To start at the beginning go here.
On the tram, as awkward as our height difference made it, Sophie rested her head on my shoulder. It was only then that I remembered she had been up as long as me, keeping me company while the danger of possible concussion receded. The small kindnesses of the world shone a bit brighter that morning. I was tempted to carry her up to our apartment, but she moved forward of her own volition. Which was good, because I barely got off my shoes and shirt before I collapsed on the bed.
My sleep was bookended by the sun, just risen when I had fallen asleep, peeking through the tenement window, and now on its way down when I arose almost a dozen hours later. I got myself up to shit, shave, shower, and shine. Despite my bruises, I decided to head to my shift at the casino. I would need to make a drop for Atwell as well. Sitting on the couch, bent over the coffee table, I tried to figure out what to write in my message. I wrote a quick note that I had told Mitnick about Inspector Rotella and that Sartre was watching me. It left out a world of information, but it also had the virtue of being true.
By the time I was pulling on my peacoat Sophie was awake as well, handing me an apple and the umbrella, letting me leave with a quick peck on my stubbled head. I smiled, unsure of what to think or what she would get up to while I was out, and decided none of those things needed answers right then.
The cathedral, with its blue onion domes, peaked arches, and gold stars, was surrounded by tourists, most gawking and snapping pictures of the Czarist relic. I watched the crowd for awhile, hands in my coat pockets, using the time to try to evaluate what type of shape I was in, how my recovery from the beating was going.
After determining I wasn’t going to fall down, I headed down the side-street to the telephone booth. Inside, I chewed a bit of gum, pretended to make the usual phone call, and stuck the message to Atwell in the usual place. It wasn’t until I came up to mark the glass that I saw the three Idiots waiting for me. Groaning as I straightened myself, I blamed my fatigue and bruises for letting them get so close without spotting them. Almost certain they wouldn’t know what it meant, I marked the glass anyway.
I stepped out of the booth, putting the pen into my breast pocket with such an exaggerated slowness that it might suggest that I had something else in there. I shifted the umbrella with its steel core to my right hand.
When they didn’t close the distance to me I said, “Hello boys.” I thought about where we were and couldn’t help but ask, “How’d you find me?”
Balaclava, the bags under his eyes even heavier than usual, his short black hair slick with the grease of having not washed in awhile, replied, “You shouldn’t eat breakfast in the same place.” Judging by the look of him, they had been waiting for me to show up for awhile.
I nodded, pretending to admire their cleverness. Then I held out my hands slightly out from my sides, as if I were about to shrug my shoulders. “Well?”
“Why don’t you come with us?” He scooped the air around him with a hand, throwing it out someplace else into the world.
I thought about the last time someone had made me that offer and that I had wanted something from them when I agreed to it. Contemplating the current situation, I couldn’t think of a single reason to do that for these three. I shook my head, slowly, and said, “No.” I thought about offering an excuse, that I needed to get to work, something to appease their egos. But then I didn’t.
We all let that hang in the air, Fatty and the Algerian shuffling their feet, uncertain or waiting for a signal from Balaclava. Balaclava had apparently learned a thing or two about me from our encounters, so didn’t bother with the bluster or threats. Instead he asked, “What did Sartre want with you?”
It took me a moment to recall the scene at the Factory. Certain that Sartre hadn’t said anything that would reveal the nature of our relationship I asked, “What do you care?”
His dark eyes hardened, perhaps reconsidering violence. Instead he continued with, “We want to talk to him.”
I tried to conjure up what Sartre’s reaction might be to me introducing him to these three. I could easily see him being buoyant about meeting three boys that probably weren’t that different than him when he was young. I could also imagine him taking off my hide because I had bothered him with these peons. That made the natural question, “About what?”
Balaclava spoke in a self-important tone. “We have a proposition for him.”
I waited for more, but when it didn’t come I asked, “And?” That deflated Balaclava a bit, but didn’t impact the other two, confirming for me what I had suspected: The Algerian and Fatty didn’t speak English or spoke it very poorly. Not a huge surprise, but might be useful information.
I let a few seconds go by, thinking about the collapsible truncheon from the first encounter in the cafe and wondering what weapons they might have this time. I glanced around and confirmed the area was as abandoned as any other pay phone in the 21st century.
With no response forthcoming I expanded my question. “You don’t expect me to take you to Sartre without knowing what the deal is?”
Fatty and the Algerian shuffled their feet, sensing Balaclava’s hesitation and knowing they had already deviated from the plan of taking me somewhere else. Balaclava went back and forth in his own mind, then stepped forward so quickly that I nearly cracked him across the face with the umbrella. He didn’t raise his hands, though, only getting close enough to whisper, “We are going to ransom a girl.”
I think I might have have managed to hide my considerable surprise under, “What?”
To read the previous chapter, go here.
See the author’s published work here.
Related Posts
The Divorce Next Post:
Party Line
