The Woman From Prague

by Rob Hart

  She proffers a pack and I pull one out. A slim, some brand I’ve never heard of. She puts the pack away and hands me a lighter.

  “Thanks,” I tell her.

  As I light up, Lenka uses the controls on her side to lower the window. I take a drag, and immediately want to puke.

  God, this is unpleasant.

  I changed my mind. I don’t want to smoke any more of this, but I also don’t want to be rude, so I hold the cigarette up toward the window, where the wisps of blue smoke are ripped out into the night air.

  “So who beat you up the other night?” Lenka asks.

  “If I tried to explain, it wouldn’t make any sense,” I tell her.

  “And yet here you are, running toward the danger instead of hiding from it. That is very noble. Maybe not the smartest thing, but nobility is not always the smartest thing.”

  I can’t help but smile at that. It makes me think about my dad.

  Our paths in life are very different. He was a firefighter. Took the more traditional hero route. Mine has been a little less typical, a little more twisty, and at times it’s branched in some pretty bad directions. But the thought that I might be getting closer to the example he set makes me feel pretty good.

  “Thank you for saying that,” I tell her.

  “Welcome,” she says, a little confused about why it matters. “How does the turn up here look?”

  I toss the cigarette out the window, check on the doll, and it’s only half full. Check the inflator and it’s slowing down a little. “Need a few more minutes.”

  By the time Lenka takes the turn, the inflator has switched off. I flick the button on the side and nothing happens. Those practice runs must have drained the battery more than we thought. The doll hasn’t taken on nearly enough air to stand on it’s own.

  “Ah, fuck,” I say.

  “What?”

  “The battery is dead.”

  I pull the nozzle off and lean down to blow it up manually. The angle is all wrong and I’m heaving lungfulls of air into the doll until I’m dizzy, but it doesn’t inflate.

  “You know,” Lenka says. “Upon thinking this through, we should have had a third person in the back seat hiding out and they could have jumped in front while you jumped out.”

  “Great,” I tell her. “You should have been in charge of this plan.”

  We drive a little more until we have to stop at a red light on an empty street. The trailing car pulls up right behind us.

  “After the light changes, I can gun the engine,” she says, excitement creeping into her voice. “We can lose him. I know these streets.”

  While the idea of a car chase piloted by a porn star through Prague sounds like a fun way to spend an evening, it also sounds like a good way to end up dead.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” I tell her. “Pop the trunk.”

  I open the door, climb out. The car that was following us is practically touching Lenka’s bumper. A little further down the block is an SUV that pulls to the curb. Hopefully Kaz. Lenka’s trunk clicks.

  The driver of the car behind us gets out. He’s a tall, thin guy with his long black hair tied back in a ponytail. I open the trunk all the way and he comes at me. “You were not supposed to leave,” he says. “Now I must report to Roman.”

  As he pulls his cell phone from his pocket, I lean down and grab a chunk of ice and snow and wing it at him. It hits him square in the face. He staggers and I hop over the hood of his car and kick him in the balls. As he doubles over, I drag him toward Lenka’s car and push him into the trunk. Pat him down. No weapons. I take his cell phone off him and slam the lid closed. He immediately starts banging against it.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Lenka asks, now standing beside me.

  “It’s a solution,” I tell her. “Drive around for a little while. Then pop the trunk and gun it after he gets out. It’ll save me some time.”

  “You are crazy.”

  “Sorry for the trouble. And thanks for the help.”

  She mutters something in Czech and returns to the driver seat. I check the guy’s phone and find a half-composed text to Roman, informing him that I left and he’s following me, which he didn’t send. Good.

  I throw the phone and pull the driver’s car to the curb, turn the engine off, toss the keys into the car, lock the doors. Once that’s done, the SUV pulls up. Kaz sticks his head out the back window.

  “Good job, sticking to the plan,” he says.

  “Inflator died,” I tell him as I climb into the back. There’s a mountain of a man in the front seat who doesn’t acknowledge me.

