Hard Rain

by Peter Abrahams

  “No.”

  “They’re not afraid to die. Get them mad and they don’t give two fucks about dying. That’s the secret. Everyone else these days is afraid of dying. They’re so scared of dying they’re dying like flies. Like flies, Ivan.” Bela began to laugh. His face reddened, his laughter turned to choking, Zyzmchuk crossed the little room and banged him on the back.

  “Like flies, like flies,” he gasped as soon as he recovered his breath. “It’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in my whole Goddamned life.”

  At that moment, Zyzmchuk found himself looking at the photograph of Leni on the mantel. He glanced down at the old man and saw that his eyes were on it too. “Any beer, Bela?” he asked. He didn’t want one of those evenings: slivovitz and Leni.

  “In the fridge.”

  Zyzmchuk snapped open a can and returned to the living room. The old man was still gazing at the photo. “Good pansy beer,” Zyzmchuk said. “Want one?”

  “I can’t drink that piss,” Bela said, filling his glass with slivovitz. “Americans don’t know how to make beer. They don’t know how to do anything.”

  Zyzmchuk knew that Bela meant the Americans hadn’t known how to do one specific thing: keep the Russians out of Budapest. An unforgivable sin. But he didn’t say it. “What about me, Bela? I’m American.”

  “Ja, but it didn’t take.”

  “Come on. I’ve been a citizen all my adult life.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. You’re a big Czech—too smart to be smart, like most of your countrymen—but you’re not an American.”

  Bela’s eyes shifted back to the photo; so did Zyzmchuk’s. Leni sat in a cafe, smiling at someone out of the frame; not a very good photograph, but it had Leni’s smile going for it. “You know what I’m thinking?” Bela asked.

  “Don’t say it.”

  Björling polished off a few more beauties. Bela swallowed more slivovitz. He was going to say it. “I’m thinking what kind of boy a big dumb Czech like you and my Leni would have had.”

  “It wasn’t necessarily going to be a boy,” Zyzmchuk said.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It was lying up high in her belly. That means a boy.”

  “That’s an old wives’ tale,” Zyzmchuk said, but not with the conviction he’d meant: his mind had suddenly jumped a groove and tossed up the image of number 22 in white and gold, distracting him.

  Bela pounded the padded arm of his chair. A puff of dust rose in the air. “There would have been a boy eventually. You know what I’m saying.” He leaned forward, ready to fight again.

  “I know what you’re saying,” Zyzmchuk said.

  Bela sat down and lowered his voice. “Maybe two.”

  Zyzmchuk got up. The room was small and overheated, full of gemütlich bric-a-brac from a Central Europe that no longer existed. “How about a beer instead of that shit,” he said. “Nobody drinks it in Hungary anymore.”

  “Nobody does a lot of things in Hungary anymore.”

  Zyzmchuk went into the kitchen and got another beer. A calendar hung beside the fridge. All the days were blank, except Thursdays. On Thursdays it said: “Z. + Opera Box.” Zyzmchuk stayed in the kitchen, drinking his beer. He didn’t want to go over it all again—the mix-up at the kiosk, the broken carburetor, the crumby little village near the border, Colonel Grushin. A classic operation, according to Langley. But the patient died.

  “Hey,” Bela called, “did you get lost?”

  Zyzmchuk went into the living room. Bela’s glass was empty again. His eyes were blazing. “That son of a whore at the kiosk.” The conversation had gone ahead without them.

  Zyzmchuk sighed. “You had your revenge.”

  “It wasn’t enough. I should have done it with my bare hands.” He lifted them, grasping, in the air. His thimble glass fell to the floor and smashed. Zyzmchuk went into the kitchen for the broom. The phone rang. He picked it up.

  “Mr. Zyzmchuk?”

  “Hello, Grace.”

  “One moment for Mr. Keith.”

  There was a click. Then the line went fuzzy as Keith was patched through. He sounded far away. “Greetings,” he said. “Little Miss Muffet is on the move.”

  “You’re not tapping their house?”

  “I thought about it. No. Actually it’s public knowledge. It was listed on the daily schedule put out by his office. She’s on her way to some ceremony. Grace has the details.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Zyz?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t say tapping. This is an open line.”

