"What's that smell?"
Vuk sniffed and ran a hand through his bleached hair. "Smells like piss."
"Right," Ivo said, nodding. "We got a car somebody pissed his pants in. Backseat, I'll bet."
Vuk smiled. "Someone was awfully frightened while riding in this car. Very likely his last ride."
"Well," Ivo said, "if a pee-stained car is our worst punishment, I'll take it."
Vuk laughed. "The boss was mad as hell, wasn't he. We're lucky we got off with our skins."
Ivo nodded. They could laugh now, but last night it had been no laughing matter. Normally Dragovic would shrug off an accident like a pierced radiator, but he'd flown off the handle, raging about the security area like a madman. He was still in a fury over the tire attack, wanting to kill somebody for it, but who? For a few moments Ivo had been ready to piss his own pants, fearing that he and Vuk would end up as surrogate whipping boys.
But then Dragovic had stopped abruptly, almost in midshout, and stalked from the room, leaving Vuk and Ivo—and no doubt many of the others present—shaken and sweaty.
Ivo remembered a sergeant like that in Kosovo. He'd had that same unpredictable, almost psychopathic streak. But at least the Army's rules and regulations had restrained him somewhat. Dragovic had nothing to hold him back. The rules were all his and he could change them whenever he pleased.
Ivo missed the Army, even though much time was spent sitting around waiting for something to happen or to be told what to do. Mostly he missed the structured existence. He did not miss the fighting.
He still had nightmares about Kosovo. He hadn't taken part in the cleansing. Never in a thousand lifetimes could he step into a home and shoot everyone in sight. Most of that had been done by the local police and paramilitaries. Some soldiers had participated—Vuk, for one—but most just stood by and let it happen.
That was my sin, Ivo thought. Turning my head. That and looting.
The looting had been so senseless—carrying off televisions with no way to get them back home. Only the officers had access to trucks, and they simply commandeered the most valuable items from the men under them and shipped them home.
The Ivo who left Kosovo was a far cry from the Ivo who had entered that hellish province. The night before boarding the transport out, he'd prayed that he wouldn't have to kill. But he'd returned with blood on his hands—the blood of a few KLA guerrillas, and civilians as well. But he'd killed civilians only when they'd asked for it.
His unit had been stationed in the area between Gnjilane and Zegra, and no one who was not there could ever understand what it was like. An old woman would hobble by a group of soldiers and, just before turning a corner, toss a hand grenade into their midst.
Sometimes you had to shoot first. Ivo knew fellows who hesitated. They went home in boxes.
Ivo had learned, and he'd returned to Belgrade in one piece. But the pale face and dead baffled eyes of a fourteen-year-old boy he'd shot, an unarmed boy who'd looked like he was armed but was only looking for a handout, had followed Ivo home and stayed with him.
At least in the Army you had the weight of the government behind you. Here, with Dragovic, the government was against you. But either way, you spent a lot of time waiting. Like now.
"Do you think the man from the beach was in that truck yesterday?" Vuk said, nodding toward the town house.
Ivo glanced at him. Why was he always paired with Vuk? He liked nothing about him. Too rash, always looking for trouble. Why look for trouble when it had so many ways of finding you.
"I suspect it, but I couldn't prove it."
Neither had mentioned their suspicions about the truck to Dragovic or anyone else last night. They'd have looked like fools for allowing themselves to be suckered, and they knew how the boss dealt with fools.
"One thing I do know," Ivo said, "is that after it happened, whoever lives there was able to come and go as free as they pleased. And that makes me—"
The car jolted and rocked as something slammed into the left front fender, knocking Ivo against Vuk.
"Sranje!" Vuk shouted as he was thrown against the passenger door.
Ivo straightened in his seat and looked around. His first thought: Not that truck again!
But instead of a truck he saw an old rusted-out Ford with its right front bumper buried in the Lincoln's fender. But no bearded man behind the wheel. This time it was a short, muscular Hispanic.
"Hey, sorry, meng," the man said with an apologetic smile. "This old thing don't steer too good."
"Govno!" Ivo yelled as he tried to push his door open, but the Ford was too close.
Vuk was already opening the passenger door, but by the time he'd reached the sidewalk, the Ford was screeching away, leaving them coughing in the thick white smoke from its exhaust.
"Get him!" Vuk shouted.
Ivo was already turning the key. As he threw the Lincoln into gear and hit the gas, it lurched forward a foot or so before swerving toward the curb. Ivo cursed and yanked on the steering wheel but it wouldn't budge.
"What's wrong?" Vuk said.
"Jammed!"
Vuk jumped out and ran around to the front of a car where he froze. Then his face contorted as he began swearing and kicking at the front tire.
Ivo got out to see what he was doing.
"Look!" Vuk shouted. "Look!"
In an instant he understood: the Ford had scored a direct hit on the wheel, leaving it cocked on its axle.
Ivo turned and watched the battered old car dwindling in the distance on Sutton Place. Then he swung around and glared at the town house.
Vuk followed his gaze. "You don't think…"
"The man who hit us just now was not the man from the beach," Ivo said. "But still…"
Vuk turned back to the car. "Never mind him. What are we going to do about this?"
Ivo's anger faded to fear as he realized they were going to have to report another disabled car to Dragovic.
Vuk paled. The same must have dawned on him. "We'll have to get it fixed! Immediately!"
"On a Sunday?" Ivo said. "How?"
"I don't know, but we must!"
As Vuk yanked out his cell phone and began jabbing the keypad, Ivo's mind raced. If they could have the car towed, somehow get it repaired, they'd say nothing. As for watching the house… they'd lie… report no activity. No one was home anyway.
But they had to fix this damn car.
3
"One child," Jack said as he handed a ten to the guy in the ticket booth.
He was a beefy type, wearing a straw boater. He looked around.
"What child?"
"Me. I'm a kid at heart."
"Funny," the ticket man said without a smile as he slid an adult ticket and change across the tray.
Jack entered the main tent of the Ozymandias Prather Oddity Emporium and checked out his fellow attendees: a sparse and varied crew, everything from middle-class folk who looked like they'd just come from church to Goth types in full black regalia.
At first glance the show looked pretty shabby. Everything seemed so worn, from the signs above the booths to the poles supporting the canvas. Look up and it was immediately apparent from the sunlight leaking through that the Oddity Emporium was in need of new tents. He wondered what they did when it rained. Thunderstorms were predicted for later. Jack was glad he'd be out of here long before then.
As he moved along he tried to classify the Oddity Emporium. In some ways it was a freak show, and in many ways not.
First off, Jack had never seen freaks like some of these. Sure, they had the World's Fattest Man, a giant billed as the World's Tallest Man, two sisters with undersized heads who sang in piercing falsetto harmony—nothing so special about them.