  “Onward,” Kaz says, patting the seat in front of him.

  The driver drops us off on the main drag in Wenceslas Square, at the bottom of a slight hill. I don’t recognize the area. Moments after we get out of the car, we’re swarmed by a large group of African men speaking in different languages, grabbing our jackets, pulling at us, promising to take us to cheap girls.

  The red light district.

  I’ve been meaning to check this area out. Purely for curiosity’s sake.

  “Fuck off,” Kaz says with a great deal of force, and most of them move off, albeit pretty slowly. Some of them still seem to be insistent, but Kaz walks with the confidence of a local, which is enough to break free of the scrum.

  “What’s with the welcoming party?” I ask.

  “They work for the clubs,” he says. “Convince scared tourists to follow them. They get a cut for every person they bring in.”

  As we get further up the hill, the clubs pop up. Lots of neon signs and women in heavy coats but not much on underneath, lingering in doorways. They call to us in a mix of languages. A woman leans out of a window and yells, “One hour for only forty euro.”

  “No, thank you,” Kaz yells back. “Not tonight.”

  “That’s not terribly expensive,” I tell him.

  “You get what you pay for. Forty euro gets you the clap.”

  “Is prostitution legal here?”

  “Yes and no. Technically, organized prostitution, like brothels, are illegal. But enforcement is lax. It drives tourism. The trade is worth something like six billion crown a year. The government knows this. They intervene when they choose. Look the other way most of the time. Are you interested in a pit stop?”

  “I’ve never paid for sex.”

  “It is two consenting adults agreeing to a contract. I believe it to be far more truthful than the dance most people submit themselves to.”

  “Well, still. Tonight is not the night for me to explore my moral boundaries on this.”

  “Maybe next time, my friend.”

  We stop in front of a black metal door. Compared to all the other clubs with the screaming, buzzing signs, this doesn’t look like much at all. Kaz enters and holds the door for me. Inside is a turnstile, like you’d see outside a subway platform. Kaz pays some money to the scary man standing behind it. We step into a bar area, which is long and winding and reaches a few hundred feet toward the rear of the place. Kaz turns to me and says, “I will be back. Do not buy a drink for anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do not. I will explain later.”

  I slide up to the bar and am immediately beset by a series of half-naked women in tiny, glittering outfits. They seem to be jockeying for position, until a tall black woman with almost impossible measurements plants herself in front of me with a smile wide enough to fall into. She puts her hand in the crook of my elbow and leads me to a stool at the bar, and sits on the stool next to mine.

  “What is your name?” she asks, her voice sweet and drippy like syrup.

  “Ash.”

  “Ash?”

  “Short for Ashley. I’m not making that up. What’s yours?”

  “Serenity.”

  I think she’s probably making that up. “And where are you from, Serenity?”

  She gives me a little smile. Like this is not the kind of thing people tend to ask her in this place. “Swaziland.” />
  “I have never been to Swaziland. Do you miss it?”

  “No, I do not.”

  She doesn’t seem interested in expanding on her answer. The bartender comes over and she asks if I’ll buy her a drink and I tell her no. The bartender pushes a laminated menu across the bar like I didn’t tell him no, and Serenity points to what she wants.

  “I’m not buying you a drink,” I tell her.

  “But I’m thirsty,” she says, batting her long eyelashes at me.

  “Sorry,” I tell her, and shrug.

  “So if you’re not interested in a drink, can I tell you what else is on the menu?” she asks, trying to temper her annoyance.

  “Sure.”

  “A handjob or blowjob is fifteen hundred Czech. Sex is twenty five hundred Czech. We can bring in another girl. That’s an extra two thousand Czech…”

  “Wait, wait… a handy and a blowie cost the same?”

  She squints. “Yes.”

  “Do you set the prices, or does the club? Like, does each girl get a custom menu? How does that all work?”

  She’s a little taken aback by this line of questioning, but lucky for her—or me, probably—Kaz appears and says, “He’s ready for you.”

