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To irritate Jasper, I say, “I don’t know boats. Can you explain them to me?”
Jasper shoots me my eighth fatal glare.
“Boats …” Zigor says wisely. “Sometimes fast, sometimes slow.”
“Wow.” I nod. “You’re so right.”
Another ten or twenty minutes pass in silence. And by silence, I mean no one is speaking but Zigor is making a clicking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He’s managing to do it at precisely the irregular interval you can’t get used to. Every time he clicks, Jasper’s eye twitches. Jasper’s leaning forward on his knees, hair falling into his face, clutching his head.
“You have HEADACHE?” Zigor booms at top volume.
I take back what I said before—Zigor’s growing on me. The enemy of my enemy is, if not exactly my friend, at least a useful annoyance.
The Bookends break out a pack of cards.
“Vy khotite igrat’?”Tweedledee asks Zigor.
“Nyet,”Zigor says, looking sulky.
The Bookends bet heavy, and I’m guessing Zigor already burned through his allowance. He’s been making the strippers of Moscow rich and happy.
“Vy?”the right Bookend says to Jasper.
He shakes his head.
They don’t ask me to play. That annoys me, not because I want to play, but because they would have asked if I was a man. The Bookends treat me like furniture, or actually, more like a yappy little Pekingese brought along by Jasper for no discernible reason.
Zigor watches the Bookends methodically turning over cards on the upturned milk crate between them. With a dramatic sigh, he stomps outside again, returning a few minutes later flushed and glassy-eyed.
“We play real men’s game,” he announces, pulling his revolver from his pocket. He holds up the gun so the steel muzzle glints in the greenish light of the shack.
“Put that away,” Jasper snaps.
We’re all armed, but it’s bad form to pull out your gun and play with it. Bad form to even acknowledge it’s on your person.
Too bad, ‘cause Adrik made good on our bet—he bought me a P30L with a custom compensator, which really is the handgun from the first John Wick movie. I’d love to blow Zigor’s mind by telling him that Keanu Reeves gave it to me.
Ignoring Jasper, Zigor snaps open the drum of his revolver, letting the bullets fall to the floorboards one by one until only a single .38 remains. He spins the drum, flicking it back in place.
“You know this game?” Zigor says. “Very famous.”
“Oh yeah,” I say blandly. “Mongolian roulette.”
“You know is Russian game!” Zigor shouts. “You make me angry with these jokes—Mongolian!Pah!”
He spits on the floorboards.
“Put itaway,”Jasper hisses. He’s still seated, but his body is stiff, turned toward Zigor now, his lips as white as his skin.
The Bookends are barely paying attention, still absorbed in their game. I doubt this is the first time Zigor’s gotten high and pulled out his revolver.
Zigor points the gun at me.
“Simple rules. We pull trigger once each. God will decide who is good and who has been naughty.”
Jasper’s fingers dig into his thighs. He’s so tense he’s almost shaking.
“Quit fucking around,” he barks.
