Not like the ones in Zagreb, who look like they’ve come out of a morgue, except if you wanted to you could always get a corpse to smile.”
“So what does Mrs. Strumbić think about retiring to London?”
“Mrs. Strumbić doesn’t know Mr. Strumbić is going to spend his golden years where he won’t have to worry about bumping into Mrs. Strumbić again.”
“So that’s how it is. Well, lucky you. Though I’d have preferred somewhere like Rome or Barcelona.” Della Torre popped another fat black cherry into his mouth.
“I’d just sweat like a pig and develop another ulcer over how corrupt it is.”
Della Torre choked. For a moment he felt the cherry stone rising through his nose.
“London works properly, like a proper city,” Strumbić said.
“If you say so,” della Torre said, spitting out the stone.
Della Torre had sensed that after the initial smugness and braggadocio, Strumbić rather wished he hadn’t mentioned London. So that summer afternoon della Torre had dropped the subject.
But not now. Now he wanted to remind Strumbić he had something on him.
“So you’ll be heading to London, then, will you?”
“Listen, you make your plans and I’ll make mine.”
“You owe me some money, Strumbić. Remember?”
“Do I?”
“Our phone call earlier this evening.”
“Oh yeah. There’s an envelope in a soup pot under the kitchen sink. Take out four thousand Deutschmarks. No, take out five thousand and buy yourself a new suit. Least I can do after your inconvenience.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Just don’t rip me off.”
“Rip you off?” Strumbić’s brass neck forever amazed him. “Listen, Julius, I’m inclined to believe what you told me. But I don’t trust you not to stitch me up again. So I’m afraid I am going to lock you in the cellar. I’ll leave you a key for the cuffs, though.”
“Always a considerate friend.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“When you go upstairs, come back down and bring some cigarettes. Alright? And when you’ve disappeared, to Italy or America or wherever you’re going, don’t bother to send me a postcard. I won’t be around to read it.”
Della Torre stood up. He ached and was tired and was only just starting to think about how he’d get home. He rubbed his fingers on the silk tie. Distractedly, he started to pull it out of his pocket. That was a mistake.
The gunshot was deafening in the cellar’s hard-walled space. The noise rang like the inside of a church bell. Della Torre must have flipped the safety off somehow without noticing it. And obviously the Bosnian had kept it primed with a round in the barrel. The tie had snagged the trigger.
Any other time that bullet would have planted itself harmlessly into the dirt floor, or maybe flattened itself against a wall. But that night chance played funny games with della Torre. The bullet hit something it shouldn’t have. Like Strumbić.
DELLA TORRE WAS momentarily deafened. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his head. The surprise, the noise of the explosion, and the shock of the car wreck earlier in the evening caused his vision to narrow into two small tunnels of light. He thought he was passing out.
A shriek snapped him back into alertness. At first he couldn’t make any of it out, but then Strumbić’s bellowing formed itself back into language of sorts.
“You fucking fuck, you fucking shot me, you fuck, I’m fucking going to fucking kill you! Gringo, you are dead. Dead. I can’t believe you fucking shot me. Fuck it hurts. Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .”
Strumbić’s chair tilted back at an alarming angle, balancing on a single leg so that della Torre thought it was going to drop him on his back. With his arms cuffed behind him, the fall would probably dislocate Strumbić’s shoulders. Maybe break a wrist as well.
But Strumbić’s right leg had gone rigid straight in front of him, and that little bit of offsetting weight ensured that the chair righted
“So what does Mrs. Strumbić think about retiring to London?”
“Mrs. Strumbić doesn’t know Mr. Strumbić is going to spend his golden years where he won’t have to worry about bumping into Mrs. Strumbić again.”
“So that’s how it is. Well, lucky you. Though I’d have preferred somewhere like Rome or Barcelona.” Della Torre popped another fat black cherry into his mouth.
“I’d just sweat like a pig and develop another ulcer over how corrupt it is.”
Della Torre choked. For a moment he felt the cherry stone rising through his nose.
“London works properly, like a proper city,” Strumbić said.
“If you say so,” della Torre said, spitting out the stone.
Della Torre had sensed that after the initial smugness and braggadocio, Strumbić rather wished he hadn’t mentioned London. So that summer afternoon della Torre had dropped the subject.
But not now. Now he wanted to remind Strumbić he had something on him.
“So you’ll be heading to London, then, will you?”
“Listen, you make your plans and I’ll make mine.”
“You owe me some money, Strumbić. Remember?”
“Do I?”
“Our phone call earlier this evening.”
“Oh yeah. There’s an envelope in a soup pot under the kitchen sink. Take out four thousand Deutschmarks. No, take out five thousand and buy yourself a new suit. Least I can do after your inconvenience.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Just don’t rip me off.”
“Rip you off?” Strumbić’s brass neck forever amazed him. “Listen, Julius, I’m inclined to believe what you told me. But I don’t trust you not to stitch me up again. So I’m afraid I am going to lock you in the cellar. I’ll leave you a key for the cuffs, though.”
“Always a considerate friend.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“When you go upstairs, come back down and bring some cigarettes. Alright? And when you’ve disappeared, to Italy or America or wherever you’re going, don’t bother to send me a postcard. I won’t be around to read it.”
Della Torre stood up. He ached and was tired and was only just starting to think about how he’d get home. He rubbed his fingers on the silk tie. Distractedly, he started to pull it out of his pocket. That was a mistake.
The gunshot was deafening in the cellar’s hard-walled space. The noise rang like the inside of a church bell. Della Torre must have flipped the safety off somehow without noticing it. And obviously the Bosnian had kept it primed with a round in the barrel. The tie had snagged the trigger.
Any other time that bullet would have planted itself harmlessly into the dirt floor, or maybe flattened itself against a wall. But that night chance played funny games with della Torre. The bullet hit something it shouldn’t have. Like Strumbić.
DELLA TORRE WAS momentarily deafened. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his head. The surprise, the noise of the explosion, and the shock of the car wreck earlier in the evening caused his vision to narrow into two small tunnels of light. He thought he was passing out.
A shriek snapped him back into alertness. At first he couldn’t make any of it out, but then Strumbić’s bellowing formed itself back into language of sorts.
“You fucking fuck, you fucking shot me, you fuck, I’m fucking going to fucking kill you! Gringo, you are dead. Dead. I can’t believe you fucking shot me. Fuck it hurts. Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .”
Strumbić’s chair tilted back at an alarming angle, balancing on a single leg so that della Torre thought it was going to drop him on his back. With his arms cuffed behind him, the fall would probably dislocate Strumbić’s shoulders. Maybe break a wrist as well.
But Strumbić’s right leg had gone rigid straight in front of him, and that little bit of offsetting weight ensured that the chair righted
Similar Books
