by Pavel Kornev
How must it have been for the very prosperous manager’s assistant to return here night after night?
"He's probably got a fat old wife and ten kids," Ramon guessed. "All his money goes to clothes and food, so he rents an apartment in this hole. Or he has very old relatives who need expensive medicine. Or maybe..."
"Zip it," I demanded, walking up onto the stoop and knocking at the locked door. I pulled the list of bank employees from my briefcase, led my finger down the list of residents and, just when a concierge looked outside at me, I read:
"Levinsky, Malik... Malk!" After that, I raised my eyes to the middle-aged doorman and asked: "Does an Aaron Malk live here?"
"Yes he does," the concierge confirmed.
"Is he at home?"
"No."
I looked expectantly at the man, but didn't get anything from him but that short 'no,' so I flared up:
"Am I gonna have to tweeze every single word out of you? When was he last here?"
"What seems to be the problem?" He perked up, taking a timid step backward down the corridor.
"We represent the Witstein Banking House!" I continued, not slowing my pace. "Have you heard of the Witstein Banking House?"
The concierge nodded.
"And are you aware of the recent events that took place at that respected establishment?"
And the concierge once again confirmed his knowledge with a miserly nod.
"Then you know who I am and why I am here."
The man frowned in annoyance:
"Mr. Levinson never should have done business with goys. It didn't lead to anything good."
"Aaron Malk," I reminded him. "When was the last time he was here?"
"I haven't seen him since yesterday."
Ramon and I exchanged pointed glances and I asked:
"And his relatives? Is there anyone we can speak with?"
"He lives alone."
"Then please lead us to his room. We want to make sure he really isn't home."
The concierge looked at me with unconcealed doubt, then I waved my list of bank employees before his face.
"Are you really gonna make us bother Mr. Witstein over this?"
"Just don't touch anything," he relented.
We walked up the creaky stairs to the third floor, and the concierge unlocked the door with his master key. Holding his Winchester before him, Ramon was first to cross the threshold. I groped for the Cerberus in my pocket and took a step in after him.
He wasn't in any of the rooms. However, in the air, there was a barely perceptible, lingering aroma that the two of us were well acquainted with.
Ramon pulled air into his nose and asked:
"Is that what I think it is?"
"Exactly," I nodded. "Check the trash bin," and turned to the doorman. "I hope having a goy go through his trash doesn't constitute a violation of your precepts."
"No," the concierge answered monosyllabically, clearly regretting having let us outsiders into this man's home.
Ramon took less than a minute, and after that, we parted ways with the sullen man and went outside.
"Did you find anything?" I asked on my way down from the stoop.
The hulking man showed me a small paper package with some smudged logograms on it.
"Opium?" I decided, in that his apartment smelled of the narcotic.
"Chinese," Ramon attested.
"Just don't tell me we're gonna have to poke our noses around the Chinese Quarter again!"
Ramon shrugged his hulking shoulders.
"If Aaron is still alive, he must be in an opium den there. I bet if we flash this paper around, we can find out which one."
"Should we ask the same constables?"
"Sure, we may as well start there."
"Let's go."
And we headed off in search of a cabby willing to take two gentlemen to the Chinese Quarter on this dank and rainy evening.
We did find one, of course. At times, money can perform true miracles.
IN THE RAINY WEATHER, the Chinese Quarter looked even shabbier than on clear days. And sure, there were slightly less beggars outside, and it wasn't smelling quite as strongly of scorched food, but the sidewalks were covered with water and there was filth floating all around. And there were no parades, streetlights, rickshaws, drum battles, or hordes of fun-lovers swarming the local bordellos and opium dens today either. The neighborhood had turned into a dirty shadow of itself.
It should be said that I spoke a bit too soon on the beggars, though. We just had to get out of the carriage before a crowd of the crippled poor quickly formed around us. Some were one-armed, some had no legs, and some were even rotting alive.
"Get out of here!" Ramon snapped in annoyance and stepped over to a noodle shop.
I hurried after him and quietly laughed:
"Don't let your fears out, friend."
"Get fucked!" The hulking man exclaimed, threw open the door and ducked into the snack shop. Soon, he came back out. Behind him there appeared a constable smelling of local cookery, the most senior in his division.
"Well?" He looked at us sullenly. "What is it this time?"
Ramon handed him the paper packaging. The constable spent some time looking at the symbols and even walked back to the window, then turned the piece of paper over to Ramon and declared frankly:
"These guys won't talk to you."
"How much will it cost?" I asked.
"That is the den of the Red Dragons," the policeman shook his head. "Act at your own peril. We've got our own work to do here."
"Could you just walk us there?" Ramon inquired.
The constable considered it, then nodded and popped back into the noodle shop. A few minutes later, his local underling came outside.
"Twenty francs!" The man announced as he walked.
"Ten," I extended him a rumpled bill.
The man did not refuse my money, but he did make a counteroffer:
"And five when we get there."
"Show us the way," I agreed.
