Redrick stood over her with the briefcase in his hands behind his back. Yes, Buzzard sure managed to wish himself up some marvelous children out there in the Zone. She was all silk and satin, firm and full, flawless, without a single unnecessary wrinkle—a hundred-twenty pounds of sugar-candy flesh, and emerald eyes that had an inner glow, a large wet mouth and even white teeth, and raven hair, shining in the sun and carelessly tossed over one shoulder. The sun was caressing her, pouring from her shoulders to her belly and hips, leaving deep shadows between her almost naked breasts. He stood above her and looked her over openly, and she looked up at him, laughing understandingly, and then raised the glass to her lips and took several sips.
“You want?” she asked, licking her lips. She waited just long enough for him to get the double entendre and then handed him the glass.
He turned and looked until he found a chaise longue in the shade. He sat down and stretched his legs.
“Burbridge is in the hospital,” he said. “They’re going to amputate his legs.”
Still smiling, she looked at him with one eye. The other was covered by the heavy hair that fell over her shoulder. But her smile had frozen—a sugary grin on a tan face. Then she swirled the glass, listening to the tinkle of the ice cubes.
“Both legs?”
“Both. Maybe below the knees, maybe above.”
She put down the glass and pushed back her hair. She was no longer smiling.
“Too bad,” she said. “And that means you…”
Dina Burbridge was the one person he could have told how it happened in all the details. He could have even told her how they drove back, his brass knuckles ready, and how Burbridge had begged—not for himself even, but for the children, for her and for Archie, and promised him the Golden Ball. But he didn’t tell her. He pulled out a pack of money from his breast pocket and tossed it onto the red mat right at her long naked legs. The notes fanned out in a rainbow. Dina absentmindedly picked up several and examined them, as though she had never seen one before but wasn’t that interested.
“This is the last earnings, then,” she said.
Redrick leaned over from the chaise longue and pulled the bottle from the ice bucket. He looked at the label. Water was dripping along the dark glass and Redrick held the bottle away from himself, so as not to drip on his pants. He did not like expensive whiskey, but he could force himself to have a slug at a time like this. He was just about to put the bottle to his mouth when he was stopped by indistinct sounds of protestation behind him. He looked around and saw that Hamster was painfully dragging his feet across the lawn, holding a glass of clear liquid in both hands. The exertion was making the sweat pour off his dark wooly head, and his bloodshot eyes had practically popped out of their sockets. When he saw that Redrick was looking at him he extended the glass in despair and sort of mooed and howled, opening his toothless mouth ineffectually.
“I’ll wait, I’ll wait,” Redrick said and shoved the bottle back in the bucket.
Hamster finally limped over, gave Redrick the glass, and patted his shoulder shyly with his arthritic hand.
“Thanks, Dixon,” Redrick said seriously. “That’s just what I need right now. As usual, you’re right on top of things.”
And while Hamster shook his head in embarrassment and rapture and convulsively slapped himself on the hip with his good arm, Redrick raised the glass, nodded to him, and gulped down half. Then he looked at Dina.
“You want?” he asked meaning the glass.
She did not reply. She was folding a bill in half and in half once again, and then again.
“Cut it out,” he said. “You won’t be lost. Your old man…”
She interrupted him.
“And so you dragged him out,” she said. She wasn’t asking, she was stating a fact. “You carried him, you jerk, through the whole Zone, you redheaded cretin, you dragged that bastard on your backbone, you ass. You blew an opportunity like that.”
He was watching her, his glass forgotten. She got up and stood in front of him, walking over the scattered money, and stopped, her clenched fists jammed into her smooth hip, blocking out the entire world for him with her marvelous body smelling of perfume and sweet sweat.
“He’s got all of you idiots wrapped around his finger. He’ll walk all over your bones. Just wait and see, he’ll walk on your thick skulls on crutches. He’ll show you the meaning of brotherly love and mercy!” She was screaming. “I’ll bet he promised you the Golden Ball, right? The map, the traps, right? Jerk! I can see by your dumb face that he did! Just wait, he’ll give you a map. Lord have mercy on the soul of the redheaded fool Redrick Schuhart.”
