David Duffy - In for a Ruble

“Information, what else?”

He hit me again. Same force, same place. This time, stew spewed onto the sidewalk as I went to my knees.

Kneeling, retching, I sensed a few onlookers starting to gather. I took hope in that. Nosferatu jerked me up again and pushed me forward. The other guys moved too, staying in formation, but closer now. The onlookers remained where they were.

“One more chance, zek . What kind of information?”

I had the dim idea that I was better off if he thought I was hired to find him than if I was trying to compete with him.

“Whatever you left behind.”

He considered that for a moment before he slugged me once more. This time, stew splattered a parked car before I fell to my knees and vomited more stew onto the sidewalk. His strength was superhuman. I couldn’t take much more of this. No one could.

The other four guys moved in close. They were looking around. More onlookers stopped to see what was happening.

Nosferatu was impervious. He pulled me upright. His eyes bored into mine. “If you have one ounce of intelligence, and your Cheka file indicates you used to, you will stay the fuck away from things that are none of your fucking business.” Two steel fingers stabbed my chest, punctuating each word with enough force to crack ribs. “That way, you might live out the week. I will tell you one more thing—if you see me again, it will be the last time.”

My back exploded in pain as one of his cohorts hit me in the kidney. Nosferatu’s fist came around once more—into the right side of my face. The left side bounced off the cold concrete of the sidewalk.

I didn’t try to get up.

A good Samaritan rolled me over and offered to call an ambulance. I told him I was fine. He looked dubious. He was surely right. I didn’t want the help he was going to call. I made it to my knees without retching. Nosferatu and his friends were nowhere to be seen.

“Fight over a girlfriend,” I murmured. The Samaritan still looked dubious. I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet. Everything spun. I was surrounded by five or six people, all wanting to help, none quite sure how.

“I’m okay,” I croaked. “I’ll be fine.” None of them believed me.

“I called nine-one-one,” another Samaritan shouted, holding up his cell phone. “Ambulance on the way.”

I took a step toward the curb, scanning the street for a cab, before my knees buckled.

The first Samaritan held me up. “Easy,” he said. “Help’s coming.”

“Thanks.” I was still scanning the street. “Let me lean on this car.”

He released his grip and I stumbled against a parked SUV. A free cab sped down the avenue, three lanes over. I took a breath and stepped halfway into the street, hand raised as high as I could. Every muscle screamed. The cab hit the breaks, cut across traffic and screeched to a stop a foot away. I might have been safer with Nosferatu. I should have thanked the Samaritans, but I was bound for freedom. I yanked the door open, causing more muscle protest, fell into the backseat, and croaked, “Downtown.”

I all but passed out as the driver pressed the pedal to the floor.

I pulled myself upright around Thirty-fourth Street, causing shooting pains in my chest, back and head. I told the driver to drop me at Pine and Water. His look in the rearview mirror was more dubious than the ones from the Samaritans. He wore a turban and the name on the license was Indian. He said, “Excuse me, sir, not my business, but you want hospital, maybe?”

“Pine and Water,” I repeated.

“But, sir, you look…”

“Pine and Water!”

“Yes, sir.”

He still didn’t appear happy when we got there, but he took the twenty I pushed through the divider, let me get out, which I managed without falling, and sped away at the one speed he seemed familiar with. I nodded feebly to the night guard in the lobby, who’s used to comings and goings at all hours in all conditions, and took the elevator up to the office.

Foos and I rent the twenty-eighth floor of a boring tower with stunning views. We have a reception area nobody uses—it was left by the previous tenants—that has chairs and a sofa. I stretched out on the latter for a rest. I might have passed out, I’m not sure. When I felt up to moving again, I stumbled down one of the Basilisk’s twelve server corridors, which took time because they’re all forty feet long, and I had to stop once or twice, leaning against a floor-to-ceiling wall of electronic brainpower, to rest. I finally emerged into the large open area in the back. The lights were off except in a few outer offices. The smell of marijuana floated in the air. Pig Pen heard me and squawked, “Russky! Tiramisu?”

We’ve had this conversation before. Foos’s African gray parrot used to be obsessed with pizza. But he bonded with one of his master’s Ralph Lauren model girlfriends, two iterations ago. Veronica was her name. She ordered tiramisu every time Foos took her to dinner, ate two bites and brought the rest to Pig Pen in a parrot bag. When Foos moved on to the next girl, as he inevitably does, Pig Pen went into a funk. He’s still not completely over her—or the tiramisu.

“No luck, Pig Pen,” I told him the first time he asked. “Do I look Italian?”

“Russky,” he agreed.

“Do I look like Veronica?”

“No cutie. Russky.”

“That’s right. So what makes you think I have tiramisu?”

He considered that. “Cross Bronx. Accident cleared.”

Resorting to the traffic reports, which he listens to constantly on 1010 WINS, is his concession whenever logic overwhelms desire. That hasn’t stopped him from continuing to try on subsequent occasions, however.

Tonight, he took a closer look at me, and said, “Ouch.”

“You got that right. Boss here?”

“Boss man!” Pig Pen squawked at full volume, which is a lot louder than seems possible. “Russky help!”

Foos emerged from his office. “Jesus, who ran you over?”

“Leitz’s fault,” I said, stretching out on a sofa. The open area is divided into two seating arrangements—one organized like a living room, the other a big conference table with a dozen chairs. Around the perimeter are a dozen glassed-in offices and conference rooms.

“Hang on,” he said. He went to the kitchen and returned with rubbing alcohol, disinfectant, and a bag of ice. “Can you do this, or you want me to?” he asked.

“I can manage. Take a look at my back, though.” I could just shrug off my jacket and lift my turtleneck.

He whistled. “That’s gonna be a pepperoni and eggplant pizza in a couple of hours. You sure you don’t want the hospital?”

“I’m sure. Better have more ice, though.”

He went back to the kitchen. I closed my eyes and used alcohol and disinfectant on my face where Nosferatu and the sidewalk had broken the skin. My gut was uncut, but turning its own shades of pizza color. Foos returned with more ice and the vodka bottle.

“Drink?”

“What do you think?”

He poured two glasses as I tried to arrange ice bags. Pig Pen was holding on to the cage wire across his office door, watching with evident concern. His radio played in the background, forgotten for the moment. But I think they were on sports, in which he has no interest.

The vodka burned going down but felt therapeutic. I held out my glass for more. Foos poured, but said, “Better take it easy. I’m guessing your head’s as rattled as the rest of you.”

He had a point. I took another small sip, put down the glass, and shifted a couple of the ice bags.

“So what happened?”

I told him about West Forty-eighth Street, the cleaners, and Nosferatu and his friends. He listened without interruption, then said, “And you got no idea who this guy is?”