Video Urban noticed hundreds of eyes watching him indifferently through the misted windows of buses, trucks, and cars.
“Where’s your car?” the polite one asked.
Urban’s lower jaw began to shake; he couldn’t speak. “So that’s it,” he thought, accepting the possibility in the far recesses of his soul, but he couldn’t believe it was real. He dropped his right hand to scratch his cheek.
“Hands behind your head!” yelled the angry one, jabbing him in the ribs with the gun.
Urban had encountered this situation many times in his nightmares. But when he wanted to wake up he always did. This time he couldn’t. He felt for his car keys and the polite one took them from his hand, unlocked the car door and said, “Get in, please.”
“Move it, move it,” the angry one yelled and motioned with a gun that was at least two sizes too big.
Urban sat at the steering wheel with the polite one next to him and the angry one behind him. Urban was afraid to look in the rear-view mirror, but he sensed that the angry one was pointing the gun at him. Everyone kept quiet for a while.
“Can I see your ID again?” Urban asked, because he couldn’t think of anything better to say.
“Yes, of course,” said the polite one and shoved his ID card in front of Urban’s nose.
“May I put my hands down?” asked Urban. His bowels urgently needed to be relieved, but he managed to master them. He took the ID card and studied it for a while. Then he gave it back.
After a moment’s silence, the polite one asked him casually, “Have you ever been in prison?”
Urban shook his head and swallowed. His mouth was dry.
“Well, let’s have a look,” said the polite one cheerfully.
The angry one took out Urban’s wallet and they both began counting. When they’d finished, both were visibly impressed by the size of the total.
“Well,” the polite one said, “this money is now confiscated.” To show he meant it, he stuffed a bunch of banknotes under his belt. He put the empty wallet, Urban’s ID and address book into the glove compartment.
“Now the question is whether you want to be locked up or not,” said the polite one, looking out of the window. “You’re young; you’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
Urban couldn’t help smiling: the undercover policemen did not look any older than him.
The polite one continued, “They’d tear your arse to pieces your first night in the cells.”
Urban remembered Hurensson and the camera that he’d put away, as soon as he’d unwrapped it, in the cupboard, where it had stayed ever since. If he’d stuck to the video business, as he originally planned, this would have never happened to him.
“But it all depends on you,” the polite one concluded.
“What do you mean?” Urban put the question in a hurry, as he felt instinctively that at the end of this dark tunnel of fear and horror flickered a small light of hope.
“Are you that stupid?” the angry one yelled, pushing the barrel of the gun into the back of his head.
The polite one smiled patiently. “Look,” he said, “this money,” and he patted his now bulging windcheater, “this money is officially confiscated. You won’t get any of it back. No way. We’ll give you now a receipt to say that we’ve confiscated it. As well as giving you a receipt, we’ll handcuff you and take you in. You’ll be on remand because we’ll hand your case to the prosecutor. He’ll prepare the case. In a nutshell, you won’t get out of this. You’re looking at a good five to eight years, the way I see it.” The polite one paused for dramatic effect and then turned away from the misted window. “That’s one option,” he added dryly.
Video Urban swallowed hard and took a breath to ask a question.
The polite one beat him to it. “The second option? Well, the second option is that you don’t ask for a receipt for the money we’ve confiscated, and we don’t handcuff you.” He smiled like someone used to doing favours and making people happy. “You’ll drive us into town and let us out, say, at the Stefanka Café. Then we’ll say goodbye and everyone goes their own way. You choose.” The polite one put his hand in his pocket. He asked, “May I smoke in here?”
“Yes, of course,” said Urban, startled, as he had been imagining miles and miles of barbed wire, cold mornings in a prison yard, and black, dark, gloomy buildings.
The polite one took out a package of Mars cigarettes. “Want one?” He offered them to Video Urban.
“Only then did Urban snap out of his numbed state and reach for a package of Marlboros. “Have one,” he offered.
“With pleasure,” the polite one said happily. He took the Marlboro, let Urban light it and smoked, piously holding the cigarette between thumb and index finger.
“I don’t smoke,” said the angry one when Urban offered him the pack. “So what have you decided?” he yelled at Video Urban.
“Why would I want a receipt?” asked Urban.
“Just what I think,” the polite one chimed in. “You can always make more money, but nobody will give you back your freedom. So, start the car and take us into town.”
Urban started the car and moved off. He looked at a red light on the dashboard. He had meant to fill up.
“Listen, gentlemen,” he turned to the undercover policemen.
“What is it?” the angry one reacted menacingly.
Urban explained the situation briefly. The tank was empty. They were running just on the fumes left in it. They absolutely had to stop at a petrol station if they wanted to get back to town.
“So?” asked the polite one “Let’s stop. What’s the problem?”
“Well, I don’t have any money for petrol,” said Urban.
“Oh, I see,” the polite one smiled. “I understand.” He grabbed the bunch of notes from under his belt, peeled off two hundred crowns and gave them to Urban with a magnanimous gesture. “You’ll have enough left over for a coffee and a shot of liquor. You’re going to need it, right?”
The young men got off at the café they’d mentioned. “Well, good luck,” the polite one said.
“Same to you,” mumbled Urban, and headed for the Hotel Ambassador. He didn’t know whether to be happy or angry. He’d lost almost all his money, but, on the other hand, he was as free as a bird.
* * *
Video Urban never ever wants to do currency changing again. His losses have almost driven him mad. He hasn’t been able to sleep for a couple of nights. He doesn’t even phone that “dry whore” Lenka any more. He can’t get the money out of his mind. But she wouldn’t let him screw her, anyway. Now Urban is quite sure: fast money is no good. It’s better to make money slowly. If he hadn’t been so greedy, he’d have had more by now. Nobody could have robbed him of his profit and his capital. He should’ve gone into business with his camera, as he originally intended. He would pay taxes and have peace of mind. Urban was not meant to be a currency dealer: he’s an artist.
He’s sitting at the Ambassador bar, drinking whisky. He’s not completely broke yet, not at all. But he’s still upset. He shouldn’t have hustled so much. He brought this all on himself because of insatiable greed. From now on, he’ll stop racing like a greyhound after an artificial hare. He had always been lucky, until he started hustling. Yes, Urban will go back to his old nonchalant ways. He won’t be a millionaire this year. So what? What does he actually need to live on, to be happy? Just enough to eat, and not to feel the cold. And a car. It doesn’t have to be a Mercedes or a BMW; no need for those. A nice Škoda Favorit will do. And he’s got one. That’s all you need around here. Why make people envious? What else does he need? Petrol money; he’s used to driving everywhere and has forgotten what the inside of a tram or a trolleybus looks like. He needs money for entertainment. To have fun at a bar, to invite a bird out to dinner, to buy a videocassette, a CD, or a cassette tape to play his favourite music. Basically, he wants a relaxed worry-free life.