Red Ink by Greg Dinallo Read Free Book Online

“After spending the night watching the scum of the earth barf their brains out, I got a two-hour lecture from Shevchenko about not revealing information to outsiders.”
    “I’m still glad you did.”
    Her demeanor softens, and she breaks into a satisfied smile. “This is the one, isn’t it, Niko?”
    “Uh-huh. I can live off it for a year.”
    “You already sold it?!”
    I nod emphatically. “A series of follow-ups too.”
    “Come on, come on, who?”
    “Pravda.”
    “Pravda?!”
    “Don’t laugh. Sergei is there. They’re paying five hundred thousand.”
    “Five hundred?! That’s fantastic.”
    “Enough talk,” I say, pointing to a clipping from an old issue of The New York Times Magazine that’s pinned to the bulletin board above my desk.
    “I know, I know,” Vera says, beating me to it. “ ‘Planning to write is not writing. Outlining a book is not writing. Researching is not writing. Talking to people about what you’re doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing.’ E. L. Doctorow.”
    “You have it memorized.”
    Vera’s eyes roll. “A parrot would have little choice around here.”
    “Can you say, ‘Make love to me, Nikolai’?” I ask, pulling her into an embrace.
    “Maybe.”
    “How about, ‘Tear off my clothes, Nikolai. Bwaaak! Tear off my clothes, Nikolai. Bwaaaak! Bwaaaak!’ Can you say that?”
    She emits a lusty giggle and kisses me. All of a sudden she breaks it off and glares at me accusingly.
    Damn. The vodka. She’s detected the vodka.
    “Stolichnaya. How could I say no?”
    Her soft eyes narrow and harden like gemstones.
    “Sergei wanted to celebrate. I couldn’t insult him. I only had one.”

    “That’s one too many.”
    “Come on, Vera, I’m fine.”
    “Oh, yeah?” she challenges seductively, grinding her pelvis against mine. “I’ll be the judge of that.” She buries her hands in my hair, spins me around, and pushes me down on the bed, her mouth devouring mine, her hands tearing at my clothes. Thank God Sergei insisted the kid do the rewrite. Soon, passion soaring, we’re naked and tangled in the bedding like writhing snakes. It doesn’t get much better than this. No, life has never been so good. Never.
    Hours later, I’ve no idea how many, I awaken to the strong smell of coffee and a rustling sound. My hand searches the bed for Vera to no avail. I push up onto an elbow, squinting at the daylight coming through the curtains. “Vera?”
    No reply.
    I finally locate her in a chair by the window. She’s fully dressed and is frantically turning the pages of a newspaper. “Vera? Vera, what the hell are you doing?”
    “It’s not here.”
    “What?”
    “Pravda. I couldn’t wait for the mail. I bought a copy at the newsstand. I can’t find it. It’s not on the front page, not even below the fold.”
    “It has to be.” I stumble out of bed and tear the paper from her hands—as if looking for it myself, as if willing the article to be there will make it so. But it isn’t. Not on the front page, not opposite the editorial page, not anywhere that an important story would be found. Finally, near the bottom of a column of obituaries, I find a small headline: V. I. VORONTSOV KILLED BY THIEF.
    “Killed By Thief?!” I exclaim, my voice ringing with disbelief. “By M. I. Drevnya?!”
    “Who?”
    “The wiseass kid who did the rewrite!” I explode, throwing the newspaper across the room in disgust.

5
    D revnya is at his desk, typing furiously as I charge across the newsroom brandishing the paper. “What the fuck is this?!”
    He recoils and swivels in his chair to face me. “Take it easy, Katkov, take it easy, okay?”
    “Soon as you explain what happened to my story!”
    He retreats, propelling the chair backward with his feet, then stands to confront me. “Look, I can understand why you’re pissed off, but—”
    “Pissed off?! Pissed off is hardly—”
    “Hey, hey?!” Sergei’s voice booms. He weaves between the desks and pushes his