Two empties. A box of pins. Nine batteries. Three bracelets. Some kind of hoop, sort of like the bracelets, but of white metal, lighter, and bigger in diameter by an inch. Sixteen black sprays in a polyethylene case. Two marvelously preserved sponges the size of a fist. Three itchers. A jar of carbonated clay. There was still a heavy porcelain container carefully wrapped in fiberglass in the bag, but Redrick didn’t touch it. He smoked and examined the wealth spread out on the table.
Then he opened a drawer and took out a piece of paper, a pencil stump, and a calculator. He kept the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and squinting in the smoke, he wrote number after number, making three columns in all. He added up the first two. The numbers were impressive. He put out the butt in an ashtray and carefully opened the box and spilled out the pins on the paper. In the electric light the pins looked slightly blue and occasionally sputtered with other colors—yellow, red, and green. He picked up a pin and carefully squeezed it between his thumb and index finger, avoiding being pricked. Then he put out the light and waited a bit, getting accustomed to the dark. But the pin was silent. He put it aside and found another one, which he also squeezed. Nothing. He squeezed harder, risking a pinprick, and the pin spoke: weak red flashes ran along the pin and were suddenly replaced by slower green pulses. Redrick enjoyed this strange light play for a few seconds. He had learned from the
He ended up with seventy-three pins, twelve of which spoke. The rest were silent. Actually they too could speak, but fingers were not enough to get them started. You needed a special machine the size of the table. Redrick put on the light and added two more numbers to his list. And only then did he decide to do it.
He stuck both hands into the bag and holding his breath brought out a soft package and placed it on the table. He stared at it for a while, thoughtfully rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. Then he picked up the pencil, played with it with his clumsy rubbery fingers, and put it aside. He took another cigarette and smoked the entire thing without taking his eyes off the package.
“What the hell!” he said out loud and decisively stuffed the package back into the bag. “That’s it. Enough.”
He quickly gathered all the pins into the box and got up. It was time to go. He probably could get a half hour’s sleep to clear his head, but on the other hand, it was probably a much better idea to get there early and check out the situation. He took off the gloves, hung up the apron, and left the storeroom without turning out the light.
His suit was ready and laid out on the bed. Redrick got dressed. He was doing his tie in front of the mirror when the floor creaked behind him, and he heard heavy breathing, and he made a face to keep from laughing.
“Ha!” a tiny voice shouted next to him and someone grabbed his leg.
“Oh-oh!” Redrick exclaimed, falling back onto the bed.
Monkey, laughing and squealing, immediately clambered up on him. She trampled him, pulled his hair, and inundated him with an endless stream of news. The neighbor’s boy Willy tore off dolly’s leg. There was a new kitten on the third floor—all white and with red eyes, he probably didn’t listen to his mama and went into the Zone. She had porridge and jam for dinner. Uncle Gutalin was smashed again and was sick. He even cried. Why don’t fish drown if they live in water? Why didn’t mama sleep at night? Why are there five fingers, and and only two hands, and only one nose? Redrick carefully hugged the warm creature that was crawling all over him and looked into the huge dark eyes that had no whites at all, and cuddled his cheek against the plump little cheek covered with silky golden fleece.
“Monkey. My little Monkey. You sweet little Monkey, you.”
The phone rang by his ear. He picked up the receiver.
“I’m listening.”
Silence.
“Hello! Hello!”
No answer. There was a click and then short repeated tones. Redrick got up, put Monkey on the floor, and put on his trousers and jacket, no longer listening to her. Monkey chattered on nonstop, but he only smiled with his lips in a distracted way. Finally she announced that daddy had bit off his tongue and swallowed it and left him in peace.
He went back into the storeroom, put everything from the table into a briefcase, got his brass knuckles from the bathroom, came back to the storeroom, took the briefcase in one hand and the basket with the bag in the other, went out, carefully locked the door, and called out to Guta.
“I’m leaving.”
“When will you be back?” Guta came out of the kitchen. She had done her hair and put on makeup. She was no longer wearing her robe, either, but a house dress, his favorite one, bright blue and low-cut.
“I’ll call,” he said, looking at her. He walked over and kissed her cleavage.
“You’d better go,” Guta said softly.
“What about me? Kiss me?” Monkey whined, pushing between them.
He had to bend down even lower. Guta watched him steadily.
“Nonsense,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll call.”
On the landing below theirs, Redrick saw a fat man in striped pajamas fussing with the lock to his door. A warm sour smell was coming from the depths of his apartment. Redrick stopped.
“Good day.”
The fat man looked at him cautiously over his fat shoulder and muttered something.
“Your wife dropped by last night,” Redrick said. “Something about us sawing. It’s some kind of misunderstanding.”
“What do I care?” the man in the pajamas said.
“My wife was doing the laundry last night,” Redrick continued. “If we disturbed you, I apologize.”
“I didn’t say anything. Be my guest.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”
Redrick went outside, dropped into the garage, put the basket with the bag into the corner, covered it with an old seat, looked over his work, and went out into the street.
It wasn’t a long walk—two blocks to the square, then through the park and one more block to Central Boulevard. In front of the Metropole, as usual, there was a shiny array of cars gleaming chrome and lacquer. The porters in raspberry red uniforms were lugging suitcases into the hotel, and some foreign-looking people were standing around in groups of two and three, smoking and talking on the marble steps. Redrick decided not to go in yet. He made himself comfortable under the awning of a small cafe across the street, ordered coffee, and lit up a cigarette. Not two feet from his table were three undercover men from the international police force, silently and quickly eating grilled hot dogs Harmont style and drinking beer from tall glass steins. On the other side, some ten feet away, a sergeant was gloomily devouring French fries, his fork in his fist. His blue helmet was set upside down on the floor by his chair and his shoulder holster draped on the chair back. There were no other customers. The waitress, an elderly woman he didn’t know, stood behind the counter and yawned, genteelly covering her painted mouth with her hand. It was twenty to nine.
Redrick saw Richard Noonan leave the hotel, chewing something, and arranging his soft hat on his head. He boldly strode down the steps—short, plump, and pink, still lucky, well-off, freshly washed, and confident that the day would bring him no unpleasantness. He waved to someone, flung his raincoat over his right shoulder, and walked over to his Peugeot. Dick’s Peugeot was also plump, short, freshly washed, and seemingly confident that no unpleasantness threatened it.
Covering his face with his hand, Redrick watched Noonan bustle, get comfortable in the front seat, move something from the front seat to the back, bend down to pick something up, and adjust the rearview mirror. The Peugeot expelled a puff of blue smoke, beeped at an African in a burnoose, and jauntily drove out into the street. It looked like Noonan was headed for the institute, in which case he had to go around the fountain and drive past the cafe. It was too late to get up and leave, so Redrick covered his face completely and hunched over his cup. It didn’t help. The Peugeot beeped in his ear, the brakes squealed, and Noonan’s hearty voice called:
“Hey! Schuhart! Red!”
Redrick swore under his breath and looked up. Noonan was walking toward him, hand outstretched. Noonan was beaming.
“What are you doing here at the crack of dawn?” he asked as he approached. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said to the waitress. “Nothing for me. I haven’t seen you in a hundred years. Where’ve you been? What are you up
