shoulder.
“Heathrow. Connecting to Kiev. That’s where he wants us to go.”
Skinner nods, eyes on Haven.
“Do you want me to drive?”
Jae throws the duffel inside.
“Nobody drives my car.”
Cross has come out of the room now. Skinner is thinking about Montmartre. How hard it had been to leave. All that killing unresolved.
Haven is crossing the gravel lot, raising his hands, a greeting that shows they are empty. As if, his hands free of weapons, Haven is any less dangerous.
“I wanted to see for myself.”
Jae climbing in.
“Let’s roll.”
Haven stops; hot wind stirs the dust.
“The man risen from the dead.”
Skinner remembers how it felt when the knife went between his ribs, the tip breaking off.
Jae starts the engine.
“Skinner.”
Haven points.
“Your asset wants you.”
Skinner ducks his head and looks inside the car.
She nods at Haven and Cross.
“Stop wasting time with those cocksuckers and get the fuck in.”
Another look at Haven, Cross, but he made his decision about them seven years ago. He gets in the Land Rover with his asset, his door not yet closed when she punches the gas and whips the rear end around, spraying gravel and sand. Haven emerging from the cloud behind them, visible in the wing mirror, waving.
Jae pulls her seatbelt on.
“Assholes.”
Skinner pulls on his own seatbelt.
“Kiev.”
She shifts into fourth, still accelerating.
“That’s where he wants us to go.”
He nods in the general direction of Kiev.
“Where he wants us to go.”
“ Wants. Yeah.”
“Where are we going.”
She runs her hands around the arc of the wheel.
“Eventually, maybe, Kiev. Right now, Miami. Maker Smith. Know him?”
Skinner remembers the slaughterhouse in Berlin.
“Yes. Work. Several years ago.”
“Everyone knows Smith. He’s colorful.”
She twists her neck until it rewards her with a sharp crack.
“I don’t want Cross to know. I don’t want him to know anything until I say otherwise.”
He nods.
“I go with you. Protect you. Everything else, the details, you decide.”
She rubs her neck, as if she can feel something there that won’t rub off.
“Okay, okay. Let’s go.”
Dust unsettled behind them, Haven, all the past has to offer. Skinner studies the road ahead.
energy
RAJ DOESN’T THINK they can get the truck down the alley.
In truth, he doesn’t know how they got a truck this far from 90 Feet Road. Sections of Dharavi Main Road carry box lorries, but nothing so large as this. Yellow and black, colors of a Padmini cab, a diesel lorry with a flatbed trailer, common on the highways and the infinite construction sites of Bombay, unheard of here.
“Is that it, Raj?”
David presses against his back, his voice raised to be heard over the rattle of the rain falling on thousands of corrugated tin roofs, the two of them sandwiched into a rare gap where the outer walls of two shanties do not lean against one another. They are drenched by the rain, as close to submerged as one can be without drowning. Their feet are ankle deep in the muck that funnels from the alley into the space between the homes. But when are their feet not ankle deep in muck?
Raj squeezes his ball to his chest.
“Yes.”
David worms closer to the mouth of the gap. If someone inside one of the two shanties leans against the inner wall the boys will either be crushed or spat into the alley like melon seeds pinched from between finger and thumb.
David is breathless.
“Bhenchod super cool.”
It is super cool, of that there is no doubt. Dead of night, the truck, headlights blacked out, backing into the alley a centimeter at a time, fat tires straddling the water main that humps up from the mud, and no one out to gawk. The rains drive many indoors, equal parts shelter and the need to ensure that this morning’s wall does not become this evening’s floor in a sudden wash of sludge. But even in the most severe monsoon the inhabitants of Dharavi usually go about their
“Heathrow. Connecting to Kiev. That’s where he wants us to go.”
Skinner nods, eyes on Haven.
“Do you want me to drive?”
Jae throws the duffel inside.
“Nobody drives my car.”
Cross has come out of the room now. Skinner is thinking about Montmartre. How hard it had been to leave. All that killing unresolved.
Haven is crossing the gravel lot, raising his hands, a greeting that shows they are empty. As if, his hands free of weapons, Haven is any less dangerous.
“I wanted to see for myself.”
Jae climbing in.
“Let’s roll.”
Haven stops; hot wind stirs the dust.
“The man risen from the dead.”
Skinner remembers how it felt when the knife went between his ribs, the tip breaking off.
Jae starts the engine.
“Skinner.”
Haven points.
“Your asset wants you.”
Skinner ducks his head and looks inside the car.
She nods at Haven and Cross.
“Stop wasting time with those cocksuckers and get the fuck in.”
Another look at Haven, Cross, but he made his decision about them seven years ago. He gets in the Land Rover with his asset, his door not yet closed when she punches the gas and whips the rear end around, spraying gravel and sand. Haven emerging from the cloud behind them, visible in the wing mirror, waving.
Jae pulls her seatbelt on.
“Assholes.”
Skinner pulls on his own seatbelt.
“Kiev.”
She shifts into fourth, still accelerating.
“That’s where he wants us to go.”
He nods in the general direction of Kiev.
“Where he wants us to go.”
“ Wants. Yeah.”
“Where are we going.”
She runs her hands around the arc of the wheel.
“Eventually, maybe, Kiev. Right now, Miami. Maker Smith. Know him?”
Skinner remembers the slaughterhouse in Berlin.
“Yes. Work. Several years ago.”
“Everyone knows Smith. He’s colorful.”
She twists her neck until it rewards her with a sharp crack.
“I don’t want Cross to know. I don’t want him to know anything until I say otherwise.”
He nods.
“I go with you. Protect you. Everything else, the details, you decide.”
She rubs her neck, as if she can feel something there that won’t rub off.
“Okay, okay. Let’s go.”
Dust unsettled behind them, Haven, all the past has to offer. Skinner studies the road ahead.
energy
RAJ DOESN’T THINK they can get the truck down the alley.
In truth, he doesn’t know how they got a truck this far from 90 Feet Road. Sections of Dharavi Main Road carry box lorries, but nothing so large as this. Yellow and black, colors of a Padmini cab, a diesel lorry with a flatbed trailer, common on the highways and the infinite construction sites of Bombay, unheard of here.
“Is that it, Raj?”
David presses against his back, his voice raised to be heard over the rattle of the rain falling on thousands of corrugated tin roofs, the two of them sandwiched into a rare gap where the outer walls of two shanties do not lean against one another. They are drenched by the rain, as close to submerged as one can be without drowning. Their feet are ankle deep in the muck that funnels from the alley into the space between the homes. But when are their feet not ankle deep in muck?
Raj squeezes his ball to his chest.
“Yes.”
David worms closer to the mouth of the gap. If someone inside one of the two shanties leans against the inner wall the boys will either be crushed or spat into the alley like melon seeds pinched from between finger and thumb.
David is breathless.
“Bhenchod super cool.”
It is super cool, of that there is no doubt. Dead of night, the truck, headlights blacked out, backing into the alley a centimeter at a time, fat tires straddling the water main that humps up from the mud, and no one out to gawk. The rains drive many indoors, equal parts shelter and the need to ensure that this morning’s wall does not become this evening’s floor in a sudden wash of sludge. But even in the most severe monsoon the inhabitants of Dharavi usually go about their
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