David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

“And then, I can’t take it no more. ‘You’re a spy, is what you’re saying,’ I say. ‘For the Russians.’

“Well that just sets her off. A couple of other people, this bald guy in a leather jacket and his girl, say, ‘What’s so funny?’ And Mrs. Kronstein wipes her eyes.

“‘I’m a spy!’ she goes, still laughing. ‘Sergei here thinks I’m a spy!’

“They all get a really good laugh at that. Big fuckin’ joke as Sergei’s expense. Fine. I laugh too. I mean, if I’m going to find out what the fuck’s going on here, I can’t go doing the first guy who pissed me off. And I’m thinking, we found ourselves a whole new arm of the Russians here. Bunch of crazy ex-fuckin’-KGB agents, right? Smart enough to hide a fuckin’ eighteen floor hotel in Manhattan. Maybe I should have run then. Just gotten the fuck out of there. But I’ll tell you something, Mr. B. — you stick your head into that fuckin’ UFO on the 14th floor of the Emissary, catch a whiff of that weird — fuckin’ alien sea. Hear the voice. The voice…

“See if you can give up the scent after that.

“So the bus comes. It’s a Greyhound. Got Halifax written on the sign. Door opens up, driver steps down. Creepy fucking guy. Thin as a rail. Looks about a hundred. Name’s Orlovsky. Found that out later. Looks me in the eye, takes my ticket — and there I am. On the bus. I went to sit by Mrs. Kronstein, but she picked a seat by this other old bat. Doesn’t even meet my eye when I say hey. Fuck that, I take a seat at the back by the can. Everybody else sits further up near the front, so I got a few seats between me and the rest. Suits me fine. I got my piece. They should leave me in peace. Heh heh.

“So we get going. Takes a while to get out of the city — you know how it is. And before we’re out of the Lincoln Tunnel, the bald guy’s got a blaster with some tapes. Starts playing this Russian singer, some guy with a deep voice. He’s singing about some broad called Natascha. In Russian. And fuck if everybody doesn’t join in. Laughing and singing along like they grew up on this shit. Orlovsky the driver yells for them to shut up but they don’t hardly hear him. They’re singing too loud. And pretty good, too. All in tune. Like they been practising — which of course is impossible, right? Finally, we get to the toll gate. And the driver stops the bus and gets up. Turns around like fuckin’ Count Dracula, and fixes his eyes on the sleepers.

“‘Manka!’ he says. “‘Vasilissa! Baba Yaga!’ And they all stop singing.

“‘The song,’ he says, ‘that kind of thing, is one of the things that will put you all back to sleep. You cannot go to sleep again. We are paying a toll. We will be crossing the border in a few hours. Now is not the time to retreat to your Safe Place.’

“Whatever, I think. And then — that’s when I learn Orlovsky’s name. Because he fixes me with this look — and squints — and comes back, hand over hand over the seat backs like some fuckin’ spider. And stands over me.

“‘I am Pavel Orlovsky,’ he says. ‘Who are you, who does not sing?’

“‘Sergei,’ I tell him. ‘I’m Sergei.’

“‘Well, Sergei,’ he says, ‘you are a strong one, then.’

“He might have said something else, but traffic was moving and the cars behind us started honking. So Pavel Orlovsky the bus driver turned around and went back to take us through the toll. Tell you what, I kept to myself after that. Hardly slept through the night or rest of the day. Kept my fuckin’ hand on my gun.

“So here I am, outside Edmunston, New Brunswick. We’re gonna drive through the night and then some to Halifax. But I hear there’s a couple stops along the way. I’ll try and call you with more then. Maybe I’ll see if I can talk to Mrs. Kronstein more — find out about where we’re going. What’s with the ocean in the tank. The fucking ghosts in the hotel.

“Okay. That’s all for now. Gotta run. I’ll call.”

“What does he mean,” said Shadak, “about the ocean in the tank? That’s the second time he’s mentioned that.”

Bucci shrugged. “Tank’s filled up halfway with salt water. Maybe it reminded him. How should I know?”

“He doesn’t seem right in the head.”

“Tell me about it. Listen to this next one.”

“What the fuck is Pel-flex anyway? Feels like fuckin’ nylon, what it feels like. I bought a fuckin’ Pel-flex jacket, and my fuckin’ loser nephew turns the garden hose on me, and I’m fuckin’ soaked to the skin, everybody’s laughing like I’m some kind of joke. Lemme tell you somethin’. Pel-flex is the fuckin’ joke. Why don’t you call it Kleenex? Extra-fuckin’ absorbent? In fact, that’s what I’m gonna call it. I wipe my ass with your Pel-flex. Send this to the top. Top . I’m fuckin’ pissed.

“Mr. B? Fuck, Mr. B., I can’t talk long. They’re scratchin’ around my ears, trying to get into my fuckin’ brain. Fuck. Fuck. I’m a little teapot short and stout. This is my handle and this is my —

“Okay. I think it’s okay now. We are clear. Mr. B.? All right. It’s like nine o’clock now. I’m calling you from outside a place called Rimouski, at a truck stop called — Huskie. Like the dog. Fuckin’ Canadians. They like their fuckin’ dogsleds and cheesy french fries and come to think of it half of them speak French.

“Half the ones you can find that is. This place is barren. Nothing but crappy little trees and big wide rocks. The highway’s the shits. I can’t fuckin’ believe that this is the road to Halifax.

“Anyway that’s where I am. I don’t know how long it’s going to take — but I got to tell you, this is feeling like forever. I’m half tempted to just jump here, make my way back however. Because weird shit’s been happening. You wouldn’t believe it.

“People are crying. They’re crying and talking in weird languages and sometimes fallin’ over like they’re getting seizures. And they stare at me, Mr. B. They’re staring at me like they know . So what the fuck? I’m cryin’ too.

“Okay. Look. I gotta go. They’re in my ears, man. Fuck. I’ll call again when we get to Halifax. Fuck.”

“He never got to Halifax,” explained Bucci. “We started checking maps after this call. Turns out there was a reason half the people spoke French. The stupid fuck went up into Quebec. Didn’t even fuckin’ know it. Halifax is the other way. Rimouski’s a little town on the Gaspé Peninsula.”

“The Gaspé,” said Shadak. “Is that significant?”

“ In -significant,” said Bucci. “Like my boy said. Nothing but shitty little trees and rocks. Not too many people. The whole thing runs up the south side of the St. Lawrence River and then out into the Atlantic.”

“So why—” Shadak paused as the room was illuminated by a nearby flash of lightning, and a deafening thunderclap. “Why do you suppose they were going there?”

“You’d think my boy Leo would be able to figure that out, wouldn’t you? Instead of giving me shit like this.”

Bucci pressed “play.”

“One of your people on the floor of your stupid fuckin’ store was rude to my mother, all right? She comes in to buy one of your fleece ponchos because you know she ain’t getting any younger and she likes the way fleece feels on a cold day — and your little fuckin’ miss mountain-biker makes her feel like a fuckin’ Grandmother, which she is not, for complainin’ about the fact that the fleece poncho is goin’ for a hundred and eighty nine dollars, which it should not. Mom cried an’ cried after what that fuckin’ bitch said to her, and lemme tell you, if you guys don’t take care of it then I may just have to. I want you to send this to the top. The top .