“I’m fresh out of herbal tea, unless you bought some.”
Fuck, he did.
And brewed it up. It smelt like vinegar gone south. He’d bought cookies, the healthy ones, the ones they manage to remove everything from, especially the taste. We imbibed our separate feasts and Stewart asked if I’d like him to cook up something?
I said I was good, the sandwich had been plenty. As the latent control freak he was, he began to pick up the money and I near shouted,
“Don’t.”
He stopped, a hundred note resting in his hand, and he asked,
“You like to see it spread out, yeah?”
“No, I like to see it on the floor, where it belongs.”
Finally, he said he’d better make a move and asked,
“You going to be OK, Jack?”
I said sure and thanked him again for the hypnosis feat, reiterated it was very impressive.
He stopped his exit, said,
“Jack, there’s all sorts of things I could help you with.”
He had an eagerness I was loath to puncture but that never stopped me, I said,
“Yeah, you mean that?”
His face lit up. He said,
“Just name it, Jack.”
“Restore my fingers.”
I saw the pain in his eyes as I shut the door. I went to the fridge, pulled out an icy bottle of Hoegaarden, that blond fine imported beer that we can never pronounce, and got the top off with my left hand. Figured I might as well get familiar with that hand, it was in for a lot of use. I drank some of the beer chased with the Jay and felt, if not better, at least energized.
Time to get ready for action. Some years ago, I’d run into a serious hard case named Kosta. His nationality was never established.
I’d done him a major service. He was the real deal, never needed to shout the odds about his nature-it showed in his eyes and his complete ease with violence. We shared the same ideas about justice and had become almost close. He was a good guy to have in your debt. I was about to call it in. Rang him. He’d told me on our last outing, a messy affair that I’d blundered our way out of, that his gratitude was infinite, saying,
“Jack, anything you ever need, you got it, my pledge to you.”
Right. Let’s see how much smoke he was blowing.
If I was American, I’d have him on speed dial. I laboriously dialed his number from my landline, using, yeah, my left hand. I kept telling myself, Kosta dealt in everything on one condition: it was under the radar, i.e.: illegal, discreet.
He answered on the third ring with,
“Kali mera.”
Greek today, then.
I said,
“Kosta, it’s Jack… Jack Taylor.”
“Madonna del mio.”
That’s what I heard or something like it but it had warmth. I can recognize that in any tongue. I remembered then, he was one of those rarities I’d helped-he actually liked me. He said, “My friend, I am so happy to hear you. They tell me bad things have been done to you.”
I said,
“Why I’m calling you, buddy.”
I remember introducing him to the collected works of Tarantino and he was fond of quoting from the movies. Worked for me and, I guess, Tarantino. Never missing a beat, he said,
“Give me their names Jack, I’ll go biblical on their ass.”
I said,
“Thank you, I need a Mossberg Pump.”
Not exactly something you can ring up Tesco and order, least not yet.
No hesitation, he said,
“Give me your address, I’ll swing by round seven.”
My kind of guy.
And seven, on the dot, my bell rang. I’d managed to grab close to five hours sleep, popped some Xanax, and was, if not aware, at least alert. I opened the door. He was a small man with a heavily weathered face. Now my own face, I’ve lines you could plant spuds in, but Kosta made me look young.
Kind of.
His head was shaven, he had an aquiline nose, or so he said, and large brown eyes that went to black in a second. He wore his perennial black leather coat and a bespoke suit. Like an out-of-work KGB agent. That was not an impression he discouraged. As I knew from our previous form, he spoke Russian, fluently. He grabbed me in a bear hug and was one of the few who I could not only tolerate it from, but feel they meant it. A large sports bag swung loosely in his left hand, with the logo
… Ti Krema.
I’d asked before.
It was Greek for
“What a pity.”
I hadn’t asked further. Who in his right frigging mind would? I welcomed him to my home and, before I could offer hospitality, he unzipped the bag, produced a bottle of Grey Goose, handed it to me, and said,
“Nice place Jack.”
I asked,
“On the rocks or neat?”
Silly question.
I poured two large, no ice, and said,
“Sit and let’s catch up.”
We clinked glasses and I got there first, toasted,
“Slainte amach.”
He loved that. Responded with,
“To better days, my dear friend.”
Glanced at my mutilated hand, commanded,
“Drink.”
I did, we did. Ferociously.
He sat back on my freshly cleaned sofa, looked round, said,
“Very clean, very neat; this I like.”
A few moments later, the Goose bit, and that warm glow lined my stomach. He stood, glass in hand, and began to move around, paid full attention to the bookcases, selected the Poems of Hemingway, said,
“I did not know he wrote poetry.”
I said,
“Take it, then you decide if he did.”
He smiled, that’s the kind of answer he liked. He pointed his glass towards the sports bag, said,
“Your merchandise is in there.”
Paused, a vague smile hovering, added,
“With ammunition, of course.”
I took out the Mossberg and for a moment I was amazed at how light it felt. He said,
“The barrel, the grip, have been sawn off, so it fits almost like a handgun.”
He chuckled, quipped,
“Taylor made.”
Delighted at his own pun, he freshened our drinks. He said,
“Give me the shells.”
I placed half a dozen on the table. They were heavier than I’d imagined. He indicated the gun and I tossed it to him; he caught it effortlessly, one hand. Looked impressive and showed a deep familiarity with the weapon. He muttered,
“Epharisto poli.”
Thank you, in Greek.
I think.
It didn’t, of course, mean he was Greek; it simply meant he knew how to say thanks in the language. He flipped the gun to his left hand, grabbed two of the cartridges and inserted them, pumped the barrel once, said,
“Rock ‘n’ roll.”
Handed it back to me, a man who treated a loaded weapon carefully, a man who knew his trade, said,
“Practice with your left, over and over again, using your right hand to prop the barrel.”
I tried, fumbled, and he moved his finger.
I. e., again.
I did.
Knowing there were shells in it kept me focused. We stayed at it for a time, his eyes never leaving the weapon. Finally as sweat began to roll down my face, he signaled: enough. I went to put the gun aside and he said,
“No, make it part of your hand. Until it is, you are an amateur.” Lesson over, the steel left his voice. He asked,
“Need backup?”
I thought about it, said,
“Maybe.”
Then I reached for a thick envelope I’d readied and moved to put it in his hand. He shook his head, said,
“No, but perhaps, a little further along, I might call on your assistance.”
I assured him with,
“Ask and ’tis done.”
Words that will haunt me to my grave.
We sat, sipped at our drinks in more relaxed fashion. Laura’s letter was on the table. He asked,
“A woman?”
“Yes.”
He could see it was unopened, then,
“Do you love her?”
With Kosta, everything was direct, to the point of bluntness.
I said,