I didn't want to die or live on. Bourbon wrapped ice cubes in a glass, and the shadows from the street created an atmosphere of peace and tranquility in the room. I sat in my favorite chair, trying not to think about the severe pain that permeated every part of my body. It doesn't often happen to me that I get a loader like this, but something just flies in there in this industry. Kate will again want me to really tell her about this job. I had to smile - and if he came here, so would the wallpaper. I managed to get this apartment-office mainly thanks to the kindness of a friend. At that time, it used to be the offices of an accounting firm, and in this style it all remained here. I just put a bed and this chair here. But one thing the accountants had was great here, though they were hardly interested. The view from the twelfth floor was able to contribute to the sometimes much-needed view as little. But it didn't go very well now. The three guys wanted to let me know that I should take a vacation rather than sniff around their boss's affairs. However, this is out of the question. You have to pay properly for that luxurious outlook. And the people who hire me give me money only for the work that is done. Since I don't particularly like white coats, I rely, as I have done several times, on the healing abilities of Dr. Bourbon.
Yesterday evening I took a taxi out of town, on a turnoff to a narrow forest path leading to Emille Morgan's farm, stables and country house. I don't like these guys who wield a lot of money and think they can buy anything and anyone for it. Maybe I'll be a little jealous of it, I wouldn't mind having long drinks from scantily clad bartenders by the pool. However, it may only help me to maintain the proper operational anger to keep track as a hound. I think every private eye has something that drives it. Some small private war reflecting the wrongs of the past or the desires of the moments to come. I slammed the cab door behind me and went for such a small summer walk. According to information, the farm was about two and a half kilometers away. On the one hand, I wanted to get as unnoticed as possible, on the other hand, I've been sitting on my ass a little lately lately, and Kate doesn't forgive herself from time to time for less and less of my character's sporting features, so I figured a little movement would only benefit me. The task I'm hired for is actually quite simple. Find out if Morgan was the one who stole my famous stallion from my stables. I didn't understand why someone living in the same city should have an easily recognizable horse, but I was explained that such champions are stolen mainly because of genes. He may no longer appear anywhere on the race track until death, but he will pass on the qualities he carries to his descendants. And quality blood is the basis of the success of racehorses. When I arrived at the enclosure, bordering the lands I was heading for, I was cursed with a slight grasp for the idea of doing something for my health. At the beginning I probably set the pace too high and now I was blowing like after a marathon at the Olympics. I carefully climbed over the fence through which the power line wire passed at three-quarters of the height. In addition to horses, Emille also raised cattle, especially the species that provide the huge delicious steaks. That's the only thing I can praise Morgan for. I was hoping to get to the horse stables before any of the inhabitants of this corral noticed me. I have always had a strange feeling in my knees when I am attacked by an animal with a heavier weight than I have. Despite the slowly dimming gloom of dusk, I saw a herd of future steaks grazing about two hundred meters from me. I took this risk by avoiding another, namely the guards set up along the driveways. Except for a little excitement at the end of the diagonal path through the pasture, the path was quite calm. As I started to climb the fence, he ran to look at one pretty horned gift, and if my pants didn't grab my mesh eye, it might have been pretty easy. But I made it and could make a face at the monster that said something about my opinion of the beef brain. I just don't like them. Along the low buildings with tiny elongated windows, I crept to places where I sensed horse stables. I tried to stay in the shadows, and this tactic could have worked for quite some time, if I hadn't tripped my elbow on a wheel leaning against one of the walls. The noise that caused it, plus the noise that caused me to try to catch him, immediately attracted the unwelcome attention of the three guards. And the rest is already obvious and I feel the consequences this morning.
I never understood what Kate was pulling towards me. She is a handsome woman in her forties and is trying to make a name for herself among a flood of women and men offering insurance contracts to people who don't understand why they should get anything insured and also don't understand how annoying work someone can do. I'm ten years older than she is and I've been through more jobs than Kate signed contracts. I am currently a freelancer hunting criminals, looking for lost items and doing other important detective work. I never asked Kate why she didn't start her own family, and she doesn't ask me in return where I know people from both shores of crime. Neither she nor I are trying to have a relationship. Apparently we just need someone who represents some certainty in this world. Sometimes we don't see each other for a week, other times for three months. Then we go for a beer and just talk. Believe me, after all those conversations with people who are constantly playing, lying, pretending to be interested or disinterested, or whatever, it's a nerve balm. Kate sometimes can't help herself and puts something of a woman's care into our conversation, and then I can't help myself and bring something of a male bourgeoisie into our conversation. Just like that.
The phone rang. Mostly people I already know call. In the phone book, next to my name, only the practice of a private eye is mentioned. Nothing more. So I usually hear people who have contacted me from someone else, or people who are related to the case I'm working on. I was stabbed in the ribs as I picked up the phone. "Downer," I breathed heavily, trying to catch my breath. "Hello, Frank," came a voice that didn't remind me of anyone. "Do we know each other, sir ...?" I deliberately left the question open. "You don't know me, but I know you, and that's enough, Frank," he said smugly. "And today is the last time I speak to you so well. If you don't stop sniffing around Mr. Morgan's things, yesterday's warning will be a slight warm-up against what's to come, Frank. I hope we understand. ”I was just getting enough of that idiot. "If we're to understand, Mr. Mysterious, let's start with Mr. Downer for you. And as for your threats, "I had a hard time saying the last words, as my ribs ached menacingly again," please fuck this shit. "There was a moment of silence at the other end of the wire. I waited to see if anything else came, but then the phone rang as the caller ended the call. Jerk. I really like these smart people who hide behind the phone and make themselves important. When it comes to the event itself, they sit somewhere in the office or on a bar stool and just process information from the field. I ran to the window, after all, this view is really priceless. I drew the blinds and narrowed my eyes against the awakening rays. The city slowly began to stretch and yawned through the tired river in the distance to greet the new day.
The door to the apartment shook as if someone had kicked it. Instinctively, I crouched down and moved to my desk, where I had some of my weapons in a drawer. What the hell was that supposed to be? A faint mist formed in front of my eyes as I went from complete calm to an energy-intensive activity. Jojo Frank, not even the wounds will let you lick, they will immediately jump on your onion. I ran my fingers in the drawer and felt the weapon. Then the sounds again. It sounded ... like someone nailing a picture. Quite a clear hammer blow to the metal lining my front door. What is it ..... I headed for the door. I'll send them some welcome bullets. I was already two or three meters from the door when the wounds stopped. I stopped and raised my weapon. Suddenly, several drills screamed at once. It was a matter of a moment for them to walk through my door and disappear again. Then six goosenecks crept in through the new openings, and gasoline began to gush from their ends in massive torrents. I fired in the middle of the door while backing away from the shower that hit my feet. More this. It occurred to me that the shooting wouldn't help me now, and neither would the clogging of the six fluid lines. It was enough for someone to cross out a match at any time and ..... I closed the door to the hallway and was about to leave my apartment in crisis. With an open window, you can climb to a 15-foot-long ledge outside that runs around each floor under the window. With a painful grimace, I did not hesitate and climbed out into the open space at a height of about forty meters above the ground. My God, behind closed windows, this view tends to be quite different. Pressed chest against the masonry, I began to slide to the side. My fingers clung to the crack in the wall, and I noticed a pigeon that had settled just a few inches above my head on the edge of the flat roof. I think in the end it was won by a lighted match. With a deafening roar, a flame shot out of my windows, and with it shards of glass, pieces of masonry, and what else. As the house shook, I swayed in my place, and as I struggled to keep my balance, everything that might hurt in me hurt again. I screamed in pain and anger, and the only satisfaction for me was a pigeon feather falling down next to my face.
Sitting on the ground on the roof, I was breathing hard. Smoke billowed from where I used to have an apartment, and sirens of oncoming fire trucks and police patrols could be heard from below the street. I was thinking about what just happened. Mr. Mysterious did not wait long to answer my rude behavior. Dusting my belly off the dirt as I pressed against the wall, I looked up at the sky. I've never been up here. Also tell me how many people will climb the roof of their apartment building during their lifetime out of romance. This aspect of a private detective's life is priceless. You will get into situations that would not have occurred to you in a dream. I got up, damn ribs, I'm sure I'll get a few wrinkles from the grimaces, and walked to the metal door leading to the fire escape.
There was a mumraj down the street. Firefighters, cops, paramedics, journalists (who happened to be passing by, for sure), ordinary workers, who were more interested in Monday morning's drama than what they had originally rushed to work for. I left them to their interests and decided to go upstream. The wind was blowing a little more than it would be pleasant, so I lifted my collar and sailed through my own world like an icebreaker whose purpose is to break down, but on the other hand, without a mass of ice around me, it lacks the meaning of its existence. Eternally frozen landscapes have endlessly captivating charms for those who are already used to moving in them. But their history and their future are always more interesting than their present. Or so he feels.
I was used to, when the taste came, stopping for a few beers and one Bloody Mary in the White Swan hangout. I've always wondered why "White". The name thus lost its chance to be original in any way. Black, wooden, red, dead, dancing, anything but white? However, Sad Pete, the owner and the only attendant in this shit, was my favorite bartender, at least on this street. The offer of drinks here has probably been the same for about thirty years. Two types of beer, one cocktail (would that be my favorite?), Two types of tea, coffee with rum, coffee without rum, one bourbon, one vodka, and that's about it. But people like to come here. Sad Pete once bought this place as a two-room shop. The second room was a warehouse. Pete wanted to sell some kind of general merchandise. But in the end, his love of booze prevailed, he tore down the wall and turned it into a bar. I come here to sit when I need to close the door behind me and be with myself. The white swan is full of nooks and crannies. A sad Sad Pete slides between the wooden benches, and sometimes he himself is surprised that someone is still sitting around this or that corner. But no one here complains that it is not served quickly enough. People come here to rest. And they drink what they ordered at the right pace so that when Pete walks around again, it will work out for them.
I sat down by the window, leaned on my elbows, and rested my hands on my chin. It was not sadness, one always goes on again and it was not such a loss, the office (and apartment) is just an office (and apartment), but the point is that for some this situation was worth all this destruction. Just as Sad Pete's hand appeared from somewhere and made me happy with a pint of beer, I became convinced that there would be more to this little fun with the stolen horse. Something to look at more closely.
The next morning I woke up and thought about two very important things. First, why so often do my momentary visits to the hangout degenerate into something that ends in mists thicker than the morning hazes of the Chuang Che River, and second, where the hell am I and sleep ?! I braced myself on my elbow and the bunk below me creaked menacingly. I looked around with exertion. Everything around was foreign, it smelled like a lair, where dozens of resistance fighters had been hiding for hundreds of years, and in general, since Picasso had been dabbling in reality. From the depths of my own emptiness, I began to hunt for hard-to-reach memories. What the hell did we drink? And with whom? Two beers, one Mary, still alone. Then Pete… Pete? He never drinks with anyone ?! I don't even think I've ever seen him sit. Nevertheless, I would swear…. And I also had the impression that Pete was talking, which is also an unusual thing, he usually just nods and you nod back to him, like today, of course, the same thing again (and you could come for the first time in ten years since you weren't here, and again. nod..kit… beer, Mary). Why would Pete talk to me? Well, he talked, I'll remember later, and what happened then? Pete brought a boy, he looked Asian, but he was about twelve years old, supporting me and leading me through the faintly lit darkness, the dew cold behind my neck. I didn't want a little Chinese man or anyone to take care of me, but my legs didn't serve me much, Pete and I drank a lot of terrible things, I mean things that are only drunk in Asian markets after dusk or something. Why was Pete talking to me? Why do I feel it was urgent? The boy dragged me through half the city. Finally he knocked on one of the doors. Boom. I remember now. Upstairs is..ehm, the dorm, for the ladies who work downstairs. But now there are not many girls and several rooms are available. I rubbed my eyes. God, even more so when I tell Kate that Sad Pete was talking to me, that he probably drank something forbidden with me, that a little Asian saved me, that I spent the night in a brothel, so a purely healing stay, um Frank, it goes with you in the right direction again. I smiled under my imaginary beard and sat down. The ribs were reminded so that it wouldn't be enough, and I really had to start laughing. The hoarse sound that came out of my mouth had little to do with laughter, but it was my sound, so what. I need coffee. I mean, not that I like it or it helps, but people are drinking it right now, right?