  “You just did.”

  Keith laughed; he’d been very jolly since they’d reached their agreement. “What fools we mortals, huh, Zyz?” Zyzmchuk said nothing. He listened to the bad connection: surf rolling on a sandy beach.

  “Where are you?”

  “Red Square,” Keith said. “Any more questions?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, then. On your horse.”

  “Sure.”

  “Bye bye.”

  The line cleared. Grace came on and gave the details. Zyzmchuk hung up the phone. He knew Bela was watching from the kitchen doorway before he turned to see him.

  “Back to the office?” Bela said.

  “Nothing pansy like that. They’re letting me out.”

  “To do what?”

  “The usual. Dangerous top-secret capers.”

  Bela made the chopping motion with the side of his hand. That got rid of the sarcasm and left the naked words. Bela always tried to get to the basics. He’d never learn. “Does that mean the Russians?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

  “Worse than the Russians.”

  “Worse than the Russians?”

  “Much. A stadium full of English soccer fans.”

  Bela didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. He thrust out his pit bull chin and said, “You know something? I was wrong.”

  “About what?”

  “You. You are an American. You don’t understand anything and you don’t know you don’t know. That’s the part that makes you American. Even a Bohunk like me knows when I don’t know.”

  “Time for one more drink,” Zyzmchuk said, putting his arm around Bela’s shoulders and leading him back to the living room. Björling was singing the Ingemisco. “That’s more like it,” Zyzmchuk said. He swept up the broken glass, tossed the fragments into the grate, poured slivovitz for two. “Here’s to Verdi,” he said.

  “And to killing Russians,” Bela added.

  “Shit, Bela.”

  They drank. Zyzmchuk rose. “Ivan?” said Bela.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I go with you?”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever you’re going.”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “Is it because of the danger? I can still fight, damn it.” Bela balled his right hand into a fist as proof.

  “There’s no danger. It’s stupid and boring. To get me out of the office, that’s all.”

  “I won’t be bored.”

  “Sorry, Bela. See you next week.”

  Zyzmchuk let himself out. Bela was turning up the volume as he left. Björling, now in the role of Dick Johnson, followed him outside and all the way to the car.

  Zyzmchuk sat behind the wheel, watching the lights in Bela’s apartment. They went out; but he thought he could still hear “The Girl of the Golden West,” drifting down.

  Grace had booked him on the last flight to Logan and reserved a hotel room; that would give him plenty of time to be ready for the arrival of Little Miss Muffet’s flight in the morning. But Zyzmchuk didn’t like hotel rooms, and he preferred driving to flying. Why not? He had a change of clothes in the back of the Blazer; he had his sweats and his J. C. Penney sneakers; he had his toothbrush and his toolbox. The only thing he didn’t have was his gun, and you didn’t need guns for following people like Alice Frame.

  Zyzmchuk turned the key and began the long night’s drive to Boston, the taste of sli
vovitz in his mouth and Leni on his mind.

  15

  A voice. Familiar. “Horse,” it said. “Bye bye.”

  No more voice. Just the sea, very near. Jessie opened her eyes.

  A Picasso hung on a white wall: Rose Period. The subject was an angular woman on a pale beach, a woman who looked something like Barbara. She gazed out to sea with mismatched eyes.

  Jessie was lying on a rattan bed. She sat up. The movement made her head pound. She stayed still for a few moments, waiting for the pounding to stop. When it didn’t, she got off the bed and crossed the room. It was a long trip: the carpet was deep pile; her body weighed a ton; her legs were flab.

  Jessie stood before the painting. It had the familiar signature in the bottom corner, a work of art in itself, and it wasn’t a print: a real Rose Period Picasso on a white wall, in a room with a rattan bed, a deep-pile carpet and the ocean very near.

  The room had two other white walls, but no more Picassos, no more paintings of any kind. The fourth wall was sliding glass. Jessie slid it open and stepped out onto a balcony. Foggy orange night. With an automatic movement, she pulled back her sleeve and glanced down to check the time. Her watch was gone.

