Snow: Chapter 7

The next morning I severely regret having those beers, because Meyer is training me harder than ever.

He’s got me out behind Golden Gloves, punching a stack of tires over and over again. It’s cheaper than a heavy bag, especially since Meyer’s old bags are prone to split open when you hit them too hard.

The tires won’t split. The tread is hell on the knuckles, though. Especially when it’s cold outside and the rubber is hard.

“You think you’re tough shit after that fight last night,” Meyer says. “Think again. You’re going to be up against the big boys in this tourney. A prize like that—it’s gonna pull in real boxers from all over the country. Veterans who know their stuff. You make one mistake, they’ll lay you out.”

“They can try,” I grunt, hitting the tires rhythmically—left, right, left, right.

“Oh yeah, Mr. Tough Guy. Never been knocked out so he thinks it can’t happen.”

Meyer is in a sour mood today. Which means he’s nervous. He thinks I’m not ready yet, not for a tournament this big.

I disagree.

I think I’m ready for a lot more.

“I told Afansi to come down today to spar with you,” Meyer says.

My annoyance must show on my face, because Meyer says, “It’s no good practicing with Boom Boom. That’s too easy for you.”

I don’t like Afansi, and I don’t trust him. He works as a low-level hustler, yet somehow, he’s always got cash, watches, and a car nicer than you’d expect. I don’t like equations that don’t add up.

Still, I can’t deny he’s a good boxer. He’s fucking fast, and since he’s just about as tall as me, he’s got a good reach.

I’m surprised he agreed to come train with me. He doesn’t strike me as a guy who does favors, not without getting something in return.

I hear the engine of his BMW roaring into the lot. His punctuality just annoys me.

He comes jogging into the club, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He’s tall, black-haired, good-looking, but in a smarmy kind of way. He’s dressed in a shiny tracksuit and four-hundred-dollar sneakers, and I can smell his cologne from across the gym.

“Snow!” he calls cheerfully, coming over to shake hands. “Morning, Meyer,” he says, giving Meyer a nod.

Meyer nods back stiffly. He doesn’t like Afansi either, not really. He just thinks this’ll be good for me.

“That was some fight last night,” Afansi says. “You sent Bodybag to the fucking moon!”

He laughs. His laugh is high-pitched and shows a big mouthful of blinding white teeth. God, he’s annoying.

“He was due for a loss,” I say shortly.

“Seems like everybody’s due for a loss when they fight you,” Afansi says shrewdly. “I saw you talking to Krupin after. You gonna fight in his next tournament?”

“I might,” I say.

“Oh, great!” Afansi grins wider than ever. “I’m fighting in it, too! In fact, if you make it to the second round, I figure they might pair us up against each other. Similar height and weight, records about on par . . .”

I shoot a look over at Meyer.

There it is. The reason Afansi came down here. He wants to get a feel for my style, before we meet in the ring.

Meyer just shrugs. Opponent research goes two ways—Afansi can’t figure me out without me doing the same thing right back to him.

“Let’s get started then,” I say.

“Time’s a-wastin’, right, brother?” Afansi says.

Jesus Christ. I hope he shuts up when he gets his mouth guard in, at least.

I pull off my hoodie so I can wrap up my hands.

“Yebat-kopat, what are you feeding this guy?” Afansi says to Meyer, pretending to be terrified at the sight of me.

When he strips off his own jacket. I see he’s put on some mass himself. He’s wearing an undershirt and a gold chain, which sits on a mat of black chest hair.

“Better take that off, too,” Meyer says, nodding at the chain.

As Afansi is stripping it off, Boom Boom comes into the gym. He looks a little hurt when he sees that I’m already suiting up with somebody else.

“What’s he doing here?” he says to Meyer, loud enough that Afansi and I can hear.

“Training,” Meyer says tartly. “Same as you’re supposed to be doing. So hurry the fuck up.”

Pouting a little, Boom Boom takes off his jacket and changes his shoes, so he can start jumping rope. The steady whir of the rope circling through the air, then smacking against the floor, is strangely soothing to me. I like jumping rope. It clears the head. And you can do it inside, instead of out in the godawful Russian winter.

Afansi has finished taping up his hands, so we don our gloves and climb up into Meyer’s ring. We’re both wearing headgear to reduce the likelihood of a nasty cut or concussion before the tournament.

