Voroshilovgrad by Serhiy Zhadan Read Free Book Online Page B

North Sea was light blue. A naked chick with a severed head took the place of the North Pole. Huh. Perfect for a school geography club. I sank into a deep silence.

    Some voices woke me up, voices that instantly rubbed me the wrong way. I hopped out of bed and went outside. The sound was coming from the gas station; there were a few people shouting all at the same time, but the only voice I could recognize was Kocha’s, and it was trembling.
    Two dudes wearing sport coats and jeans were sprawled out on the seats by the booth. One guy was wearing a tie, while the other, who looked like he was the boss, just had his top button undone. The former was in sneakers and the latter was in leather dress shoes. A third guy, though, wearing jeans and an Adidas jacket, had Kocha by the scruff of the neck and was shaking him roughly. Kocha was shouting something in protest, and the dudes sitting in the chairs were chuckling. “Uh-oh,” I thought as I moved toward them.
    â€œHey,” I called out, “what’s the big idea?” Thinking, “I’ll punch the first fucker, and then I’ll make a run for it, if I have to. But what about Kocha?”
    Taken by surprise, the third dude released Kocha, dropping him onto the ground. The two guys sitting in the chairs gave me the evil eye.
    â€œGuys, what the fuck,” I said, choosing my words with care.
    â€œAnd who are you?” the surly guy who had been roughing Kocha up asked.
    â€œI could ask you the same thing.”
    â€œHey, pansy,” the third dude said, giving Kocha—who was sitting on the asphalt and rubbing his neck—a kick. “Who’s that?”
    â€œThat’s Herman,” Kocha told him, “Yura’s brother—he’s the owner.”
    â€œThe owner?” the main guy asked incredulously as he struggled to his feet. The other one, with the tie, followed his lead.
    â€œThat’s right,” Kocha confirmed.
    â€œWhat do you mean, owner?” the boss demanded, “What about Yura?”
    â€œYura’s gone,” Kocha said.
    â€œWell, where is he?” the main guy asked.
    â€œHe’s taking some continuing education courses,” I said.
    Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a car pulling in off the highway—I was really banking on it to save the day.
    â€œWhen’s he getting back?” The main guy had also seen the car and was talking with a lot less confidence now.
    â€œOnce he finishes his course,” I told him, “he’ll come back. What’s it to you?”
    The car rolled onto the patch of asphalt by the gas station and screeched to a halt. The dust settled, and Injured got out of the car. He glared at the group of us and headed right over. He stopped at the booth without saying a thing. He was keeping a close eye on everyone.
    â€œSo, what’s the deal?” I asked again, trying to assert myself.
    â€œYour gasoline is diluted,” the main guy replied spitefully.
    â€œWe’ll sort that out,” I promised him.
    â€œYou do that,” the guy said, then headed off toward their Jeep, obviously dissatisfied with how our conversation had gone. His two cronies followed suit, though the guy who’d been restraining Kocha wound up to give him one last kick before taking anotherlook at Injured and deciding to back off.
    The Jeep had left a black trail across the asphalt. Maybe they’d slammed on the brakes when they arrived. The trail dropped off before the pumps. Apparently, they’d never had any intention of filling up. So the dudes took their seats, put the pedal to the metal, and sped off toward the highway. Kocha got up and started dusting himself off.
    â€œWho were those guys?” I asked him.
    â€œThe local gang,” Kocha answered anxiously. “The kings of corn.”
    â€œWhat’d they want?”
    â€œNothing, nothing at all,” Kocha said, putting on his glasses, slipping by me, and