see me get more stability in my life — how the fuck am I meant to do that if I lose my job?”
“I told you already, I’ll talk with your boss.”
“He won’t give a shit. You think he’ll even think twice about firing someone like me?”
“He will if I ask him not to. Now, I ask again — what is this and where did you get it?”
She crosses her arms, switches off. That’s as much as he’s going to get from her.
“Okay have it your way, Katja. You want to spend a night inside, be my guest. We’ll talk again in the morning.”
She kicks out at the back of the driver’s seat in frustration as he turns away again.
“I found it, okay?! Jesus. I don’t know where it came from. One of the customers at the diner left it behind.”
“I thought you hadn’t started your shift yet?”
“Yesterday,” she says quickly. “I found it yesterday. They didn’t leave a tip so I figured it would even us out. I don’t know what the hell is even in there. I was going to see if Januscz knew someone who would. Maybe see if it was worth something.”
And she almost convinces him with the story. Almost.
“Do you know what this means?” he asks her, tilting the vial toward her so the watermark on the glass shows up. She shrugs and perhaps she really doesn’t know or maybe she’s just not saying.
Aleksakhina knows what it means, however.
End of conversation.
“Fine. We’ll go to the station and I’ll be back in the morning. Maybe you’ll be more talkative then?”
She looks less controlled now, her desperation leaking through, and he lets the sentiment linger to give her one final chance to talk, but she doesn’t. He finds himself grateful for her silence because he has no intention of sitting in the quickly cooling car for much longer, while trying to wring information out of her that might be a dead end anyway.
He starts the engine, drags the complaining vehicle through the ghostly night traffic. Before he reaches the station, however, he suddenly jerks the wheel and pulls over again.
“Wait here,” he tells Katja, and he stalks across to a callbox daubed with bright yellow spray paint. He keeps one eye on the girl as he lifts the receiver, and is glad to hear a tone when he puts it to his ear.
He taps in the beginnings of a number. Stops.
Puts the phone down.
Picks it up, dials the number and finishes it this time.
“It’s me,” he says. “Nothing’s the matter. I know I said I wouldn’t call but . . . I just wanted to hear your voice. I can’t talk for long. She’s not here. No, I’m out. At work. Nothing, really. I just needed a break. Yes, I know. I miss you too.”
And he says, “Goodbye,” but the line is already dead.
He stands there for another few minutes and then takes out the vial, examines the watermark. He isn’t well-versed enough to know which of the dealers’ marks it is but it won’t take too much effort to find out.
He walks back to the car feeling, for some reason, worse than before he made the call. Colder.
He knows he should go home.
But he stops, returns to the phone, dials another number, which this time he has to look up first. It’s written in a notepad with no name or other means of identification beside it and the pad is filled with other numbers and addresses.
“It’s Anatoli,” he says when the connection is made. He avoids the use of his second name. “Oh. Will he be long? I see. No . . . I have something I’d like to show him. Something he might be interested in. Perhaps I should wait until I can speak to him. . . . Yes. Tonight, if possible. Yes. Thank you.”
He puts the phone down, rolls the vial between his fingers. Katja is staring at him now through the rear window of his car, watches him all the way until he gets in.
“What’s going on?” she asks suspiciously.
“Nothing, I just needed to make a few calls.”
“Calls to who?”
“Nothing you need concern yourself with.”
“So you’re taking me in now?”
“Soon,” he
“I told you already, I’ll talk with your boss.”
“He won’t give a shit. You think he’ll even think twice about firing someone like me?”
“He will if I ask him not to. Now, I ask again — what is this and where did you get it?”
She crosses her arms, switches off. That’s as much as he’s going to get from her.
“Okay have it your way, Katja. You want to spend a night inside, be my guest. We’ll talk again in the morning.”
She kicks out at the back of the driver’s seat in frustration as he turns away again.
“I found it, okay?! Jesus. I don’t know where it came from. One of the customers at the diner left it behind.”
“I thought you hadn’t started your shift yet?”
“Yesterday,” she says quickly. “I found it yesterday. They didn’t leave a tip so I figured it would even us out. I don’t know what the hell is even in there. I was going to see if Januscz knew someone who would. Maybe see if it was worth something.”
And she almost convinces him with the story. Almost.
“Do you know what this means?” he asks her, tilting the vial toward her so the watermark on the glass shows up. She shrugs and perhaps she really doesn’t know or maybe she’s just not saying.
Aleksakhina knows what it means, however.
End of conversation.
“Fine. We’ll go to the station and I’ll be back in the morning. Maybe you’ll be more talkative then?”
She looks less controlled now, her desperation leaking through, and he lets the sentiment linger to give her one final chance to talk, but she doesn’t. He finds himself grateful for her silence because he has no intention of sitting in the quickly cooling car for much longer, while trying to wring information out of her that might be a dead end anyway.
He starts the engine, drags the complaining vehicle through the ghostly night traffic. Before he reaches the station, however, he suddenly jerks the wheel and pulls over again.
“Wait here,” he tells Katja, and he stalks across to a callbox daubed with bright yellow spray paint. He keeps one eye on the girl as he lifts the receiver, and is glad to hear a tone when he puts it to his ear.
He taps in the beginnings of a number. Stops.
Puts the phone down.
Picks it up, dials the number and finishes it this time.
“It’s me,” he says. “Nothing’s the matter. I know I said I wouldn’t call but . . . I just wanted to hear your voice. I can’t talk for long. She’s not here. No, I’m out. At work. Nothing, really. I just needed a break. Yes, I know. I miss you too.”
And he says, “Goodbye,” but the line is already dead.
He stands there for another few minutes and then takes out the vial, examines the watermark. He isn’t well-versed enough to know which of the dealers’ marks it is but it won’t take too much effort to find out.
He walks back to the car feeling, for some reason, worse than before he made the call. Colder.
He knows he should go home.
But he stops, returns to the phone, dials another number, which this time he has to look up first. It’s written in a notepad with no name or other means of identification beside it and the pad is filled with other numbers and addresses.
“It’s Anatoli,” he says when the connection is made. He avoids the use of his second name. “Oh. Will he be long? I see. No . . . I have something I’d like to show him. Something he might be interested in. Perhaps I should wait until I can speak to him. . . . Yes. Tonight, if possible. Yes. Thank you.”
He puts the phone down, rolls the vial between his fingers. Katja is staring at him now through the rear window of his car, watches him all the way until he gets in.
“What’s going on?” she asks suspiciously.
“Nothing, I just needed to make a few calls.”
“Calls to who?”
“Nothing you need concern yourself with.”
“So you’re taking me in now?”
“Soon,” he
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