I called Kate from the booth. She was glad she heard me, and I, let's face it, I was glad to hear her. I let myself be invited to breakfast, made bull's eyes, a piece of bacon, or rather bacon, apologized that she had nothing better, that it was left from cooking, but I didn't care. I had the impression that I had not eaten for three days, and perhaps even the annoying coffee from the mug I had burned in my lip did well. Then Kate had to go, she left me, and it surprised me enough to stay with her, take a shower, rest calmly, and so on. "Then just slam it, there's nothing to steal anyway," she muttered, smelling in what I might call lavender in the air, the door slammed, and I was left alone in her apartment. It was actually the very first time I was at her house. Do you also know this strange feeling when you are first at home with someone you've been for a long time, and you think you're good, you know? Then you put it all together, you discover new corners of your friend's soul, some connections only now fit together, you are in his private, inner world. I didn't want to take away her privacy, but it still didn't allow me to walk around a little and feel her presence in places she trusted, where she lay on the couch in the evening when she was tired, in things she only took in her hand. Kate could be smelled throughout the apartment, maybe it was the lavender, there were bits of her life, the past, the present, and a little things to come. I felt a tremendous influx of energy from leaving me here, that liberating sense of confidence, the freedom.
*
When I left Katina's apartment, the light rain surprised me with its unpleasant intrusiveness. Maybe it was the change in mind, the dream, the smell, and the almost perfect order at Kate's, and now, suddenly, through the gray frowning curtain, an angry sun stabbing in the eyes that didn't have the strength to control the morning streets. Tiny strings of rain were not drops, but ten-inch strings knitted from the needles of a mountain fir. With each touch, they left a small invisible cut on my skin, and it really made me cringe. So I added a step to get out of that natural hell, I know, the hurricane is worse, but mainly to handle the little Pete thing. Pete, to speak, um, was really just a kind of drug intoxication that even my alcoholic bloodstream wasn't ready for. And where did he get, hernais, that little Asian? And .. preoccupied with thoughts, I approached the White Swan, I'd say almost within range and .. yes, my mouth is wide open .. something that hasn't happened for at least the last 5,000 years has been happening right now Sm Sad Pete was closed. I don't think so! Wooden doors over the usual glazed ones. I had no idea they were there. Maybe they weren't. Maybe it still seems all to me. Breakfast at Kate's would suit that. Certainly. I'm definitely still asleep in that stinking hole, and at the bottom, sins against chastity are being committed and fulfilling the secret dreams of freshly grown papal sweethearts. I will definitely close my eyes, open it and everything is arranged as it should. At least something has to work the way it should. At least the White Swan. Where the fuck do I put Bloody Mary now? I mean, what happened to poor Sad Pete. I walked to the door and tried to open it. Such a futile effort, but at least you don't come as a fool when someone comes, opens it and says "It was enough to take the handle". Well, now I didn't come as a fool, but it didn't help me. I slammed. Then I banged on various places that looked like they were going to make a sound that could alert someone inside that I was here. Nobody anywhere. Herdek. I kicked the wall. Also a good idea. Now my fingers still hurt. Jesus, if it's broken. I go around the block and try to find a door to get to the courtyard and enter the company from behind. I once saw that Pete was picking up some goods there, so it should be possible to smuggle in there as well. I'll give you one piece of advice. When you go around the block on the left, the only door that can be reached to the courtyard is right next to the original one on the right. So, if you decide to go left, laugh at the trick and go straight to the right ones. So I walked through the side door on the right at Pete's courtyard and peered through the dirty windows into my favorite business. Helemese, there is my place. There sits the monkey in the cowboy hat, there…. my heart missed me — every time something happens that you're not ready for, it makes this heart happen — I had to wipe another piece of glued and dusty glass with my sleeve to get a good look. At first I saw only a hand, then the sleeve of Pete's usual robe, and then other parts of Pete. They were not together. Normally I don't mind seeing things that shake others a lot, but when you have, say, a personal relationship with someone, it's always a little different. I broke open the door to the bar, walked down a narrow corridor, and didn't turn to the tables. A little ice, tomato juice, 4 cl of vodka, or today I prefer 5, worcester, tabasco and I leaned against the bar. Sad Pete was really everywhere. But there was no one to serve today. I drank. Everything looked normal. Furniture in its place. A favorite sniff of this place. Calm as always. Only Pete won't be shouting here anymore. I peeled off and went to look at my place. There was something on my chair. Apparently someone thought of it as a sign. Apparently someone had a good time. Apparently someone knew me well and watched my steps. I realized what that meant and turned on my heel and flew away. I have to call Kate from the nearest machine, because someone's damn exaggerating. Because overweight, someone's ass is burning here. Unfortunately for me right now. I coughed at what people would say to the knocked-out pair of front doors, and rushed as hard as my legs were, God forbid, to call Kate. On the porch lay the glass of the fastest drunk Bloody Mary in my life, the sad head of Sad Pete sitting in a chair by my favorite table.
The payphone did exactly what I would expect from it, so it didn't work, one damn shop. Katina's office is about five blocks away, so maybe I could… walk. There is nothing better to hurt than an adrenaline-pumped run with sore toes, a few shots of an alcoholic cocktail inside, and people who are completely masterfully confusing underfoot. That day, you wouldn't find a better set of trips, falls, dropped objects, and angry faces reinforced by impending fists. Frank, Frank, what are you doing again? I blew in front of the house, where the offices of some of the craziest insurers in town were squeezed, and slammed the door. Still upstairs, and then just… find the right room. Kate shares her office with three other desperate people, simply taking turns at the same table as needed or possible. There is always a high chance that the rest of the party is running around the city or healing mental wounds somewhere where it does not live. The office was empty. Hernajz. But it is unlocked, so maybe…. Kate came around the corner, apparently on the second floor where the management was based, that is, those who had been successful enough or had been in the same place long enough. She was carrying a nice pile of papers and a box. At first she looked surprised, then me. She because she sees me, I because I saw a guy coming out of the toilet door on the side. The guy didn't look or look like someone interested in insurance. He looked like someone interested in killing people. Not that I was such an excellent psychologist and knew its essence from the features of his face or attitude. The bang he pulled from the inside pocket of his long coat, Jesus, told me a lot, the coat doesn't fit him at all, he looks like a rattlesnake from a corn field. Hastroš reacted quickly, but so did I. I think before my words "To the ground" reached Kate, my last rescue badge, which I carry with me in my inner pocket for emergencies, reached her. Well, someone has a gun there, someone has a badge. But I didn't offer Placatka so hastily to my girlfriend, but an overly high forehead with a gunshot. The shot slammed against the wall, the rattlesnake on the floor, the papers and the box of shepherds flying through the air, me towards the scene, which would be worth painting. I threw my untrained, but even harder, body, at the killer's body. Kate screamed, which added to the drama of the situation and annoyed me a lot. I heckled after the impact, the killer heckled too. I think I took both of us out of breath. For a second I was fascinated by my badge, lying right next to it, after all I have my favorite twelve-year-old glenfiddich special reserve in it, and not some clogged brandy. But then the hastro attracted my attention again. His fist in my face meant he was dissatisfied with the situation. I was dissatisfied with the fist in my face, so I showed him how annoying it was, and look, he didn't like it either. We did things like that for a while that we didn't like, in the meantime I encouraged Kate to leave the battlefield, so I shouted "Get out", and she strangely obeyed. Sirens sounded outside, from a distance, but still, probably one of the adjoining offices had done something useful. The killer put his feet on his shoulders, I gathered much slower. At least I looked down the hallway of the house; quite a peeling wall and a floor that stains your pants, at least when you roll on it. Kate was locked in her office and cried. She opened after a while. I sat down next to her on the floor, we both appreciated the glenfiddich and kept quiet. Detectives are saying things right now that they're sorry that it happened, that it's the worst thing about this job, that your loved ones are at risk, and so on. The crying girls (even in their forties) nodded sobbing and the situation is quite sad. The detective then leaves, disappears from public life somewhere in the most stinking hole in the area, collects piles of ammunition and shoots all those bastards. There's a kind of thought transfer between me and Kate without the need to communicate in words, so I didn't have to say all this. At least I think so.
A port in a big city is a place that lives its own life. He does not know day or night, he breathes like an anthill together, without the individual ants knowing each other. Ships arrive like timeless dinosaurs, going slowly, but if you get in their way, they'll crush you. The resemblance to the anthill continues in a tangle of invisible paths, along which people who do not look around move around, a rear-view mirror that does not need machines, and all this is intertwined according to a seemingly non-existent scenario. When night falls, as now, thousands of lights of all colors shake through the darkness. When you design machines, dashboards, cabins, buildings, towers, and in fact anything that glows, flashes, illuminates, or even just shows colored numbers, you don't think about the harmony of the concert that your work at the destination will become part of. I think that above each night port there is a confident private conductor, waving his wand and pouring individual colored waves from side to side, from place to place, so that in an attentive beauty lover he awakens emotions elsewhere and sometimes unattainable. And the port is not stingy. He will also incorporate sounds into the play of lights, often unidentifiable even to experienced port listeners. Just as the forest pulls out sounds from the dark forests after dark, which enemies with the light of day, so the waters of the port will be washed away by a natural-industrial symphony for the insiders. Listen and watch.
Darkness hides nice and ugly things. Now she did both at the same time. Emille Morgan sat in a dark car, personally supervising the embarkation of the beautifully built English thoroughbred Maxim. The idiotic detective began to purge the waters of peaceful theft, which this business certainly looked like from the beginning, too. Downer is lucky. First not and not to fly into the air, then again, without a weapon, he resisted the attempt to send a message by liquidating the torn insurance company. It would be better to relocate Maxim for a while before the little matter with Frank Poison is resolved. Maximus had a blanket draped over himself to keep him cool. Even so, it was known that it was a noble animal with a personality, a healthy root and self-confidence. The skin on his neck gleamed, and his gaze certainly did not reveal fear of the unknown, if there was one. He let himself be guided down the loading dock, and if someone wanted to paint a nice picture of an undefeated racing champion and a steel ribbed of crushed cargo cranes in the background, he would have a unique chance. Emille Morgan's eyes blinked darkly, and her mouth gave the order to leave. In fact, the mouth of the ship's worker, Louis, hidden behind containers, spat out a fully chewed bite of chewing tobacco, and his eyes sent images to his brain that would have to be passed to Frank. Yeah, old Frank Poison Downer has a lot of acquaintances, and most importantly, he can anticipate the actions of his opponents. At least some for sure.
At first I thought it wouldn't be a good idea to go back to the house where I slept last night. Not that I was afraid of any damage to my reputation, on the one hand no one knew me in these parts, on the other hand I never had any good reputation. Rather, I wondered if anyone was watching me with that little Asian, because I was definitely not in a position to be careful about this. I went back because I thought of asking the owner who the Little Pete's helper was. Someone must have known him when he led me here across half the city, they complied, and no one wanted any money from me yet.
Today I finally looked at the building that hosted me yesterday. The house looked inconspicuous. I would almost say that from the outside it should not be known what type of business it is inside. Thanks to the fact that it stood on the outskirts of the city, the surrounding buildings were not overcrowded, nor was care paid to the stylistic or color harmony with the houses around. It looked more like a peeling coaching inn than a house of pleasure. Two windows could be seen from the street in the upper right, through which I saw a new world in the morning. A world without Pete. I went inside. Smaller entrance hall and again the impression of a coaching inn. An elderly couple, probably a couple, sat behind a low wooden counter anchored quite a doorway between two dug pillars with green-yellow-gray — once perhaps white — plaster. Jesus. They were like a miller and a miller, not brothel operators. Maybe that's what it's supposed to look like. Or did I sleep yesterday in a mill disguised as a coaching inn, or vice versa? It was starting to matter to me. "Good evening," I was going to be polite this time. The old man nodded without looking at me. The old woman looked at me and smiled in a way like "it says." I expected them to say something, do something, or ... something. But nothing. Everyone demonstrated their minimalist movement, which could mean anything. Maybe I'm expected to communicate, I don't have the slightest problem with that, I have problems of the opposite nature with my mouth. "Dear Sirs, I would like to…". The old man rose sharply until I winced. He was like an old immortal cowboy in a lonely ranch terrifying young (no prrr) gunslingers with his speed. I'd be dead by now. Without taking a single eye away from the black-and-white glowing screen for a second, where they were giving a documentary about animals I didn't know, wrinkled fingers pulled out a room key ring and gave it to me. He was still watching the monsters on TV. I took the key, but I also wanted to ask the boy. "Thanks, boss, I wanted to ask." He turned his back on me and sat down again, without interrupting the flow of educational euphoria from the jumping creatures somewhere in the savannah with my presence or effort to communicate. "I wanted ..". The old woman smiled at me again with that waxy smile and left it on her face. "See." . Sad Pete is dead, they tried to kill my girlfriend, and I'd like to find the guy who brought me here yesterday. And I don't know if you're in danger either. " I had to say it. All. Even though no one listened to me. The old man rose sharply again, and this time I winced a little less. He did two things. He scratched something on the paper, probably from the salami, and handed it to me. At the same time he managed to reach under the wooden enclosure of their shed, I can't help themselves, they were there like a goat family, and very deftly he lifted the cut shotgun main into the air. The old woman froze in the smile that went best and honestly, it wasn't the prettiest look on her. The old man gave me about two seconds to snatch the greasy paper from his hand. The shotgun didn't look like it was capable of firing, let alone killing, but I didn't want to try. My old miller-goat-cowboy apparently tried to convince me that he wasn't afraid of anyone. I thought potential assailants would rather die in horror at his wife's smile, but I didn't say it out loud. I tried to adapt to the way they communicated and spoke with a significant movement of my eyebrows up and down, it meant both that I see that they are really self-sufficient and that I thank you very much for the paper. And I didn't know yet if it didn't have a shopping list or something. I went upstairs before I went to bed, to see if there was any glenfiddich left in the placard. She was left.
