and drinking parties at lakesides. He’s hauling it in, he just doesn’t need the money. Excuse me, I know I’m blabbing nonsense, but I can assure you that I haven’t lost sight of Burbridge since he got out of the hospital.”
“I won’t keep you any longer,” Mr. Lemchen said. “I’m giving you a week. Come up with some ideas as to how the material from the Zone gets into the hands of Burbridge—and all the others. Goodbye.”
Noonan rose, nodded to Lemchen’s profile, and still wiping his sweating neck, went out into the reception area. The tan young man was smoking, thoughtfully gazing into the bowels of the mangled electronic device. He glanced over at Noonan—his eyes were empty and seemed to gaze inward.
Richard Noonan shoved his hat on his head, grabbed his raincoat, and went outside. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. His thoughts were confused and rambling. I must—Ben Halevy the Nose! He’s even gotten himself a nickname! When? He’s just a little punk, a snotty-nosed little punk. No, there’s something else going on! You legless shmuck. Buzzard, you really got me this time. Caught me with my pants down. How could it have happened? Just like that time in Singapore—face flat on the table, then slammed against the wall…
He got in the car and for some time looked around the dashboard for the ignition key, forgetting everything. Rain was dripping from his hat onto his lap. He took it off and tossed it into the back without looking. Rain was streaming across the windshield, and Richard Noonan thought that it was keeping him from understanding what his next step should be. He punched himself in the head. He felt better. He immediately remembered that there was no key and couldn’t be any because the so-so was in his pocket. The permanent battery. And you have to take it out of your pocket, dummy, and stick it into the jack, and then at least you’ll be able to drive somewhere—somewhere far away from this building where the old bastard was probably watching from a window.
Noonan’s hand froze as it was reaching for the so-so. Now I know who to begin with. I’ll begin with him, oh how I’ll begin with him. Nobody’s ever begun with anybody the way I’ll begin with him. And it’ll be a pleasure. He turned on the wipers and drove down the avenue, seeing almost nothing in front of him, but slowly calming down. All right. Let it be like it was in Singapore. After all, it ended well in Singapore. So what, I got my face slammed down on the table one lousy time! It could have been worse. It could have been some other part of me and it could have been something with nails in it instead of a table. All right, let’s stay on the track. Where’s my little establishment? Can’t see a damn thing. Ah, here it is.
It wasn’t business hours, but the Five Minutes was as lit up as the Metropole. Shaking himself like a dog coming out of the water, Richard Noonan entered the brightly lit room that reeked of tobacco, perfume, and stale champagne. Old Benny, not in uniform yet, was sitting at the counter eating something, his fork in his fist. Spreading out her huge breasts on the counter among the empty glasses, Madame watched him eat. The room had not yet been cleaned up from last night. When Noonan walked in, Madame turned her broad, heavily made-up face toward him. It was angry at first, but immediately dissolved into a professional smile.
“Hi!” she said in her deep voice. “Mr. Noonan himself! Missed the girls?”
Benny went on eating; he was as deaf as a doornail.
“Greetings, old lady! What do I need with the girls when I have a real woman in front of me?”
Benny finally noticed him. His horrible face, covered with blue and purple scars, contorted into a welcoming smile.
“Hello, boss! Came in out of the rain?”
Noonan smiled in return and waved. He did not like talking with Benny: he had to shout all the time.
“Where’s my manager, folks?” he asked.
“In his room,” Madame answered. “He has to pay the taxes tomorrow.
“Oh, those taxes! All right. Madame, please fix my favorite. I’ll be right back.”
Stepping soundlessly on the thick synthetic carpeting, he went down the hallway past the draped doorways of the cubicles—a picture of some flower painted on the wall next to each one—turned into a quiet dead end, and opened the leather-covered door without knocking.