  I nod to Serenity and follow Kaz to the rear of the club.

  “So why wasn’t I supposed to buy her a drink?” I ask.

  “It is a game they play on tourists,” he says. “Especially Americans. She will order a very expensive glass of champagne and the bouncer will force you to take the money from the ATM if you can’t cover it.”

  “Got it. Thanks for the save.”

  We reach a staircase, guarded by a giant Asian man who reminds me a little of OddJob from Goldfinger. Same hat and everything, to the point where I wonder if it’s an affectation. We climb two flights and find ourselves at a door. Kaz knocks and it opens.

  We step into an office straight out of a ‘70s movie. Lots of shag and bright primary colors, with a decidedly retro feel. Sitting behind a mammoth mahogany desk is a thin black man in a plaid suit. Right off, I can tell he’s a player and it’s best to tread lightly. It’s that earned confidence. Most people look at me—broad shoulders, bad attitude—and they see me as a threat. The way he looks at me is like he’s bored.

  There are other men here, too. Bodyguards, I presume. They’re perched on chairs and couches, watching Kaz and me warily.

  “This is him,” Kaz says to the man behind the desk.

  The man stares at me for a few moments. I want to compliment him on the suit. It’s a nice suit. He looks like a zany college professor who would slit your throat over a late assignment. Just when I think I ought to say something, he speaks.

  “My name is Fenomenal, with an F,” he says in a British accent.

  “Well, Fenomenal with an F, what have you got for me?”

  His face turns down. “No need to be sarky, is there?”

  I look at Kaz. His eyes are wide and fearful, in a way that makes me think I’m fucking up.

  “Sorry,” I tell him. “Didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  He nods toward us. “Arms up, bruv.”

  I put my hands in the air. One of the bodyguards pats me down. They don’t do the same to Kaz. I guess he’s been searched already.

  “Shit, I don’t have any cash,” I tell them.

  “We take credit,” Fenomenal says. “It’ll show up on your statement as Creative Enterprises. Very discreet.” He turns to one of the guards. “Go get the card reader.”

  Nice to see weapons dealers are adapting to new technology.

  Fenomenal gets up and beckons us to follow. There’s a door at the back of the office. He opens it to reveal a small, dark room. He flicks on a light and we’re surrounded by guns hanging from racks on the wall, from little handguns to the kind of stuff I would expect to see a space marine carrying in a video game.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said you knew people,” I tell Kaz.

  “You meet some interesting people in my line of work,” he says.

  Fenomenal gravitates toward the handguns. He takes a small boxy model off the wall and holds it my way. “A personal favorite. Small, so it’s easy to conceal. Polymer so it’s light. Low-recoil, and it has a rail for a laser sight, which I can hook you up on, too. Doesn’t get more tried and true than this.”

  He hands it to me. I turn it over, feel the weight of it. “To Keep and Bear Arms” is stamped on the barrel, which strikes me as a little obnoxious.

  It doesn’t feel good in my hand.

  People feel a lot of different ways about guns. I understand that for a lot of folks it’s cultural. It’s about family and history and hunting and protection and survival. But the way I know guns is how they rip families apart. How if someone takes one out, they want to kill you or scare you into doing something.

  I’ve had to think a lot lately about the kind of man I’m going to be. And the path is still pretty long, but there’s one thing I know: I don’t do guns.

  It’s important to have principles.

  Even if those principles might get you killed.

  I hand it back to Fenomenal. “I’d rather not.”

  “My friend,” Kaz says. “I thought you were American.”

  “I am.”

  “And you don’t like guns?”

  “Funny.” I turn to Fenomenal. “What do you have in the realm of blunt force trauma?”

  He steps toward a series of drawers, opening one of them. There’s a long row of knives nestled in felt. I pick one up and put it on the counter. I’m not looking to stab anybody, but I imagine it’ll be useful to have.