Redrick got up slowly and slapped her face hard. She shut up, sank to the grass, and buried her face in her hands.
“You fool… Red,” she muttered. “To blow an opportunity like that.”
Redrick looked down at her and finished the vodka. He thrust it at Hamster without looking at him. There was nothing to talk about. Some fine kids Burbridge conjured up in the Zone. Loving and respectful.
He went into the street and hailed a cab. He told the driver to go to the Borscht. He had to finish up his affairs. He was dying for sleep, everything was swimming before his eyes, and he fell asleep in the cab, his body slumped over the briefcase, and awoke only when the driver shook him.
“We’re here, mister.”
“Where are we?” he looked around. “I told you the bank.”
“No way, buddy. You said the Borscht. Here’s the Borscht.”
“OK,” Redrick grumbled. “I must have dreamed it.”
He paid up and got out, barely able to move his heavy legs. The asphalt was steaming in the sun, and it was very hot. Redrick realized that he was soaked, that there was a bad taste in his mouth, and that his eyes were tearing. He looked around before going in. As usual at this time of day the street was deserted. Businesses weren’t open yet, and the Borscht was supposed to be closed too, but Ernest was at his post already, wiping glasses and giving dirty looks to the trio sopping up beer at the corner table. The chairs had not been removed from the other tables. An unfamiliar porter in a white jacket was mopping the floor and another was struggling with a case of beer behind Ernest. Redrick went up to the bar, put the briefcase on the bar, and said hello. Ernest muttered something that was not exactly welcoming.
“Give me a beer,” Redrick said and yawned convulsively.
Ernest slammed an empty mug on the table, grabbed a bottle from the refrigerator, opened it, and upended it over the mug. Redrick, covering his mouth with his hand, stared at Ernest’s hand. It was trembling. The bottle hit the edge of the mug several times. Redrick looked up at Ernest’s face. His heavy eyelids were lowered, his puffy mouth twisted, and his fat cheeks drooping. The porter was mopping right under Redrick’s feet, the guys in the corner were arguing loudly over the races, and the other porter with the crates backed into Ernest so hard that he reeled. The man mumbled an apology. Ernest spoke in a cramped voice.
“Did you bring it?”
“Bring what?” Redrick looked over his shoulder.
One of the guys stood up lazily and went to the door. He stopped in the doorway to light a cigarette.
“Let’s go talk,” Ernest said.
The porter with the mop was now also between Redrick and the door. A big black man, along the lines of Gutalin, but twice as broad.
“Let’s go,” Redrick said and picked up the briefcase. He didn’t feel sleepy anymore, in either eye.
He went behind the bar and squeezed past the porter with the cases of beer. The porter had apparently caught his finger. He was sucking his fingertip and watching Redrick. He was a big fellow, with a broken nose and cauliflower ears. Ernest went into the back room, and Redrick followed him, because now the three guys from the corner table were blocking the door and the porter with the mop was standing near the curtains that led to the storeroom.
In the back room Ernest stepped aside and sat on a chair by the wall. Captain Q
uarterblad, yellow and angry, stood up from the table. From somewhere on the left a huge UN trooper appeared, his helmet pulled down over his eyes, and quickly frisked him with his large hands. He slowed down at his right pocket and extracted the brass knuckles. He prodded Redrick in the captain’s direction. Redrick approached the table and set the briefcase in front of Captain Quarterblad.
“You bloodsucker,” he said to Ernest.
Ernest raised his eyebrows and shrugged one shoulder. It was all clear. The two porters in the doorway were smirking, and there were no other doors and the window was barred from the outside.
Captain Quarterblad, his face contorted by disgust, was digging around with both hands in the briefcase, and taking out the swag and putting in on the table: two small empties; nine batteries; various sizes of black sprays, sixteen pieces in a polyethylene package; two perfectly preserved sponges; and one jar of carbonated clay…
“Anything in your pockets?” Captain Quarterblad asked softly. “Empty them.”
