Poisonous Kiss

by Andras Totisz

  "I'm sure you can break in, but what are the risks to the lives in there?" the politician interrupts. He's one of the advisors who has the governor's ear. Nunzio has seen him several times at political cocktail bashes and other special occasions. He's a nice guy, but why can't he give them all a break and buzz off?

  "An operation of this size always involves a certain amount of risk, sir." Nunzio tries to stifle his distaste. He turns away and pours a cup of tepid, weak coffee for himself. He hates discussing his plans. Especially with people who don't know the first thing about police work. How can he possibly answer such a question? There are too many unknowns. A raid like this is always unpredictable. They have to take chances and accept that there will be incalculable risks.

  The psychologist looks at him questioningly, but doesn't say a thing.

  "Wouldn't it be wiser to pretend we're giving in, let them have the money and the chopper, lull them into a false sense of security, and then do something quick and unexpected? You know what I mean—a trick move," the political adviser says.

  The captain glances at the commissioner to see if he feels like answering the question. He doesn't. Nunzio crumples his coffee-cup.

  "This isn't a Rambo movie, sir," he replies finally with an edge to his voice. "I don't know what tricks you had in mind, but I'd rather not have any kind of shooting in a chopper. If we attack them right now I can't guarantee the safety and survival of all the hostages. But I know none of them would survive if we turned the chopper into a shooting gallery."

  The commissioner squashes his cigarette. He looks out of the window. Everything is quiet outside, as if they were in a ghost town. The block in front of the bank is empty, the heavy gates of the building are closed, the area in front of the door is roped off.

  The political advisor won't give up. The smile stays on his face. He's an old hand at dealing with insults, so the strong jet of the captain's antagonism trickles off his back like a couple of raindrops.

  "And don't you have a capable man, captain, someone, who is well trained at unarmed combat and can also pilot a helicopter?"

  "Well, sir, I have several good men," Nunzio sighs. He pictures a pilot trying to jump out of the cockpit and assail two armed villains, without thinking about the hostages crowded between them …aw, c'mon!

  The blinking lights on the switchboard remind him of the fortunate police officers out there, working while he is forced to remain idle. Condemned to quarrelling with stupid, small-time detectives and answering stupid, meaningless questions. Meteorologists are radioing in the weather conditions. A team is getting the chopper and the money ready. Nunzio is on his third coffee now. He is sure to go crazy if he can't do something.

  A red light flashes. They all fall silent. Their eyes automatically focus on the fullbearded figure in the turtleneck. A call is coming through from the bank. The psychologist is aware of the importance of the moment and is resolved to enjoy it thoroughly. He lights a cigarette with deliberation, sits back in his chair and props his head against the windowsill. Through the rings of coarse tobacco smoke he contemplates the ceiling with dreamy eyes. This is the first time he opens his mouth and his voice is so warm and friendly that Nunzio feels nauseated.

  "I'm glad you called, Nick …what did you say? Right now?"

  The commissioner looks at the captain. Nunzio is already standing. He can't stomach the idea of people being executed one by one inside the bank. The thin hand well defined by the dark sleeve of the turtleneck waves impatiently, asking for silence. It looks exactly like the feeler of an insect.

  "All right, Nick, very well. I assure you, you'll be quite safe. No, Nick, I'm not speaking for myself only. Hang on!"

  He covers the receiver with his long, tapering fingers. It would be simpler to press the button on the switchboard, which would enable him to talk without being overheard, but he's the sort of guy who doesn't seem to be able to master a thing like that.

  The psychologist raises his eyes and slowly looks around. Nunzio notes with some satisfaction that the others are just as irritated with this attitude as he is. Who does this shrink think he is? And why does he enjoy being a nuisance?

  "They're planning to surrender," the psychologist mutters finally.

  "What?!"

  "They're willing to drop their demands and leave the building as soon as we guarantee that they will come to no harm."

  "I was kind of expecting something like this." The advisor has his answer ready.

