The Woman From Prague

by Rob Hart

  “Hey!”

  “Shut up and get your things,” she says. “We have to go.”

  Sam’s shoulders are bunched up and her hands are shoved deep into the pockets of her coat. I have to jog to keep up. We pass small groups of people standing outside bars, but otherwise it’s late and quiet, and I wonder if she’s overreacting.

  At the same time, I’m out of my depth, so I figure it best to follow.

  After a few blocks, she turns to me, makes sure there’s no one within earshot, and asks, “When you said that asshole was following you—he followed you from the coffee shop across the street from my building, right? So I’ve been compromised, too?”

  “Presumably.”

  “Well, shit. We need to get someplace safe.”

  “Wait, you noticed me and not him?”

  “He’s better than you, apparently.”

  I take the metal disc out of my pocket and hold it up. “I have access to a ton of apartments.”

  “Right, because you’re a janitor.”

  “I’m not a janitor.”

  “The people following us know where you work. They’re probably going to assume you’re hiding out in one of those apartments. They might just go door to door until they find us.”

  “What about my friend Kaz? He has no ties to me.”

  Sam stares off into the distance, like she’s trying to see through some fog. “That could work. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than sleeping outside or trying to find a hotel. Too many eyes at hotels. Okay, we’ll find a payphone. You can call up your friend.”

  “I don’t have his number.”

  “What do you mean you don’t have his number? What kind of friend is he?”

  “His number was programmed into my phone, which you destroyed,” I tell her. “Give me your phone and let me e-mail him.”

  “No go,” she says. “Too risky. You don’t know where he lives?”

  “I’ve never been to his place. But if Pats is still open, he’s probably there.”

  “Okay, that’s the next stop then…”

  Sam stops talking. She’s looking over my shoulder, at three people who are speed-walking down the block toward us.

  The one leading the pack is Top Knot.

  “C’mon,” she says. “Now.”

  She leads me around the corner and takes off at a full sprint. I follow, my head throbbing and my stomach full of too much Indian food. We duck down an alley and approach a group of people smoking outside a black metal door dug into a corner, behind a dumpster.

  Sam pulls the door open and we step into a small, dark room. The walls are painted black. There’s a man, also in black, standing behind a podium, which is painted black. He’s tall, built like a grizzly bear, his face so full of piercings he’s probably generating a magnetic field.

  He barely looks at us and mumbles something and Sam takes out a stack of bills and puts them on the podium. He holds up a stamp and taps it against the back of our hands, leaving a little black star behind.

  Sam steps around him, to a door in the wall I didn’t realize was there. When she opens it, a wave of techno music crashes into us. She looks at me and says, “Try to keep up, sweet pea.”

  We dive into a room that’s packed with people, the air heavy with humidity and heat generated by moving bodies. I can’t make out the boundaries of the room. It reeks of sweat and pot and stale beer. Sam pushes through the sea of glistening, gyrating bodies. The music is so loud it’s making my teeth vibrate.

  One room ends at a doorway and another one begins past it. This place is like a beehive. Lots of small rooms connected by portals and small staircases. There are giant holes in the walls, broken furniture like the place was decorated by dumpster divers. I’ve heard of these. Ruin bars. They’re more common in Budapest. They’re called that because they’re set up in industrial spaces on the cheap. Everything is scavenged. A lot of times they’re not even operating with a real license, they coast until the authorities bust them up.

  It reminds me a lot of Apocalypse Lounge, the bar back home that meant the world to me and closed down as I was leaving New York. It was the same ethos—who gives a fuck about refinery and décor and clean bathrooms when there are drinks to be had?

  Sam knows where she’s headed so I keep an eye out for her. Sometimes I lose her so I push forward a little harder until I manage to find her again. We seem to be moving away from the music.

  We end up in a bar area where the crowd is thinner. It’s cooler here but the air still feels wet. People are hoisting drinks in red plastic party cups. Sam turns, waves at me, and points to a door. On the other side is a flimsy metal staircase, and we go down a level, our feet echoing in the narrow corridor.

  The next doorway leads to a similar setup of catacombs, but the vibe down here is much quieter. There are fewer people. The walls are made of stone and it’s possible to talk over the music. Little bar areas are carved into alcoves, assembled from the dregs of failed liquor stores.

  I follow Sam through a series of rooms until we reach one that’s empty. Broken chairs and trash bags in the corner, a rough linoleum floor, and a door at the other end. A single bare bulb lights the room in a harsh white. She runs to the door and throws her shoulder into it but it doesn’t budge. I come up alongside her. She punches it and kicks it and yells, “Motherfuck.”

  “What?”

  “This used to open into the basement of the building next door. They must have sealed it.”

  “Okay, but do you really think those assholes followed us all the way down here?”

  As if on cue, there’s a scrape from the front of the room.

  We both turn and find Top Knot, flanked by two guys. Both of them Middle Eastern, wearing jeans and leather jackets. And young. They’re too excited to be here, too happy they’re about to be in a fight. They don’t seem like the kind of people who’ve yet learned the unpredictability of violence. So none of them strike me as actual, legitimate threats.

