Blow Fly

32

THE CHAIR ROCCO SITS ON is a padded one. Two-no, maybe it was three or four-surreal hours ago, he was in this same chair, eating dinner, when room service knocked on his door to bring him a bottle of champagne, a very nice Moлt amp; Chandon, compliments of the management. Rocco, who is streetwise and chronically paranoid, was not the least bit suspicious. He is an important man who stays in the Radisson whenever he is in Szczecin. It is the only decent hotel in the city, and management routinely sends him gifts, including fine cognac and Cuban cigars, because he pays his bills in American cash instead of worthless zloty.

His habit of feeling secure in this hotel is how the intruder with the Colt pistol got inside Rocco's deluxe room. It happened so fast, he didn't have time to react to the tall waiter who wasn't wearing a uniform and shoved his way inside with an empty bottle of champagne on a service tray he obviously had picked up outside another guests room. This asshole-whoever he is-grabbed Rocco that easily.

Rocco pushes his plate as far away from him as possible. He worries that next he will vomit. He has soiled himself The room smells so foul he cannot understand how his captor endures it, but the young, muscular man sitting on the bed doesn't seem to notice. He stares at Rocco, the stare of a man high on adrenaline and ready to kill. He will not allow Rocco to clean up. He won't allow Rocco to get out of the chair. He drops his cell phone on the bed after another brief conversation with someone, and goes over to the tray with its empty champagne bottle. Rocco watches the man carefully wipe off the bottle with a napkin. Rocco tries to place him. Maybe he has seen him before, or maybe the explanation is that he has that look-the look of a federal agent.

"Listen," Rocco says over the noise of the TV, "just tell me who and why, come on. You tell me who and why, maybe we can work something out you'll like better. You're an agent, aren't you? Some kinda agent. That don't mean we can't work something out."

He has said this at least six times since the agent walked in with the empty bottle on its tray, then slammed the door shut with a back kick and pulled his gun. Several times now, he has opened the door and slammed it shut. This makes Rocco increasingly nervous. Although he doesn't understand the agent's purpose, it has crossed his mind, even during previous stays, that the doors shut so loudly in this hotel that they sound like gunshots.

"Keep your voice down," the agent tells him.

He places the champagne bottle on Rocco's table.

"Pick it up." The agent nods at it.

Rocco stares at the bottle and swallows hard.

"Pick it up, Rocco."

"So I'll ask you again. How come you know my name?" Rocco persists. "Come on. You know me, right? We can work things out…"

"Pick up the bottle."

He does. The agent wants Rocco's fingerprints on the bottle. This is not good. The agent wants it to appear as though Rocco ordered or somehow acquired the champagne and drank it. This is very bad. His fears gather in strength as the agent returns to the bed, picks up a jacket and pulls out a leather flask. He unscrews the cap and returns to Rocco's table, pouring a large amount of vodka in what is left of one of Rocco's cocktails.

"Drink up," the agent says.

Rocco swallows the vodka in several gulps, grateful as it burns its way down, warming him and sending its seductive, dulling agents along his blood and to his head. His confused thoughts float toward the hope that the agent is showing mercy, treating him decently, trying to make him relax. Maybe the agents rethinking things, wants to make a deal.

Rocco speculates, but it is a fact that someone sent the man, someone who knows Rocco's business intimately and is aware that once a month he travels to Szczecin to handle Chandonne affairs at the port. Rocco's primary responsibility is to deal with police and other officials. This is business as usual. He can do it drunk, nothing more than routine legal finagling and the usual fees and, if necessary, reminders of what a dangerous world it is.

Only an insider would know Rocco's schedule and where he stays. The hotel staff doesn't know what he does, only that he is from New York, or so he says. No one cares what he does. He is generous. He is rich. Instead of passing off the usual zloty, he pays and lavishly tips in American cash, which is very hard to come by and very useful on the black market. Everyone likes him. The bartenders double the Chopin vodka in his drinks at the upstairs bar, where he frequently sits in the dark, smoking cigars.

His captor looks about twenty-eight, maybe early thirties. His black hair is short and styled with gel in that spiked look that a lot of young men like these days. Rocco notices the square jaw, straight nose, dark blue eyes, stubble and the veins standing out in the man's biceps and hands. He probably doesn't need a weapon to crush someone. Women like him. They probably stare at him, hit on him. Rocco has never been attractive. As a teenager, he was already suffering from pattern baldness, and he couldn't stay away from pizza and beer, and looked it. Envy possesses him. It always has. Women sleep with him only because he has power and money. Hatred toward his captor flares.

"You don't know what you're messing with here," Rocco says.

The agent doesn't bother answering him, his eyes darting around the room. Rocco wipes his face with his greasy napkin, his attention wandering to the steak knife on his plate.

"Try it," the agent says, looking at the steak knife. "Go ahead. Please try it. Make my life a hell of a lot easier."

"I wasn't gonna do nothing. Just let me go and we'll forget this ever happened."

"I can't let you go. Truth is, this isn't my idea of fun. So I'm in a bad mood already. Don't piss me off. You want to help yourself? Well, you know what they say about coming clean at the end."

"No. What the hell do they say?"

"Where's Jay Talley, and don't tell me another fucking lie, asshole."

"I don't know," Rocco whines. "I swear to God I don't. I'm scared of him, too. He's crazy. He don't play the game, and every one of us stay clear of him. He marches to his own beat, swear to God. Can't I please change my pants? You can watch me. I won't try nothing."

Rudy gets off the bed and opens the closet door, the Colt casually by his side, indicating to an increasingly defeated and terrified Rocco that this man is not afraid of anything. There are maybe half a dozen flashy suits hanging on the rod, and he pulls off a pair of pants and tosses them to Rocco.

"Go on." The agent opens the bathroom door and sits back down on the bed.

Rocco trembles as he walks inside the bathroom and peels off his pants and briefs. He tosses them into the tub, douses a towel with tap water and wipes himself.

"Jay Talley," the agent says again. "Real name, Jean-Paul Chandonne."

"Ask me something else." Rocco means it as he sits in a different chair.

"Okay. We'll get back to Talley later. You got plans to take out your father?" The agents stare is cold. "It's no secret you hate him."

"I don't claim him."

"Doesn't matter, Rocco. You ran away from home. You changed your name from Marino to Caggiano. What's the plan and who's involved?"

Rocco hesitates for the longest time, thoughts jumping behind his bloodshot eyes. The agent gets up, breathing through his mouth as if to avoid the stench. He presses the barrel of the Colt against Rocco's right temple.

"Who, what, when and where?" he says, tapping the barrel of the pistol against Rocco's head with each word. "Don't fuck with me!"

"I was gonna do it. In a couple months when he goes fishing. He always goes fishing at Buggs Lake the first week of August. Nail him in his cabin, make it look like a burglary gone bad."

"So you would kill your own father when he's on a fishing trip. You know what you are, Rocco? You're the worst shit I ever met."