Deep Black

72

Karr had climbed out of the train yard when a pair of police cars sped past in the opposite direction. He waited until they were out of sight, then jogged quickly down another road, treading his way into an area of small shops and apartments.

About a mile from the train yard he found a table outside a small shop and sat down to take stock of his battered body. His pants were ripped in two places and his ankle was swollen; otherwise his legs were all right. His stomach was fine. His chest and side hurt like hell, but to check on the damage he’d have to take his shirt and vest off.

No sense doing that. Just see really big bruises. If there were real damage there, he’d be dead, most likely.

His head felt as if it had been taken off and put back on at an odd angle. He touched the skin near his right eye — the one he thought he could see out of fairly well — and nearly screamed with the pain. He didn’t dare try it on the other side.

The shop where he’d stopped sold secondhand clothes but also did a little bit of business in the morning and afternoon selling tea and drinks quite a bit stronger. A middle-aged woman noticed that he was sitting outside and came out to see what he wanted; she started to tell him that customers ordinarily came inside to get what they wanted but stopped abruptly, obviously put off by his face.

“Bandits,” he told her in Russian. “But I’m OK. Scared ’em away with my face.” He smiled. “Tea?”

She nodded, then backed through the door. Karr had to check in but decided he’d have to wait until she reappeared with his drink.

Some parts of Moscow could be Brooklyn, New York. In fact, some parts of Brooklyn probably seemed more foreign than parts of Moscow, more Russian at least, stocked deep with e´migre´s who were consciously and in some cases desperately trying to re-create what they liked about their homeland. Here people weren’t trying to hold on to anything except what they needed to do to get by. Dean watched a woman push an immense baby carriage up the nearby hill, stopping every few moments to take a break and talk to her passengers — a pair of large mutts, not children. Two workers shared a cigarette as they passed across the street.

The woman came out with his tea, along with a bowl of warm water and a washcloth. She wanted to wash his wounds. As gently as he could, Karr told her no, he was fine. “I’m OK; I’m OK,” he insisted. She was almost in tears as she went back inside.

Rockman answered in the Art Room when he punched in.

“Hey,” Karr told him. “Give me Rubens.”

“All hell’s breaking loose,” said Rockman. “We’re under way.”

“Yeah. Give me Rubens.”

“Fuck, man. We’re busy.”

“He wants to talk to me.”

“Fuck.”

“Just do it, runner.”

“Mr. Karr, quickly,” said Rubens.

“I had to shoot him,” said Karr. “No doubt about him being a scumbag. I’m guessing it went back some, too. They must’ve had a pretty important reason to blow the penetration on Wave Three, don’t you think?”

Rubens didn’t say anything. Obviously, he’d already figured that out.

That’s why he was the boss.

“Sorry I bothered you,” said Karr.

“Wait for Rockman,” said Rubens, going off the line.

As he waited for the runner, Karr looked up and saw that the woman was now peering at him from the doorway. She had a bag of ice in her hand — and a bottle of vodka in the other. Karr waved her over. What the hell.

Karr jerked away as the ice touched the side of his head, but the woman’s soft grip on his chin turned him back.

“Thanks,” he told her, forgetting for a moment and speaking in English. He repeated it in Russian, adding that she was an angel; the woman smiled and told him he was welcome.