The fog over the neighborhood was getting thicker. When we turned away from the lively street, the street noises quickly faded. All that remained was the splashing of water underfoot and the squelching of mud. Sometimes, it seemed we were walking through a rice paddy. It was important not to look closely, because there were some utterly disgusting things floating in the puddles. I personally preferred not to know what my boot soles were slipping around on.
It should also be said that I was not feeling up to this. While we wandered the labyrinth of narrow little streets, I was being tormented by the sensation that someone was prowling after us, looking out from around the corner, following us, and jumping from roof to roof. I was reminded of the werewolf, making me feel very unwell.
I undid the button on my Roth-Steyr holster and moved my Cerberus into my cloak pocket. I was getting ready to switch off the safety of the Mauser in my briefcase, but then we walked up to a two-story house with a snazzy banner with incomprehensible symbols interwoven with a great many red dragons.
Our escort immediately extended his hand and demanded:
"Five francs!"
I leaned on my cane, turned to Ramon and asked:
"What do you say?"
The hulking man looked at the slip of paper he had and nodded:
"Looks like the right place."
"Five francs!" the he repeated, growing noticeably impatient. He didn't want to spend any more time here than he had to.
I took out my wallet, but before paying, I clarified from my partner in any case:
"Can we find our way back?"
"We can," Ramon confirmed confidently.
The man snatched the five and, in one moment, dissolved in the darkness as if he had never been with us at all.
"Look," my friend warned me, "if we do get lost, I'll never forgive you."
"I'm more worried about something else," Ramon snorted, flicking his Winchester down from his shoulder and heading into the opium den.
I sighed and hurried after him.
The conversation actually did promise to be fairly difficult. The Chinese Quarter, an opium den, triad territory – and two pernicious outsiders asking questions. An explosive mixture, even when you didn't consider the Winchester.
The Winchester in Ramon's hands was the very reason I entered the den first. I bowed, took a step into the low door, quietly stood up straight and looked around the smoky room. The great number of straw barriers between the booths threw me off, making it hard to tell the true size of the room, and also breaking up the meager lighting – the only kerosene lamp was on a table with a half dozen tattooed Chinese people playing Mah Jong at it.
One of the players looked at the sound of the door flying open and whistled:
"Here come the Pharaohs!"
When the others tore themselves from the game, I asked Ramon:
"Show them."
My associate, his Winchester lowered to the floor, calmly walked up to the table, placed the marked piece of paper he'd found in the trash can on the table, and took a step back.
"Just to avoid misunderstandings," I smiled, masking my nervousness with a smile, "was this sold by you?"
"What if it was?" The man who'd drawn everyone else's attention to us called back.
"Aaron Malk, a Judean with a red birthmark on his cheek," I then stated. We're looking for him."
The man exchanged glances with his gaming partners, then looked at Ramon's Winchester and shook his head:
"He's not here."
"Where should we look for him?"
This time, a dispute arose among the bandits, but it was immediately broken up by a short man in a leather vest. He threw out a clipped phrase in Chinese, and when everyone else went quiet, smiled. Without any accent he then stated, aping me:
"In order to avoid misunderstandings, we do not talk to Pharaohs."
I did not deny our affiliation with the police. Considering these people didn't talk to police, they probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill us if they discovered we were now mere private detectives. And I had absolutely no desire to get into a shooting match in the middle of the Chinese Quarter. For that very reason, I held back from threats.
"Mr. Malk robbed his employer and other important people. And important people don't like being robbed. Important people always return what's theirs."
"And why should we care about this?" sounded off in reply.
"There are some very important people who are quite angry right now, and money is no object to them. They want to punish the thief and get back what was stolen."
A bandit came out from behind the table and smiled, but it was no longer as friendly a smile as before.
"I repeat my question: why should we care?"
"Today, no one is worried about what the thief spent his stolen goods on, but tomorrow, people are going to start asking unpleasant questions. Today, we might forget we came here. Tomorrow, this very place might be crawling with our colleagues."
"Cops running errands for fat cats?" The bandit frowned, his eyes narrowing.
"For important people," I corrected him and added pointedly: "Actually important people."
"Forget about this place!" He demanded.
"We will! Just tell us where to find the Judean."
The man turned to his henchmen, who had started vying to tell him something. Ramon and I just stood and waited, but I noticed how nervously my friend's finger was twitching near his trigger.
After hearing out his henchmen, the bandit smoothed out the piece of paper we set on the table and threw it into the corner, then turned and poked me with his finger:
"We’re not giving the money back!"
"We're not after the money. We're after the Judean," I declared directly and repeated my question: "Where is he?"
"Second floor, the door opposite the stairs. Get him and get out. You have five minutes."
Ramon and I exchanged glances. He nodded and went first up the stairs. He stood at the top, and let me past into the room.
"And don't come back here ever again!" followed after us, then we heard laughter.
On the second floor, I took off my glasses and put them in my breast pocket. Then, pistol in hand, I stood outside the little room. Ramon, though, went further up the stairs, but immediately returned and told me:
"Up there's the attic," and pushed his way into the little room.