  "They have my personal guarantee." The voice of the commissioner is enthusiastic and firm, as if the new development was all his doing.

  "Why haven't they asked for a reception committee and a welcome-party with all the trimmings?"

  But nobody listens to Nunzio's grumbling voice. No one is interested in the reason behind the changed attitude of the kidnappers. It's a piece of luck for Arany that later, at the trial, the counsel for the defense will go into elaborate details concerning this point. After a short but ardent tussle, the commissioner gets hold of the phone and guarantees the safety of the bank robbers. The adviser manages to grab the receiver before the commissioner can hang up, so he, too, can take full responsibility. They smile, contentedly. By now all is past history.

  Nunzio issues commands. He makes contact with his troops and all the patrolmen. He wants to make sure that none of those hotshots accidentally fires at the surrendering suspects.

  In a few minutes the phone rings again. The captain picks it up. He isn't as friendly as the others were, he doesn't even try to conceal the hostility in his voice.

  "OK boys, you won't come to any harm. You'll be just fine if you do what I tell you. You come out with your hands raised above your head. You come out one-by-one and make sure you move slowly. Take five steps forward then stop. Don't budge, don't turn around. Don't move at all. Got it?"

  He puts down the receiver and glances at the others. They rise from their seats almost ceremoniously and file out of the RV. They leave behind the debris of their joint effort, stale smoke, crumpled cups and wrinkled cushions.

  The clamor of the crowd outside has abated. The news has spread quickly, and the spectators, mouths agape, are waiting. If this was a circus, the cymbals would have clashed and the trapeze artist would be taking one last swing before the plunge.

  The inner door of the bank opens slowly. The first masked figure appears and proceeds towards the outer door. Now the door opens and the man steps outside. He walks slowly and cautiously, as if he were picking his way across a minefield. He takes five steps then stops. His partner has just reached the street door. The door is open. In the shaft of light filtering through, the man looks small and vulnerable—especially amidst the cordon of armed policemen. He starts forward and stops next to his partner. They don't look at each other. They are simply standing there, hands raised high above their heads. Their masks can't disguise their youth. A long, dark blond lock of hair escapes from under the mask of one of them.

  For an endless moment they stand looking steadily at the policemen. The atmosphere is tense enough. It's a matter of seconds and the policemen will make a rush at them, force them down on the ground, search them and march them into the steel-plated patrol van already waiting in the wings. The cameras will click, the reporters will chase the police cars in hope of sensational news …

  The sound of two shots. The two masked men stagger, then collapse. It isn't like in movies—they don't go down with a spectacular motion. They simply fall clumsily at full length with a thump. There is shocked silence for a few seconds, then all hell breaks loose. Watching the two motionless bodies Nunzio doesn't feel pity. He is on the verge of blowing his top. He'll get the bastard, who shot against his express command. He scans the housetops across the street, where the crack shots are stationed. Which one of them did it?

  CHAPTER 32

  Arany suddenly freezes when he hears the shots. He could have sworn they were coming from just ahead. He glances at Ericsson, but the captain is already running, his clunky b
lack shoes making an unholy clatter in the glass passageway. Arany runs after him, cursing under his breath. His glance sweeps around the passage and he looks out the window. The peaceful courtyard below them holds out the promise of a different world. Why are they up here getting ready for a fight? God almighty! Another fight, in a hallway. It reminds him of the staircase, even if this building is more elegant. Damn it, he's scared stiff of these closed spaces!

  He doesn't even realize when he draws his gun. He isn't doing it consciously, but by the time he's standing next to Ericsson it's already in his hand. They're at the far end of the passageway. The door opens before they can reach for the knob. Someone behind it is about to rush into the passage, but he stops short when he catches sight of them. Arany recognizes the light jacket, the denim trousers, the windblown, dark blond hair. It's the slick man! Victor Delacroix himself!

