by Pavel Kornev
I couldn't see any more. One of the overly zealous constables guarding the truck turned his attention to me and started off for the station, tightening his helmet as he walked.
I ran off the porch without delay and walked down the street away from the noisy crowd. The constable didn't follow after me and returned to the armored vehicle. He must have taken me for a newspaperman; in my pricy suit, I didn't look anything like a laborer.
Now, that allowed me to avoid explaining myself to former colleagues but, in the future, expensive clothing could serve as a reason for serious trouble: local workers looked at me with unhidden suspicion, and some with rage. Last summer, this kind of thing wasn’t even being whispered about, and all I could do was guess what might have caused such a sharp upswing in the class war.
Having decided I didn’t want too many workers seeing me, I turned down the next alley and took a roundabout path to Foundry Town, the private manufactory neighborhood. In the narrow passages, I immediately saw more dirt and trash. More people met the eye but, at the same time, I became invisible. In Foundry Town no one had anything to say to me.
And it wasn't without reason: there was nothing for right-minded people to do here, and a man of means could be either a thief or a business partner of one of the local entrepreneurs. Meanwhile, the local heavyweights couldn't stand when someone came poking his nose in their business. And also, the small businessmen didn't seem to experience any class solidary with the factory workers. Ideals like equality and brotherhood were not held in high esteem here. Only money held sway.
IT HAD RAINED the night before and the roads hadn't quite dried out so, by the time I reached Ramon's shop, my shoes had lost all semblance of dignity. As I waited for someone to answer my knock, I tried scraping the dirt off my soles with an iron brush, but it was wasted effort.
Just before I knocked a second time, the gate flew open and a short boy looked out at the street in work overalls. He was swarthy and had black hair. He was the one who had played a police driver when we shook down the Hindoos in search of the runaway bartender on my last visit to the capital.
"Is Ramon in?" I asked without a greeting.
"Yes," he answered and moved aside to let me through. "He's in his office."
I crossed the yard and went up to the second floor of the added-on wing where my former partner's office was located.
Ramon Miro was sitting at the table and taking notes in a thick spreadsheet. The reddish shade of his skin wasn't the only thing he'd inherited from his mother, whose origins were among the New World aboriginals. He had also acquired a tranquil demeanor but still, when I walked in, he couldn't resist a whistle of surprise.
"Leo?!" Ramon asked in confusion, absent-mindedly stroking his coarse black hair, which he had cut short in a military style. "What is it this time?"
"Nothing good," I answered, and I saw a flash of annoyance in the former constable's black eyes.
"But what specifically?" he demanded an explanation.
I was standing next to the open window and looking outside. Low clouds flowed over the city in a thick gray canopy. Thick wisps of exhaust curled up from factory smokestacks into it like huge pillars, and only the wind, which grew powerful way up high, could disperse them, turning them into something like turbid waves painted by a genius artist with carefree broad strokes. On that backdrop, freight dirigibles seemed like trash floating in sewer water.
"Leo!" Ramon began to worry, getting up from the table and starting to smooth out the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. "What is the matter? Just tell me directly!"
"The stolen pistols," I turned to him, "the ones meant for the rebels in Rio de Janeiro. What did you do with them?"
"You asked me to get rid of them, Leo. Did you forget? I did exactly as you said!"
I sighed.
"Ramon, how exactly did you get rid of them? Did you sell them to someone, hide them or throw them off the docks? It's important for me to know that the pistols will not lead our former colleagues back to you, understand?"
"I threw them down a sewer drain," Miro answered calmly, but a strange smirk ran across his prominent-cheekboned face. "What, not expecting that? Did you think I'd be so small-minded? No, Leo. You said it was a serious matter, and I got rid of them. I have a serious business venture, and I don't want to get burned over such trivial matters. What's more, you compensated all my losses."
"I did, that's true," I nodded, catching my breath with relief.
