily why I can only have a sip, not match him shot for shot. He looks dismayed. "This is some damn shame," he says, shaking his massive head. "So. I drink for you, my friend. In honor of you!"
He does. He also slurps down three of the four dozen Chincoteagues on the half shell I order. They taste of the clean salt sea. He cracks his way through two of the three dozen steamed crabs, bright red and crusty with Old Bay. He polishes off most of the whole baked rockfish, plus massive portions of cole slaw, potato salad and sliced tomatoes.
"Ah, this I love, Shooter," he says. "This sort of life. No more field rations! Never again! A peaceful life.
Not alert enough. Strong, thick-fingered hands seize my head before I sense the presence behind me, pull it back almost as far as my neck will bend. I feel my hand moving for the HK, just manage to freeze the reflex. The fingers are probing all around my skull. One finds the dent. Almost strokes it for a moment. Then the hands are gone. Somebody's laughing.
"Shooter! A lot you changed, these years. I don't recognize you." I turn and see Vassily beaming down at me. He's wearing a navy linen suit, hair's cropped so close it's just a white-blond stubble, face round as round can be except that his cheeks are bulging 'cause he's grinning so broadly. "But
77
hole in the head, I know it's you. So, they put a plate in there, yes? You more crazy now than then?"
"Guess about as crazy as you." I stand up. "You scared the shit out of me just now."
"Oh sure, I see how you tremble." He chuckles. "Very frightened man." He seizes my head again and plants a big kiss on the top. No trick, since he's about 6'6". Then the big Russian hug, meaty arms almost cracking my ribs. "Thin like a bird. Nobody would believe little guy like you could do some things I see with my own eyes. Nobody!"
Then that laugh again. Eyes cold blue like a Siberian husky. And shiny, a little wet. He releases me, rubs his eyes with those huge hands. "Excuse me please, too much emotional. So much time ..."
"The river flows, Vassily," I say, moving the talk into Russian. He follows my lead.
"Ah, it's like some miracle, our paths crossing again," he says, moving around the table and sitting down. "Never did I think to see you again, my friend. It is too good. Some times we had, no? Remember the night we go up that hill?..."
"We did that. In another life."
"Da, da. So no history," Vassily says, eyes dampening again. I feel something close to affection for the man, despite what he was, and probably still is. But then what am I, if not the same? "No history. We drink, we eat, we celebrate new life, okay?
"But fuck God, it's so damn good to see my little brother," he says, waving over one of the waitresses, an aging lady with stiff hair the most unnatural shade of platinum I've seen.
"What'U it be, hon?" she says, smiling at Vassily. There's a little bit of bright red lipstick on one of her front teeth.
"Vodka, you beauty," Vassily roars in English.
"Vodka? You mean like just a straight glass of vodka, hon?"
78
"I mean bottle, big bottle, very cold." Vassily beams at her.
She lowers her order pad, the little stub of pencil in her right hand bobbing up and down. Then she laughs. "A bottle, hon? Sure thing. You look like a man who can handle a bottle."
When it comes I have to explain to Vassily why I can only have a sip, not match him shot for shot. He looks dismayed. "This is some damn shame," he says, shaking his massive head. "So. I drink for you, my friend. In honor of you!"
He does. He also slurps down three of the four dozen Chincoteagues on the half shell I order. They taste of the clean salt sea. He cracks his way through two of the three dozen steamed crabs, bright red and crusty with Old Bay. He polishes off most of the whole baked rockfish, plus massive portions of cole slaw, potato salad and sliced tomatoes.
"Ah, this I love, Shooter," he says. "This sort of life. No more field rations! Never again! A peaceful life.
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