You know the feeling when something happens, you don't know what yet, but do you know that you should have known it a long time ago? Like "I'm standing on the tracks and the train is going, what did I want?"? Then a massive aha will come at you and you wouldn't count the frosty pimples on your skin. They run across the cheekbones across the neck down to a wildly stumbling heart, and the wave is like a whirlwind running across a carpet with long hair. When it's over, you can have a pretty nice heart attack. So I had this feeling after waking up in my, now slowly popular, dormitory on the floor of a house that is not in color with the surroundings. With my eyes ajar with my head in an unnatural bend (booze does it with sleep), I registered motionless blue legs standing very close to my pelvis. Jesus Christ, (and now fill in the feeling that I described a moment ago), my God, I jumped out, which, moreover, polished my head decently, what co. As you can see, if I were in real danger, I would really be posthumous. This is how, immediately after a few seconds of fainting, I focused on the second attempt and saw Loung Magnol, the bearded face grimacing over the graying image of the gloomy morning reality, trying to focus on me for a change.
"Where are you here, for God's sake ..."
Louise, grinning for a moment, reminded me of the relentlessly nice lady downstairs from the reception desk, but I scared the oncoming tsunami of nausea with the thought of something nice (a badge with an engraved lion on her side). Louise, so far in a slight forward bend to help him see if it really was me, straightened up like a stork in a wetland full of frogs, as if he didn't want much, but his back hurt. I rested. For the second time. For the third time. And again. You idiot. I sat on the bed and hid the ruined face in my hands with time and life. The air that bounced back from my palms to my mouth reminded me that the glenfiddich's badge had disappeared too quickly, and that after a furious smirk, I found a small pot of water on the floor. They had a decent supply of ardbeg there, which is probably my fourth most popular Scotch. They did. I feel grotty.
Louis, what the hell are you doing here? You could have brought me death. "
Louise smiled from the docks as much as the skin on his face allowed, and several times he chewed intently on a bite of tobacco that materialized in his mouth.
"Frank, Frank, you weren't such a jerk," she said, muffled from the smiling worker.
"Louis, Louis, have you ever seen yourself six inches just after waking up?", I seemed to fall on my own.
Chacha, the guy laughed and put his hands on his hips. He was not the youngest, but thanks to hard work, it was not very visible on him. Jeans with slacks and shirts with a checkered pattern bore traces of eternal wiping of oil, kolomazi and probably soot, and there was a threat that, although completely different colors, they would soon merge into one color common, probably not yet named by anyone.
"Tell me," I said, realizing that it was a few miles from the harbor, and that Louise Magnol had never gotten into any means of transportation, so he had to stumble on foot.
"Look, and how did he find me in the first place, doesn't anyone know where I am, do they?"
Magnol looked at me and smiled with his eyes.
"You consider me your friend because I know exactly where and when the person who is important at the moment. You're important to me now, it was Emille Morgan yesterday, um. "
Louis's remark caught my eye. On the one hand, he did not explain to me how he found me, on the other hand, he provided absolutely essential information.
"So sit down, Louis, there are some chairs over there, bring one here. And you don't want to curl up, there's still a little bit left ... "
"No, thanks, Frank, you know I don't drink. But I'll sit down. "
Doesn't he drink? I had the impression that the only thing I knew of him was over the cards and with a bottle of booze turned upside down in the air. Or wouldn't it be him? Those people are already merging with me.
Louise eloquently described what he had seen yesterday. It was like a slow-motion film that interests you, but at this pace you just manage to forget what was three sentences back. Eventually I learned everything and I think I must have fainted, fell asleep or died for a while or something, because when I looked around the room after Louis's last sentence (what I remembered), he wasn't there. However, I had a strange, apparently physically and spiritually inexplicable feeling that I was not in the room either, which was a little more uncomfortable for me than that Louise was not there. I have to sleep for a while, please.
I don't know how many minutes, hours or days passed. I woke up. When I stood up, he reached for the window, looked out, it was still raining. Or again? Sometimes it occurs to me that it actually rains all the time. I have a hangover? Probably not. What now? From somewhere in the back of the space between my head and infinity, the events of the recent past began to emerge. Louise Magnol, a spooky couple down there, a little Asian, Pete, Kate, thugs shooting deadly bullets. Ticket. I felt a note in my pocket given to me by the strange gentleman at the front desk and looked at it for the first time. He was really greasy and something was really written on it. It said "Bao" and "Huayuan District." Good good. We'll assume it's an answer to something I asked the baby couple, or at least a response to something I told them. It should be okay. Most likely it seems to me that this is the boy and he could know what happened to Pete and so on. But in any case, we will go to the H-district, which is such an abbreviation for those who do not want to pronounce Huayuan, which for a change means "garden".
They didn't give me breakfast in this first-class business, they didn't want to pay me anything, they didn't even sit downstairs, so I dropped out and headed through the city.
I like the morning trams, half-empty, running on the outskirts of the city. Here and there you will meet slightly swaying trees, elsewhere you will pass fellow citizens rolling in the rubbish, sometimes you are chased by a questionable dog, and you laugh at him, because he just can't get on the tram. Frank, Frank, you're riding the tram again and you're in a romantic mood. How is Kate? I should call her.
I was thinking that to accomplish my task, for which I should get paid quite well, by the way, it would actually be enough to bring Louise Magnol to my client to confirm what he saw, yes. Tadááá. Emille Morgan HAS A Famous Horse Maxim. Done. End. Holiday. Bahamas. Bow, thanks, goodbye.
But you definitely feel it for yourself. It has gaps here and there. Credibility of Louise as a witness. Nothing much. The certainty that the horse in the harbor was the horse we were looking for. There is no certainty. Sad Pete and his head on my chair. A little too much soda on a lost horse, don't you think? Asian boy, Kate. All those reactions were unusually strong, tailored to what needed to be covered. I would expect threats, a laxative in coffee, maybe the kidnapping of a loved one, but all those accomplished or imperfect attacks on life and health tell me that Frank's role is not over here. Unfortunately. Bye bye, Bahamas.
The tram was just passing along Chinatown. I didn't cross the wonder. Shout out. The highway that lined this side of the neighborhood entices people to perform here and be swallowed by one of the shops, bistros, small cinemas, bars or grills. I fell, more than stepped out, onto the sidewalk and looked around. I don't come here often. If I want to have Chinese food, I'll have it with us. When I want to meet a Chinese man, I climb the street. When I want problems, I open my eyes in the morning. Everything was here. Large blocks along the highway were shot in small alleys after a few tens of meters, bleeding dozens of people in a second in both directions. I flowed in with the current and disappeared from a world known to me. Like running through a stage over heavy curtains backstage. You see eyes everywhere, you suddenly feel scents that you don't know exist, but also those scents, but especially those eyes, he knows that you exist.
I had to stop for a moment on the side of the alley. Streams of people pushed into me and you don't even look around. I didn't know how to look for the boy, but it never hurts to look around. Or ask. "Excuse me - don't you know?" Nothing, not only did no one respond to me, they didn't seem to see me at all. If you want to play fish, you have to swim with the current. I let myself be carried back by a stream of rustling people down the street, which did not end anywhere. After a while, I didn't get blows to my faces, I didn't break my legs against chairs, tables and shelves standing on the street, wires and bars of blinds, canopies and blinds slowly ceased to pierce my eyes, and the sharp transitions of the suddenly appearing and disappearing sun stopped induce sensory shocks. Fish. I sailed into a tiny shop, and the current of the street continued to hold its trough, letting me exhale in a meander of pink-green glass and dark red carpets. There seemed to be no one in the shop. In my world, a lone shopper would abuse it in a matter of seconds. But I was neither a shopper nor lonely here. Not even in my world. An old woman protruded from the strips of hanging cloths like a cuckoo clock. Chinese woman with smiling eyes. She began to speak, Chinese. She spoke and spoke. And she never seemed to stop. She didn't care that I didn't understand her.
I didn't understand her for about ten minutes. All the while she was talking, throwing her arms around, turning around, apparently talking about a place in that direction, bending down, clasping her hands, closing her eyes. I thought about Chinese courses for a while. Then I changed my mind again. Suddenly she stopped. All was silent. She threw up her hands, dropping them to her hips. I think I was looking pretty hard at the time. The awkward silence lasted about 20 seconds. I rolled my eyes and smiled, thinking about leaving. That I would slowly back up on the street and we could tactfully forget about this situation. The room curled slightly. Not whole. Only in one place. A little boy came out of the strip of hanging cloths.
Of course you don't believe that. I didn't believe it for another ten minutes, when I fainted and the old woman and boy washed me with a cloth. It was him. It really was him. The one I went looking for.
"Hello, Mr. Frank."
He was smiling in my face. He leaned one hand against my shoulder and the other with a greasy cloth on my face.
"Hello, are you okay"?
My pride tried to nod, but my nervous system shook its head from side to side. Usually I am weak only in strong moments of surprise. Then I feel weak at the dentist, at the races, when my horse can win, in the heat, well, there are more of those situations, so the original "only" does not actually apply. But again, there are times when others would faint and I move forward heroically. One day I will remember a moment like that and tell you.
"Mr. Frank"?
I stared slowly at the boy.
"Bao?" I say, and his smile brightened his eyes like stars. He thought I knew him and that I even remember his name. I took a leaf from my pocket and showed it to him.
"Yes, it's me, Bao, Mr. Frank. Do you remember me? ”He took the leaf in his hand and returned it to me without looking at it. "I helped you with the White Swan. You were tired. "
The very euphemic sign of my condition at Sad Pete was probably tired, but I liked the way it sounded, so I didn't fix Bao.
"Thank you for that, Bao. You helped me a lot. ”I nodded to emphasize my thanks. I was starting to catch my breath. "I've been looking for you, which you probably know, because I need to clarify a few things." Bao was still smiling. "I'll explain, Mr. Frank, I'll explain. But now we have to go. ”He sounded a little urgent. "We must go? And where?". Although I was already in my senses, I wouldn't say that I would feel like "we have to go". "The evil people who killed Mr. Pete are looking for you, Mr. Frank." Bao was still smiling. Well, that was crucial information. Essential information of this type usually pours new blood into my veins, and this time it was no different. When asked how a young man knows, there is always plenty of time for that. Essential information about the bad people looking for me needs to be accepted and addressed until we can later search for the source of the information and its credibility.
I got up from a chair I didn't even know was under me. "Let's go. But where? Which way? And where are the evil gentlemen? Somewhere close?"
I headed out of the room, but Bao grabbed my forearm. "Mr. Frank, this way!" The Chinese grandmother disappeared, Bao turned away from the door and disappeared behind a wall of hanging cloths. I followed him. I had no idea where the boy had disappeared as he ran, and I followed him, and for a second I saw only his heels, vibrating one by one and hiding behind strips of cloth hanging across the road. "Run, Mr. Frank!" I tried to run, but I had trouble orientating myself where I was. The shop seemed to be just one of many rooms connected by corridors, cloths hanging everywhere, furniture scattered in other rooms and mats on the walls, then a corridor, overhead, so we were outside, another room, so inside again, and so on. I didn't even say goodbye to my Chinese grandmother. I don't know if I estimate time well, because I perceive time differently, depending on what's going on and how much I have to focus on the situation, but I would say that I stumbled well behind a smiling Chinese man for a quarter of an hour. Finally, Bao stopped.