Mosul Kitty sat behind the desk, examining a painful sore on his nose in the mirror. He did not give a damn that he had to pay the taxes tomorrow. The completely bare desk top held only a jar with mercury salve and a glass with a clear liquid. Mosul Kitty raised his bloodshot eyes at Noonan and jumped up, dropping the mirror. Wordlessly, Noonan settled into the armchair opposite him and silently watched, while he muttered something about the damn rain and his rheumatism. Then he said:
“Why don’t you lock the door, pal.”
Mosul, his flat feet slapping the floor, ran up to the door, turned the key, and returned to the desk. His hairy head towered over Noonan, and he stared loyally into his mouth. Noonan kept watching him through half-shut eyes. For some reason he remembered that Mosul Kitty’s real name was Raphael. Mosul was famous for his huge bony fists, purplish and bare, that stuck out from the thick hair that covered his arms like sleeves. He had called himself Kitty because he was convinced that that was the traditional name of the great Mongol kings. Raphael. Well, Raphael baby, let’s get started.
“How are things?” he asked gently.
“In perfect order, boss,” Raphael-Mosul replied rapidly.
“You smoothed over the problem at headquarters?”
“It cost 150. Everybody is happy.”
“It comes out of your pocket. It was your fault, pal. It should have been taken care of.”
Mosul made a pathetic face and spread his hands in a sign of submission.
“The parquet in the hall should be replaced,” Noonan said.
“It will be done.”
Noonan said nothing, puckered his lips.
“Swag?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“There’s a little,” Mosul replied in a low voice, too.
“Let’s see it.”
Mosul rushed over to the safe, took out a package, and opened it on the desk in front of Noonan. Noonan felt around with one finger in the pile of black sprays, picked up a bracelet, examined it from all sides and put it back.
“This is all?”
“They don’t bring any,” Mosul said guiltily.
“They don’t bring any,” Noonan repeated.
He aimed carefully and jabbed his toe with all his strength into Mosul’s shin. Mosul grunted and bent over to grab the injured spot, but immediately straightened out and stood at attention. Then Noonan jumped up, grabbed Mosul by his collar and came at him, kicking, rolling his eyes, and whispering obscenities. Mosul, moaning and groaning, rearing his head like a frightened horse, backed away from him until he fell onto the couch.
“Working both sides, eh? You son of a bitch.” Noonan was hissing right into his terrified eyes. “Buzzard Burbridge is swimming in swag and you give me beads wrapped in paper?” He smacked him in the face, trying to hit the scab on his nose. “I’ll ship you off to jail. You’ll be living in manure, eating dry bread. You’ll curse the day you were born!” He punched the sore nose one more time. “Where does Burbridge get the swag? Why do they bring it to him, and not to you? Who brings it? Why don’t I know anything? Who are you working for, you filthy pig? Talk!”
Mosul soundlessly opened and shut his mouth. Noonan let go of him, returned to the chair, and put his feet up on the desk. “Well?” he said.
Mosul sniffled back the-blood from his nose and said: “Honest, boss, what’s the matter? What swag can Buzzard have? He doesn’t have any. Nobody’s got swag.”
“What, are you going to argue with me?” Noonan asked gently, taking his feet off the desk.
“No, no, boss, honest,” Mosul hurried to say. “Me argue with you? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I’m going to get rid of you,” Noonan threatened. “You don’t know how to work. What the hell do I need you for, you so-and-so? Guys like you are a dime a dozen. I need a real man for real work.”
“Hold on, boss,” Mosul said reasonably, smearing blood all over his face. “Why do you attack me all of a sudden? Let’s work this out.” He touched his nose gingerly. “You say Burbridge has a lot of swag? I don’t know, somebody’s been lying to you. Nobody’s got any swag now. After all, only punks go into the Zone now, and they’re the only ones coming out. Nope, boss, someone’s lied to you.”
Noonan was watching him covertly. It looked as if Mosul really didn’t know a thing. It wouldn’t have paid him to lie, anyway—Buzzard Burbridge didn’t pay very well.
