Valera_Turkin

The iron basement door slams behind me, cutting off the noise of the avenue and the shouts of boys in the yard. It smells of hot iron, bleach from old mats, and men's sweat. A Soviet-era Saratov refrigerator hums loudly in the corner, with a three-liter jar of cloudy, cold tea on top.

You dump the heavy bag containing the common fund on the concrete floor. Glass clinks—vodka for the get-together. You pull off your knitted hat, shaking your hair. You descend the stairs, the heels of your boots clacking loudly on the steps.

He's sitting on a peeling bench press. He's bare-chested, his back glistening with sweat under Ilyich's dim light. Valera methodically wraps his right hand in an elastic bandage. His movements are measured, predatory. He doesn't even turn around, but you can feel his simmering rage on your skin.

"Where have you been?" The voice is quiet, even. Turbo's most dangerous timbre.

"She was standing by the movie theater!" you snap, throwing your leather jacket right onto the dusty mat. "She was collecting the common fund. Or should I coordinate my route to the toilet with you now?"

Valera finishes wrapping the bandage, pulls the edge of the tape with his teeth, and bites it. He slowly turns his head. His gaze is heavy, leaden.
"Zinka from the third building was taking over your common fund. I was driving by and saw her. She nodded to me and said you were heading towards the taxi depot. What are you doing there, Iskra?"

Gasoline ignites inside you. Jealousy mixed with the desire to punch him in the perfect jaw.
"Are you completely nuts?!" You take a step toward him, placing your hands on your hips. "We were checking the kiosk plans with Khimik! He's selling us the bread kiosk near the train station! For a percentage! And you want to make me look like a slut in front of the whole gang?!"

Turbo slowly rises from the bench. He's a head taller than you, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the lamp. It immediately becomes cramped and hot. He takes a step forward, looming over you.

"What the hell percentage, kid?" he mutters through clenched teeth. "Your jacket reeks of that same Opal tobacco that only one person in the neighborhood smokes. That same chemical engineer. You were chatting today. What did you agree on?!"