I almost crashed into him due to inertia, but I stopped. It occurred to me that he was not out of breath at all. I was. I leaned forward and rested my hands on my thighs. "So, where now? Isn't that enough? ”. After all, Bao was a little out of breath, but he was still smiling. We stood in the middle of a small backyard. It was completely empty. Above our heads, the sun shone behind the gray-and-white patches of torn clouds, and the breeze, which pushed the clouds, reached the backyard only in second gusts. Bao must have understood what interests me most. "Let's take a look around, Mr. Frank." And he pulled my arm again. We entered, at a slower pace, into another opening for the door, which was not there, but we turned left onto a narrow staircase and climbed somewhere up a step, two steps. Although the walls of the courtyard did not look high, the way up the few smaller stairs still did not end and led higher and higher after each turn.
The boy finally opened a wooden door that was not visible at all in the shadows of the corridors. We went out into the light and after a few steps we stood side by side at the railing, looking over the roofs of Chinatown as you looked at the beach on a pebble rug, with different shades of yellow, brown, beige and gray. "Sir," she said in astonishment. If my guide left me here now, I would have to jump over rocks to the horizon.
Kate Rousseau drank coffee on the corner of one of the highways and the small alley, creaked between the towers, thought of Frank Downer, her life full of figurative and real kicks and falls from the stairs, and wondered if it had anything to do with it. The coffee was a little hotter than she expected, so she burned her lips and tongue at the first sip. The waitress danced with a kettle of coffee around the company as a figure skater with an imaginary dance partner and smiled. Everyone who looked at it received a full-day mood bonus at no extra charge. Kate returned her smile and thought of the lesson that you have a life the way you make it.
It reminded Kate that she had been craving the chocolate croissant she'd seen through the shop window on the way home for about a week. So she got up and came to the counter. She asked for dessert and went to sit down. She bit into him and he was exactly as she had hoped. Shortcrust pastry and flowing filling like lava flooding the valley.
She heard the clock ticking and could almost feel the hand on the dial spreading the waves of reality. The door flew open and a small Chinese boy ran in, followed by "The Last Time You Calmed a Delicious" Miss Frank Downer.
She sharpened her gaze at the two newcomers, but it wasn't easy, she was drowned in pleasure up to her ears and didn't want to go out. "Kate!" He had to shake her. She probably exaggerated it a bit. "Come on!" On their way around the counter, they left money for pleasure and coffee on its marble surface and dropped out. The door slammed shut behind them, and reality returned to hurried normalcy. Come on!
Across the street, four men in a black sedan nodded contentedly, as if rehearsing the activity, and the one leaning against the steering wheel shifted one, then two, and drove slowly to the other side of the street. They let the frightened trio that had just run out of the fine Caffé Royal catch their breath just so they wouldn't see them, and when the coffee loafers ran down the aisle, they got out and followed them. There was no need to hurry, the alley was surrounded and another black sedan with a tuned four was waiting every five meters. It will be resolved today.
I ran after Baem and pulled Kate behind me. She wiped some chocolate with her tongue from her lip, I don't know if it's to look perfect or because she didn't want to lose the rest of the chocolate. Bao was right, we found Kate at the last minute. I noticed a black sedan across the street, and I also noticed that they were in no hurry to see us run. So they're damn sure of the situation and themselves. But that's a nice mess, Frank, that's it.
I wondered how long this alley could be, but since we were running during my thinking, the puzzle very soon solved itself. The alley ran with us to another boulevard, where, as in the mirror image of the previous scene, a black sedan with four mannequins stood across the street. I'd like a shot. But that didn't work out right now. This end of the street had one advantage. He didn't end up with a beautiful cafe with crazy girlfriends, but a small patch with garages. So far, you don't see it as an advantage, but it will change in a moment. Then I won't see it as an advantage either.
A black "mirror" sedan crossed the mirrored street, and four mirrored dolls got out of the car in peace. Ba and I grabbed Kate's hand and turned to the garages. It occurred to me that the garages could be climbed to another street, where we could disappear from the sight of dolls, or somewhere where you can drink a little whiskey or bourbon in peace. Some people have it that way. In tense situations, he thinks of something completely different.
Kate slowly began to wake up from the chocolate intoxication and began to scream. I love when Kate screams, but not in this style. Screaming Kate laughed at one of the approaching mannequins. We were already at the door of one of the garages, and Bao quickly understood what I wanted to do. We picked up Kate and she climbed up. The boys from the sedan began to move faster. I picked up Bao and Kate shook his hand. The boys ran. They were quite close, especially if they wanted to shoot. They haven't shot yet. I tried to jump on the roof of the garage. I didn't make it, and neither Bao nor Kate could pull me out. So I miscalculated that. And that's why I'm going to die here now or they'll take me and torture me, and that's an even worse option. No, it's not worse, I exaggerated. Well, it depends mainly on the type of torture.
A shot from a shotgun tore me out of the dilemma. I jerked until my knees broke. I immediately checked in a second if there was a shooting at me. They didn't shoot or they didn't hit. As the shots were repeated and the shots with blazed smiles grabbed various body parts and fell, apparently no real shot was taken of me. Then a hand fell over my head, so I reached for it. I flew high and suddenly stood on the roof of the garage. Even more than the massacre on the garage floor, which we all looked down on for a few seconds, I was fascinated by who owned the hand that carried me to heaven and, above all, the hand that pressed the trigger of a firearm of mass destruction. The hand and, in fact, the rest of the miller's grandfather-goat-cowboy in one person and the hand and rest of his terrible-looking wife contributed significantly to the salvation of my life. Pardon. And thank you.
It wasn't until we arrived at my favorite secret inn that the slowly clearing sky sent the winds to blow around and one of them probably brushed off branches or wiped off a previously invisible sign on the facade of an old house, and I saw three dark purple grapes and a sign confirming the graphic. the same. For three grapes. That it didn't occur to me. I like to give things, people and places names. There is a little gloominess in it, perhaps a little dreaming, a little intuitive attunement to the object of inquiry. That's what I say to myself: "this man can't be called Joseph, he looks more like Amos" or "this house doesn't look like At the Carousel, but more like At the Faint Game" and so on. "At three grapes" was clearly sitting on this place. Several houses around, each hidden behind its own tree, did not interfere with its decent dominance. Elongated, that is, its size hiding in width, not clinging to the cloud, like other more provocative buildings. Overgrown with branches, his distinctive markings were dusted with age and perhaps unfounded shyness for the vices hidden behind their walls. But what are vices? What makes us happy when no one is watching. So don't look and we won't look at you.
Our group came in, Konrad and Agnes, our rescuers, led us around their reception and led us back to where there was another, larger room. Nobody talked all the way here, even though we all had thousands of questions. But the fatigue, the shock of recent things, and the heterogeneity of each group of us closed in on our own depths, where we floated and waited for a more opportune moment when we would be able to rise above the surface.
The room we gradually entered was furnished in the style of a chalet. I don't know which mountaineers used to come here to dry deer skins and engrave messages on oak benches with thirty-centimeter knives, but in this setting, with a crackling fire forming images of dancing lovers on the wall, I felt like in paradise.
*
Emille Morgan admired his polished shoes on his desk. He loved this position with his feet up in old movies. The bosses of the underworld and the "superworld" showed the freedom they had gained by their power. They can do whatever they want. The pink sun stumbled and crashed slowly into the sea. The first lights of the lamps fought the pink tinge and the fading twilight light. Emille already knew about the inconvenience with Frank Poison Downer in the alley behind Caffé Royal. Usually it was enough to lift the finger of one hand and the apparatus of obedient idiots started and worked in the right direction, so that the unexpected ripples on the otherwise flat surface could be smoothed out again. If it wasn't enough to lift one finger an inch, Emille moved to a new position on his own annoyance scale. He didn't like this position. He didn't like raising eyebrows but his finger. Definitely not because of anything like Frank Downer. He certainly didn't like doing anything but things he had planned and counted on. When an clerk, with an overly active face, came in, a gift was sent to calm him down when he didn't accept it, but the clerk lost something and usually calmed down to get it back. So mostly calm down. Frank Downer had shown before that he didn't accept presents, he didn't understand the warning and now, damn, he refuses to die! Emille Morgan's muscles tightened, which was his minimalist way of expressing his rage. He should show those emotions. Otherwise, one of his blood vessels will rupture one day. But he felt that the emotion he had expressed was equal to the admitted weakness. Someone might hear him. Knocking on the door. See? They could already catch him.
"Come on." The newcomer brought a new color to the room. Emille Morgan even rocked his body slowly and stood up. Although it was a contract. And when it comes to the job, he's still the boss. But this was an extraordinary contract and an extraordinary contractor. Even Emille Morgan froze slightly when he saw him. The new color that the newcomer brought into the room was silver. On the one hand because of the name that Morgan considered more of a nickname, and on the other hand because of the reason for this nickname. Eric Silverman was already standing right next to him. He didn't have a sacred horror on his face like others who dealt with a big boss, he didn't have arrogance on his face like others, angry dogs who wanted to swing somewhere higher and didn't have the right stretch or start. Eric Silverman had nothing on his face. It was as if they had operated on his personality from his facial expression. He was wearing a blue suit with sparsely patterned vertical stripes. This in itself could be fluttering or careless, almost ridiculous, until you came to your face while looking. It was gray-gray, with no birthmarks, shades, protrusions, depressions, or anything that would reveal human origin. He held his hat in his hand and now had nothing on his head, no hair, no scar, nothing. His eyes, in contrast to everything corpse, were piercing, shining, living their own raraškov life inside at first and second sight of the dead box. That was what caused a slight freeze on Emille Morgan's bones a moment ago. Now Emille smiled and quickly returned to his experienced role as boss.
"Shall we sit down"?
The silver man nodded and pulled up the offered chair. His reputation suggested to those interested that he was doing his job with terrifying passion, precision and 100% perfection, but there was also rumor that those who tried to trip him or not pay the agreed amount disappeared from the world without a trace and everyone could imagine that on He probably didn't drive the Riviera.
There was no need for long conversations. Two things were enough for Silverman, and Emille, who originally wanted to swing in his speech as a statesman at a 60th birthday party, fell silent, and gave him the two. After four minutes of conversation, a piece of paper with a sum and a photo of Frank Downer lay on the table. Silverman stood up, nodded as he had arrived, and left. Emille Morgan sat back with his feet on the table, but after the man left, he felt that all the idyllic colors penetrating the ocean window had faded irretrievably in those four minutes.
We talked all evening and then half night. We all spoke at once, even in groups. The windows of the hidden clubhouse led to a garden I had no idea about until now. The furs of twisted plums swayed in agreement or disapproval, depending on which direction the wind had just turned.
Konrad and Agnes eventually turned out to be a nice pair of old men. Of course with a good dose of tolerance from the listener's side. Konrad was Sad Pete's distant cousin, so Pete's violent death grunted him politely. This explained his fierce fire on our pursuers and, in fact, his help as such. Kate liked Baa for a change during the night. He chattered until the moonless darkness fell into the garden and the windows, and he suddenly fell asleep, leaning on her shoulder, and Kate couldn't move to fall to the ground like a bag of sand. Bao allegedly got involved in the whole situation by going to Pete's in the afternoon to help in the warehouse, and when Pete saw how I was doing, he sent him with me to the Grapes.
So much in brief for tonight. I don't know if she brought more answers or questions, in any case I was not alone in the whole matter from now on. With these thoughts, I sank into dreams, overturning and kicked blankets.
When I woke up, the darkness was slowly leaving the room. Still lying, I looked around for the others, some still asleep in the strangest positions. I realized that we talked about a lot of things at night, but as we move on, no. But in the end, it solved quite quickly on its own. We got up over each other, staggered, laughed, cleaned, had breakfast. So far, the sky has refused to move from a clear night to a clear day. She probably sensed things next or saw events from a much larger perspective than we did. At least she could warn us.