Typically, you keep sparring matches to a medium intensity. Hard sparring is too likely to lead to injury.

But as soon as Meyer gives us the signal, Afansi comes at me hard, giving me those lightning-fast strikes he’s famous for. That’s why they call him The Viper in the ring.

I can tell he wants to see what I’ve got—he wants a taste of the real thing.

I won’t let him goad me into it. I keep my punches half power, and I mostly stay on the defensive. Watching his attacks, looking to see how he signals his moves before he makes them.

Pretty quickly, Afansi realizes I’m not going to be provoked that easily. So he tries the opposite tactic—pulling back to see if I’ll take the offensive.

“I heard Krupin offered you a job,” Afansi says, his words a little slurred by his mouth guard.

I make a noncommittal sound.

“You gonna take him up on it?” Afansi presses.

“Dunno,” I say.

I get the feeling that one of the ways Afansi makes his money is by selling information to interested parties. So I’d rather not tell him the color of my shoelaces, if I can avoid it.

“If you do, we might be working together,” Afansi says.

He sends a whip-crack hook whistling toward my head. I barely manage to slip it.

“What do you mean?” I say.

“You know Stepanov?” Afansi asks.

“Yeah,” I say. He used to run the heroin trade out of Afghanistan, until he got three-quarters of his business stolen by some upstart gangster who tried to take over St. Petersburg. That gangster got put in the ground by Ivan Petrov, but I don’t think Stepanov’s business has recovered.

“Well,” Afansi says, “I started working for him a couple weeks back.”

“So?”

“So I think he might make a deal with Krupin. Half his business for half of Knockdown. A dual partnership. Or so I hear . . .”

He grins around his mouth guard.

Huh. It does make sense—Knockdown is getting more popular by the week. The money is rolling in. If Stepanov is short on cash, that would provide him with regular revenue.

Stepanov’s drug business isn’t worth a fraction of what it used to be. But he offers Krupin something else: a return to respectability. Stepanov is one of the oldest and most well-respected Bratva bosses in St. Petersburg. If he partners with Krupin, it will be extending the hand of friendship after Krupin’s ten-year excommunication for murdering his brother’s family.

It sounds plausible, but Afansi has misread if he thinks I give a shit about the machinations of the Bratva. He probably thinks that’s valuable information to me, because it’s all the more motivation to take the job Krupin offered.

But I don’t want to work for Krupin, or anybody else.

And I don’t want Afansi pumping me for information in return for the “favor” of telling me that.

So I tell him, bluntly, “I don’t give a fuck who partners on what. My only concern is winning the tournament.”

Afansi looks offended for a minute, then he laughs. He throws a couple playful jabs at me.

“Ah, Snow,” he says. “Never change, you surly bastard.”

When we’re done sparring, I can smell the tantalizing scent of sausages frying on Meyer’s hibachi grill.

Boom Boom is ready to take the ring with Rockstar, an up-and-comer at Golden Gloves. Boom Boom likes Rockstar, but he’s still throwing sulky glances at Afansi, like a jealous girlfriend.

Afansi sees it and he laughs.

“Poor Boom Boom,” he says. “Doesn’t present much of a challenge to you these days.”

“He does fine,” I say.

There’s more loyalty than truth in that statement, and Afansi knows it.

“Well,” he says, shrugging, “Let me know if you want to go another round before the tournament.”

He’s smiling, thinking that he got some good information out of our match.

If I achieved my objectives, he didn’t learn half as much as I did. But I guess we’ll find out if we actually do get paired up in the tournament.

“Come eat,” Meyer says to me.

He fills my plate with crispy blackened sausages, plus a couple of skewers of grilled pepper and onions.

Afansi looks like he’s about to start drooling.

“You want some, too?” Meyer says

grudgingly.

“Absolutely,” Afansi says, making himself an even bigger plate.

By the time Boom Boom finishes sparring, there’s only a couple of sausages left, and no veggies.

Afansi has already devoured his plate. He burps, and gives Boom Boom a friendly punch on the arm while Boom Boom looks sadly at the few wilted sausages remaining.

“Well, thanks for the workout!” Afansi says cheerfully. “See you all soon.”

He strolls out of the gym, duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

Boom Boom watches him leave with a murderous expression.

“Oh, calm your tits,” Meyer says to Boom Boom. “I’ll make ya some more sausages.”