After being fired from the police, the former constable had been working as a private investigator, and, to my significant surprise, had quite a lot of success. It was hard to say just what served as the reason for that: his work experience in the police or useful acquaintances he had made on the job.
Anyhow, the Ramon I once knew would never have thrown a box of new pistols down a sewer drain, but people do change. At the very least, I wanted to believe that.
"Maybe now you'll tell me what's happening?" Ramon demanded explanations in his turn.
"Pour me a cup of water. My throat is dry," I asked, taking a seat in a rickety armchair and holding out my hands, which were covered in fingerprinting ink. "So, what do your deductive abilities tell you?"
Ramon Miro poured me some soda water, then made up a second mixed with white wine for himself.
"Tell me!" he demanded, taking a long gulp.
"Do you remember Bastian Moran, senior inspector of Department Three?"
My former partner gave a painful cringe. Ramon had been kicked off the force because of that very man.
I drained the glass in a few gulps, asked him to fill it again with a gesture and took a sigh.
"Moran thinks he can eat me alive," I said slowly after that. "He slightly miscalculated but, if he can connect me with that pistol, I'll be put away for a long time."
"What have you done?"
I didn't lie.
"Do you remember at the beginning of summer, when we paid a visit to some Indians and, at about that time, the police raided the Thugees, shooting six?"
"Yes, that was a highly publicized event. It got lots of coverage in the papers. The inspector general was even thanked by the Minister of Justice."
"Well anyway, it wasn't the police that did it, it was me."
"Damn it!" Ramon cursed out, finishing his wine in one gulp and filling his glass again, this time adding a bit less soda water than before. "How'd they pin it on you?"
"Fingerprints on round casings."
"They let you go with clues like that?" the hulking man asked in surprise, and got on guard: "You were released, right? Curses! Leo, tell me you didn't escape!"
"Calm yourself!" I demanded, finishing my water. "The clues against me are purely circumstantial, which is why I was released."
"No, the pistols won't surface," Ramon said thoughtfully and wiped the bridge of his broad nose. "And you know... a week after you warned me about the pistols, there was a raid of Foundry Town. They were supposedly searching for explosives. Everything I had was turned upside down as well. And now it occurs to me that maybe it wasn't about dynamite at all!"
"Devil!" I shivered, finishing my water and walking to the window. "They took me to task..."
"Calm yourself! The pistols aren't here anymore!"
"At least there's that," I sighed and waved a hand. "Alright, to hell with them! Better you tell me, how are you doing? The strikes aren't bothering you?"
"Some shadowy figures have been gadding about, but you know how it goes. Agitators and provocateurs are not welcomed around here."
"They'll make their noise and calm down, you think?"
Ramon shrugged his shoulders.
"None of that depends on me, I don't see any reason to fill my head with it," he noted reasonably. He then added abruptly: "Most likely, quite soon, I'll leave the city."
"Are you planning to move far?" I inquired.
"To the Caribbean. Cuba, Hispaniola, Jamaica."
"To fight back the Aztecs?"
"No, the Az
tecs were chased out of there long ago without me. There are now problems with plantation workers. Ever heard of voodoo? The authorities want to reign in the acolytes of that cult. They're gearing up for a police operation."
"And you?"
"I was offered the chance to lead my own squadron. They're promising serious cash."
"Well, I don't know..." I drew out my words unconfidently. "What if they make a doll of you and stick a pin right in its heart? What if they go lower?"
Ramon shot me such an offended look that I couldn't hold back and broke down laughing at my own joke. The hulking man snorted nervously, took a sip of wine and asked:
"What are your plans?"
"I haven't decided yet," I shrugged my shoulders and turned my gaze toward my dirty shoes. "Listen, Ramon, is it possible to catch a cab somewhere around here? Because, on my way down, my shoes got all caked in mud."
Ramon glanced out the window and shouted to his nephew to send someone for a carriage, then unlocked one of the iron cabinets and set a heavy little block on the table.
"Leo, I've got something for you. You want some?"
