Lemuel turns back to the young man to confirm his suspicions. “When my turn comes, bread“—he winks to show that he has caught on to the code—”will be distributed to me?”
“You have to have plastic.” The boy holds up a credit card for Lemuel to inspect.
“You need plastic to get bread?”
“Yeah. That’s the deal.”
“Where can I acquire plastic?”
“Inside. But the bank only gives plastic to people with bank accounts.”
Lemuel eyes the building. “This does not look like a bank.”
“It looks like what?”
“It reminds me of a dacha I once saw in the Crimea.”
“What’s a dacha?”
“A dacha is where the nomenklatura spend their weekends.”
“What’s a nomen-whatsis?”
“In Russia, they are the ones who decide which side is up. If I can offer you a word of advice, young man, in any given country,
