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“It’s a tourist place.”
“Not just for tourists.”
She frowns. “This isn’t where you would go—if it was just you or the Wolfpack.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I want you to show me what you do, how you live. I want to see the real Russia.”
“It’s not as posh.”
She fixes me with that blazing stare, stubborn and demanding. “Take me where the Bratva go.”
I smile, not displeased. “Alright. Come on.”
We leave the club and wind through the darker, dingier roads leading into Danilovsky. Here the luxury cars pulled up to the curb look much more out of place, but no one would dare touch them, even if they were left unlocked.
There’s no line outside Apothecary and no sign above the plain brick entryway, other than a painted wooden board, the sort that might hang at an English pub, depicting a shot glass with an eerie green brew within.
I tell Sabrina, “It’s neutral ground of sorts. No business here—just networking.”
She nods, understanding.
We pass inside, through a dark and undecorated hallway, raw brick like the exterior.
Playground – Bea Miller
Spotify → geni.us/savage-spotify
Apple Music → geni.us/savage-apple
Apothecary is smaller than the Soho Rooms, and less crowded. It resembles an old speakeasy, with ancient plasterwork on the walls, stained by cigar smoke, and a dark wood bar, carved and scrolled, in which dusty, unlabeled bottles line the shelves. The wrought-iron lamps let out a dim golden glow, casting pools of light distinct from the impenetrable gloom.
The tables are set far enough apart that conversations are unlikely to be overheard, especially under the steady thud of music pumped into the room.
The mostly male patrons are accompanied by women too tarty to leave any doubt of their profession. Sabrina—the only woman in pants, and clearly foreign—draws plenty of eyes.
If the Soho Rooms differentiate on beauty and wealth, an entirely different principle operates here. Age and ethnicity are diverse, as well as apparel: while some wear suits, jeans, trainers, and tracksuits are just as common. The real unifying characteristic is the sense that every person here has been battered by time and circumstance. Scars and injuries are common, the indelible marks of experience even more so. Even the youngest whores look old before their time, bearing the hollow expressions of those who have seen too much.
We order our drinks at the bar.
“Mykah,” I say to the bartender, “this is Sabrina.”
Mykah has the build of an enforcer—body like a refrigerator, hands like catcher’s mitts—but his voice is soft and gentle. Whenever he’s working he wears a cloth beanie and an oilskin apron, a pair of spectacles perched low on his nose like a babushka.
“Zdravstvuyte,” he says, taking down the vodka for our drinks.
“Dobryy vecher,” Sabrina replies, trying out one of her newly learned greetings.
“Very good.” Mykah nods his approval.
“It’s shit,” Sabrina sighs, “but I’ll learn.”
“Russian is very easy language,” Mykah agrees. “It only take me three years to learn, and I was baby at time.”
He roars with laughter, Sabrina laughing too, though more at Mykah himself than at his witticisms.
“What you do here with this one?” Mykah points his bar towel at me. “You know he is very bad guy.”
