Peter Pišťanek - The End of Freddy

In the evening, accompanied by two guards, he drives into town. He enters the Hotel Ambassador, walks through the lobby, and takes a look at the bar. Then he turns on the computer in his office and checks his various businesses’ daily takings. One bodyguard stands outside in the hallway; the other one stands near the door, watching the antechamber on the screen. About midnight, people from Rácz’s security company, Sekuritatia , drag in Sabadoš, the owner of a casino in the centre. He has not been paying into the kitty for his security. Rácz’s people have kept an eye on him for a while and have now decided to put the squeeze on him.

Rácz asks a guard to pull off Sabadoš’s belt. He beats the guilty man with the belt for a long time. When his right hand begins to hurt, he uses his left. When his left begins to hurt, too, he hands the belt to another guard to carry on. Sabadoš’s back and buttocks are minced like a hamburger, he’s crying like a woman.

As the guard beats him, Rácz watches him without anger. “Šolík’s a kind man,” he tells the victim. “If you’ve got kids, he’ll bring them up.”

Rácz really ought to have him shot, he says to the whimpering man. He returns the bloodied belt to the guard. Then he resumes his monologue. In the old days, a non-payer would be fished out of the Danube somewhere round Gabčíkovo. But it’s Sunday and Rácz is as soft as bread. He couldn’t hurt a fly today. He can’t punish a man who’s stolen from him. Who’s stolen from everyone. Yet it would be so simple.

Rácz borrows a pistol from his guard and puts it against the temple of the guilty man.

“Bang and good night!” he says.

He stares into Sabadoš’s cowardly piggy eyes. Rácz believes that there must be a core of good in every person. So, he’s giving Sabadoš a final chance. But he’ll have to pay Rácz back all the security fees, plus thirty per cent interest. Just as it says in the contract. And from now on, he’ll have to keep to his payment schedule. After all, the money isn’t wasted. They finance their collective security with it. If no one paid, Rácz couldn’t pay, arm, and train his security people. Including Sabadoš’s security. Anarchy would rule. The Albanians and gypsies would return. The Ukrainians would come, the Chechens, too, and God knows what other scum as well. Is that what Sabadoš wants?

The casino manager is a corpulent man. He has trouble getting off the bench he was tied to. He thought he was a goner. He cries with gratitude and a feeling of something radiant, all-embracing and powerful. The searing pain on his back turns to pure delight at belonging to a being who is radiant, powerful and stern, but forgiving and just. He’s never loved Rácz as much as he does now. He mumbles something about temporary problems he’s had, saying that he was a real idiot to throw out Rácz’s accountant twice running. He’ll belatedly apologize to him for that and pay for his torn jacket and broken spectacles. Also, it would be a great honour for Sabadoš if the accountant accepted a small gift from him.

Rácz is radiant.

“Now you’re talking, Sabadoš,” he says.

Sabadoš wants to kiss Rácz’s hands, but Rácz is preoccupied with cutting and lighting his cigar.

Someone from the security team hands Sabadoš an open flick-knife and a towel. He guesses what he will have to do. He turns as pale as chalk, but bravely places his hand on the marble top of the conference table. He lifts the knife.

“No!” says Rácz unbendingly. “Not the little finger. Your thumb.”

With the help of Rácz’s guards, who swoop on the hand with the knife, Sabadoš gets to work. A loud crack of the bone soon announces that the good deed’s been done. The casino owner is as pale as a ghost. He hands Rácz the severed joint of his left thumb. He’d like to apologize again. He needed the money, because the Junjan mafia was putting the squeeze on him. So he used the money he’d put aside for Sekuritatia .

Rácz goes red.

“WHAT?” he shouts.

Rácz’s people are being hassled by a mafia? Did he hear right? In this city there can only be one mafia and that is the mafia of justice, order, prosperity and a rightful share of the profit: Rácz’s mafia.

Sabadoš again breaks down in tears. A wave of joy is followed by a wave of despair, and the waves keep coming. Just like real life.

“These are some kind of new people,” he hastily explains. “They’re slant-eyed, with big lips like this, strange ones, completely foreign.”

Rácz’s steely gaze shifts to his security men. He points to Sabadoš, as if the latter spoke from his heart.

So, some immigrants with big lips like that bother people who pay a considerable sum to Rácz for protection, and Rácz’s security knows nothing and does nothing? Is that how they work? Where are their eyes?

Rácz looks at the crestfallen Sabadoš.

“And you?” he bawls at him. “Why don’t you say anything? Are you Rácz’s man or not? How come you let rank outsiders fleece you? What is Rácz here for? Why do you pay him? If you’re loyal to Rácz, Rácz will be a thousand times more loyal to you. All you had to do was say the word and Rácz would act. They’ve threatened Rácz, after all. They’ve spat in his face. They’ve shown him that he can’t protect people, Rácz’s people, who put themselves under his protection.”

Rácz pauses for breath. He faces Sabadoš and raises his hands in a flamboyant gesture. Rácz has broken his contract with Sabadoš. He’s been disloyal. The knife! Rácz wants that knife. Rácz grabs the knife, puts his fleshy and manicured hand on the table and his eyes search for a suitable place to cut.

“No!” Sabadoš shouts, pleading with him. “No! No!”

It’s all Sabadoš’s fault! He’s guilty of lack of faith. He thought he was paying just for nothing and that if things got tough, no one would come to his aid. Now he can see that it’s quite different. Mr. Rácz mustn’t do that.

Rácz presses the blade on his index finger, right on the knuckle.

“Oh, my God, don’t!” shouts Sabadoš and throws himself at Rácz’s self-punishing hand. He pushes it away in the last moment. The knife falls with a clang. Rácz presses his bloodied hand to his chest. One of the guards runs in with a first-aid kit. With a lordly gesture of raised eyebrows, Rácz allows them to treat him.

“Loyalty is not a one-way street,” he declares. “Rácz can take the consequences of his mistakes. Look, the knife’s cut all the way to the bone. They can all take a look, what the fuck!” Rácz curses in Hungarian. This scar is to remind him and his employees of their duty to people who put themselves under their protection. From now on, Rácz is turning nasty. He can see things for what they are now. The civilian security service, Sekuritatia, is not worth a shit. They’ve all got too lax. They’ve got used to everyone being afraid of them. Where, for example, is Mozoň, the manager? He’s at home, sitting on his arse, downing Armenian cognac. He used to stay here until midnight. Someone can call him and get him here right away. Things are going to be very different from now on. It’ll be a tight ship. Crisis management. Rácz has been too soft; that was a mistake. Something will have to be done now about this new mafia. Rácz wants to see someone from this mafia with his own eyes. They can bring him a couple of these people for a look-see. Alive. Rácz will sit and wait here for one hour. If two of those — what do you call them? — Junjan mafia men aren’t brought in within the hour, Rácz will start a big purge of his people. And now, everyone out! And two people can take Sabadoš and his thumb to casualty! Today they can sew pricks back on, so a thumb’s easy.