Page 66 - WTP Vol.X#1

Pie Crust Promises (continued from page 24)
“Wincent,” Slava said, the first time I’d ever heard him name the man in Poland. And because I’d never heard him before, I hadn’t been able to correct him, teach him to say Vincent.
“You know Wincent?” the narrow fellow said, and when I chuckled, one of the narrow’s heavies stepped beside me and dropped a hand that weighed a ton on my shoulder. I almost fell on the floor. The narrow fellow swirled a wrist at the heavy, and the hand was lifted. “Let’s make business now; we can cuddle later.”
“Your old friend ain’t going to hurt ye, ”Slava said, and stuck his hand in his jacket pocket. He looked wor- ried for a second, like he’d misplaced his keys. But then Slava pulled out one of the eggs he’d stored at my apartment. He almost set it on the table, and at the last minute, he kept it in his hand.
“What ‘ave we ‘ere?” the slim fellow asked.
“Access,” Slava said. “It’ll open doors what otherwise stay closed, won’t it?” The slim fellow looked us both over, and then signaled the giant, who walked to the back of the room and rolled over a computer terminal on a rococo drinks cart.
“Aw right, ‘ere we ‘ave it,” Slava said and flipped the egg over twice in his hand and something slipped out, a USB connector, maybe, and he quickly stabbed it into the computer. Slava’s hands flew over the keys. “Ye mum,” he said, and pivoted the computer screen to show the slim fellow. “Ye never mentioned she were the Queen of Moldova.”
“Quite right,” the slim fellow said, but leaned forward and flicked his fingers over the mousepad, inspecting Slava’s work. “And I’d rather she were the Queen of England.”
“Crikey,” Slava expostulated. “You expect I can access T6 from a trunk line?” Slava chuckled. “’E ’as an Angli- can’s faith in me and my exploit, don’t he,” he said and smiled at me.
The slim fellow stood over the computer and flicked his elegant fingers over the mousepad some more. “Still, your workmanship is ship shape. There are more of these?” he said, gesturing at the egg.
“Maybe,” said Slava.
“Then ye wouldn’t mind me one, as a gift,” he said, and tugged the egg free from the workstation. He looked at the giant, who’d been taking up nearly the whole reflective surface of the mirror. “Might be we could work together.” He nodded, and the giant pulled open a drawer below the computer terminal and took out a brown envelope.
Slava flipped his fingers through the bills in the enve- lope. “Right then,” he said, “Keep it an ‘unnerd.” He held out his fist like he was playing rock paper scis- sors, but the slim fellow didn’t dap him. He turned his back on us and the giant put his hands on both our backs and pushed us back down the hallway.
The dance floor was even more packed with young people than it had been when we first came into the club. They heaved, they surged, like an anonymous mass, one body with no identity beyond what the music did to them. I didn’t want to dance; I didn’t know what I wanted, but Slava kept walking, so I fol- lowed him back into the night.
“That was the room you wanted me to get you into,” I asked Slava. We were walking back toward town. We passed the low wall on our left, where someone had left a flower in a glass soda bottle.
“Don’t you think it was worth it?” Slava asked, his fingers flicking the money in the manila envelope.
“I don’t know enough,” I confessed, and Slava laughed.
“That don’t seem likely, does it?”
“I know I didn’t agree to help you with this.”
“Come on, friend,” Slava said. “Do you not want me to have what you have?”
“I want you to have it, too. To work for it and have that be a possibility.” I huffed. It always came down to this, what I had by virtue of my lucky birth, and what was out of reach for Slava. “But you can’t blame me for what I have, what I worked for.”
“I can want it for myself without blaming you, Guv’ner,” Slava said, and then reached out for a telephone pole and swung himself around it like a dancer in a musical.
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