I unfolded the thick gray parchment and whistled in surprise when I saw a dark brown bar. I cut myself a small piece from the corner with a knife. As soon as I stuck it in my mouth, a slightly bitter chocolate flavor dispersed over my tongue.
"Where'd you get this from?!" I was blown away, because trade relations with the Aztecs had been stopped long ago and, due to the corsairs flooding the Atlantic, prices for contraband chocolate, as with all other exotic goods, had simply flown through the roof.
"I have connections," Ramon answered with a satisfied smile.
"In the Caribbean?" I guessed.
"Doesn't matter. You want some?"
"How much?"
"Three hundred. And let's not negotiate. I am not doing this to earn money. I took it just for you."
I counted out six fifty-franc banknotes and gave them to my friend, then hid the parchment-encased bar in my side pocket. It weighed at the very least a quarter kilogram, and my jacket was pulling to the side but, fortunately, not too far.
"The cabby is here!" I heard from the street.
I quickly bid Ramon farewell, went out past the fence and got into the carriage waiting on the road.
"Where are we going?" the middle-aged man asked, his peaked cap tilted dashingly to the side.
"One Michelson street," I said, giving him my attorney’s new address.
After improving his financial situation, my lawyer had moved from the tall building on the outskirts of town to an ancient manor on the border of the Judean and Embassy Quarters. His present office was barely larger than his old shoebox, but the windows looked out on a shady boulevard and an archway, dedicated to the semicentennial of the overthrow of the tyranny of the fallen. It was considered quite a dignified and prestigious neighborhood, but it had one very significant fault: there were no steam-trams or underground lines out here.
Which is why I needed the cab.
MY ATTORNEY was in his office. The doorman told me that, and gratefully accepted a half-franc coin after I asked him how to find the right office; I had not yet made it down here.
I went up a wide marble staircase to the third floor and found myself in a corridor with all the gas lamps lit except one. The building was properly dilapidated. The stucco on the ceiling needed to be redone, while the parquet had been worn down by the feet of an unending cohort of visitors but, even in such a state, the decor didn't create an impression of desolation, more like a certain noble antiquity.
My attorney couldn’t yet afford to hire a secretary or assistant, so I walked into his small office without a knock. It had a couple of wide windows, a portrait of Empress Victoria over the desk and rows of metal card cabinets along the wall. The young rosy-cheeked man choked on his cigarette smoke in surprise and gave a heart-rending cough.
I couldn't resist mocking him.
"Calm yourself, maître. Easy. It's only me."
"Viscount?" my attorney asked in astonishment, throwing his newspaper on the table. "I wasn't expecting you today!"
"Extenuating circumstances, I'm afraid," I told him, closing the door behind me. "I need a defense attorney on retainer."
"A defense attorney?"
"The best criminal defense attorney money can buy."
"Is it really that serious?"
"It's extremely serious," I confirmed and asked: "Is there a bathroom here? I need to wash my hands."
The chubby face of my attorney stretched out in fearful suspicion, and I couldn't hold back a laugh.
"You should see your face, maître!" I said, shaking my head after I finished laughing. "It isn't blood, just fingerprinting ink."
"I'm not colorblind," The offended jurist puffed out his cheeks in annoyance and pushed out his cigarette in the bottom of a porcelain ashtray. "Blood is red, even children know that!"
"So, have you got a bathroom?"
My attorney pointed me to an imperceptible door hidden between two metal cabinets.
"Right there."
Behind the door, I discovered a tiny washroom with no windows. Standing at the sink, I adjusted the faucets, plugged the drain and spent some time just holding my arms under the warm water, then soaped them up and tried to wash off the ink, but it was to no effect. I just left gray marks on the towel. My skin didn't change color one bit.
When I returned into my attorney's office, he was standing near an iron filing cabinet, leafing through some papers.
"How soon do you need an attorney, Viscount?"
