"Do you have some time for me?"
I have heard this voice before many times, but not quite like this. Immediately I could tell that something was wrong. "Sasha, I always have time for you," I replied. "Where are you?"
"How about in ten minutes? Your place."
"I'll be waiting."
Ten minutes later I saw that familiar, grinning round face, contrasting against the black Versace suit, decorated with gold chains. It was his uniform, Sasha explained to me once. He had to wear what his colleagues wear, whether he liked the style or not.
"Hey, old buddy," Sasha offered his big hand, "how's life?"
"Not bad. How about you?"
"Nothing could be better," he replied, but the heavy dark circles under his eyes suggested otherwise.
"Can I offer you some tea or coffee?"
"Coffee. And maybe a sandwich, if you have it."
I poured him a shot of cheap vodka instead and waited for my old friend to start talking. It did not take long. It never does. "So, you want anyone bumped off?" he said rather abruptly.
"No, thanks, Sasha," I smiled apologetically for my inability to accommodate his request.
"It's inexpensive. Really. It's just that my guys need the cash right now, so I can get you a really good discount."
"I appreciate the offer, but not right now," I said, firmly believing in my position against violence.
"How about bodyguards? Do you know anyone who could use really good guys? They can do absolutely everything."
I pretended to think about it, then slowly, as if having carefully considered the matter, I answered, "not from the top of my head."
"How about yourself? I know you don't really need one, but just for a few days I could lend you my bodyguard, free of charge. Look at it as advertisement of your potential services. Besides, it would be really cool for your image."
"Sasha, I am a translator and nothing more. I don't offer protection services to foreigners."
"You could expand your practice..."
"Look, in all honesty, I can't be seen with any bodyguards because it may frighten away my clients."
"Just look at my guy," he insisted, and before I could stop him, Sasha shouted into the hallway, "hey, Victor, come in here." My door was immediately blocked by a very large man whose body resembled a refrigerator. Like Sasha, he was dressed entirely in black, with heavy 18-carat gold chains on his chest and wrists. The bulge under his left armpit confirmed that he was armed.
"Victor, I want you to meet my good friend," Sasha said.
"Hello," burped the refrigerator, barely opening his mouth.
"Hello," I smiled back pleasantly.
"OK, Victor, you can go now," Sasha quickly dismissed him with a wave of the hand. After Victor's massive body left the room, I asked Sasha, "why do you need a bodyguard? You are the one who is supposed to be invincible!"
"Yeah, but it's a difficult time right now. Debt collection has always been a tough business. I have to watch my back for just a few days, that's all." By the way Sasha rubbed his eyes I could tell that he was very tired. "You know," he continued, "it's emotionally draining, having to look at the balconies as you go down the street. That's why Victor is there. He'll nail them even if they get me first."
"Shit, Sasha, you really have to drop this nonsense sometime."
"Hey, what can I do?" he sighed. "Homeland Security doesn't pay enough. And business is business. How about cash? Can I borrow some dough?"
Naturally I did not ask him what it was for; it was none of my business. I simply emptied my wallet. There was not much, but I gave him whatever I had. Sasha was always a good friend to me when I really needed him. Unfortunately none of us, Sasha's friends, knew the full extent of his problems. Otherwise we would have gladly paid any amount of money necessary to bail him out of trouble, just as he always helped us. But he was too proud to ask for our help.Yesterday the newspapers reported that Sasha was shot four times. The neighbors found him sprawled out in the corridor and they took him to Institute #28. One bullet went just under Sasha's eye, and the others struck him in the stomach, perforating his bowels and lungs. He on life support system, but the doctors estimate his chances of survival to be minimal.
More disturbingly, however, the cops found Sasha's personal phone book. They are now in the process of calling his friends whose numbers are written in there, including mine. That's why we, Sasha's friends, do not visit him in the hospital as he lay on his deathbed. Sasha's ex-wife, Anya, has another reason, which I absolutely detest: who needs a useless friend?
* * *
"Since none of you wanted to come up here, to the podium, I took these final words upon myself," Victor began somberly. "We all knew Sasha pretty well; he was a wild one. Who can forget his dirty grin? Or that cold look in his eyes once he made up his mind about someone. His self-hating grimace was well-deserved, because Sasha lived badly, brutally. Most of all, he loved to fight. He was a mixture of death, pleasure and destruction, all rolled into one. A nasty, thuggish character, some unkind souls could say. And in a way, they would be right. The menace was real. He threatened people, mocked the traditions. Truth be told, Sasha led a destructive lifestyle. The low-life friends and the shadows they cast. He consorted with the wretched of the town: thugs and bandits, prostitutes and beggars. The extreme theater of butchery and torture, excitement in excess. In the end, it was a nightmare of disintegration.
His whole life consisted of wine and women, but mostly weapons. "I'll talk to them personally," was his usual phrase. Always proud, to the end. Well, a few days ago our good friend Sasha was caught alone. And this time they nailed him to the cross. Yes, crime has a face. When your turn came, Sasha looked at you in fury, like it was the last glance before death. The blackest eye sockets, the paranoia. The anguished eyes and open mouth. It was all real. No, Sasha was not a good man, we can all admit that. Some people go as far as to say that he was a sleazy, twisted, tasteless fuck. That he had no right to belong to the human society. An embarrassment? Yes.
But he possessed the qualities that I admire: a true friend to his comrades and an entirely unnecessary generosity to the homeless freaks on the street. There was always a dollar or two for the drunkard bum on the corner. And for every act of betrayal there was an act of punishment, which to him was salvation. Sure, he was a bastard, but one with a great, big heart. What else can I say about Sasha? He was morbid and sometimes absurd, but he was always his own man. A genuine work of art. Die on your feet or crawl through life on your knees, as Sasha used to say. He would put the money down and let it roll, going for broke. And then, one more for the road. No, Sasha was not afraid of anything. You have to admit, whether despised or hated, he was a unique individual. And now, let's pray."
Then everyone silently bowed their heads. When I heard these horrible words being said about my childhood buddy, Sasha, as he probably floated high above the casket, I felt terrible, even if they were all true. To me, he forever remained my good old friend, no matter what the outpost life made of him.
Editor's Note
The author, noted local attorney, Alex Frishberg of Frishberg & Partners, has written a number of short stories and other fiction over the years. A number of these have been published in the UO. The above is from a new collection of stories by Alex.
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