“Snakes,” Redrick said. “Skunks.”
He pulled out a pack of bills and flung it on the table. They scattered.
“Aha!” the captain said. “Any more?”
“Lousy toads!” Redrick shouted and threw the second pack on the floor. “There you go. I hope you choke on it!”
“Very interesting,” the captain said calmly. “Now pick it up.”
“The hell I will,” Redrick said, putting his hands behind his back. “Your slaves will pick it up. You can pick it up yourself, for all I care.”
“Pick up the money, stalker,” Captain Quarterblad said without raising his voice, leaning his fist on the table and straining toward Redrick.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Redrick, muttering curses under his breath, crouched down, and reluctantly set about picking up the money. The porters were snickering behind his back and the UN trooper snorted gleefully.
“Don’t snort at me!” Redrick said. “You’ll lose your snot.”
He was crawling around on his hands and knees, picking up the notes one by one, moving closer and closer to the dark brass ring lying peacefully on the dusty parquet floor. He turned to get better access. He kept shouting obscenities, all the ones he could remember and ones he was making up along the way. When the moment was right, he shut up, tensed, grabbed the ring, pulled it up with all his strength, and before the opened trapdoor landed on the floor he had jumped head first into the gray cold prison of the wine cellar.
He fell on his hands, somersaulted, jumped up, and ran hunched over, seeing nothing, counting on his memory and luck, into the narrow passageway between cases of bottles, knocking them over as he went past, hearing them fall and shatter in the passage behind him. Slipping, he ran up some invisible steps, threw his body against the door with its rusty hinges, and found himself in Ernest’s garage. He was shaking and panting, there were bloody spots swimming before his eyes and his heart was beating heavily with strong jolts right in his throat, but he did not stop for a second. He ran to the far corner, and scraping his hands, tore into the mountain of garbage that hid the place where the boards had been removed from the wall. He lay down on his stomach and crawled through, hearing his jacket tear, and when he was out in the narrow courtyard he crouched down behind the garbage cans, pulled off his jacket, threw away his tie, gave himself a quick once-over, brushed off his pants, straightened up, and ran into the yard. He dove into a low smelly tunnel that led to the next courtyard. He listened for the whine of the police sirens as he ran, but there weren’t any yet, and he ran faster, scaring playing children, dodging hanging laundry, crawling through holes in rotten fences—trying to get out of the neighborhood as fast as possible, before Captain Quarterblad could cordon it off. He knew the area very well. He had played in all the yards and cellars, the abandoned laundries, and the coal cellars. He had plenty of acquaintances and even friends here, and under different circumstances he would have had no trouble in hiding out, even for a week, in the neighborhood. But he hadn’t made a daring escape from arrest under Captain Quarterblad’s very nose, adding an easy twelve months to his sentence, for that.
He was very lucky. On Seventh Street a parade of some brotherhood or other was making raucous progress down the street. Two hundred of them, just as disheveled and filthy as he was. Some looked worse, as though they had spent the evening crawling through holes in fences, spilling the contents of garbage cans on themselves, maybe after having spent the night rowdily in a coal bin. He ducked out of a doorway into the crowd, cutting across it, pushing and shoving, stepping on feet, getting an occasional fist in his face, and returning the favor, until he broke out on the other side of the street and ducked into another doorway. Just then the familiar disgusting wail of the patrol cars resounded, and the parade came to a grinding halt, folding up like an accordion. But he was in a different neighborhood now, and Captain Quarterblad had no way of knowing which one.
He approached his own garage from the side of the radio and electronics store, and he had to wait while the workmen loaded a van with television sets. He made himself comfortable in the ragged lilac bushes by the windowless side of the neighboring houses, caught his breath and had a cigarette. He smoked greedily, crouching down and leaning against the rough fireproof wall, touching his cheek from time to time, trying to still the nervous tic. He thought and thought and thought. When the van with the workers pulled away honking into the driveway, he laughed and said softly after them: “Thanks, boys, you held up this fool… and let me think.” He started moving quickly, but without rushing, cleverly and premeditatedly, like he worked in the Zone.