  Next to that sits a pair of what looks like brass knuckles, but they’re not made of brass. They’re hard plastic, and thicker across the knuckles, with a shiny strip of exposed metal. I run my finger along one of them. “What’s this?”

  “New item,” Fenomenal says, smiling. “A cross between brass knuckles and a stun gun. It holds enough charge for a couple of strikes. Activated by pressing the button on the side.”

  “Holy shit.”

  I take it out and put it on the counter, along with the knife.

  “Zip ties?” I ask.

  Fenomenal turns to a shelf and comes back with a pile.

  “I know I’m being greedy, but how about night vision?” I ask. “Be nice to try to cut the power. If I can even figure out how to do that.”

  Fenomenal goes into a different drawer and comes out with a pair of chunky ski goggles. “State of the art. Lighter and slimmer than any pair on the market. These are not cheap, bruv. I hope you can cover this.”

  “We’ll get to that. Mind if I root around a little bit?”

  He holds up his hand, allowing me to proceed. I pull open the odd drawer here and there. The deeper I dig, the weirder it gets.

  I come across a drawer with swords set in felt. Two samurai swords and a scimitar. They look fun but I’d probably hurt myself more than anyone else. One drawer has an assortment of spiked rings and machetes, which is way too grisly for me. Below that, I find pens. Lots of pens. Pick one up and it feels stamped out of the hull of a warship. In a close fight you could ball your fist up around this and do some real damage. But it feels a little slight for the job I’ve got to do.

  In another drawer, there’s just a crossbow. Not a modern one either. This looks like it was lifted from a medieval battlefield. Not even sure I would know how to work it.

  Another drawer has nightsticks and asps, which seem a little more my speed. They’re piled in there so I root through, take out an asp. Click the button on the side and it shoots out to full length, but I don’t like the weight of it. Feels light. I want something with heft. Fold it up, put it back, keep looking.

  Nun-chucks. No way. Again, I’ll do more damage to myself.

  A leather sap. Nope. This isn’t a Prohibition-era raid.

  The guy with the card reader comes back in and I fish out my credit card, hand it over, go back to looking. Fenomenal quotes me a price tha
t seems like a lot. Kaz interjects. “Can you do a little better than that? He’s a friend.”

  Fenomenal gives him a long, hard look, but finally nods and quotes a price slightly lower. I nod at him and feel something familiar at the back of the drawer, pull it out.

  And I am filled with wonder and light and happiness.

  “What is that?” Kaz asks.

  “Providence,” I tell him, smiling like a goofball. I turn to Fenomenal. “How much for this?”

  “It’s a novelty. Consider it a fairing.” He looks up at me and sees the confusion on my face. “A gift. Take it along with the rest.”

  I pick it up. Give it a swing.

  And I smile.

  Now it feels like I have a chance.

  The building is a monolith against the night sky. There’s a fallow construction site behind it, the machinery covered in snow. Kaz and I duck behind a bulldozer. There’s no discernable light coming from any window on the row. No sound but the wind.

  Even given Kaz’s betrayal, I’m suddenly worried for him.

  “You’re sure about this?” I ask him.

  “My friend, I told you,” he says, clutching the chrome six-shooter he pulled out of his car’s glove box. “I will make this right.”

  “You could end up getting killed,” I tell him. “You might be surprised to hear this, but I’d really rather that not happen.”

  “What do you want me to do, leave you here all by yourself? Anyway, it might put me in good with Sam. She is very pretty. The worst thing she can do is say no.”

  I laugh at that. “I don’t think that’s the worst thing she can do, but sure, why not.”

  “After I cut the power, I will come up and help,” he says.

  “You will not,” I tell him. “You’ll stay down there and out of sight.”

  “How come you get to have all the fun?”

  “This isn’t fun. There is a very real chance I might get shot. You don’t want any part of that.”

  “My friend…”

  “It’s going to be hard enough to get past everyone in there. I don’t need to have to worry about protecting you, too. Kill the power, stay out of sight, don’t move until I get you. Okay?”