The door swung open with ease, and the smell of opium smoke flooded out. I crossed the threshold and immediately realized why the gangsters had agreed to give their moneyed client up to us: Aaron looked like death warmed over. It looked as if he had been smoking opium for two days in a row already, and very soon would have to be thrown out the door in any case.
We had simply been allowed to do a small favor to the caretakers.
"Clear," I informed my partner, stepping over the man, who was just lying there on a straw mat. I threw open the window, letting fresh air in from outside.
The intoxicating opium smoke had started making my head spin.
"Is it him?" Ramon asked, finding a place to stand a bit further from the puddle of vomit on the floor. The squat man's Winchester was in the crease of his elbow, and he was looking cautiously through the cracked door into the hallway.
"It’s Aaron Malk, in the flesh," I confirmed, crouching down.
"Is he alive?"
"He is breathing."
He was pale, and his skin had a bluish shade. His breathing was intermittent and his pupils were the size of a matchstick head. Those facts left us with no doubt that the manager's assistant had seriously overindulged on opium and it would be very difficult to bring him to his senses.
"Check his pockets," Ramon then advised me.
And I did but, beyond the wallet in his back pants pockets containing a few rumpled tenners and a handful of coins, I didn't find anything of value. I stuck the wallet in my briefcase, having made up my mind to study its contents more carefully later. Then I shook out the jacket that was lying on the floor, but there I also didn't find anything interesting.
"He doesn't have the box," I told my friend.
"No surprise there," he snorted.
I cursed out, picked up an earthenware pitcher and poured its contents out on the Malk’s head. He mumbled out something incoherent, and tried to push me away, but just kept lying on his back and breathing unevenly.
"It's already been five minutes," Ramon warned me.
"They can wait!" I cut him off, and perked my ears up at an incomprehensible rasping, but the sound wasn't coming from the corridor. It was coming from outside. "Watch the door," I asked my partner and set about rubbing the man’s ears and cheeks in rage.
Malk resisted both stubbornly and drowsily, but gradually his gaze grew clearer and he began to get me in focus.
"No," Aaron said. "No! No! No!"
"A box with a lightning rune on top, remember it?" I shook him. "Answer me!"
Aaron Malk just smiled.
"I'll tear your head off!" I promised. "Why'd you change it out?"
"For money, why else?" Aaron licked his dried-out lips and then, unexpectedly soberly, asked: "Isn't it obvious?"
"Who paid you?"
But the momentary sobriety had already passed, and he just giggled in reply.
"Speak!" I snapped.
"So you can tear my head off?"
Aaron was overcome by a hysterical laughing fit. I gave him a few punches straight from the shoulder, but it didn't get better.
"It looks like we won't beat it from him," Ramon frowned. "So, we'll have to get him out of here."
"We will," I sighed, leaving my cane and starting to get him up on his legs. But he pushed me away and pressed his back to the wall.
"No," he turned his head, his back catching on the wall. "No! No! No!"
"Tell me who paid you," I decided to lead him to my answer, "and we'll leave you alone."
"Never!" Aaron sobbed. "Listen, I can pay you! I have a lot of money! Enough for everyone!
We can all be rich!"
"You've got twenty francs in your wallet."
"No! I have ten thousand francs! On me!" Malk exclaimed, jerkily clutching his rumpled jacket to his chest. "But I'll get more still! I'll get as much as I ask for! Everything he has! Just don't get in the way! I'll share it with you! Three thousand, five, hell, even ten! We will be rich, just don't ask for a name! It's a secret! My secret!"
"You shouldn't smoke so much," Ramon sighed. "He definitely won't be with it until morning."
"Curses!" I swore out, sticking my briefcase under my armpit and pulling Malk to me once again. Just then, though, I heard an obvious sound from behind my back:
"Pst!"
The countenance of the white-haired leprechaun flickered past the cracked door; Ramon hopped out into the hall and followed him with his Winchester, but the short albino's trail had already gone cold.
"Leave him!" I shouted and turned to Malk, and just then a dark figure crawled up onto the window sill.
Devil!
In one blistering jump, the werewolf had crossed the room. I put up my briefcase to block him, and a moment later, a powerful blow had knocked me off my feet and threw me into the far corner. Collapsed on the floor, I grabbed my Cerberus from my pocket. The werewolf deftly swung his knee, and my pistol flew down the hall. His clawed paw shot upward and, in the semi-dark of the room, a blinding spark came exploding from a gun barrel.
Blood spilled from the animal's head. The ten-caliber bullet tore through his crown and landed in a dividing wall. The Winchester's lever abruptly went down – clack! – and immediately came back up. The werewolf stumbled to the side, trying to get out of the line of fire, but Ramon was tracking him with the barrel, following the animal's movement. He was left with no room to maneuver, and one of the improved ten caliber bullets went into his chest, broke out through a rib and hurtled the werewolf away into the far wall. He dug his claws into the window sill, stood up straight, and the next shot simply threw him outside. From below, we heard a weighty strike and the cracking of boards.
Ramon threw me a pair of steel handcuffs and went out into the corridor.