  But still, it’s three against two, I’m all fucked up, and Sam weighs about as much as my left thigh.

  Top Knot says something in a language I don’t recognize. I step in front of Sam and put my arm across her, hoping I can be lucky for a second time in two days. If I move quickly, aim for takedown shots like throats and knees, we might make it through this.

  “Stay behind me,” I tell Sam.

  Sam bats my arm away and strides past me as she drops her bag and jacket on the floor.

  “That’s the first funny thing you’ve said,” she says. “Stay put.”

  “Wait…”

  But she’s not listening. She walks across the room toward the three of them and I’m about to charge forward to back her up when she breaks into a run.

  She reaches down into a corner, comes up with a discarded beer bottle, and wings it at the face of the guy furthest from her. It explodes and he screams. The other two guys look at the guy instead of Sam, which is a mistake, because she jumps, kicks off the wall, and lands a flying punch to the thug closest to her, focusing the entire weight of her body into the blow.

  He goes down like a sack of bricks. It’s so quick, so vicious, that Top Knot stands there in shock, his face slack.

  Also a mistake.

  Sam moves like a viper. Like this is a martial arts battle that’s been blocked and choreographed and rehearsed, but no one clued him in.

  She throws her foot behind Top Knot’s knee and he drops in a kneeling position. Her other knee comes up and she drives it into his face. His head snaps back. He hits the floor and I can hear it bounce from across the room.

  She turns to the guy she hit with the beer bottle, who is now coming at her, his face weeping blood. He wraps his arms around her, squeezing and lifting her off her feet at the same time. She throws her head forward and catches him on the nose, then slams her fist down like a hammer on his thigh. He lets go, stumbling back, holding his face, blood seeping between his fingers.

  Once she’s got her bearings, she t
hrows her foot into his nuts. She catches him true and square. It hurts to watch. He goes down and a quick jab to the throat puts him out of commission.

  By the time I make it there, the fight is over.

  The thug she hit with the flying wall punch is trying to get up, so I put my foot into the crook between his shoulder and neck and shove him to the ground. Top Knot is reaching into his pocket for something but Sam stomps down hard on his wrist. There’s a crunch and he screams.

  “Now it’s time to go,” she says, and she takes off back into the bowels of the club without even making sure that I’m behind her.

  Outside, Sam takes off at a brisk walk. A few blocks later, slightly out of breath, I ask her, “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “You tore those guys apart like it was nothing.”

  “A combination of krav maga and kenpo,” she says. “Plus growing up with two older brothers and a handsy uncle. Thanks for not getting in my way.”

  “I could have helped.”

  “I don’t need your help,” she says. “Now, how do we find this Kaz guy?”

  I point in the general direction of Pats. “This way.”

  We walk in silence for a couple of blocks. Finally, I ask, “So who do you think they were?”

  “No idea. Doesn’t matter now, though, does it?”

  “You’re not worried there might be some more people following us?”

  “Doubtful. But I’ve got my eye out.”

  “You haven’t looked behind us.”

  “I don’t have to,” she says. “There are reflective surfaces everywhere. Sound carries. The streetlights cast shadows. Following people and catching tails isn’t just about getting from point A to point B. It’s also about looking like you’re not trying to follow someone or catch a tail.”

  “Is that a little piece of spy wisdom?”

  “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

  A little more silence. Empty streets lit yellow by the streetlights. A homeless man comes toward us and before he can open his mouth to ask, Sam takes out a few bills and hands them over without breaking stride. We turn the corner and for a second I think we’re lost, but then I see a bookstore that looks familiar, so we keep on going.

  “So what kinds of cool spy toys do you have?” I ask. “Gadgets and stuff?”

  “You watch too many movies.”

  “Nothing? Not even a gun?”

  “You know what kind of shit I’d be in if I got bagged by the cops with a gun on me? This gig isn’t all shootouts and fights. It’s barely those things. I’ve never even fired a gun at anyone before.”

  “I’m no fan of guns. But it still seems a little surprising.”

  “Guns are only useful if you need one. I don’t generally need one.”

  Even if I didn’t witness her beat the shit out of three guys, each of them twice her size, the amount of confidence she builds into that statement makes me believe her.

  Pats is half full. There are a lot of people outside and at the surrounding bars so that makes me feel good. Just to be around people.

  Kaz is sitting at the bar. Another stroke of good fortune. I slide up alongside him.

  “My friend,” he says, patting me on the back. “You are still alive.” He notices Sam and nods toward her. “Your friend is very pretty.” He offers his hand. “I am Kazimir Lyovin.”

  She doesn’t smile, doesn’t reach for his hand.

  “She bites,” I tell him.

  Kaz nods and retracts his hand. He catches on pretty quickly that this isn’t a social call. “Understood. What do you need, my friend?”

  I don’t even know where to start with Kaz’s apartment.

  There’s nothing unique about the building. If anything, it looks pretty understated compared to a lot of other apartments around here. We take the elevator to the top floor. It’s like every elevator in this city. Too small, the three of us so close together we might be legally married in some cultures. The elevator is slow and shakes and I think there is a very real chance we are about to plummet to our deaths, but then the doors open.

