folded across their bulky chests. “So you don’t need to drop the weight on me.”
“No…” Harrisch made a show of considering the remark. “I don’t
The thuggish types moved in and proceeded to take McNihil apart. Nothing fancy, sheer muscle and knuckle; knees to the kidneys, sweat-smelling forearms thick and corrugated as tree trunks, hard enough across the face to screw his neck around, a panoramic quick flash of the flat and its inhabitants as the one holding him up let go at last.
He could almost admire their professionalism.
Which was Harrisch’s point. The exec leaned over McNihil, looking down at him. “That was for being rude. The last time we got together.” Harrisch let his smile fade, his voice dropping to serious as well. “When I offer somebody a job, I expect that person to give it a lot of thought. And not just lip off to me.”
One of the company thugs gave McNihil a kick in the ribs. He could recognize the nature of the boot, its steel toe reinforced with a lump of depleted uranium; the guy would have to be big to walk around in footwear like that. The impact was enough to shock the contents of McNihil’s gut into his throat, but he managed to hold down the sour rush. Rolling onto his side, he spat a red wad of saliva and a broken tooth fragment out onto the floor.
“And then-” Harrisch squatted down and looked him straight in the eye. “I expect him to
McNihil shook the last anesthetic fog out of his head. The bruises sang up along his nervous system, but he could string his thoughts together again. “It’s going to be hard… for me to get much work done for you…” His mouth had filled with blood again; he swallowed thick salt. “If I’m up on murder charges.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of your legal problems. You won’t even have to think about them.”
That was what he’d expected the deal to be. If Harrisch and his crew of corporate lawyers couldn’t get him off entirely, they could delay it long enough for him to die of old age. Or at least long enough for him to figure out some other escape plan.
“You know where we are.” Harrisch stood up, holding the thin smile over him again. “We’ll expect you bright and early.”
McNihil closed his eyes and listened to the heavy tread of the pair who’d worked him over, heading toward the door and pulling it open for their boss. The door closed behind them and the flat was silent; another moment, and the stereo started up again. The chorus sang once more of resurrection, but he didn’t believe them.
“What I’m not completely sure about…” McNihil spoke slowly, tasting the trickle of blood down his throat. “Is why you.” He raised one swollen eyelid and brought Turbiner into focus. “Why should you help connect me over.”
In the sweet-spot chair, Turbiner dangled the remote control in one hand. “No special reason.” He gazed toward the invisible orchestra between the speakers, rather than at McNihil. “Or just the usual ones. They made me an offer. I needed the money. I’m not getting a lot of reprints; nobody’s really interested in old books these days.” He shrugged. “You know how it is. You gotta make your copyrights valuable one way or another.”
McNihil lifted himself painfully into a sitting position on the floor. He wiped red onto his palm from his chin. The strange thing was that he couldn’t even manage to hate the guy.
At the door, McNihil stopped as he laid his hand on the metal knob. “You know…” He looked back over his shoulder. “This is why nobody reads your old books…”
Slouching in the chair, Turbiner raised his head. “Why’s that?”
“It’s that
After a moment, Turbiner slowly nodded, then turned back to the music.
McNihil stepped out into the corridor and silence. But only for a moment; then he turned and walked back into Turbiner’s flat.
Silence became total, the music over, when McNihil reached behind the stereo equipment and ripped the new trophy cable loose.
“Now that’s just connecting petty,” said Turbiner, disgusted. “That’s just vindictive.”
“That’s right, pal.” McNihil rolled the cable up into a tight coil and stuck it in his jacket pocket. He didn’t feel any better for having done it, but he didn’t feel any worse.
“You know… that really does belong to me.” The old writer followed him to the door. “It’s from the violation of my copyrights.
“Yeah?” McNihil halted; he glanced over his shoulder at the other man. “Your books, huh? And what would somebody like me do to you right about now, in one of your books? Tell me that.”
Turbiner didn’t have an answer. Or did, but didn’t want to say it.
“Believe me,” said McNihil. “You’re getting off lucky.”
PART THREE
Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,
Tod und Verzweiflung flammet um mich her!…
Zertrummert sei’n auf ewig all Bande der Natur…
– The Queen of the Night’s Aria, from
by WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART, libretto by
EMANUEL SCHIKANEDER
(1791)
FOURTEEN
Are you sure this is where you want to be?”
“That’s funny.” McNihil found that funny, because the place looked like a doctor’s office. A real one, the way doctors’ offices looked in the movies stitched inside his eyes. He could’ve used a doctor, even though forty-eight hours or more-hard to tell in the perpetual night McNihil saw-had passed since Harrisch’s thugs had handed his ass to him. He’d spent the time since that occasion lying on top of the narrow bed in his unkempt apartment, in the same clothes he’d been wearing then and was wearing now. Every once in a while, he’d gotten up and headed down the hallway to the bathroom, he’d had to lean his arm and forehead against the wall above the toilet to remain standing. His urine had gradually faded from the color of cabernet to a light rose. Even now, his bones and a good deal of his bruise-darkened flesh still ached; it’d been a big accomplishment to even try shaving before venturing out and coming to this place.
There was another reason he found the question funny. “Somebody else,” said McNihil, “asked me that exact same question, just a few minutes ago.”
“Really?” The man sitting on the other side of the desk wasn’t a doctor, not a real one; not even an imitation of