He entered his garage through the hidden passage, noiselessly lifted the old seat, carefully pulled the roll of paper from the bag in the basket, and slipped it inside his shirt. He took an old worn leather jacket from a hook, found a greasy cap in the corner, and pulled it down over his eyes. The cracks in the door let narrow rays of light with dancing dust into the gloomy garage, and kids were yelling and playing outside. As he was leaving, he heard his daughter’s voice. He put his eye against the widest crack and watched Monkey wave two balloons and run around the swings. Three old women with knitting in their laps were sitting on a nearby bench, watching her with pursed lips. Exchanging their lousy opinions, the dried-up hags. The kids were fine, playing with her as though she were just like them. It was worth all the bribery—he built them a slide, and a doll house, and the swings—and the bench that the old biddies were on. “All right,” he said, tore himself away from the crack, looked around the garage one more time, and crawled into the hole.
In the southwest part of town, near the abandoned gas station at the end of Miner Street, there was a phone booth. God only knew who used it nowadays—all the houses around it were boarded up and beyond it was the seemingly endless empty lot that used to be the town dump. Redrick sat down in the shade of the booth and stuck his hand into the crack below it. He felt the dusty wax paper and the handle of the gun wrapped in it; the lead box of bullets was there, too, as well as the bag with the bracelets and the old wallet with fake documents. His hiding place was in order. Then he took off his jacket and cap and felt inside his shirt. He sat for a minute or more, hefting in his hand the porcelain container and the invincible and inevitable death it contained. And he felt the nervous tic come back.
“Schuhart,” he muttered, not hearing his own voice, “what are you doing, you snake? You scum, they can kill us all with this thing.” He held his twitching cheek, but it didn’t help. “Bastards,” he said about the workers who had been loading the TV sets. “You got in my way. I would have thrown it back into the Zone, the bitch, and it would have been all over.”
He looked around sadly. The hot air was shimmering over the cracked cement, the boarded-up windows looked at him gloomily, and tumbleweed rolled around the lot. He was alone.
“All right,” he said decisively. “Every man for himself, only God takes care of everybody. I’ve had it.”
; Hurrying, so as not to change his mind, he stuffed the container into the cap, and wrapped the cap in the jacket. Then he got on his knees, and leaned against the booth. It moved. The bulky package fit in the bottom of the pit under the booth, with room to spare. He carefully replaced the booth, shook it to see how steady it was, and got up, brushing off his hands.
“That’s it. It’s settled.”
He got into the heat of the phone booth, deposited a coin, and dialed.
“Guta,” he said. “Please, don’t worry. They caught me again.” He could hear her shuddering sigh. He quickly added: “It’s a minor offense, six to eight months, with visiting rights. We’ll manage. And you’ll have money, they’ll send it to you.” She was still silent. “Tomorrow morning they’ll call you down to the command post, we’ll see each other then. Bring Monkey.”
“Will there be a search?” she asked.
“Let them. The house is clean. Don’t worry, keep your tail up—you know, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You married a stalker, so don’t complain. See you tomorrow. And remember, I didn’t call. I kiss your little nose.”
He hung up abruptly and stood for a few seconds, eyes shut and teeth clenched so tightly there was a tingling in his ears. Then he deposited another coin and dialed another number.
“Listening,” said Throaty.
“It’s Schuhart. Listen carefully and don’t interrupt.”
“Schuhart? What Schuhart?” asked Throaty in a natural manner.
“Don’t interrupt, I said! They caught me, I ran, and I’m going to turn myself in now. I’m going to get two and a half or three years. My wife will be penniless. You take care of her. So that she needs nothing, understand? Understand, I said?”
“Go on,” said Throaty.
“Not far from the place where we first met, there’s a phone booth. It’s the only one, you won’t mistake it. The porcelain is under it. If you want it, take it, if you don’t, don’t. But my wife must be taken care of. We still have many years of playing together. If I come back and find out you double-crossed me… I don’t suggest that you do. Understand?”
Roadside Picnic Page 10
