Mozoň nods to Šolik and Tupý. “Go after him,” he orders them in a muffled voice. “And don’t come back without the money!”
Rácz comes out of the lavatory, buttoning up his fly, when he finds himself confronted with two police warrant cards.
“Well, so what’s this all about?” he asks, puzzled by the two smiling men with ID cards in their outstretched hands.
“Come with us and no funny stuff!” Rácz is ordered quietly, but firmly by one of them.
“And why?” asks Rácz.
Both the very ordinary-looking young men ponder the stoker’s question. “Show us your ID,” the other one says.
Rácz takes out his ID card, but won’t let them have it. “I work here,” he declares.
“Really?” the second undercover policeman asks menacingly.
“And what do you do here?” the more polite one asks.
“I’m the stoker,” Rácz says. “Here’s the stamp: ‘Hotel Ambassador’, you see?” The ID card disappears into Rácz’s inside pocket.
“Show us the contents of your pockets!” the less polite one orders him.
“Are you fucking nuts?” Rácz stares at him. “Don’t I pay you enough not to cause trouble here? What department are you from? Are you new?”
“Will you empty your pockets, or not?” the angry one shouts at Rácz, winking at the polite one. In an instant the polite one grabs the stoker by the arms from behind. The angry one unzips the jacket and reaches for the pocket.
Rácz, red in the face, makes a jerking movement. His bulging eyes watch the cop as he slowly frees his hands. Like a vice, his right hand grabs the angry one’s hand, pulls it out of his pocket and twists it back. Then he clenches his fist and punches the pushy undercover cop in the mouth. The blow is so violent that both cops fall to the ground. They lie on the floor and can’t understand what is going on. This has never happened to them before. Worse, the angry one’s mouth is full of blood and broken fillings and crowns. Rácz doesn’t wait for the cops to come round. He beats it fast to the exit. Tupý struggles to his feet. His head is swimming from the blow. He spits out blood, fillings, and crowns. A big hand-gun appears in his hand. Holding it with both hands, he wavers as he aims at the stoker’s silhouette.
“No!” Šolik shouts from the floor. “Don’t shoot!”
It’s too late. The shot booms out and the hall fills with acrid smoke. The glass door through which the stoker has disappeared noisily smashes into shards. The bullet whistles into the lobby and buries itself in the wall above Torontál, who grabs the mahogany reception desk in fear. The old man wakes up from his apathy, realises what has happened, and faints. But his desire to be the centre of attention is frustrated. Nobody takes any notice of him; they all run to see what has happened in the lounge. They scream and retreat when a confused Tupý runs in, pointing at them a smoking gun that he holds in both hands. He runs out of the hotel and his partner follows him.
“Are you crazy?” Šolik yells at Tupý. “Let’s get out of here!” Both cops run round the corner. Tupý puts the pistol in the holster and zips up his windcheater. They wait at the trolleybus stop, leaving their superior to his fate in the Ambassador lounge.
“I’ll have hith gutth one day!” Tupý mutters, spitting blood and saliva into the snow. “I’ll get him and put a hole in hith belly thith big!” Tupý uses his thumbs and index fingers to show the size of the hole.
Mozoň didn’t get up after Tupý fired. In the general chaos that reigned afterwards he kept his cool.
“You were sitting with them,” a waiter standing above him accused him sharply.
“Me?” Mozoň asked. “Yes, I was, but I don’t know them.” Mozoň was just sitting at their table. He doesn’t know who they were.
The waiter eyes him suspiciously. “Wait here,” he orders him. “Soon the assistant manager will come and decide what to do with you.” He goes to the bar.
Mozoň is not afraid of anything. Just in case, he cocks the gas pistol in the pocket. One shot of tear gas will allow him to leave without hindrance. He finishes his coffee.
Through the smashed door enters the hotel lawyer. The phone call caught him at a rare moment when he was present in the building. Since the lawyer has been selling entitlements to five Škoda Favorit vehicles, he was in his office manning the phones. He couldn’t wriggle out of it. The lawyer knows that the hotel works by itself, like a well-oiled machine. The department chiefs can handle everything. But extraordinary events, such as a shoot-out in the lounge, are different. If only because they have to be covered up. The lawyer can’t afford any special attention to be paid to the Hotel Ambassador: even those unfortunate Škoda Favorit cars were ordered for the hotel.
“Yes, I’ll take care of that,” the lawyer tells the waiter after hearing a detailed report about an unidentified man who was drinking coffee. “First, the clean-up. Wash off the blood in the hall! Was it Rácz’s?” he asks hopefully. “No,” says the waiter. “The boss wasn’t hit.”
The lawyer goes up to Mozoň. The waiter listens eagerly.
“Good morning,” says the lawyer.
“Good morning,” Mozoň answers.
“Would you accompany me to my office?” the lawyer asks loudly, because the waiter is listening. “It’s only a formality.”
“No problem,” says Mozoň and gets up.
The lawyer points, “This way, please.”
In the lift Mozoň says, “Shit, how long is it since we last met?”
The lawyer reflects, “Ten years?”
“Could be,” says Mozoň. “So you’re the assistant manager?”
“Hotel lawyer, to be precise. But the manager is… indisposed, so I’m standing in for him. And what about you? If I’m not mistaken, after they kicked you out of law school, you went to police college. Still there?”
Mozoň’s face takes on a confidential expression. He nods.
The lift stops at the second floor. They cross the corridor and the lawyer unlocks his office. They enter.
“Will you have a vodka?” the lawyer asks. Mozoň nods. “I’m so happy that we’ve met after all these years!” the lawyer says and pours the drinks. They clink glasses and the lawyer pours again.
“So how goes it?” the lawyer asks after the fifth vodka. “Are you here on duty?”
“What?” the drunken Mozoň just waves his hand. “It’s all fucked up! Everything!” He’d served the people his entire life, if you please, and what did he get? The height of ingratitude! Nobody cares that Mozoň happens to be a family man. He never hurt anyone. Even if he had beaten people up, it was only because they were some kind of tramp: a dissident, student, or writer. “We won’t let them destroy our republic!” And how did they repay him? They threw him, together with the others, out on the street.
“You’re ex-State Security?” the lawyer asked almost jovially. All his worries had evaporated.
Mozoň is a lawyer, too. He studied law at cops’ college. For two years he went to lectures every Wednesday, like an idiot. Mozoň has a doctorate, too. His classmate may pour him another drink. “Your health!”
Mozoň drinks his vodka. He’s as good a doctor as any other policeman. But when they sacked him and he was looking for a job, he was told everywhere that his diploma was only good for wiping his arse. “So where’s the justice?”