*
What I'm going to tell you now happened five years ago. New York was very cold. As you peered out the window, huge flakes fell in such dense formations that you could barely see them through the street. My private detective practice was taking a break at the time, not that no crimes were taking place, I was just getting on one leg of an influential gentleman. The window through which I looked through the flakes belonged to a small outbuilding in the yard of a utility vehicle repair company. Twelve small windows in two rows of six. Elongated, low house, workshop. During the day I was hidden in my small workshop lair, and at night I went around dozens of garages and cleaned, carried, brought and delivered what was needed. On the day I want to bring you closer, I came out in the early evening, it was getting dark, the freezing layers of uncut, white snow crunching under my feet from the door of my temporary home, because several hours had been falling continuously for several hours since the last employees left, and no one else he didn't have a chance to trample or soil the shiny cover. I had been hiding here for over two months, and I was just beginning to feel at times that it had passed, that I was safe, that I had been forgotten. I slammed the bottle-green tin door and reached through my key pocket to make sure I got back. I headed to the left to the rows of burgundy gates, behind which slept half-mutilated machines waiting for their surgery. I unlocked the first gate and entered. Intuition told me something was wrong. I stopped so as not to miss a single faintest sound and my heart pounded faster. However, I feel that it was the heartbeat of my heart that drowned out the impending danger. The physical being, because one certainly could not call it that, was moving as fast or a little faster than the faint shadow that the creature cast through the stained windows with the help of a yellow lamp from the courtyard. Instinctively, I threw myself behind the corner of the room to have my back covered, and at least disappeared a little from the open and illuminated space of the workshop. The little gray-green barge, pulled on the jacks, blinked at me with a cracked right headlight, as if holding my thumbs, though I doubted enough that his hopeful blinking might help me. But strangely, it helped.
The silver spot flickered before my eyes, exactly where I had stood a second ago. I wouldn't give a damn that the sound that accompanied the movement of the stain was produced by a scythe-like weapon cutting through the musty air of covered garages. I reached for my neck to see if my head was still holding where it was supposed to be, and hooray, it was there. Over the years of working in this industry, I have learned that in a situation where a moving person wants to kill you, it is best not to stand still and wait for it to succeed. After four, like a frog on a hot plate, I threw myself under the operated van and turned to face the direction where I sensed the enemy. Would you think that repairing a broken barge will keep a 90-pound guy with a hat? I reached for the belly of the car and at that moment a scythe whizzed under me. I saw a hand at the end of it and threw myself down the few tens of inches. The silver stain roared in surprise and probably dropped its weapon. I kicked the gun and it really went somewhere in a corner. True to the principle of staying in motion, I moved briskly to the other end of my opponent's arm. At the end of my arm was a shoulder and next to it the scariest face I had ever seen, and I have various friends. A second of surprise delayed my reaction, and the man rose to another resistance. Squatting, then kneeling, and finally standing unnecessarily intimately, we slid around the hanging car. We fell to our knees again and managed to hit the silver man's bald head against the right, previously broken, headlight. Because it had been broken before, shattered pieces of plastic protruded from it, causing the bald man a much more severe laceration than if the light had not been broken. He hissed in pain and released his grips. I threw myself out the door, opened and closed it in perhaps three seconds, and even managed to lock it not with the key, but at least to block it by hysterically liking it. I ran into the darkness and into a small workshop guarding the delivery patients, I never returned. This was the first time I had the honor of meeting Mr. Eric Silverman.
So when I saw Eric standing in front of the Three Grapes brothel, leaning against the wall and smiling amusedly, my pressure was 350, at least. I was swallowed by a swallow in my throat, my eyes flew confusedly from all the people around me to him and back, and then he was no longer there. And now tell me how you could not lead, not panic, and yet pass on to everyone who is with you in the building and cares about them, immediately that there is someone very dangerous somewhere here.
He was clearly playing, amused by his superiority, which he was aware of, the certainty he had gained through dozens of successful hunts was gushing from his point of view, however, if anyone was interested, I would dare to recall at least one contract for which he certainly did not get paid. Haha, well, probably no one will care. I tried not to shout, I went around them all and got them together. Sweat dripping on my forehead was hardly caused by the heat. At the same time, I kept peeking through the windows .. no, wait .. don't you feel that my reaction was exaggerated, even perhaps frightened, useless. Every hero is from the safety of home, let's make a deal, let yourself be chased by a ruthless killer, write about it and then I'll read it with my feet up, I'll also say to myself "and hey, it was cool".
We fortified ourselves in the back room, where we had slept peacefully a while ago. We moved the locker to the window. I won't linger long about describing how we sat on the floor in one room and nothing happened at all for several hours. Not even then. I told myself that it was probably Eric Silvermann's tactical game, that when I got stunned by doing nothing, I would die in a second with the death of a surprised rabbit. Although the assumption of a stunned rabbit was confirmed, the assumption of his death, that is, mine, was not fulfilled. Some customer of the rooms on the upper floor pounded on the main door for so long that we broke the barricade and I went outside. The morning sky was cloudy outside, but no one else. I peered behind the trees and corners, looked at the roof, but Erik Silvermann was nowhere and jumped out of the box like a devil to scare me. As I returned to the others, I noticed that there was something on the half-open door of the fortified room I had left. I walked over to them and found a piece of paper on the door with a message from Eric Silvermann. Tomorrow at 9 am coffee hotel Bulldog´s head.
Bulldog´s head is an Art Nouveau hotel with large windows on the street and green curtains so that not too much light passes through those large windows. The doors have a lot of glass in the iron frame, at first glance it seems that you will have to use all the force to open them, but then they will surprise you and they are actually quite easy. From the small hall, which is probably supposed to prevent heat from escaping from the cozy interior of the main room, you can go straight to the center of events. I came in and Eric was nowhere to be seen. Of course, it occurred to us that Silvermann would want to use the arranged place to attack me, so we and our group of eccentrics thoroughly inspected and scanned the whole area. We didn't find him. There were only a few people in the hotel restaurant, drinking coffee and water to lift the pressure and not acidify the stomach wall. I've been to Bulldog's Head before. Actually, it was work, but I was twenty-five, and I helped bring alcohol bottles to hotels and restaurants, and the biggest problem of my life was not drinking all the goods we were delivering. It's like seeing it before my eyes. We drove back in the van, where Kate and Bao are guarding today, hiding behind a pile of crates, the door opened and five guys on the raised ramp loaded what we brought them. Bulldog head buys the most whiskey, cognacs and gins. I'll probably have to drop by again sometime, especially since I probably won't drop by the White Swan again. The memory of Sad Pete brought me back to reality. I greeted the staff, walked to a free table, and sat down. The coffee I had ordered hadn't even started to cool when an old hunched man rose from one of the tables, dropped the old man's hair, face, and stiffness in three movements, and turned himself into a gray-and-silver assassin, Eric Silverman. Only for a moment did my blood flow stop and the wave of cold ran from the tips of my thumbs and toes to the last root of the last of the hairs on my head. Eric walked over to my desk and asked if it was free. I think he tried to smile, but it was as if a corpse hastily sewn together by Dr. Frankenstein was trying to do the same in the dark at two in the morning. Silverman's mimic muscles were apparently not used to such facial movements, and their interplay simply did not work as it should. This discrepancy could perhaps evoke a sense of ridicule in the casual observer. Then such a casual observer could accidentally laugh, and that would be the end of everything, I would say. Of course, the thought of laughing immediately passed me by, and I was already fully dedicated to my communication partner. Eric sat down and froze the rest of the room like fish mashed in a frozen freezer. The attendant apparently originally wanted to try to object to changes in the visitors' visage, but looking at the movement, the skin, the sound of Eric's voice, he too froze and voluntarily decided to wait for the spontaneous end of the next ice age.
"I originally intended to kill you, Mr. Downer," the vocal cords of the silver man now sitting opposite grunted uncomfortably.
Here it was definitely worth mentioning that originally and had. It was immediately about two degrees warmer, one would even say that I was a little confused, but that would be an exaggeration.
"But then I decided," he continued, creaking like wooden stairs winding to the ground in a hundred-year-old house, "that under certain circumstances it would be better for both of us to try to work together."
Of course, cooperate. We could, for example, freeze people to wait by simply waving a magic wand, or I could dig graves for the results of Eric's work. Nebo…
Eric Sliverman spoke, I listened to the creaking and due to the stress and relatively early morning hours and a lot of other circumstances, but mainly because of the stress, when the killer finally got up and left, I sat, looked in front of me, coffee cold, and in general I had no idea what we had agreed. I think I finally sipped a little from that coffee, paid and went out. I had my hands in my pockets and stood there just as a disturbed bird family chirped in the crowns of the ash trees that formed an immodest alley, a tram passed by, and the sky seemed to start raining if it wanted to. I walked around our party and picked them all up. We sat down in a small park with the La Guardia fountain, where water gushed from the puffy lips of four little angels and fell in curves to the modest surface below.
If you hoped to stay in one place throughout the story, as I had hoped, we have just reached a point that disappoints both of us. The next day, still in the dark, I boarded a ship bound for Caracas on Eric's recommendation. If it's too fast for you, it was for me too. Do you know where Caracas is? North South America, Venezuela. As the crow flies from New York, like Mexico. Well, the air line wasn't too airy. I can't say I really don't like ships. But long-distance cruises on the Titanic were not exactly the most popular. So maybe we won't meet a circle south. I was fine all the way. Except for the time I don't remember. I remember a few days of smudging from that journey, when seagulls fluttered their heads over our heads and their movement, despite hard waving, showed only signs of holding on to our vessel. I remember the water splashing over the iron railing into my eyes as I tried to see South America somewhere in the distance and she didn't and didn't show up. I remember a crew member talking to me, enticing me to hide in a warm cabin, but I felt in the cabin that I had shrunk into a small puppet and someone was throwing my abode with the obvious pleasure of a sadistic puppeteer. Well, I wasn't perfect all the way.
The journey to Caracas does not end comfortably in the port of Caracas, as it might seem, because there is no such thing. The port, which is the gateway to the entire Amazon, is called La Guaria and from there you can drive to the capital for another 30 kilometers. I'm definitely flying back, I don't understand how it occurred to me to want to go the same way as Maximus, I'd be surprised if the horse survived at all. It was about half an hour between getting off the boat and getting on the bus, watching my trembling grandmothers and young children travel with me on the same boat, showing no signs of concussion or exhaustion. The white miniature dog of one lady with a parasol tried to pee on my leg, and he definitely didn't succeed. He flew all the way to New York. No, I'm making that up. But the idea was nice. Of course, I wouldn't hurt a little animal that doesn't attack me. In addition, his mistress was looking at me, which I only found out just before the idea. The bus, which looked no safer than the ship we had just climbed out of, had a beautiful navy blue color and holes in the roof. So the navy blue roof was visible in the navy blue sky, and at that moment all I had to do was see a tile of the same color and I could kill. Lately, I've been finding that despair is making me feel aggressive. Or feelings. Or flashes of feelings. Well it's there. We also looked at each other with a small white dog named Bubík on the way to Caracas. Do you think animals can see ideas? Bubík definitely looked like that. The bus rumbled and some parts of it seemed to hold together with others only out of coercion. They disconnected and reconsidered their escape at the last moment, squeaking back. The wheels were not visible from the inside, but I really had the feeling several times that the right and left wheels holding together on one axis do not follow a parallel route all the time, that they simply drive the piece to the right, the piece to the left and then adjust again. On the right side, and if I sat on the left, I would find that even on the left side, our blue bus tried to copy the edges of the ditches, somewhere the ditches began and ended where the several meters of precipice ended, and after a few glances from the precipice that disappeared in the morning haze, I seemed much more attracted to the sight of the raging Bubík than to love the landscape. Hi, Bubík. I waved at him and continued my silent prayers. I can't speak some prayers exactly, and I promised in my mind that I would teach them honestly when they returned home, and I sincerely hoped that the prayers for their functionality did not matter at all. When we arrived in Caracas, the city had not yet fully awakened to a new day. Which doesn't mean the streets are dead, quiet or sleepy. Rather, the wave of activities from yesterday has not yet calmed down and the wave of new events has not yet grown into a new influx. Bubík also looked out the window at the donkey standing on the side of the road, his master standing next to him, staring into space. I assume they weren't at the end of their pilgrimage yet. At the end of the pilgrimage to our sea bus, there was a sidewalk in front of the Ambassador Hotel. We were dumped and I stretched my back, twisted by stress and discomfort. The overhang of my suitcase alternated between "I'll probably burst at any moment and everything will spill out" and "I'm probably not going to open it and you won't get to all those things." I smiled, I don't know if it was over the contradictions of the full behavior of the buckle of my suitcase or over some kind of memory unrelated to the current place, time and situation. Eric Silverman has promised to not only leave the rest of my "Three Grapes" group of friends alone, but even protect them from Emil Morgan's henchmen, or others if they break out.