"Agree to a meeting tomorrow, better in the first half of the day," I answered and gave a fated sigh, because I had only now realized that my plans to leave New Babylon were fated to end in failure. "And prepare a contract for long-term representation."
"I could represent you in court myself!"
"Don't talk nonsense!" I waved it off, sitting on a chair and extending my legs. "You can handle finances quite well, but I don't want to spend one more day behind bars. I need the arrest to be disputed or have bail paid immediately. And for that, I need to pull out all the stops. I need connections."
"There's a certain sense in that," the jurist gave in. "What were you charged with?"
I decided not to upset him more than necessary and waved a hand.
"No charges yet. And perhaps none will be made, but I need guarantees."
If my attorney did guess that I simply didn't want to bring him up to speed, he didn't show it in any way. He calmly put the newspaper into the desk drawer and clarified:
"Do you read my monthly reports?"
I considered ordering lunch here from a nearby restaurant but decided not to tarry in my attorney's office longer than necessary and shook my head.
"No, why? Is everything in order?"
"Completely, don't you doubt it. The manor on Calvary was sold at the end of last month, and the profits were enough to pay off most of your loans."
"Did the auction go well?"
My attorney put on a look of insulted innocence and declared:
"Naturally! Have I ever led you astray before? We made out like bandits!"
"Excellent work, maître!"
"Where should I drop off your effects from the manor? I'm renting a warehouse for now, but all the most valuable things are being kept in my apartment. That isn't too comfortable..."
"Just bear it a bit longer, maître. We'll sort it all out as soon as I have free time." I got up from the table, looked at my watch and reminded him: "Don't forget about the defense attorney. I'll call after six. I hope you'll have something for me by then."
"Naturally, Viscount! I'll handle it right away!"
I bid my attorney farewell, went down to the first floor and stopped on the sidewalk, looking in indecision from the arch to the calm boulevard, where wide-branching sycamores were frozen in complete immobility.
There was no good way to go straight from here to Emperor Clement Square. If I caught a cab, it wo
uld have to make a hook through the jammed streets. In the end, it would take me even longer to get to the hotel than going on foot through the Embassy Quarter.
Realizing that decided it. I bought a glass of carbonated water without syrup from a tent on the corner, sated my thirst and started off toward the arch. There weren't many people on the streets at all, just presentable looking gentlemen hurrying about their business with briefcases and folded newspapers, along with the odd page boy running past in a lather. But there were more than enough police on patrol; what was more, in the quiet yards and alleys, there were also some police armored cars. However, for the New-Babylon police, such extreme measures were hardly surprising. The authorities were expecting serious unrest, so there were guard units stationed throughout downtown.
The stubborn gazes of the sentries put me beside myself; I stuck my hands in my pockets and involuntarily increased my speed. I slightly calmed down only when the narrow uneven little streets of the Embassy Quarter, with their colorful flags and coats of arms on old mansion facades, were left behind me. The buildings grew sparser. A slight breeze was blowing and, although a thick gray bedsheet of clouds was flowing over the roofs as before, it felt like it had become easier to breathe.
The Roman Bridge shone like a beacon before me. That was where I was headed.
At one time, the majestic structure had linked the Old City with the Embassy Quarter but, after this shallow tributary of the Yarden had been paved over, street artists and musicians had taken a fancy to it. I didn't have the most pleasant memories of this place, so I tried to avoid it whenever possible.
To the measured clacking of horseshoes on the pavement, two equestrian constables trotted by. I didn't pay them any mind, just walked and watched the water pouring out of a huge stone pipe on one side of the bridge and disappearing under the earth on the other after no more than fifty meters. The recent rain had made the water murky, foamy and seething.
I walked up onto the bridge along a side stair and took a look around. The gloomy weather hadn't scared all the local artists off; vacationing gapers were staring at their works with interest, but few of them stuck around to order a pencil sketch or full-on portrait. A street band enjoyed somewhat greater popularity, playing the recent hit Turn off your Light, Moon Man. However, there as well, coins didn't clink into the violin case so very often.