David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

“Well I should have done a bit more jumpin’ — because before I can do anything, bitch is on top of me. She’s knocked my fuckin’ piece out of my hand, straddlin’ me like a whore and jammin’ the handle of her mop into my mouth. Make a long story short I manage to get it away from my mouth, but she gives it a little twist or somethin’ and clocks me on the side of the head. Knocks me cold, no shit.

“Must have figured me for dead, ’cause next thing you know, I’m awake — in what I first think is maybe some kind of fuckin’ bathtub. And I’m thinkin’, fuck Leo, what’d I do, fall asleep and have a dream? I don’t think that for long though, because I look over the edge of this bathtub thing, and I see there’s that bitch cleanin’ woman haulin’ a big brown jug off a rack of big brown jugs. And I put it together: this ain’t no bathtub. It’s tiled and shit, and the drain’s pretty big, and it’s got marks on the tile that are all brown and smell like old fuckin’ batteries. And all of a sudden, Mr. B., I got a pretty good idea what happened to that Mr. Kolyokov we were supposed to be lookin’ for. Do I have to fuckin’ spell it out? He got liquidated , Mr. B. Liquidated . Those jugs were filled with acid — an’ the cleanin’ woman was gonna fuckin’ liquidate me with one of ’em now.

“She hadn’t noticed I was movin’ yet. She turns around with a big fuckin’ jug in her arms, and her eyes — they were dead, Boss. Like startin’ to fog over dead. She was like a fuckin’ zombie.

“So now it’s my turn to get the jump on her, and that’s what I do. I’m up and it’s like, bam! Take that you fuckin’ bitch! Bam! And she’s like, nothing — kicks me near the nuts but misses, so I’m like — Bam! An’ finally, she drops the fuckin’ jug in the bathtub an’ it cracks, an’ I’m like, pushin’ her, and then she’s the one in the bathtub, Mr. B., an’ I’m the one with the acid. Oh yeah. And that’s kinda how that went down. I cleaned up, you know what I mean, and on my way out from the basement, I find a couple of suitcases. They’re filled with, you know, lady shit. But one of the things I find there, is this bus ticket. Fuckin’ Greyhound ticket out of Port Authority, up to Halifax. It’s a special ticket — on this charter, it says. Weird name of the company. Here, I got it here: I’ll read it: Manka. Vasilissa. Baba Yaga. One Way , it says. Leaves in a couple hours.

“So that’s how I get here, and how come I’m callin’ you from here. I figure, you know, maybe I go check out this bus shit, see what’s goin’ on. ’Cause I just couldn’t get that woman’s dead fuckin’ eyes out of my head. I’m thinkin’, it’s a mystery. Just go take a look right?

“So I get to the platform — we’re talkin’ just half an hour ago now. And it’s crowded — with all kinds of people. People I recognize. That I’m sure I seen when we went to the Emissary this afternoon.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna get on that bus, and see where it goes. No one’s name’s on this ticket, you know what I mean? I got a piece if I need it. So I’ll call you again once I’m at Halifax — let you know what the fuck’s goin’ on with the Emissary and all ’at. ’Cause I gotta know, Mr. B.

“First, though, I gotta get a sandwich. I’m starvin’. Hey, does Vinnie still run that stall down here? Makes a mean Pastrami. I’m gonna go check. Seeya.”

A duvet of cloud had spread itself over Manhattan, and as the tape beeped to the new message, thick splatters of rain crossed the Bridal Suite’s window. Gepetto Bucci clicked off the tape machine. He massaged his hands together and looked across the table to Shadak.

“That’s Omega Man ,” said Shadak.

“What?”

“He’s referring to The Omega Man with the ridiculous vampires with ’fros. The Marathon Man is the film with the dentist. Charlton Heston is not in that one.”

Bucci squinted at Shadak. “You sure you want to go on with this?”

“Of course. Why?”

“You appear agitated.”

“I am not agitated.”

Bucci shrugged. “Up to you,” he said, and pressed the play button.

“Your kayak is a piece of shit. I take the fuckin’ thing onto the water, and whattaya know? Dip my fuckin’ paddle in the water and the fuckin’ thing turns upside down — and I’m halfway drowned. My kid has to fish me out of the fuckin’ lake. I want you to take this complaint to the top. The top . I’ll wait here.

“Okay. Mr. B.? You listening? Good. I am calling you from just past the border in New Brunswick, Canada. I’m at this little diner we pulled into outside a shitheel little town called Edmunston. I’m out back. Using a fuckin’ pay phone — my cell won’t work here. We just ate this fuckin’ great meal. It’s a Canadian thing — french fries and cheese and gravy, all mixed up in like a paste.

“I’m over the fuckin’ border. Got through without any shit from the customs guy — but I tucked my number under the seat anyway, because you never know. I got it out again now. These fuckin’ people, I don’t want to be walkin’ without some protection, you know what I mean?

“Fuck — these people I’m on the bus with. I can’t figure them out. It’s like the fuckin’ Peace Corps with piano wire. They all know each other. Like, from the start. I get onto the bus platform and join the line, and there’s five of ’em, hugging and crying like they were long-lost family. Me, I just get in line. Mind my own business. After a couple minutes, this old lady steps in line. Looks me up and down. So I look back at her, ask her ‘What the fuck you lookin’ at?’ Not like that — she’s an old lady, and I’m not disrespectful. More like: ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’

“‘Sergei?’ she says to me. And I’m all, ‘What the fuck?’ And she’s all, ‘Sergei, it is you!’ And then before you know it Grandma is givin’ me a big hug right around the middle. ‘I haven’t seen you since you were this high. Don’t you remember? We were together a year in Berlin! You were just a little boy and I was a young girl.’

“I gotta be honest with you, Mr. B., I almost blew it right there. I mean, what am I supposed to think? Some old whore who sleeps with little boys in Berlin gets me mixed up with some other guy she diddled while he was in short pants? Fuckin’ pervert, I’m thinking. But before I say anything, I start thinking some more. That maybe I have a better chance lasting it out with these freaks if Grandma Walton here thinks I’m her little boy toy Sergei, than if they work out I’m Leo Montassini. I’m thinking, one of them already tried to waste me knowing who I was. Maybe being Sergei from Berlin isn’t such a bad idea. So I say, ‘I remember it like it was yesterday. Mrs… .’

“‘Kronstein,’ she says. ‘That’s what I call myself these days. It used to be Olga. That’s how you remember me. But when we went into deep cover, I became Mrs. Kronstein. I know that I’m Olga Vilanova. But Kronstein’s the name I’m most comfortable with.’

“ What the fuck? is what I’m thinking. What’s this shit about deep cover? And she’s looking all… intense. Common sense says I should just get the fuck out of there. But curiosity killed the cat, right? I just let her talk.

“Well it turns out that Mrs. Kronstein used to work in publishing. Oh fuck, Mr. B., she knows everybody to hear her tell it. Stephen Fucking King babysits for her when she and the husband go out for brunch. John Irving’s her tennis partner. She got to know everybody. She says she was part of some ‘cultural operation.’ She says she and some others were there to feed the decadence of the West. All the time she’s telling me this, she’s giggling.