Hotel Ambassador looked like he was still asleep. A wide staircase rose from the door through which the uniformed others had led us to a height, and palm-fringed flowerpots on the sides obscured the view of the intricate corridors, cleverly hiding the swarming ants of the hotel staff. I dragged my suitcase up the stairs and sincerely hoped for a well-deserved rest. The top of the stairs split to the right and left, a sign on the wall informing of the room numbers in both directions. I headed to the left, and a red strip of carpet with trampled gray soothed my city-trampled feet in the no longer perfect Jarman shoes. Room 317 didn't know whether to drown in the gloom from the drawn bottle-green curtains or let in streams of light from a row of pink-glittering streetlights. This light indecision suited me more than the victory of either extreme, so I took off my yarmans and threw myself on my back on the bed, wider than a single bed, narrower than the royal size in super-luxurious suites.
I think I fell asleep a few times and woke up again. In any case, when I sat on the bed, the pink glow from the street had disappeared and the light of the new day pushed into the curtains from the outside. I got up and spread them out. I was dazzled by the amount of light and the transformation of the city as moving matter. Lonely figures were replaced by groups of wavy hands, feet and bodies, tools, horses and cars. Several hands lifting a load on a cart that pulls a smaller brown horse.
Hotel Ambassador looked like he was still asleep. A wide staircase rose from the door through which the uniformed others had led us to a height, and palm-fringed flowerpots on the sides obscured the view of the intricate corridors, cleverly hiding the swarming ants of the hotel staff. I dragged my suitcase up the stairs and sincerely hoped for a well-deserved rest. The top of the stairs split to the right and left, a sign on the wall informing of the room numbers in both directions. I headed to the left, and a red strip of carpet with trampled gray soothed my city-trampled feet in the no longer perfect Jarman shoes. Room 317 didn't know whether to drown in the gloom from the drawn bottle-green curtains or let in streams of light from a row of pink-glittering streetlights. This light indecision suited me more than the victory of either extreme, so I took off my yarmans and threw myself on my back on the bed, wider than a single bed, narrower than the royal size in super-luxurious suites.
I think I fell asleep a few times and woke up again. In any case, when I sat on the bed, the pink glow from the street had disappeared and the light of the new day pushed into the curtains from the outside. I got up and spread them out. I was dazzled by the amount of light and the transformation of the city as moving matter. Lonely figures were replaced by groups of wavy hands, feet and bodies, tools, horses and cars. Several hands lifting a load on a cart that pulls a smaller brown horse.
Ta zkušenost, o které hovořím, tedy přemýšlím, se odehrála před deseti lety v opuštěné továrně na sirky, kde nemělo být nic včetně starého sejfu. Starý sejf tam nicméně byl a jeho neočekávaná přítomnost byla součástí vychytralého plánu na jeho ukrytí. Já dostal informaci o starém neexistujícím sejfu od Zeleného Jacka s křivými zkaženými zuby od žvýkání tabáku, ucucávání absintu anebo od obojího současně. Zelený Jack něco dlužil mně, já něco dlužil někomu dalšímu. Hezky se nám to sešlo a já a Zelený Jack jsme stáli ve víru vznášejícího se prachu s rukama v bok před ocelovými dveřmi zabudovanými do zdi tak že to málem vypadalo jako vitráž bez nápadu.
Zelený Jack měl krom schopnosti kazit si zuby schopnost otevírat sejfy všeho druhu a jeho splátka dluhu vůči mně nespočívala pouze ve sdělení místa posledního pobytu skřínky s tajemstvím ale i v jejím otevření. Když už se nachomítnu k umění, snažím se umění si osvojit. A Jackovy ruce byly umění v kostce. Tedy v rukavicích. Zíral jsem, jak prsty kouzelníka vytahují z klobouku neponičeného zajíce. Jack poklepával na dvířka sejfu, poslouchal, jestli někdo vevnitř nevolá o pomoc, strkal do zámku prsty, klíče, dráty a lil dovnitř olej nebo tak něco.
Myslel jsem, že skončíme u toho, že trezor bude namarinovaný, s příjemně protaženými a zrelaxovanými rameny jako učitel tělocviku a s dvířky neotevřenými. Všechny ty pohyby mi přišly amatérsky neobratné, dětské, neúčelné, hloupé, směšné a pak dveře cvakly a otevřely se vůči mně a Jackovi dokořán. Hleděl jsem střídavě dovnitř do trezoru a na Zeleného Jacka jak čerstvě vyoraná myš a nemohl uvěřit otevřenosti sejfu. Jack se na mě podíval a pochopil moje překvapení a zazubil se, což mě probralo na tři dny dopředu a já se tehdy rozhodl, že mě tohle dětské kvrdlání s drátkama musí Jack naučit.
Byl to můj oblíbený čas, kdy jsme se Zeleným Jackem žvýkali tabák, usrkávali halucinogenní zelenou břečku a šťourali se drátkama v sejfech jen tak pro radost a pro poučení. V okamžiku, kdy Zelený Jack seznal, že už bych se mu v nejbližší době v umění odemykat, co mělo býti zamčeno, značně přiblížil, řekl, že na to kašlem, že bych mu eště přebíral kšefty. Měl jsem pocit, že je to samozřejmě blbost, ale samozřejmě to byla pravda.
Když tedy cvakly dvířka od trezoru v Modrém kladivu nahoře v patře, nebyl jsem tolik překvapen jako potěšen. I bez mazáckého vedení křivozubého kamaráda jsem dokázal sejf otevřít. Sáhl jsem dovnitř a vytáhl karmínové desky. Podíval jsem se dovnitř. Byly tam fotografie, které zajímaly Erica Silvermanna a byly tam smlouvy, které zajímaly mě. To nechápete, jak může být někdo tak paranoidní a schovat si důležité důkazní materiály několik tisíc kilometrů vzdušnou čarou od New Yorku na patře modrozeleného baru, kde by je nejspíš nikdo nehledal. Díky Ericu. Teď už se s tím jen dostat domů. A ještě můj druhý úkol. Tedy vlastně ten první, původní.
Domů, tedy do hotelového pokoje, jsem se dostal cekem klidně. Po schodech jsem zmizel v cukuletu, nikdo nevypadl ze dveří, ani nikdo nekoukal mým směrem. Na ulici mě nikdo nesledoval, nikdo nemizel za každým rohem, když jsem se pro jistotu sem tam otočil, nikdo po mě nestřílel, a nemusel jsem si probojovat cestu do lákavé postele hotelu Ambassador. Pokud jste tohle čekali, zklamu vás a musím vám rovnou říct, že někdy je život soukromého očka úplná nuda, bez očekávaných bojů na život a na smrt. A někdy i spíte klidně i v cizí zemi bez svých blízkých, bez snů a bez oprávněných obav ze dnů příštích.
Všimli jste si těch oprávněných obav v posledním souvětí? Dobře jste udělali, alespoň vás to nepřekvapí tolik jako mě. Ráno jsem se probudil do modrobílého dne, zašel dolů do hotelové restaurace na snídani, pojedl něco anglického tukového probuzení (šunka, vajíčko a tak) a chvilku si četl noviny půjčené z věšáku na zdi.
Už když jsem si četl v novinách, především sportovní rubriku, přišlo mi, že číšníci občas pokyvují hlavou mým směrem. Nejdřív mě napadlo, že třeba jím jako čuně, což se může stát každému. Zkontroloval jsem si košili, ubrus, talíř, obličej a pak jsem se vrátil k nenápadnému snídání a čtení, protože přílišná sebekontrolní aktivita by mohla číšníky upozornit na to, že jsem si něčeho všiml. Ale možná že si to jen namlouvám. Někdy je člověk přehnaně paranoidní, i to se mi už stalo.
Pokud měli být číšníci nenápadní, nebyli. Když jsem si došel do skleničky nalít pomerančový džus, vypadali, že na mě skočí, nebo že skočí z okna, aby přede mnou prchli. V každém případě působili jako někdo, kdo chce někam skočit. Usmál jsme se na jednoho z nich a vypil svůj džus. Pokud se lze panicky zklidnit, zklidnili se všichni naráz přesně tak. Bylo to zvláštní a z mého pohledu alarmující.
Chvilku jsem zvažoval možnost ještě se posadit a přečíst si sportovní rubriku, ale neměl jsem na to dostatek odvahy a klidu. Tep mi tepal ve spáncích a v hrudi a musel jsem se nutit do klidného dechu a rozvážné, jakože nenucené chůze. Došel jsem do pokoje a přestal jsem si hrát na kliďase. V několika hysterických minutách jsem zabalil všechno, co bylo moje, v pokoji 317 a i pár předmětů patřících v té chvíli majiteli hotelu. Je mimo jiné pravda, že svůj pobyt ukončuji před plánovaným termínem a tedy mnou uzmuté věci můžeme považovat za jakousi protihodnotu za služby, které mi již nebudou poskytnuty.
Kufr se mi podařilo zacvaknout po mírné námaze, spíš mě zdržoval můj vlastní spěch, znáte to. Vykoukl jsem zpoza dveří a nikde nikdo. Zpola nenápadně, zpola přilepený na zdi došel jsem na roh chodby a v přikrčeném stavu jsem klesal schodištěm. Díky bohu za rozpínající se palmy na jeho úpatí. Ze směru, kde vřela kuchyně a vřelo i její vroucí osazenstvo, zněl šum a chvat, možná se chystala hostina, možná se chystalo násilí proti mé osobě. Jelikož jsme mezi svými přáteli i nepřáteli znám jako osoba nemající v lásce násilí vůči vlastní osobě, jal jsem se zdrhat.
Miluju zdrhání s kufrem v ruce. Ale nutno poznamenat, že můj kufr byl spíš sportovního založení a tedy ne-li snad přímo vhodný k úprkům, tedy alespoň uzpůsobený rychlejším přesunům dostatečně, aby nepřekážel. Ulice byla ráno chladnější, než bych čekal. Vzpomněl jsme si na desítky podobných úprků u nás v New Yorku. Tam u nás zdrhám raději. Člověk už zná svoje skrýše, triky, uličky a lidi, co mu pomůžou.
Tady mi nepomůže nikdo krom mě samého.
Ani jsem se nestihl podívat do desek, které jsem včera večer sebral u Modrého kladiva. Mám svoje důkazy o krádeži Maxima nebo nemám? Potřeboval bych se kouknout. A pak bych se potřeboval dostat domů.
„Pane Franku!“
Měl jsem dojem, že slyším Baa, což byl samozřejmě nesmysl.
„Pane Franku!“
Zase jsem to slyšel. Ohlédl jsem se a nikde nikdo. Zato jsem měl pocit, že slyším dupot kroků směrem od hotelu.
„Tady nahoře!“
Podíval jsem se vzhůru a tam v okně napůl zmizela ženská hlava. Mizející ženské hlavy můžou být předzvěstí čehokoli, nicméně tato hlava znala moje jméno. Nebylo příliš pravděpodobné, že by cizí ženská hlava na druhém konci světa volala jakéhosi Franka zrovna ve chvíli, když jsem pod jejím oknem stál já. Ale zase jak pravděpodobné bylo, že se zastavím pod oknem s ženskou hlavou, která zná Franka z New Yorku? Mohla by to být past? Mohla. Mohla by to být záchrana? Jistěže. Jsem schopen přemoci osamělou ženskou hlavu? Jsem.
Vběhl jsem do domu, ve kterém ve výši druhého patra zmizela hlava ženy. Dveře jsem za sebou zabouchl možná trochu prudčeji, rána se rozlehla osamělým schodištěm jako střela z menšího polního kanónu. Safraporte. Vyběhl jsem schodištěm o patro výš, pak zase schody, pak už druhé patro. Tam jsem zjistil, že po celé šířce druhého patra běží lodžie, místy zasklená, místy ne. Vstup z chodby oddělovaly dveře se čtyřmi zasklenými okýnky, skrz ně jsem uviděl postavu, dveře jsem otevřel, stála tam. Mladší než jsem myslel, američtější než bych čekal.
„Dobrý den“, řekla.
Svíral jsem svůj polosportovní kufřík pod paží, usmál se na ni a zeptal se, odkud mě zná.
„Od pana Silvermanna, pojďte za mnou“.
No jasně, jak jsem mohl nepředpokládat, že by Eric nehlídal svůj byznys i tady. Co kdyby se Frank Downer rozhodl získané informace předat za mírnou úplatu někomu dalšímu.
Sunuli jsme se polochůzí, poloběhem místem, kde předtím Enid, tak se dívka jmenovala, vykoukla a zavolala na mě. Lodžie či vlastně zasklená chodba vedla okolo celého domu až jsme se dostali k rohu zadní ulice, která obíhala kolem hotelu Ambassador. Takže Enid mě viděla už když jsem vyběhl. Jak jsem zjistil vzápětí, Enid mohla vidět i do mého pokoje č. 317, takže se možná známe důvěrněji, než jsem dosud myslel.