  "Freeze!" Ericsson bellows, but that is exactly what Delacroix won't do. He disappears behind the door once again, and when he pops back into sight he already has a gun in his hand. He levels it at Ericsson, because he is the one in front. He can't get Arany, but Arany can't shoot at him either, not while the captain's stocky figure blocks his way. They are so close to each other that he smells the captain's sweat and after-shave. Ericsson's hand gropes for something at his chest. It isn't clear if he wants to draw or he's about to have a heart attack. After forty years of service, forty years of chasing notorious gangsters and heavies, will his life end here at the hand of some conceited, slick-looking punk? Arany is paralyzed by the memory of that staircase. He recalls vividly the pictures of the struggle in the darkness, Carl's sprawled body on the stairs with one foot turned at an unnatural angle, the shock and pain in his face, the flies swarming over the pool of blood. He recalls the unexplained fits, the dizziness, the tension, the wish to kill, hit out, break bones …but in less than a second he chases away the memories. He isn't scared any more. He isn't nervous. He isn't even aware of his movements. His mind switches off, his body automatically takes over. He sweeps Ericsson aside roughly, with a push of his shoulder. While the older man tries to regain his balance Arany flings himself forward. He hears the sound of a shot—how could he not? It sounds more like an explosion in the narrow passage, still, it doesn't really register. His mind refuses to interpret the stimulus. He delays shooting until he's safely on the ground and plants his elbows firmly on the black rubber matting of the passage. The non-skid surface helps him regain his balance. Delacroix is covering him with his gun, his legs spread. He is supporting the wrist of his gun hand with his left hand. The black barrel is aimed straight at Arany's head, but it's too late. Arany feels the recoil and he knows that at this distance he couldn't have missed.

  Delacroix staggers, Arany rolls aside, bumps into the captain and pushes him roughly again. He shoots once more, he doesn't even take aim, then again, this time aiming carefully at the twisted figure.

  The sound of shooting reverberates in the passage. Then silence, silence at last. Delacroix is moaning. Arany knows he should lean forward to catch what he's saying. Is it his last wish or his confession about his part in this madness? Or maybe a final message to a girl, I love you—to his mother, I'm sorry—to the whole world, I couldn't care less …he knows he should kneel down and listen to Delacroix, but he just can't. He stands there, his face pale. He would like to block out the soft moaning, but it's stronger than him, and he hears it. He'll never get to completely forget it. He will keep hearing it in recurring nightmares all his life.

  Ericsson is moaning, too, he wants to stand up but his legs won't obey. He is swearing violently and loudly.

  "Give me a hand for Pete's sake, you imbecile!"

  Arany holds out his hand automatically and helps the captain up. He deliberately tries to avoid looking at Delacroix, but out of the corner of his eye he sees a slim hand. The tapering fingers contract and let go of the gun.

  They hear the sound of running feet approaching from below. Nunzio's commando arrives to the scene in fatigues and fighting spirit. In the small courtyard below bees are buzzing around the rosebush. The doors and windows in the corridor remain aloof, silent.

  CHAPTER 33

  Her body was beautiful. She was beautiful when she discarded her clothes, when she was wriggling under my weight, when I turned her slightly so that I could enjoy the sight of her long thighs and caress them while I was making love to her. But she was most beautiful when taking a shower. Cocooned in steam and caressed by hot water her skin glowed with a rosy hue. She looked so young and innocent. The tiny drops of water covered her like a sheer dress that let her knees, thighs or breasts appear only for a few seconds. Sometimes her whole body became visible quite suddenly while she was soaping herself in a carefree, seductive way.

  The curtain of water concealed the few telltale marks of her age, as well. Her flat belly had already started to sag a bit and her buttocks, her wonderful, rounded fanny had become fuller and even more wonderful. I loved this woman and I loved all the changes in her body, I adored the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes because they made me feel protective about her.

  But here, under the steaming jet of water she always looked different. I was looking at a gorgeous mystery-woman. It was inconceivable that a few minutes earlier this beauty had been lying in my arms, that she was now washing off the traces of our lovemaking.

