Blood spurted out of his mouth like a fountain. They had to carry him out in a bucket. And those hits at the 40/40 Club and downtown in the Financial District."
"That ... was you?"
"Yes."
He pushed back his chair and took a longer look at me in my tattered, bloody tuxedo. "What did you use to kill the old man?"
"A butterfly knife."
"Like this one?" Morozov reached into his jacket and flipped open a short, sharp blade, laying it on the table next to his cigarettes. "Show me."
I stared into his eyes. I thought about my father, and every other tin-pot tyrant who had ever sat behind a desk or a table and demanded that I somehow prove myself. I thought about how much I'd already lost, and what I had yet to lose. Given the night, it didn't seem like much.
"Why do you have to be such a dick about it?" I asked.
Morozov raised his eyebrows, mouth tightening by degrees. "What?"
"Look, I need information," I said, gesturing at the screens and keyboards. "And you've obviously got it. If that's a problem..." My mind flashed to the name that Gobi had used when we were in the Jaguar. "...maybe we should talk to Santamaria about it together."
Morozov glanced up. "Santamaria?"
"That's right ... Santamaria. Who do you think has guys tailing me here? Santamaria's been up my ass all night. You think I like coming out to Red Hook at midnight on a Saturday night? I ditched the information on the last two targets on my way here—"
"You?" He tapped my chest with one crooked finger. "You know Santamaria?"
"That's what I'm saying."
"And you're sure it's Santamaria's people following you?"
"Two heavily armed ex-military douchebags in a black Humvee," I said. "You do the math."
"Could be anyone."
"You want to take that chance?"
Morozov didn't answer. He finished his cigarette and dropped it to the floor, ground it under his heel. In the background I heard men shouting at the bear and the bear growling back at them. Morozov scratched one grubby-nailed finger over his cheek, letting the moment stretch, until I tugged up my sleeve and looked at where my watch would be if I'd been wearing one.
"I don't have all night," I said. "Are you going to give me the information or not?"
Without answering, he turned back to one of the keyboards and typed in a command. A second later, the screen above his head flipped to a new image, showing an empty kitchen.
"Wait a second," I said. "Is that my house? "
"This footage is two months old." Morozov punched another key. The screen switched to the second-floor hallway as seen from above. I saw a pile of laundry outside my bedroom door. The door opened and I saw myself walk out in a pair of boxer shorts. I picked up a pair of socks from the top of the laundry and sniffed them, then put them on.
"Why are you taping my house?"
Morozov blinked. "You paid me to."
"Me?"
"You are the assassin, are you not?"
"Well, yeah." On the monitor screen I watched myself go up to a mirror in the hallway and lean in to squeeze a zit. I remembered that zit. It had sprouted on the tip of my nose for two weeks and seemed never to go away. It had just sat there throbbing like a tiny, angry heart.
"Fascinating," Morozov said. "An assassin with pimples."
"Look ... do you have the information on the last two hits or not?"
He tapped another series of keys. The footage of my house disappeared and was replaced by columns of text. Clicking down, he hit a button. A second later, two sheets of paper spooled out of the laser printer next to his feet.
"Thanks." I reached out for the papers and he grabbed my wrist.
"What is this?"
I looked down where he was already staring at the words stamped on the back of my hand.
UNDERAGE.
"Part of my cover," I said. "It was—"
He didn't release my hand. "What was the name of the first man you killed?"
"Now you want to test me?"
"I do." Now he was grinning, right into my face, close enough that I could smell his eyeballs. "I have decided that I do want to test you. The first man you
"That ... was you?"
"Yes."
He pushed back his chair and took a longer look at me in my tattered, bloody tuxedo. "What did you use to kill the old man?"
"A butterfly knife."
"Like this one?" Morozov reached into his jacket and flipped open a short, sharp blade, laying it on the table next to his cigarettes. "Show me."
I stared into his eyes. I thought about my father, and every other tin-pot tyrant who had ever sat behind a desk or a table and demanded that I somehow prove myself. I thought about how much I'd already lost, and what I had yet to lose. Given the night, it didn't seem like much.
"Why do you have to be such a dick about it?" I asked.
Morozov raised his eyebrows, mouth tightening by degrees. "What?"
"Look, I need information," I said, gesturing at the screens and keyboards. "And you've obviously got it. If that's a problem..." My mind flashed to the name that Gobi had used when we were in the Jaguar. "...maybe we should talk to Santamaria about it together."
Morozov glanced up. "Santamaria?"
"That's right ... Santamaria. Who do you think has guys tailing me here? Santamaria's been up my ass all night. You think I like coming out to Red Hook at midnight on a Saturday night? I ditched the information on the last two targets on my way here—"
"You?" He tapped my chest with one crooked finger. "You know Santamaria?"
"That's what I'm saying."
"And you're sure it's Santamaria's people following you?"
"Two heavily armed ex-military douchebags in a black Humvee," I said. "You do the math."
"Could be anyone."
"You want to take that chance?"
Morozov didn't answer. He finished his cigarette and dropped it to the floor, ground it under his heel. In the background I heard men shouting at the bear and the bear growling back at them. Morozov scratched one grubby-nailed finger over his cheek, letting the moment stretch, until I tugged up my sleeve and looked at where my watch would be if I'd been wearing one.
"I don't have all night," I said. "Are you going to give me the information or not?"
Without answering, he turned back to one of the keyboards and typed in a command. A second later, the screen above his head flipped to a new image, showing an empty kitchen.
"Wait a second," I said. "Is that my house? "
"This footage is two months old." Morozov punched another key. The screen switched to the second-floor hallway as seen from above. I saw a pile of laundry outside my bedroom door. The door opened and I saw myself walk out in a pair of boxer shorts. I picked up a pair of socks from the top of the laundry and sniffed them, then put them on.
"Why are you taping my house?"
Morozov blinked. "You paid me to."
"Me?"
"You are the assassin, are you not?"
"Well, yeah." On the monitor screen I watched myself go up to a mirror in the hallway and lean in to squeeze a zit. I remembered that zit. It had sprouted on the tip of my nose for two weeks and seemed never to go away. It had just sat there throbbing like a tiny, angry heart.
"Fascinating," Morozov said. "An assassin with pimples."
"Look ... do you have the information on the last two hits or not?"
He tapped another series of keys. The footage of my house disappeared and was replaced by columns of text. Clicking down, he hit a button. A second later, two sheets of paper spooled out of the laser printer next to his feet.
"Thanks." I reached out for the papers and he grabbed my wrist.
"What is this?"
I looked down where he was already staring at the words stamped on the back of my hand.
UNDERAGE.
"Part of my cover," I said. "It was—"
He didn't release my hand. "What was the name of the first man you killed?"
"Now you want to test me?"
"I do." Now he was grinning, right into my face, close enough that I could smell his eyeballs. "I have decided that I do want to test you. The first man you
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