“I won’t detain you any longer,” said General Lemchen. “You have a week. Provide an explanation for how material from your Zone falls into the hands of Burbridge and the rest of that scum. Good-bye!”
Noonan stood up, awkwardly nodded to General Lemchen’s profile, and, continuing to wipe his profusely sweating neck, fled to the reception area. The tan young man was smoking, staring thoughtfully into the entrails of the disassembled machine. He cast a cursory glance in Noonan’s direction—his eyes were blank, focused inward.
Richard Noonan clumsily pulled on his hat, grabbed his raincoat, tucked it under his arm, and beat a hasty retreat. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before, he fumed, his thoughts confused and disjointed. Give me a break—Ben-Halevy the Nose! He’s already earned a nickname… When? That twerp—a strong wind could snap him in half… That snot-nosed kid… No, something’s not right. Damn you, Vulture, you legless bastard! You’ve really fucked me this time! Caught me with my pants down, fed me a load of bullshit. How in the world did this happen? This simply couldn’t have happened! Just like that time in Singapore—face slammed against the table, head slammed against the wall…
He got into his car and, unable to think straight, spent a while groping under the dashboard in search of the ignition. His hat was dripping onto his knees, so he took it off and blindly hurled it into the back. Rain was flooding the windshield, and for some reason Richard Noonan kept imagining that this was why he had no idea what to do next. Realizing this, he banged his bald forehead with his fist. That helped. He immediately remembered that there was no ignition and there couldn’t possibly be and that in his pocket was a spacell. A perpetual battery. And he had to take the damn thing out of his pocket and stick it into the jack, and then he could at least drive away—drive as far as possible from this place, where that old ass was certainly watching him from the window…
Noonan’s hand, which was holding the spacell, froze halfway. All right. At least I know where to start. I’ll start with him. Boy, how I’ll start with him! He won’t even know what hit him. And the fun I’ll have! He turned on the windshield wipers and sped along the boulevard, seeing almost nothing in front of him but already calming down. Fine. Let it be like Singapore. After all, Singapore turned out OK. Big deal—your face got slammed against the table. It might have been worse. It might not have been your face, and it might not have been a table, but something nail studded… My God, this could all be so simple! We could round up these scum and put them away for a decade… or send them the hell away! Now, in Russia they’ve never even heard of stalkers. Over there, they really have an empty belt around the Zone—a hundred miles wide, no one around, none of these stinking tourists, and no Burbridges. Think simple, gentlemen! I swear this doesn’t need to be so complicated. No business in the Zone—good-bye, off you go to the hundred and first mile. All right, let’s not get sidetracked. Where’s my little establishment? Can’t see a damn thing… Oh, there it is.
It wasn’t a busy hour, but Five Minutes was blazing with lights fit for the Metropole. Shaking off like a dog after a swim, Richard Noonan stepped into a brightly lit hall that reeked of tobacco, perfume, and stale champagne. Old Benny, not yet in his uniform, was sitting at a table across from the entrance and gobbling something, his fork in his fist. In front of him, resting her enormous breasts between the empty glasses, towered the Madam, dolefully watching him eat. The hall still hadn’t been cleaned from last night. When Noonan came in, the Madam immediately turned her broad painted face toward him, at first looking displeased but quickly dissolving into a professional smile. “Ha!” she boomed. “Mr. Noonan himself! Missed the girls?”
Benny continued to gobble; he was as deaf as a post.
“Hello, old lady!” replied Noonan, approaching. “What do I need with girls, when I have a real woman in front of me?”
Benny finally noticed him. His hideous mug, crisscrossed with red and blue scars, contorted with effort into a welcoming smile. “Hello, boss!” he wheezed. “Come in to dry off?”
Noonan smiled in response and waved his hand. He didn’t like talking to Benny; he always had to holler. “Where’s my manager, guys?” he asked.
“In his office,” replied the Madam. “Tomorrow is tax day.”
“Oh, those taxes!” said Noonan. “All right. Madam, fix me my favorite drink, I’ll be right back.”
Silently stepping on the thick synthetic carpet, he walked along the hallway past the curtain-covered stalls—the walls by the stalls were decorated with pictures of various flowers—turned into an unremarkable cul-de-sac, and, without knocking, opened the leather-covered door.
Hamfist Kitty was sitting behind the desk and examining an evil-looking sore on his nose in a mirror. He couldn’t care less that tomorrow was tax day. The surface in front of him held only a jar of mercury ointment and a glass of some see-through liquid. Hamfist Kitty raised his bloodshot eyes at Noonan and leaped up, dropping the mirror. Without saying a word, Noonan lowered himself into the armchair across from him and spent a while silently scrutinizing the rascal and listening as he mumbled something incoherent about the damn rain and his rheumatism. Then Noonan said, “Please lock the door, pal.”
Hamfist, stomping his huge flat feet, ran to the door, turned the key, and came back to the desk. He towered like a hairy mountain over Noonan, staring devotedly at his mouth. Noonan kept examining him through screwed-up eyes. For some reason he suddenly remembered that Hamfist Kitty’s real name was Raphael. The nickname Hamfist came from his monstrous bony fists, bluish red and bare, that protruded from the thick fur covering his arms as if from a pair of sleeves. And he named himself Kitty in complete confidence that this was the traditional name of the great Mongolian kings. Raphael. Well, Raphael, let us begin.
“How are things?” Noonan asked affectionately.
“In perfect order, boss,” Raphael-Hamfist answered hastily.
“Did you patch up the scandal at headquarters?”
“Put down a hundred fifty bucks. Everyone is happy.”
“That’s a hundred fifty from your pocket,” said Noonan. “That was your fault, pal. Should have kept an eye on it.”
Hamfist made a miserable face and spread his huge hands in submission.
“The hardwood floor in the lobby should be replaced,” said Noonan.
“Will do.”
Noonan paused, pursing his lips. “Any swag?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“There’s some,” said Hamfist, also lowering his voice.
“Show me.”
Hamfist darted to the safe, took out a package, placed it on the desk in front of Noonan, and unwrapped it. Noonan poked a finger into the pile of black sparks, picked up a bracelet, examined it from every side, and put it back.
“Is that it?” he asked.
“They don’t bring any,” Hamfist said guiltily.
“‘They don’t bring any,’” repeated Noonan.
He took careful aim and kicked Hamfist’s shin as hard as he could with the toe of his shoe. Hamfist moaned and started to bend over to grab the injured leg but immediately drew himself up and stood at attention. Then Noonan leaped up, as if someone had jabbed him in the ass, kicked aside the armchair, grabbed Hamfist by the collar of his shirt, and went at him, kicking, rolling his eyes, and whispering obscenities. Hamfist, gasping and moaning and rearing his head like a frightened horse, backed away from him until he collapsed onto the couch.
“Working both sides, bastard?” hissed Noonan right into his eyes, which were white with terror. “Burbridge is swimming in swag, and you bring me little beads wrapped in paper?” He turned around and smacked Hamfist in the face, taking care to hit the sore on his nose. “I’ll have you rot in jail! You’ll be living in shit… Eating shit… You’ll curse the day you were born!” He took another hard jab at the sore. “How is Burbridge getting swag? Why do they bring it to him but not to you? Who brings it? Why don’t I know anything? Who are you working for, you hairy pig? Tell me!”