  She had been waiting for me when I got home. She had been waiting for hours, not in the street as she had that remarkable first time, but in the shelter of my apartment. She tidied up, washed the dirty dishes, then, as the hours dragged on, she started to pace up and down while listening to the news broadcast. She had known I was there at the bank. Later she told me she had simply felt it in her bones and couldn't stay at home.

  She had to wait for a long time. It was quite late when I arrived at last, utterly weary and worn out. The commando had almost shot me. Had Ericsson not been there God knows what could have happened. They surrounded me and before I knew where I was three machine guns were leveled at me. They had knocked the gun out of my hand, turned me around, searched me, then forced me down, so I found myself lying on that damned black rubber matting again. My spine was literally cracking when one of the brutes kneeled on my back and taking a fistful of hair pulled my head backwards. He had kept me down in this position until Nunzio got there.

  Who knows what might have happened, had Ericsson not been there? But he was there. He kept cursing and muttering threats. But more important, he had stationed himself in front of me.

  My back and my neck hurt like hell. So did my face. It must have hit the floor pretty hard when I was thrown down. But then Nunzio turned up and I was allowed to get up. I looked around slowly, taking my time. I saw the brutal, bloodthirsty eyes, the stupid faces, the guns pointed at me. Quick as lightning I hit out, then I was suddenly overcome by fear again. It was only momentarily brushed aside by my anger but returned in a flash. The commando, who had kept me down was moaning on the floor. His face was bloody. I knew his type well. Full of bogus camaraderie. It might be useful on the battlefield, but in these circumstances it was as pathetic as the solidarity of Delacroix's gang in the brush at the nightclub.

  I was lucky because Ericsson had planted himself in front of me to shield me. Swearing eloquently, he had told them how he would get them fired from the force. Then Nunzio had managed to get a word in, and they lowered their guns at last.

  We were taken to the precinct and made our report. They had kept us at it for hours. We had to put everything in writing, then report directly to the commissioner, then to cops I didn't even know. They had been hard with us, but at least they had some coffee and sandwiches delivered. Their questions seemed to flow on endlessly. What business we had in that building, how come I knew about the rear entrance, how come I was privy to Delacroix's plan. It continued this way for hours.

  I felt like death when I got home at last. Then Celia had answered the door. All I could see in her eyes was anxiety, immense relief and love. She c
aressed my cheek slowly, and I buried my face in her soft hair, her neck and felt at peace at last.

  We made love. Later I went to watch her take a shower and couldn't decide if I was only dreaming then, or had been dreaming everything that happened during the day.

  This floating sense of dreaminess was shattered by the shrill ringing of the phone. My brother was calling. He never gives his name, I had to pick up on his voice. This habit is even more aggravating because he always gets down to business immediately. If he got the wrong number he would start pouring information into the ears of some unsuspecting stranger. But that would never happen to him.

  "Hello, kid. Congratulations. I saw you on TV."

  "Congratulations for what?" I grumbled. "Do you think it's such a glorious feeling to kill someone?"

  He wasn't fazed. He is just as used to my grumbling as I am to his conceit.

  "Why don't you call Mom? She's worried as hell. She tried to call you in the afternoon but you didn't answer and didn't return her calls. Didn't you get your messages?"

  As a matter of fact, I hadn't listened to the answering machine. My glance was riveted on the bathroom door. Celia stood there, wearing my bathrobe. Her hair was wet, she was still drying it with a towel. She moved in a way that was innocent and seductive at the same time. If I hadn't felt spent, I would have wanted to make love to her again. It was mostly my soul longing for her, but the desire was so strong it almost hurt. She smiled her fresh, youthful smile, sat next to me and put her feet up on the coffee table. The thick robe was opened slightly. I caught a flash of her thighs, her pink nipples. She is mine, I gloated. She was mine a little while ago, I could do anything to her and will be able to do it any time again.