  One level below hung another balcony, somewhat bigger, extending eight or ten feet beyond the railing of hers. Far below that lay the ocean. A cabin cruiser swung gently off a mooring, bow pointing to the horizon, stern facing her. No name.

  Her heart fluttered. Fresh blood washed some of the lethargy from her legs, but made her head hurt more. She reentered the white room, crossed it and tried the door. It was unlocked. She opened it very softly. A staircase, carpeted in more deep pile, led down. Jessie followed it.

  She came to an arched doorway. Beyond it spread a big room with a marble floor that matched the Picasso. A fire burned in a pink granite hearth. In front of the fire was a glass table; on it lay the taped-together pieces of Pat’s blackboard with the restored message in white chalk. “Toi giet la toi.” A gray-haired woman knelt by the table, studying the blackboard, her back to Jessie.

  Jessie took a quiet step, off the carpet and onto the marble. The gray head snapped around. Sunglasses. Wraparounds.

  “You’re up early, dearie.” It was the bag lady. She had a funny voice, high but full of male sounds. The combination made Jessie’s stomach slide. “We’re not quite ready for you.”

  Jessie’s body got ready to bolt. She fought against it. “Where is Kate?” she said; her voice sounded cracked and thin.

  “You do like to ask questions,” said the bag lady. “But you’ll have to wait your turn. First we’ve got some questions for you.”

  “What questions?”

  The bag lady pointed her heavy chin at the blackboard. “Like what you make of this, for example.”

  “I don’t know what to make of it. Why is it important?”

  “There you go with another question.” The bag lady smiled a patronizing smile. She had good teeth. “What did other people make of it?”

  “What other people?”

  “Your friend the police lieutenant, for starters.”

  Jessie stared into the wraparound sunglasses. All she saw was her tiny, distorted self. “Did you kill Barbara Appleman?”

  “What a thing to say!” The bag lady rose; she was tall and heavy. “And yet another question. You’re an unruly young woman, aren’t you?” The bag lady took one step toward her. Blue shadow showed on her upper lip. “What have you heard about Woodstock?”

  “Woodstock? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her tiny distorted self gestured feebly in the wraparounds. The sight made her angry. “Why have you brought me here?” she said, her voice rising. “Who are you?”

  The bag lady moved closer, reaching into the pocket of her dress. “You really are difficult,” she said.

  Jessie lost the struggle with her body. In an instant, she jumped back, spun around and ran up the stairs to the bedroom. She closed the door, but couldn’t lock it: no key. The bag lady’s steps clicked on the marble. Jessie ran out onto the balcony and looked over the railing. She’d never dived from higher than the ten-foot board; this was more like fifty, if she could clear the lower balcony.

  Jessie turned and started back into the room. Too late. The bag lady came in. She had a gun in her hairy hand. “Let’s not be hasty, dearie.”

  Jessie glanced around. There was nothing to throw but the Picasso, hanging on the wall beside her. She flung it at the bag lady, ran across the balcony and climbed onto the railing. She didn’t think; her body had taken over. Behind her the bag lady called, “Mickey!” The high notes had disappeared from her voice.

  Mr. Mickey appeared on the lower balcony, looked up, saw Jessie. Jessie’s body coiled; she sprang off the railing with all her strength. Mr. Mickey rose up at her, reaching; his fingers raked the front of her body, scratching, ripping; but her momentum bent him backward, over the wrought-iron railing, and carried him with her.

  Mr. Mickey’s hands found Jessie’s arms, clamped onto them. They fell: a long fall, locked together like lovers. She saw murder in his pale eyes.

  Mr. Mickey was underneath when they hit the water. The impact knocked his breath out in one grunt; she felt it on her face. Then the clamps released her, and she plunged down in the cold sea.

  The water slowed her. Plunging turned to sinking. She sank, stunned and limp, and kept sinking until something slimy touched her face. Then, instinctively, she kicked up and away from it, legs scissoring, frantic. Her head broke the surface. Blackness closed around her, darker than the night; the world shrank away. She fought for air, sucked it in through wide-open lips, filled her lungs with it. The world came back.

  A cone of yellow light cut through the fog; it ended in a yellow circle. The yellow circle zigzagged across the water. It swept over Jessie’s face, paused, returned. She squinted up into the cone. From above came a cracking sound. Something slapped the water, a few feet away.

