“You want a berry?”
“Exactly right,” he answered and immediately cupped his hands.
Artiom had a hidden, and not quite acknowledged, desire to appease, if he could be allowed the expression, the god of the gangsters. Maybe, if he fed this one, then Passport would fall off him like a leaf in the sauna?
“It’s good that you don’t have four hands,” said Artiom, pouring different berries into the dirty palms.
“Huh?” The gangster didn’t understand.
His hands were covered by incomprehensible tattoos; Artiom noticed some kind of bluish drawing on his chest underneath his shirt, which was three sizes too large.
He had sunken cheeks, there was a bit of puss in his eyes, and his face looked similar to a fish — his lips protruded forward, then came the eyes, and his chin seemed almost completely