Zasklená chodba vedla dál kolem domu, na úplně opačné straně než jsem do domu vešel, svažovala se chodba do úzké uličky, která vypadala, že tu vznikla omylem. Ulice svíraly tak ostré úhly a domy v nich byly tak blízko sebe, že to, kam jsme sešli, spíš než jako ulička vypadalo jako prostor mezi domy, rozhodně neurčený k procházení.
Zrovna když jsem začal přemýšlet, jestli nás vlastně vůbec někdo pronásleduje, rozlehly se chodbou za námi mužské spěchající hlasy. Stačil nám s Enid vteřinový pohled a vyrazili jsme úzkou neuličkou. Přiznám se bez mučení, že úzké prostory nemám rád a to až do té míry, že se mi do neuličky nechtělo ani za mák. Jiná cesta než tudy nebo zpátky ovšem ale nebyla, takže jsem neměl na výběr. Možná se mě měla Enid zeptat na druhé straně baráku, jestli až tahle veranda dojde konce, jestli se budu chtít soukat do nevydlážděné nudle mezi dvěma třípatrovými domy. Volil bych raději cestu přes střechy, sklepem, skokem na ulici ze druhého patra nebo prostě jinou jednodušší formu sebevraždy. Nevím, kolik metrů jsem se mezi domy musel prodrat, je ovšem třeba takhle mezi námi dvěma přiznat, že jsem chvilkama měl slzy v očích a byl jsem rád, že Enid je v tom šeru mezi domy nemůže vidět. Jen si musím nenápadně otřít oči, až vylezeme. Jestli vylezeme. Hlasy se blížily rychleji, než já se sunul peklem a to vytvářelo nesnesitelný tlak v mém žaludku. Jak se blížil konec pekla, rostla jak má naděje, že už to skončí, jakkoli, třeba střelou nepřítele do zátylku, tak i mé napětí, protože, a to jistě sami znáte, že čím větší je naděje, tím větší je strach, že události ve váš prospěch selžou.
„Franku, pojďte“.
Enid už byla venku a mně chyběl sotva poslední metr. Vykročil jsem z úzkého sevření zdí a nadechl se obrazně i fyzicky. Na druhé straně průrvy se objevili čišníci z hotelu Ambassador. Jeden z nich ukázal prstem na mě a z prstu mu vyšlehl plamen. Enid i já jsme v pravou chvíli zahnuli za roh, aby mě střela z revolveru, to byl ten domnělý prst, minula o pár centimetrů a zavrtala se do zdi místo do mě. Enid táhla mně, já táhl kufr a číšníci s pokřikováním vletěli do úzké chodbičky mezi domy.
Nevím, proč jsem si zrovna během úprku uličkami Caracassu vzpomněl na Kate. Možná něco v očích Enid, táhnoucí mě spletí oprýskaných zdí, zídek dvorků, uliček bez tvaru a stylu, možná něco v těch očích, v té naléhavosti, v té barvě, něco z toho mi připomnělo Kate. Kate, která není mojí ženou a není ani ženou nikoho jiného. Kate, která ale je víc mojí ženou než ženou osamělou.
Pamatuju si, když jsem ji prvně uviděl. Její auto stálo na 32. ulici, stálo u kraje a odmítalo jet. Pršelo. Běžně nestavím u žen v nouzi, především proto, že nejsem ten typ, co si ví se vším rady. A ženy nepotřebují muže, který spolu s nimi uvízne v horách, rozběsněného psa ještě více rozběsní nebo lehce porouchané auto rozbije úplně. Přesně to jsem ovšem já. Zastavil jsem u okraje ulice, moje auto těsně za jejím, motor před usnutím lehce povzdechl, jako by tušil, že odteď se o mou přízeň bude muset dělit s někým dalším.
„Dobrý den, můžu pomoct?“
Zvedla hlavu schovanou pod kapotou, vlasy promáčené jarním deštíkem, hořce ale ne negativně se usmála.
„Ráda. Vy tomu rozumíte, já totiž vůbec ne.“
„Já taky moc ne“, přiznal jsem a její oči se rozšířily v mírném překvapení.
„Ani běžně nestavím u okraje ulice u neznámých žen, abyste nemyslela. Jen mě něco, asi prozřetelnost, přimělo zastavit a pokusit se, jednou ze sta pokusů by to mohlo vyjít, že ano, a já bych pomohl osobě v nouzi a přemohl bych na chvilku ten pocit, že jsem neschopný“, usmál jsem se taky hořce a taky bez negativního podtónu.
Usmála se znovu, více mile než jinak a řekla, ať na to s ní kouknu. O deset let později si na tuhle chvíli naprosto nepatřičně vzpomenu několik vteřin poté, co kolem mojí hlavy prosviští kulka z revolveru v dalekém Caracassu.
Proběhli jsme třemi uličkami, ne tak úzkými jako neulička smrti, která ukrývala strkající se číšníky z hotelu Ambassador, když Enid vběhla dřevěnými dveřmi do domu nalevo. Sedm schůdků nahoru, plošinka, sedm schodů dolů a vyběhli jsme na ulici. Byla to ulice boční ale ne malá, stromy po obou stranách zakrývaly pohled na domy naproti. Přešli jsme ulici, já v jedné ruce kufr více sportovního než klasického ražení. Uvnitř kufru důležité dokumenty. Uvnitř Franka Downera neklid a spěch a touha být už doma u svých blízkých. Nebe se zakabonilo, mrak, který se rozvalil nad námi, dělal strašidelné obličeje, ústa tvořená světlejšími mráčky se křivila k jedné straně. Udělal jsem na něj stejný obličej, proč ne.
Přešli jsme ulici, na druhé straně malá ulička, na jejím ústí malý fiátek tyrkysové barvy. Klíč, který se vynořil Enid z kapsy, vklouzl do zámku ve dveřích, my vklouzli do fiátku, Enid vycouvala podle mě až příliš rychle úzkou uličkou, na široký bulvár osvětlený úzkým paprskem světla, který vítězoslavně pronikl rozestýlanou peřinou kupících se mračen. Enid volantem otočila jako profesionál, čumák auta se nastavil po směru pruhu, ve kterém jsme se ocitli a vyjeli jsme.
Auto promočené Kate naskočilo, spíš díky náhodě než díky mému umu. Déšť se zklidnil, rytmus kapek, dopadajících na kapotu se zpomalil, až se skoro vytrácel, přišla chvíle rozloučení a jak bývalo mým zvykem, i chvíle malé nenapravitelné trapnosti a sebevýčitek.
Skoro vždycky něco řeknu, něco, co se nehodí k dané chvíli, něco, co bylo myšleno jinak, něco, co potenciální pozitivum přesune do sféry minulosti a neskutečna. Tentokrát se to nestalo.
„Tak, díky,“ usmála se a všechno na ni začínalo pozvolna usychat, první paprsky, které vykoukly, započaly svou přirozenou odpařovací práci.
Zaklapla kapotu svého skořicového Corvairu a položila na kapotu dlaň. Jemně jsem poklepl dvěma prsty na hřbet ruky položené na kapotě a řekl něco jako „Tak hlavně že se nám to povedlo“ a rozhodl jsem se odcházet.
Byl už jsem dva kroky pryč a v hlavě pryč úplně, podle svého zvyku nevěřit ve šťastné náhody, když na mě zavolala, „Nechtěl byste se někdy vidět a říct mi o těch svých devadesátí devíti pokusech o provádění dobra, které se nepovedly?“ Myslela to vážně, od té doby jsem jí je všechny vyprávěl, i když jsem pak několikrát přemítal o tom, jestli to tenkrát vážně myslela úplně doslova.
Enid jela ranním bulvárem svižně, ale ne nápadně rychle a dalo se věřit, že číšníci z hotelu Ambassador ztratili naši stopu. Držel jsem kufřík v ruce a až teď mi došlo, že nejsem připoutaný. Připoutal jsem se. Enid pustila rádio. Mraky sem tam propustily světlo, které přelítávalo po kapotě a palubní desce. Enid nemluvila, z rádia drnkala akustická kytara, mladý muž zpíval patrně zamilovanou píseň.
„Enid, kam až jedeme, už jsme jim utekli, ne,“ přišlo mi, že už jedeme celkem dlouho.
„Už tam budeme, pane Franku,“ řekla a dívala se pořád dopředu, jako by ani nemluvila na mě.
Zatočili jsme doprava a já nevěděl, jestli jsme zatočili, protože jsem se o tom zmínil nebo proto, že už jsme opravdu dojeli, kam jsme měli.
Ulička byla zase plná stromů. Enid vystoupila, obešla fiátka a zamířila do jednoho z mnoha stejných vchodů. Stejné plechové dveře natřené barevně na desítky způsobů vypadaly vpouštět majitele do garážových stání, ale šlo o levné řadové byty.
„Pojďte, Franku“.
Hned za dveřmi, ty naše byly červené, jste byli přímo v bytu, žádná chodbička, předsíňka nebo něco tak.
Pokud jsem předtím měl pocit, že Enid je do mé záchrany nějak emočně zainteresovaná, ten pocit se teď vytratil. Dívka se chovala účelně, prakticky a bez známky zaujatosti. Splnit úkol.
„Chcete kafe?,“ pod rukama se jí pohybovaly předměty, na konci kteréžto akce přistálo na stole kafe a miska s cukrem a lžička. Kafe jsem chtěl.
Prohrabával jsem karmínové desky skrz na skrz a hledal nějaké vodítko. Vodítko, kde jsi? Pousmál jsem se. Občas takhle žertuju s osudem nebo s realitou a čekám, jestli zareaguje. Většinou to neudělá, teď mě ale překvapila. Ne že by se tedy ozval hlas zhůry a řekl: tady máš vodítko, ty slepý člověče. Ale jinak to bylo skoro tak. Při prohrabávání fotkami a dokumenty mi na podlahu fiátka vypadla fotka, starší, trochu šedožlutá, s pokroucenými okraji. A na té fotce nebyl jediný zločinec, jediný ukradený kůň, zato na ní byl někdo, kdo mi byl dobře známý. Tedy od vidění. Tedy někdo, koho jsem myslel, že dobře znám. Prsty držící fotku se mi chvěly, jak se zbytek těla snažil vypořádat s náporem překvapení. Pousmál jsem se, tentokrát nervózně, doprčic, vůbec jsem nevěděl, co si o tomhle mám myslet. Na fotce s pokroucenými okraji byly stáje bez koní, malé letadlo a sice mladší ale zcela zřetelná a v té době ještě velmi živá a k tělu připojená hlava Smutnýho Peta. No to mě zabij. Radši ne.
Ruce mi klesly a hlavou začly lítat myšlenky jako tryskáče na leteckém dni, jen ne v tak úhledných formacích. Byl Pete zločinec? Nebo klaďas? Jsou ty stáje tady v Caracassu? Koukám na fotku a na stájích je částečně vidět nápis s nějakým jménem. Varhanzel, Charmanzle. Starhazel. Něco tak. Musíš se, Franku, uklidnit. Čím víc si říkáte, že se musíte uklidnit, tím víc sami sebe upozorňujete, že něco není v pořádku a to je věc, která ještě nikdy nikoho neuklidnila. Myslel jsem, že se mi zavaří závity. Jakmile se mi zavaří závity, myšlenky vytečou na podlahu tyrkysového fiátka a už je nikdo neposbírá. Klid, Franku. Co by mohl Pete .. Klid, musíš se zaměřit na ten nápis.
Na vysoké caracasské nebe přišlo další mračení ana přední sklo fiátka dopadlo několik kapek. Bral jsem to jako pobídku, posunout se dál. Dál v tomhle případě znamenalo dolů do centra města, které bylo přede mnou. Jednička, dvojka, zhoupneme se přes okraj času a prostoru a jedeme z kopce. Kapky počínající deště capají do zaprášených chodníků a lidé, kráčející za svými osudy se jim jen tak tak uhýbají, někteří si kapek ještě nevšimli a všimnou si jich, až dostanou první studenou kapku na obnažený krk. Fotka s mladým Petem leží vedle na sedačce, jedeme teď už ve třech, já, fiátek a Pete. A ještě odněkud z druhé strany vykukuje Enid, která je v autě cítit, svou vůní, svým pachem, svou nedávnou přítomností. Takže jsme čtyři. Člověk si pak aspoň nepřijde tak sám, když mu společnost dělá auto, mrtvá dívka a fotka dnes už také mrtvého barmana z newyorské hospody. Když si to dám takhle do souvislostí, už si zase přijdu trochu víc sám než před chvílí. Prší už trochu víc, lidi na chodnících už si jistojistě všimli a přidali do kroku. Centrum města mě spolklo jako malinu a já už se brzo budu muset rozhodnout, kde začnu s hledáním. První, co mě napadlo, byla telefonní budka. V budkách jsou seznamy a v seznamech jsou nejen osobní čísla, ale i firmy. Zkusíme (parta mrtvých a polomrtvých), jestli něco bude připomínat nápis na stájích. Zastavil jsem na malém náměstíčku stranou od hlavního proudu.
