Ink

Dragović cursed softly as he approached his storefront. The front windows were shattered, with shards of glass glinting in the morning light as they lay scattered across the sidewalk. He unlocked the front door, carefully draped his suit jacket over the counter, and brought out a trash can. He went back in for a broom and a dustpan. The day was already unbearably hot. Sweat stains began to form around his armpits as he cleaned up the glass. He was a small, slender man, and his suit, though worn, was clean. His tie was perfectly knotted in a Windsor knot.

“Will you look at this…such a shame. I told you there was a bad element in this neighborhood. If you had signed up for protection like everyone else did, this wouldn’t have happened,” a voice said.

Dragović paused in his sweeping and shot a glare at the tall, stocky figure leaning against the nearby wall, giving him a mocking smile. Dmitry wore an unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt, jeans, and boots. His arms were heavily tattooed, with full sleeves covering both of them. An elaborately inked skeleton peeked out from under the open shirt. Dragović gripped the broom handle tightly, causing his knuckles to turn white, and his chest rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to maintain control.

“I pay money, and doesn’t happen again?” Dragović finally asked in his heavily accented English.

“Yeah, as long as you keep up your weekly dues.” Dmitry nodded.

“I have for you tonight. Come back at 8.” Dragović dismissively turned his back on him and went back to sweeping up the glass.

“8 it is,” Dmitry replied, walking away with a fading smile as he kicked at the pile of glass, scattering it back across the sidewalk. There was something about the old man’s attitude—an air of insolence—that irritated him. Dmitry almost hoped the old man wouldn’t be able to keep up with the payments.

At 8 PM, it was still sweltering. An inversion layer had blanketed the city all week, trapping in the heat and stench of eight million people. The news reports stated that there was no end in sight. Dmitry and his second-in-command, Anton, paused at the corner to smoke. Dmitry made it a point to never arrive anywhere on time. The front windows of Dragović’s store had been boarded up. The last rays of the setting sun worked their way through the jumble of tenements, illuminating the sign above the door: The Esoteric Arts.

“Eso…” Anton stumbled over the word.

“Esoteric.”

“What’s that mean?” Anton asked.

“It means he’s found a way to grift all the Gypsies and superstitious babushkas in the area. You need a love potion? He’s the man to see. Need a charm to protect you from the evil eye? He’s got it covered. It’s complete bullshit, but the peasants lap it up. Come on, let’s get our money.” Dmitry flicked his cigarette into the street. Anton followed suit.

It wasn’t much cooler inside the store. Dragović sat behind the counter, a hefty, leather-bound tome open in front of him. He glanced up briefly as they entered, but then returned to writing in a small notebook while studying the book. Dmitry finally realized what disturbed him the most about the old man: he never seemed afraid of Dmitry, while everyone else always did…and should.

“The money,” Dmitry finally snapped.