was raised. You respected those bonds, no matter what feelings you had or how strongly you felt them. These were the things that defined your character and, as his grandfather had often told him, your character was the only thing you ever wholly and truly possessed.
The waitress brought them their coffees while they kept an eye on the game. Will did not find gambling to be as romantic or intriguing as Oliver did, but, recalling his grandfather as he watched through the hazy layers of ghostly cigar smoke, he almost felt as if he were peering through some hole in time, as if he were a boy again peeking through the upstairs bannister as his uncles and his father played their poker, euchre, or gin rummy up at their small cabin by the northern shores of Lake Michigan. He realized it would be deer season back home and they might be up there right now. The temperatures would be creeping down below freezing at night and the thin pale skin of ice would be scratching at the edges of the shallow ponds and lakes, silencing the frogs and signaling the birds to start south. The dog-eared Bicycle playing cards would be slapped down and his father would be laughing as he raked in his own fat pots while his uncles smoked their short cigars, drank their beers and whiskeys, and fed logs into the old Franklin stove. The hunting rifles would already be cleaned, oiled, and stacked on the wall, ready for the next morning, while empty bottles of Stroh’s, Early Times pints, and Old Grand-Dad fifths would lie sideways on the floor.
The thought struck him that this very scene was being played out all over the world, here above an empty cafe in Paris, and there in that small midwestern hunting camp, but also in the back alleys of Hong Kong, warehouses in Brooklyn, guard barracks in Siberia, and out on the remote Argentiniam pampas, where the dark gauchos gambled by the flickering light of their campfires. The kings, queens, and jacks on the card faces paid no mind to the reign of the clock or the map; they ruled a borderless world that existed outside of time. Their servants lived in every land and served at every hour, punished or rewarded for their efforts by the random caprice and whimsy that so many monarchs live by. Dawn and dusk came and went, women sat up waiting and worrying or gave up and moved out while their men played on, sitting transfixed over a handful of ever-shifting faces, waiting for an ace’s late arrival or some serendipitous eight to slide in amid a broken row of sevens and nines. It was all a shorthand language for life’s cascading fortunes, an attempt to ride the random waves of fate, pulling small circles together, geometric concentrations of luck where every soul sought to shift and maneuver for a bit of extra grace. Will wondered how he had managed to steer clear of gambling’s pull while so many others had not. Watching as Boris’s last chips were scooped away, Will thought it was probably because he had always had an innate sense of how much easier it was to lose than win.
“Ah yes, it appears the game is up for our friend,” said Oliver.
Will looked across the room as the Russian pulled on his jacket, straightened his tie, and drained the last of his drink. Oliver gave him a bit of a wave and Boris nodded and started heading over.
What followed seemed to happen in a kind of slow motion as the simple steps Boris had to take to cross the room were asymetrically transformed into a mighty cataclysm.
At first there was a clattering racket of chairs as Boris seemed to misstep, stumbling into a table. He turned and, after holding himself in balance for a moment, lunged forward, quickly accelerating, shifting sideways and then tipping over. Reaching out wildly to steady himself, he collapsed, careening across another set of chairs like a massive cannon rolling loose on the yawing deck of an embattled warship. All the faces at the poker table turned with a kind of sleepy-eyed awe, watching as Boris disappeared down, tumbling onto the floor as tables fell crashing next to him. There was a shuddering, violent sound as his body landed, and then everything was still.
The other card players slowly rose from their seats, all of them apparently expecting Boris to get up and dust himself off, but he didn’t. Oliver leapt across the room with a dexterity that surprised Will. He was already kneeling by Boris’s prone body by the time everyone else arrived.
“Did he faint?” Will asked.
“No,” said Oliver, feeling at the man’s neck for his pulse. “He died.” The men had now gathered around, and someone went off to call a doctor. Oliver was now rearranging the corpse, loosening Boris’s collar and emptying his pockets. He took out a wallet, house keys, a pack of Gitanes, a comb, matches, some business cards, and a small piece of tinfoil. Nobody but Will seemed to notice Oliver palm the business cards and foil into his own jacket pocket as he placed the rest of the items in a line beside the body. Then Oliver rose and pointed down at Boris. “Nobody touch him or any of his things,” he said. “The authorities will be here soon. Be sure to give them a full report.” With that, he tipped his hat and headed down the stairs. Will followed, his head swimming with what he had seen.
Out on the street, Oliver quickly flagged down a taxi and they hopped inside. Events had unfolded so fast that Will only realized now how hard his own heart was beating. He took a deep breath and tried to relax.
“
“What is it?” asked Will.
“Some narcotic, I suspect. Not sure what variety. You ever tried anything?”
Will shook his head.
“I liked hashish the few times I’ve tried it, found it fascinating,” Oliver said. “Of course Huxley’s written about the heavier stuff, peyote and mescaline, but even a bit of any mind-expanding drug can reveal a lot. Small wonder society tries to ban it. Too much illumination and people might find a way to connect the dots, they might start wondering why doughboys are dying to protect barons’ bankbooks. Can’t have that. So instead the state unscrews the tap on the greatest mind-deadening drug in the world, alcohol, while releasing the hysterical prosecutorial hounds on all that reefer madness.”
“I don’t know,” said Will, amazed at how quickly Oliver could segue from witnessing a close friend’s death to expounding a random conspiracy theory, “You might be overthinking it.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. Look at the facts, look at history, our own government got Willie Hearst’s papers to spread wholesale, widespread panic about cannabis, laws were passed, people were hauled off to prison, the distribution effectively quashed. Meanwhile, people drink themselves dumb every night. Can’t have the people thinking too much, right? So, maybe you’re correct, and perhaps that’s the point, we should all be doing considerably more overthinking.”
“So was Boris a dopehead?”
“Who, Boris, what?” Oliver shook his head as if he had been suddenly pulled back to reality “A dopehead? No, Boris was not a dopehead. He was merely a man seeking solace in an incredibly hostile world. I suspect, though, he might have gotten his hands on a bad batch.” He sniffed the resin again. “I have no real expertise here, but luckily I know a few who do. We’ll take a little detour and visit some friends.” He leaned forward. “
“What about finding Ned?”
“Under the circumstances, she’s going to have to wait.” He gave Will a forced grin. “Invisible hands are moving pieces on the board right now and I’m rather curious as to why.” As Oliver folded up the tinfoil and tucked it back in his vest pocket, Will noticed that Oliver’s hands were shaking.
XI
Zoya entered her apartment and looked around. There was still no sign of Max. Now this was odd, she thought. Usually the rat would have sniffed her out within two or three days. She thought of checking in again with Elga. But the last few visits had been too unsettling, lately there seemed to be a constant undercurrent of impatience and anger that rose like winter sap out of the old woman’s moods. Zoya wondered if Elga was finally going mad, perhaps from too many centuries of stewing those vestigial remnants of spent spells in the rotting murk of her mind.
Zoya caught herself in the mirror. She was in essence the same young woman she had been for so long now; little had changed. How long had it been since that day when she had almost died in those cold Russian woods, an exile, stripped of every bond and affection, her heart scraped raw and her ribs sore from weeping? She was so newly grown into the fulsome body of a woman as to be still only a child, two children really, the other