Telefonní seznam byl velký jako pytel cementu. Tedy hlavně těžký. K zadní stěně budky připoutaný řetízkem. Pochybuju, že by tenhle náklad někdo toužil ukrást a utíkat s ním kamkoli. Opřel jsem pytel cementu o samotnou krabičku přístroje a doufal, že ji to neutrhne a ta mi nespadne k nohám. Někdy něco musíte hledat několik dní a jindy vám řešení spadne samo do klína. Myslíte jako ta fotka s Petem? A že druhá taková rychlovka od pánaboha by byla příliš mnoho štěstíčka najednou? Však taky jindy si to člověk vybere na druhou stranu a to ale neříkáte, jeejee, ten má ale smůly najednou. To řeknete jo, takhle to bývá. Když průser, tak na velkou hromadu. No prostě jsem našel hned to první jméno, které mi přišlo, že by na fotce, rozmazané věkem a prachem mohlo být. Varhanzel. Bylo to tam. Stáje a dostihové závodiště Varhanzel. Huhuu. Raději jsem zkoukl i další možnosti, ty tam ale nebyly. Mapa města byla hned nad přístrojem. Trochu rozmazaná a na místě jednoho náměstí byla nalepená žvýkačka, ale tam jsem zrovna nemířil. To by bylo. Chvilku jsem zůstal stát v telefonní budce a déšť zvenku bušil do jejích třech prosklených stran, jako kdyby mě ostřelovali vojáci nepřítele. Obrazy věcí pohybujících se za sklem se rozmazávaly jako po požití nějaké drogy a jediný zřetelný a jasně ohraničený svět tak v tuhle chvíli byl uvnitř telefonní budky. Otevřel jsem dveře a doběhl do fiátka. Pokud jsem si správně zapamatoval polohu stájí, pojedu na místo určení minimálně třičtvrtě hodiny.
Jak se tak posouvaly domy po obou stranách ulic, po kterých jsem jel, začal jsem se ztrácet ve vzpomínkách, které jen natolik ponechávaly mému soustředění prostor, abych jel dál a vnímal provoz a přitom se mohl přesunout v čase a prostoru jinam. Myslím, že mě vzpomínky zkoušely přetáhnout aspoň na malou chvíli domů, už se mi stýskalo, normálně mi nevadí někde pobíhat, nevadí mi se ani někam podívat na výlet, ale pak se rád vrátím domů ke svým a ke svému. Taky už jsem nějakou dobu neposeděl v příjemné hospůdce, nedal si pivko nebo skotskou, nebo bourbon, nebo bloody mary, prostě něco. Vzpomněl jsem si na Josepha Lanleyho, každý mu říkal Malý Jo. Jo měřil asi 205 centimetrů a mě na něm vždycky fascinoval neskutečný klid, který z něj vyzařoval. Možná to nebyl ani tak klid jako rozvážné pohyby i mluva, možná to všechno souviselo s jeho vysokou postavou. Než informace o pohybu nebo nějaké souvětí proběhlo po svých drahách uvnitř malého Jo, chvilku to trvalo. Ale nebyl hloupý, jen neměl potřebu spěchat.
Jednou jsme takhle dorazili do malého městečka na východním pobřeží a náš truck vydal při zastavení chrchlavý zvuk, poposkočil a sice zůstal stát, kam jsme mu určili, ale měl jsem dojem, že až budeme chtít odjíždět, žádný další zvuk nevyjde a auto se z tohohle místa už neodlepí. „Říkám ti, Jo, ten truck je mrtvej,“ mrknul jsem spiklenecky na obrovského chlapíka vedle na sedadle řidiče. Vzadu smrděly ryby, což byl úmysl. Frank Downer, tedy já, a Joseph Lanley, tedy Malý JO, vezli náklad zbraní jednomu šikmookému chlapíkovi a ryby byly jednak zboží, které jsme vezli, tedy naoko, a jednak smrad z ryb měl být psychologickou bariérou pro případné kontrolory. „To dá“, zabručel Jo a zřejmě tím myslel, že náš vůz svou cestu zpět zvládne. Snad. Pokrčil jsem rameny, Malý Jo si vždycky věděl rady. Zabouchli jsme za sebou závan smradu a ťukli do dveří šikmookého chlapíka.
Nebyli jsme tady poprvé, takže nás nepřekvapilo delší čekání, Šikmookej, jak mu v duchu familierně říkám, pořád vdechuje nějakou bylinu a ta způsobuje, že je ještě pomalejší než můj řidič s velkýma nohama. Dveře se otevřely na pět centimetrů a řetízek na dveřích se blýskl proti slunci. Malý Jo bouchl do dveří a chlapík za řetízkem se svalil na záda jako brouk, do kterého šťouchnete klacíkem. Brouk se hned nezvedl a Malý Jo nevím kdy chytl do obou paží židli, stojící hned poblíž dveří a vší silou jí majznul brouka přes celé tělo. Moje oči si teprve přivykaly prostředí uvnitř místnosti, ale Jo fungoval jako tichý, těžký ale ne těžkopádný stroj na řešení akutních problémů. Rozhlédl jsem se po místnosti a teď teprve jsem si všiml rozházených věcí všude kolem, rozbitých hrnků, potrhaných závěsů okna vzadu do dvora a teď už i Šikmookého, ležícího v jeho obvyklé květované košili vzadu u dřevěného lůžka na zemi. Nepůsobil živě a jak jsem tak koukal, náš hostitel Brouk taky ne. „Jo, už ho nech“, vyhrkl jsem směrem k mlátičce. Už to nebyl úplně pěkný pohled. „Nemají tu něco k pití?“, vypustil jsem otázku do vzduchu víceméně sám pro sebe a rozhlédl se.
Dveře, kterými jsme, ehm, vešli, jsem opřel tak, aby nebylo na první pohled vidět, že bylo použito násilí a už jsem se hrnul k policím, kde jsem tušil chlast. Nejsme úplně alkoholik, ale pití vážně můžu, zvlášť ve vypjatých chvílích a tohle uznáte i vy že vypjaté bylo celkem dost. „Jo, jak jsi věděl, že to není Šikmookej?“ „Kdo?“ Nedošlo mi, že mu tak říkám jenom já. „No tenhle,“ a mávl jsem rukou na nepěknou směs biologického odpadu na zemi, fuj. Malý JO působil, jako že zvažuje odpověď, ale já věřím, že odpověď už dávno letěla předlouhými drahami směrem k příjemci. „Žádnej čoud“. Řekl ta dvě slova tak samozřejmě jako by odpovídal na otázku, jestli hranolky nebo ne. Viděl, že nejsem nejrychlejší. „Vždycky čoud, dneska ne“. Jo takhle, docházelo mi to. Malý Jo nepředpokládal, že Šikmookej začal se zdravým životním stylem a př otevření dveří a nepřítomnosti kouře odhadl velice svižně situaci. A náš hostitel neočekával tak prudkou inteligenci, a tak prudké otevření dveří už vůbec ne. Vzhledem k tomu, co jsem viděl, připodobnil bych to k stádu krav, vrazících najednou do ohrady nebo k tornádu trhajícímu střechu stodoly. Doufám, že dlouho netrpěl. „Co s těma rybama?“ Přemýšlel jsem zase nahlas. Malý Jo právě velkým trhnutím vyškubl ze zdi malou pokladnu i s kusem cihly, zachrastil s ní a vycházel ze dveří. Náklad jsme vyložili, jako kdyby se nic nestalo a já pro jistotu udělal fotografii místa činu, kde krom spouště bylo vidět i vyložené zboží. Třeba to po nás jednou někdo může chtít. Když jsme startovali před půl hodinou chcíplý truck, samozřejmě jen lehce zakašlal a vykašlal se na nás. Malý JO a Frank Downer kráčeli pěšky a zdviženými palci stopovali směrem k New Yorku, v jedné bedýnce, která smrděla rybami asi nejméně malou železnou pokladnu plnou peněz.
Takhle jsem vzpomínal na Malého Jo cestou ke stájím pana Varhanzela, nejspíš proto, že někdo s tímhle nadhledem a silou by se mi tady v té tramtárii zatraceně hodil.
Když jsem dojel na okraj města, zástavba se začala zvolna proměňovat. Zvolnil jsem proto kvůli dešti už tak dost pomalou jízdu a nakonec, když kolem mě vykukovaly z deště spíš nízké podlouhlé zemědělské stavby než městské domy, jsem raději zastavil. Fiátka jsem zaparkoval za rohem hlavní cesty a vylezl ven. Pršelo už méně, ale pořád dostatečně na to, abych měl mezi cáry deště a šedí mlh nebo páry pocit, že nejsem snadno na očích. Díky počasí taky tolik lidí neběhalo venku, ale sem tam se někdo mihnul.
Ušel jsem napříč pěti ulicemi a zástavba začala být vyloženě dostihová. Stáje, kůlny, garáže, valníky s hnojem a jiným materiálem, pěšiny, kudy byli koně voděni mezi budovami, stará sedla, na zdi visící podkovy. Množství malinkých i větších staveb mi dávalo větší naději projít areál nepozorovaně, než kdyby sem vedla jedna příjezdová cesta, kolem zeď a u brány by seděli čtyři chlápci s palnými zbraněmi. Nicméně brána tu byla a i přes nečas byla vidět poměrně z dálky. Veliký nápis Varhanzel přes celý oblouk brány vítal návštěvníky. Prošel jsem celkem klidně pod branou.
„Hola! ¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?“
Někdo na mě promluvil, safra.
„Hola señor“
Zase na mě mluví, zkoušel jsem přidat do kroku a dělat, že v šumění deště neslyším.
„Seňor!“
Přidal do kroku a už byl skoro u mě. Moje nohy ještě pořád šly, ale moje hlava už zvažovala situaci a možnosti jejího řešení. Vzdej to. Vzdej to. Ještě pořád jsem šel a „seňor“ už mi pokládal ruku na rameno.
Otočil jsem se s překvapeným výrazem v obličeji, jakože až teď jsem si všiml jeho přítomnosti. V jeho mokrém obličeji na vteřinu převládla úleva a porozumění. Byl to starší muž a bylo mi ho líto. Ale nebyla jiná možnost, alespoň ne rychlá a bezpečnější než řešení, které jsem použil.
Stáli jsme u malé zídky, za kterou se za dvěma křovíčky skrývala dlouhá úzká ulička mezi dvěma stájemi. Přikročil jsem k „Seňorovi“, vzal ho kolem ramen, jakože jsme kamarádi, byl z toho pochopitelně vteřinu nesvůj a chtěl se z mého objetí vyvléknout. Moje objímající ruka ovšem upevnila svoje sevření a jako krajta rdousí svoji kořist, zužovala i moje paže průchod vzduchu dýchacími cestami toho dobrého muže. Chce to určitou dávku zkušeností držet stisk dostatečně dlouho na to, aby rdoušený ztratil vědomí, ale dost krátce na to, abychom ho nezabili. A to jsem nechtěl.
Mužík klesl k zemi a o vteřinu déle jsem ho pustil úplně. Podle pohybu v jeho pádu poznáte, jestli ztrátu vědomí jenom hraje, nebo ne. Pomocí jeho rukávů od košile jsem mu svázal ruce za zády a odtáhl ho do uličky. Déšť ještě stále milosrdně zakrýval většinu tichého dramatu a já se jen zběžně rozhlédl, jestli někdo další nebyl poblíž.
V každém případě bude nutné se teď pohybovat svižně. Mužík se dříve nebo později probudí a i se ztíženými možnostmi pohybu se nakonec dostane k někomu, kdo ho rozváže a vyslechne si, co se mu přihodilo. Nebo ho ještě rychleji někdo najde ležícího na zemi a místo zachraňování vzburcuje nejdřív strážce dostihového závodiště.