  Jessie ducked down. Slap, just above her head. Slap, slap. Her legs panicked; air bubbled out of her throat. She clenched her jaws and tried to make her legs kick in strong, smooth strokes. Kick, kick, hold on. Kick, kick, hold on. Another bubble of air escaped, then another. Her legs panicked. She couldn’t hold on any more. She shot to the surface; her feet touched bottom—she was standing in water up to her chest.

  Jessie gulped in air and started running—out of the water, across a beach, into a palm grove. She ran, not toward anything, simply away from the sea. The night was full of shadows; she dodged them and kept going. For a while she heard nothing but her own panting. Then a dog began to bark. It quickly barked its way from suspicion to rage. The barking came closer. Jessie veered away from the sound, trying to run harder. The shadows parted. She’d come to a road: a broken white line divided the night. But as she ran onto it, something cut her across the shins, and she went down.

  A voice in the trees said, “You are trespassing on private property. Do not move.” The voice said it again in Spanish, a treble voice, blurred with static. Jessie stayed where she was. The barking came closer. The voice said, “You are trespassing on private property. Do not move.” The voice was halfway through the Spanish for the second time when Jessie realized it was recorded. She scrambled up and started running.

  Too late. Jessie hadn’t taken two steps before a light shone in her eyes, blinding her. Another voice spoke, “Move and you’re dead.” No treble. No static.

  She froze. A growling form hurtled out of the trees, hitting her from behind and knocking her down. Paws scratched the tarmac for traction; the light swung across the road, found the animal—a Doberman, big and black. It turned and charged Jessie. “Heel, Sonny,” shouted the voice. The dog halted, saliva dripping from its bared lips, msucles taut. “Heel.” The dog’s muscles quivered for a moment. Then it trotted past Jessie, not even looking at her, toward the source of the light. “You are trespassing on private property,” said the bilingual voice in the trees. “Do not move.” Sonny growled.


  Footsteps appproached. “Get up.” Jessie got up. The light ran over her body—down, up, down. It was only then that she realized she was naked. Two eyes gleamed behind the light. They liked what they saw. With the light off her face, Jessie made out the contours of a heavy, balding man, wearing some kind of uniform, and beside him the dog, leaning on a taut leash.

  “Hands up,” said the man. “Not like that—on top of your head. Yeah. That’s nice.”

  The man knelt by the side of the road. A trip wire glinted in the beam of his flashlight. He followed it to a post a few feet away, stuck a key into a hole in the post, turned it. The voice in the woods stopped talking. He rose. “Okay, start walking.”

  “Where are you taking me? I’ve been kidnapped and assaul—”

  “Shut up.”

  Jessie turned and started walking. She felt the light on her back. Sonny growled, low in his throat.

  Jessie walked along the broken line: a woman’s shadow in a wobbly yellow oval, followed by a dog’s and a gun’s. The sound of the sea grew fainter. “You—”

  “Shut up.”

  The road met another, slightly broader road. A gatehouse sat in the intersection, light glowing within. “Hold it right there.” She stopped. “Sit, Sonny.” Sonny sat, but he kept growling.

  The man went by her and pushed open the door to the gatehouse. “Inside.” Jessie hesitated. The man put the flashlight in the small of her back and pushed her in.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “Well, la de dah,” said the man, but he didn’t touch her again.

  The man sat behind a metal desk. There wasn’t another chair. Jessie stood. A magazine lay on the desk. Big-Titted Mamas. The man saw her eyes on it and swept it into a drawer.

  He folded his stubby hands on the desk and gave her a level stare, but only for a moment—he had trouble keeping his gaze from sliding down. “You’re in big trouble, baby,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Trespassing.”

  “I haven’t been trespassing. I was kidnapped in Santa Monica tonight. I don’t even know where I am.”

  “You can do better than that.”

  Jessie looked at him carefully for the first time: a middle-aged man with a paunch above his belt and a smaller, naked one under his chin. He wore a green uniform with a name tag on his chest: Hubble. He also had a security-guard patch on one arm: Mille Flores Estates—somewhere in Malibu, she thought, surprised she was so close to home.