reached the bottom of his lemon ice with a loud slurp. “That’s it for you and love? One and done? Tapped out?”
I squinted at him. “You sound like an ad for a dating Web site.”
“I’m a believer, brother—I’m all about the romance. My only problem with love is that there’s just too much of it around. Some days, it’s everywhere I look. For instance, another five minutes staring at that line cook back there, I may to have to propose. Check out those eyes. And that dexterity. I’m a sucker for a girl who knows how to work a knife.”
—
Troop was a half-hour late for his shift at the Harney, and when his sour-looking colleague came out, Sutter and I went in.
Troop was locked in his wired glass bunker, studying a fresh bottle of Olde English. He looked up at Sutter and didn’t like what he saw. He liked me less. His mouth opened before he knew what to say, and all that came out was an asthmatic wheeze.
I pointed at his chest. “That doesn’t sound good. You a smoker, Mr. Troop?”
As if to answer my question, he dug in a shirt pocket for a cigarette. He plugged it in his mouth, lit it, and coughed. “What’re you doing here? I told you I’d call if I heard anything about that chick. Did I call you and forget about it?”
“You didn’t, but I wondered if that was because you didn’t have my number anymore. Because you gave it to your Russians.”
Troop’s florid face grew redder. He made a flicking motion with his hand. “
My Russians?
I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Plus, you owe me money. Forty bucks.”
He laughed. “You’re a funny guy, doc. Now, if you two want a room, I’ll give you a break on the rate. Otherwise, fuck off.”
“Who are the Russians?”
“Who are the Russians?”
Troop repeated in a whiny schoolyard sneer, and he pantomimed jerking off. He grinned and puffed his cigarette, and in one fluid motion Sutter leapt to the countertop, vaulted the glass barrier, and lit on Troop’s desk with barely a sound. Troop’s mouth opened and he wheezed again; his cigarette fell into his lap.
I was surprised too, but I hid it better. I chuckled and pointed at Troop’s smoldering crotch. “You’ll want to do something about that. I think those pants are made of petrochemicals, and they’ll fuse to your skin if they melt. It’ll be ugly.”
Troop looked down, horrified, and Sutter stepped easily from the desktop and poured Troop’s bottle of malt liquor—the better part of forty ounces—into his lap.
“What the fuck!” Troop squealed, and jumped to his feet. He stumbled backward, slapping at his wet crotch. His rolling chair collided with a card table, knocking over a soda bottle, some paper cups, and two grease-stained bags from Sonic.
Sutter laughed. “This guy’s a comedy show. Just like that English dude—Mr. Bean.”
“Wha…what the fuck!” Troop said again, scuttling sideways into a filing cabinet, and sweeping an old cassette player to the floor. It shattered, and sent a tape and plastic shards across the linoleum.
Sutter shook his head. “Really, I can’t add to this. He’s leaving me with nothing to do.”
“Who are the Russians, Mr. Troop,” I said, “and what do they want with the girl?”
Troop swallowed hard. “I…they…”
“Sit down,” I said, “before you fall down.”
He did, and his chest heaved. “I don’t know what Russians—”
Sutter leaned his hips on the desk and rested one sneakered foot on Troop’s chair, between his legs. Sutter sighed and pushed off slowly, rolling Troop to the far corner, where he stopped with a gentle bump.
“I get that you’re scared of them,” I said, “and I can see why—they seem like scary guys. But they’re not here now, and we are. Whatever they might do to you is theoretical. What we do is…more concrete.”
“Who are the Russians?” Sutter said quietly.
Troop looked down into his soaked lap. “They…they work for Rostov,” Troop said,
I squinted at him. “You sound like an ad for a dating Web site.”
“I’m a believer, brother—I’m all about the romance. My only problem with love is that there’s just too much of it around. Some days, it’s everywhere I look. For instance, another five minutes staring at that line cook back there, I may to have to propose. Check out those eyes. And that dexterity. I’m a sucker for a girl who knows how to work a knife.”
—
Troop was a half-hour late for his shift at the Harney, and when his sour-looking colleague came out, Sutter and I went in.
Troop was locked in his wired glass bunker, studying a fresh bottle of Olde English. He looked up at Sutter and didn’t like what he saw. He liked me less. His mouth opened before he knew what to say, and all that came out was an asthmatic wheeze.
I pointed at his chest. “That doesn’t sound good. You a smoker, Mr. Troop?”
As if to answer my question, he dug in a shirt pocket for a cigarette. He plugged it in his mouth, lit it, and coughed. “What’re you doing here? I told you I’d call if I heard anything about that chick. Did I call you and forget about it?”
“You didn’t, but I wondered if that was because you didn’t have my number anymore. Because you gave it to your Russians.”
Troop’s florid face grew redder. He made a flicking motion with his hand. “
My Russians?
I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Plus, you owe me money. Forty bucks.”
He laughed. “You’re a funny guy, doc. Now, if you two want a room, I’ll give you a break on the rate. Otherwise, fuck off.”
“Who are the Russians?”
“Who are the Russians?”
Troop repeated in a whiny schoolyard sneer, and he pantomimed jerking off. He grinned and puffed his cigarette, and in one fluid motion Sutter leapt to the countertop, vaulted the glass barrier, and lit on Troop’s desk with barely a sound. Troop’s mouth opened and he wheezed again; his cigarette fell into his lap.
I was surprised too, but I hid it better. I chuckled and pointed at Troop’s smoldering crotch. “You’ll want to do something about that. I think those pants are made of petrochemicals, and they’ll fuse to your skin if they melt. It’ll be ugly.”
Troop looked down, horrified, and Sutter stepped easily from the desktop and poured Troop’s bottle of malt liquor—the better part of forty ounces—into his lap.
“What the fuck!” Troop squealed, and jumped to his feet. He stumbled backward, slapping at his wet crotch. His rolling chair collided with a card table, knocking over a soda bottle, some paper cups, and two grease-stained bags from Sonic.
Sutter laughed. “This guy’s a comedy show. Just like that English dude—Mr. Bean.”
“Wha…what the fuck!” Troop said again, scuttling sideways into a filing cabinet, and sweeping an old cassette player to the floor. It shattered, and sent a tape and plastic shards across the linoleum.
Sutter shook his head. “Really, I can’t add to this. He’s leaving me with nothing to do.”
“Who are the Russians, Mr. Troop,” I said, “and what do they want with the girl?”
Troop swallowed hard. “I…they…”
“Sit down,” I said, “before you fall down.”
He did, and his chest heaved. “I don’t know what Russians—”
Sutter leaned his hips on the desk and rested one sneakered foot on Troop’s chair, between his legs. Sutter sighed and pushed off slowly, rolling Troop to the far corner, where he stopped with a gentle bump.
“I get that you’re scared of them,” I said, “and I can see why—they seem like scary guys. But they’re not here now, and we are. Whatever they might do to you is theoretical. What we do is…more concrete.”
“Who are the Russians?” Sutter said quietly.
Troop looked down into his soaked lap. “They…they work for Rostov,” Troop said,
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