  The three of us spill into a blank hallway, with one door at the far end. I’m not expecting much, having gotten used to the European style of apartments: small, somewhat modern, lots of Ikea furniture, not a ton of personality, but comfortable enough. Like living inside a catalogue you flip through at the doctor’s office.

  When Kaz opens the door and beckons us inside, the first thing that strikes me is the size. The living room is bigger than most of the entire apartments I work in. And it goes on from there. A bathroom and kitchen and long hallway with multiple doors beyond. It must take up the entire top floor of the building.

  The next thing I realize is that it’s the most Russian place I’ve ever been.

  I’m not overly familiar with the Russian design aesthetic, but having spent some time down in Brighton Beach and Coney Island, I know it can be a little ostentatious. I don’t know why. A rebuke against the blandness of communism, maybe. The Russians seem to like things such as neon and chandeliers and candelabras and cluttered architectural flourishes.

  This place is like a Russian fever dream.

  It has all of those things and more. For starters, everything is gilded on the borders. The corners of the furniture and the baseboards and the edges of the ceiling. The curtains are gilded. The black border around the massive flat screen TV bolted to the wall is fucking gilded.

  “My friends, welcome,” Kaz says, tossing his heavy green coat and hat onto a chair next to the door. He strips off his shirt, too until he’s in his jeans and boots, and immediately I realize why. It’s boiling in the apartment. I drop my jacket, too, as does Sam.

  “This place looks like if Liberace was getting married to a Russian czar,” Sam says.

  “Exactly what I was going for,” Kaz says, dropping onto the couch and picking up an open bottle of wine off the coffee table. He takes a swig and holds it toward us. Sam grabs the bottle and takes a deep pull without wiping off the rim. She holds it toward me but I wave her off.

  She shrugs. “More for me.”

  “This one, she likes to drink.”

  “Don’t call me ‘this one’, asshole.”

  “A girl doesn’t usually speak in such a manner.”

  “Don’t call me girl, either,” she says, putting the bottle of wine back on the glass surface of the coffee table with a sharp clink. “I’m a grown-ass woman.”

  “Indeed you are,” he says. “So, what’s the plan, you two? Have some drinks? Should I call some people over? We throw a little party?”

  “No,” I tell him. “Sleep. Sleep is the plan. Also, if you can scare me up a new jacket. Mine smells like the Vltava.”

  “Do you want me to make you an American Thanksgiving dinner, too?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t object to being tucked in.”

  He points over his shoulder. “There are empty bedrooms. Down the hall. Take one, take two, whatever. Please excuse the presence of marital aids. I sometimes use them for shooting.”

  “Shooting?” Sam asks.

  “Kaz is a porn producer,” I tell her.

  “Lovely,” she says.

  I can see on Kaz’s face: he’s about to make a joke. Something about how she’s welcome to audition. He glances at me and I shake my head. He gets it. That the joke would be immediately followed by the removal of his tongue.

  With the promise of a bed, exhaustion hits me hard. I excuse myself and head for the back, stopping into the bathroom so I can rub some toothpaste in my mouth.

  The edges of the mirror, of course, are gilded.

  Somewhere in this world is a person who manufactures gold leaf, and that person is very rich thanks to Kaz.

  The room I pick is small and sparse, next to the bathroom. There’s a small bed in the corner and a pile of books. Three walls are painted white, and the far wall is exposed brick. No marital aids. There’s a small window covered in tin foil, for which I am thankful,
because even when the sun comes up in a few hours, it’ll be dead dark in here. With any luck I’ll get a good few hours of sleep in.

  I click off the light, fall onto the bed.

  Stare at the ceiling.

  Of course, sleep doesn’t come easily.

  Instead I lie awake and wonder about what the fuck I am doing.

  When I wake up, my head is pounding and I don’t know if it’s the concussion, or my sleep schedule veering off course, or the caffeine deficit. Could be all of the above. I dig out my toothbrush so I can give my teeth a proper cleaning.

  A shower would be nice. I haven’t taken one since my little swim and I can smell myself. What I smell is not nice. Like a stagnant puddle on a warm day.

  I pull the bandage off the bridge of my nose, wincing as it protests and yanks at the cut underneath. There are still deep black bruises around my eyes, the cut on my nose mottled and black. When I strip off my shirt, I find half my torso is varying shades of purple and yellow and some colors I don’t even have names for. Every move I make sends dull aches through my body.

  Once the water is nice and hot, I climb in and let it beat down on me as I assess the situation.

  Which is: I am super fucked.

  And yet, there’s something oddly comfortable about it.

  Maybe I’m having a stroke. There’s a bubble somewhere in my brain about to burst and therefore I am incapable of rational thought. But the more I think about it, the more I think that this is my thing.

  I’ve made peace with the fact that I can’t lead a normal life. I’m a magnet for stuff like this, because when bad things happen, someone needs to step up, and I can take the punishment. It makes me feel alive. Like I’m doing something worth doing.

  Maybe I have an addictive personality. I kicked drugs, kicked smoking, kicked binge drinking. Something’s got to take the place of my vices.