He came back to the den, put the items on the table into his briefcase, stopped by the bathroom to get the brass knuckles, again returned to the den, took the briefcase in one hand and the wicker basket in the other, and went out, carefully locking the den door and shouting to Guta, “I’m leaving!”
“When are you coming back?” said Guta, coming in from the kitchen. She had already brushed her hair and put makeup on, and she was no longer wearing a bathrobe but had changed into a dress—his favorite one, bright blue and low cut.
“I’ll call you,” he said, looking at her, then came up to her, bent down, and kissed her cleavage.
“Well, go on…” said Guta quietly.
“And me? What about me?” hollered the Monkey, climbing between them. He had to bend down even farther. Guta was looking at him with frozen eyes.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll call you.”
In the stairwell on the floor below, Redrick met a heavy man in striped pajamas who stood in front of his door, fiddling with his lock. From the dark recesses of his apartment wafted a warm smell of sour cooking. Redrick stopped and said, “Good morning.”
The heavy man looked warily at him over his huge shoulder and mumbled something.
“Your wife came by last night,” said Redrick. “Thought we were sawing something. There must have been a mistake.”
“What’s it to me?” grumbled the man in pajamas.
“My wife was doing the laundry last night,” continued Redrick. “If we bothered you, I apologize.”
“I didn’t say anything,” said the man in pajamas. “Feel free.”
“Well, I’m very glad,” said Redrick.
He went downstairs, stopped by the garage, put the basket down in the corner, covered it with an old seat cushion, took one last look, and came out onto the street.
It wasn’t a long walk—two blocks to the square, a bit through the park, and another block until Central Avenue. As usual, the street in front of the Metropole gleamed with the chrome and lacquer of a colorful collection of cars, doormen in raspberry uniforms lugged suitcases toward the entrance, and some respectable foreign-looking men congregated in groups of two or three on the marble staircase, chatting and smoking cigars. Redrick decided not to go there yet. He settled under the awning of a small café across the street, ordered coffee, and lit up. At a table two steps away, he saw three undercover members of the international police force, sitting silently, hastily stuffing themselves with fried sausages à la Harmont, and drinking dark beer from tall glass steins. On his other side, about ten steps away, some sergeant was gloomily scarfing down fried potatoes, holding his fork in his fist. His blue helmet was upside down on the floor beside him, and his holster was hanging on the back of his chair. No one else was in the café. The waitress, an unfamiliar middle-aged woman, stood off to the side and yawned occasionally, tactfully covering her painted mouth with her hand. It was twenty minutes to nine.
Redrick watched as Richard Noonan came out of the hotel, munching on something and pulling a soft hat over his ears. He briskly marched down the stairs—small, fat, and pink, the picture of prosperity and good health, freshly washed and cheerful, completely convinced that the day would be a good one. He waved to someone, threw his rolled-up jacket over his right shoulder, and walked to his Peugeot. Dick’s Peugeot was itself round, short, and freshly washed and somehow also gave the impression of total optimism.
Hiding his face behind his hand, Redrick watched Noonan fussily and industriously settle in behind the wheel, moving an item from the front seat to the back, bending down to pick up something, and adjusting the rearview mirror. The Peugeot coughed out a puff of bluish smoke, beeped at some African in a burnoose, and briskly rolled onto the street. From the looks of things, Noonan was heading to the Institute and therefore would go around the fountain and drive past the café. It was now too late to get up and go, so Redrick just covered his whole face with his hand and hunched over his cup. Unfortunately, this didn’t help. The Peugeot beeped right in his ear, the brakes squealed, and Noonan’s cheerful voice called out, “Hey! Schuhart! Red!”
Cursing under his breath, Redrick lifted his head. Noonan was already walking toward him, stretching out his hand. He was beaming.
“What are you doing here this early?” he asked when he came closer. “Thanks, dear,” he called to the waitress, “I don’t need anything.” And then, again addressing Redrick, “Haven’t seen you in ages. Where have you been hiding? What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Not much…” said Redrick without enthusiasm. “This and that.”
He watched as Noonan, fussy and meticulous as always, settled on the chair across from him, his plump little hands pushing the napkin holder to one side and the sandwich plate to the other; and he listened as he chattered amicably. “You look kind of beat—not getting enough sleep? You know, I’ve been run off my feet myself with the new machinery, but sleep—no, my friend, sleep’s the first thing, screw the machinery…” He suddenly looked around. “Pardon me, maybe you’re waiting for someone? Am I bothering you?”
“No, no…” said Redrick listlessly. “I just had a bit of time, thought I’d at least have a cup of coffee.”
“All right, I won’t keep you long,” Dick said and looked at his watch. “Listen, Red, why don’t you drop your this and your that and come back to the Institute? You know they’d take you back in a second. They just got a new Russian, want to work with him?”
Redrick shook his head. “No,” he said, “the next Kirill hasn’t been born yet. Besides, there’s nothing for me to do at your Institute. It’s all automated now, the robots go into the Zone, the robots, I suppose, also get the bonuses. And lab assistant salary—that won’t even cover my tobacco…”
Noonan disagreed. “Come on, that could all be sorted out.”
“And I don’t like it when other people sort things out for me,” said Redrick. “I’ve been sorting things out myself my whole life and plan to continue that way.”
“You’ve gotten proud,” Noonan said reproachfully.
“I’m not proud. I just don’t like counting pennies, that’s all.”
“Well, you’ve got a point,” said Noonan absentmindedly. He glanced casually at Redrick’s briefcase sitting on the nearby chair and rubbed his finger over the silver plating with the Cyrillic engraving. “That’s exactly right. A man needs money in order to never think about it… A present from Kirill?” he asked, nodding at the briefcase.
“My inheritance,” said Redrick. “Why haven’t I seen you at the Borscht lately?”
“More like I haven’t seen you,” said Noonan. “I almost always eat dinner there; here at the Metropole everything costs an arm and a leg… Listen,” he said suddenly, “how are you doing for money?”
“Want to borrow some?” asked Redrick.
“On the contrary.”
“Then you want to lend some.”
“There’s work,” said Noonan.
“Oh God!” said Redrick. “Not you, too!”
“Who else?” Noonan asked immediately.
“Oh, there are a lot of you… employers.”
Noonan, as if he just understood, started laughing. “No, no, this isn’t related to your primary career.”
“Then what?”
Noonan checked his watch again. “Listen,” he said, getting up. “Drop by the Borscht today at lunchtime, around one. We’ll talk.”