“Fair.”
“We are policemen,” said Iosef.
“Yes,” said the man, looking at the low, sagging ceiling above him as Iosef put his cards and click pen on the table. Another two customers left.
“We want to ask you some questions, and if we like the answers we will leave and recommend your place to other policemen.”
“I would rather you did not recommend.”
“Then we will not.”
Iosef carefully withdrew an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. The man watched as Iosef removed two photographs and a drawing and placed them on the table.
“You know these men?”
The photographs of the two dead men on Paulinin’s autopsy tables were reasonably clear-clear enough to make it evident that the two men were dead.
“No,” said the man.
Iosef looked at Zelach who shook his head no.
“That’s not true,” said Iosef. “My partner is psychic, or maybe just sensitive to such things. If he says you are not telling the truth, then you are not telling the truth, Mr. Maticonay.”
“I’ve seen them.”
“I would appreciate their names and where they lived. In addition, I would like the name of their friend, a third man.”
Now Mr. Maticonay put his palms together, placed the tips of his fingers against his lips, and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking at the drawing of the tattoo that was on both of the dead men. Mr. Maticonay’s knees were unsteady.
“Please sit,” said Iosef.
“No.”
“Then. .”
“I have six children.”
“And?” asked Iosef.
“They would like to know their father when they are grown.”
“We live in difficult times,” said Iosef.
“All times are difficult,” said Mr. Maticonay. “I cannot answer you.”
“Too late,” said Iosef. “You’ve been talking to us. You look distressed. We are being watched by the few of your customers who remain. If the people who wear this tattoo are like all gangs throughout the world, you are going to have a problem unless we help you.”
“You would have helped me by not coming into my shop and not changing my life,” Mr. Maticonay said. He sighed and continued. “Two men sitting back there, by the kitchen door.”
“Yes?”
“They wear this tattoo. It’s not a gang tattoo. It is a tribal marking.”
“You have only one word to say to me and you should be perfectly safe,” said Iosef. “The word is ‘no.’ I will get up and shout now and you will answer ‘no.’”
Iosef suddenly rose pushing back his chair, and shouting, “If you don’t tell me, we will have this placed closed by tomorrow.”
“No,” said Mr. Maticonay.
“You two,” said Iosef, looking at the two men near the kitchen who had risen from their table. “Where are you going?”
Zelach was up now, too.
“No one leaves,” Iosef continued. “For those who have not yet figured it out, we are the police. We want to talk to all of you. If you try to leave, my partner will be forced to shoot you.”
Zelach was up now, and Iosef whispered to him,
“The door.”
Zelach slouched quickly to the front door, blocking it with his body.
The two young men who had been seated at the table near the kitchen were up now. One of them reached for the kitchen door. Iosef had his gun in hand now.
“You will stop,” he shouted at the two men as customers went to the floor, hands covering their heads.
Both of the men at the kitchen door took out guns of their own and began firing as they pushed into the kitchen. Iosef and Zelach fired back. Mr. Maticonay, who had not gone to the floor, was on his way to it now, a bullet in his neck.
“A back way,” called Iosef to Zelach, who understood and went out into the street in search of a rear entrance.
Iosef glanced at Mr. Maticonay who sat stunned on the floor, his hand to his neck to try to stop the bleeding.
“Someone help him,” Iosef shouted as he ran toward the door to the kitchen.
The kitchen was small, almost nonexistent. There was no one in it. The rear door was open. Iosef moved toward it, gun held level, gripped in both hands. They could be waiting. They could count as well as he. Two policemen. Two men with tattoos who had something to hide. They could be waiting.
Iosef stepped into the sunlight, looked to his right and then to his left, where Zelach stood and shrugged.
“Look for them,” Iosef shouted and ran back through the kitchen and into the shop where a man was kneeling over Mr. Maticonay.
Iosef went to his knees, holstered his gun, and examined the wounded man.
“It’s not bad,” said Iosef. “Just bloody. I’m sorry.”
Mr. Maticonay gurgled something. Iosef leaned close to hear what he was saying. The man’s eyes were closed.
“Cowboys,” he said.
Iosef understood.
“Too many guns,” the man said.
“Black,” said Georgi Danielovich, “from Africa.”
“Where in Africa?” asked Sasha.
They were sitting in a coffee shop, dim and dark and dusty, but far better than the horror which was Georgi’s one-room apartment.
Georgi needed a shower, a shave, a haircut, and a change of clothes, but most of all he needed whatever his drug of choice might be.
“I don’t know,” said Georgi, reaching for the cup of something tepid and brown.
“Two of them approached you,” said Elena.
“Two, that’s right.”
“Their names?” asked Sasha.
Georgi shrugged and said, “Who remembers?”
“And this was the first time?” asked Elena.
The shop was empty except for the two detectives and the addict, head in his hands, who was very quickly coming apart.
“Could you identify these two men?” asked Elena.
Georgi looked up with what was supposed to be a smile but looked more like a pained grimace, which, perhaps, it was.
“They were black,” he said. “They could walk through that door right now and I would not know them. My head hurts. I need a doctor.”
“You do not need a doctor,” said Sasha, leaning toward him. “But you will if you do not start remembering things right now. We are in a hurry. We have nine days.”
“Nine days?” asked Georgi in confusion. “We have nine days for what?”
