Black flies congregated at the periphery of Coop’s vision. Just before going unconscious he thought he saw the chaplain, a wicker figure against the firelight, watching Coop get choked unconscious. Then smoke and shadow pressed in on him, blooms of fire in the infinite black.
CHAPTER FOUR
Kafe Skanderbeg was empty but for the three saints, gathered as usual around their television in the corner. Kosta stood on the sidewalk, spying through a frosted window. On the big television screen was a scrambling of black and white soccer uniforms, KF Tirana at Belarus. The three old men were in midritual, as if conducting the game, a pantomime of finger-jabbing obscenity and vigorous supplication.
The saints turned as Kosta entered. They watched him shed his fine wool topcoat and shake away the snow. Underneath he wore his tailored black suit and a chunky, onyx-colored Bulgari. The watch was fake but it was a good fake. He hung the coat among the pillowy jackets of the old men and took a table at the other end of the room.
The sounds of the game mingled with turbo-folk coming from the kitchen—a pandemonium of violins and synth beats—and under this landscape of noise Kosta could make out whispery tunnels of gossip. One of the old men stared at him with hard eyes and spat into his cup.
“Coffee,” said Kosta, as one of Luzhim’s runners came over to his table. “And tell him I’m here.”
Kosta waited for his drink and tried to ignore the old men’s curses. Normally he would wear their judgments proudly, the same way he wore his clothes. But tonight he felt a chill on his hackles; the last breaths of the girl they’d left dying in the snow.
The coffee arrived. Surreptitiously Kosta lifted the cup and held it suspended a hair’s width from the saucer. He heard a slight clink of porcelain. His hand was shaking. Kosta continued to grip the cup, the muscles in his forearm straining, and gradually the clicking took on a menacing, hungry quality, like the pincers of crabs.
The runner returned from the kitchen and Kosta swallowed the remainder of his drink in a scalding chug.
“What?” said Kosta.
“He’s ready for you.”
* * *
—
The door to Luzhim’s office was on the second floor of the Kafe. Kosta knew the protocol. From inside a tin box next to the door he retrieved a pouch made of antistatic mesh, the kind they used to ship computer components. He placed his cellphone inside this envelope and returned it to the tin container, then knocked.
“Come in,” replied a low, croaking voice.
The lights were off, but street glow illuminated the room. Luzhim sat with his feet propped up on a battered aluminum desk, a wiry old geezer with a full beard and military buzz-cut, sipping rakia from a china teacup.
“Sit down, sit down,” said Luzhim. He offered Kosta a bottle from his desk drawer, sloshing it around. A glass was poured and they toasted.
“Gezuar.”
The rakia tasted of apples and gasoline.
“The three saints,” said Luzhim, sipping from his cup, “they give you a hard time?”
Kosta shrugged.
“Old fuckers,” growled Luzhim. “For them it’s football, football, football.” He held up a finger. “It has nothing do with a man’s country.”
“Luzhim, we need to talk—” Kosta paused. He was eager to report on the run-over girl, but didn’t want to sound panicked, as if the situation was out of control.
“Of course, of course,” said Luzhim. “But first a matter of business.”
From a drawer Luzhim produced an old metal device that looked like an intercom. While he fiddled with the knobs, the old man’s other hand scratched at the gray hair on his throat, where just beneath the beard was an angry rupture of scar tissue. Kosta found himself staring at this raised asterisk of flesh. The old wound a visual echo to the red star of Communism, a symbol featured prominently on the walls. All round Luzhim’s office hung awards from the Sigurimi, Albania’s long-disbanded secret police, these certificates displayed alongside plaques of recognition for his humanitarian efforts. Luzhim’s official job was director of Rebuild the Homeland, a charity whose ostensible mission was fundraising for reconstruction efforts in Kosova.
Luzhim finished tinkering with the box, and a low, steady hiss filled the room.
“Okay, business,” said Luzhim, clapping his hands together. “The boat arrives this morning, and for you I have a quarter key, high-cut.”
“A quarter. You need, eh…” Kosta was preoccupied, he struggled with the math. “So, eighteen five?”
Luzhim shook his head. “For this I’m thinking twenty-two. And remember, Kosta, you still owe me eighteen five from the last—”
“I know, I know,” said Kosta, waving away the conversation. As if his debts to the old man could be so easily banished. “Look, my guys, they couldn’t sell the last batch for more than forty-five per ticket. You feel me?”
The smile vanished from Luzhim’s face. He set down his teacup and put his palms together. “Kosta,” he said. “Why must you talk like a nigger?”
Kosta stared. What he wanted to do was grab the old man by his beard and smash his face through the window. Instead he lowered his voice and, switching to Albanian, said: “We killed a girl yesterday.”
Kosta watched the flicker of shock in Luzhim’s eyes. Luzhim lifted his chin and began urgently scratching at the red scar. “It’s bad timing, Kosta.”
“I know.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow on important business.”
Kosta nodded. One of Luzhim’s regular trips to Macedonia, though Kosta hadn’t been told the purpose. This was one of his grievances with Luzhim, how little information was shared. He couldn’t be sure if this secrecy was the man’s paranoia, or just paternal disdain. I’m your father figure, Luzhim had said, once, when he was very drunk. Figura patrona. The expression always made Kosta think of the church ruins near his old village, back in the mountains. All those headless statues.
“Okay,” said Luzhim, pressing his temples. “So this girl, she was business?”
Kosta shook his head. “Just something stupid.”
“What’s your liability?”
“One of our street-level associates, he saw the thing. But we’ve got him.”
Luzhim nodded. “At least there’s that. Where are you keeping him? Not at the duplex?”
“Of course not,” Kosta lied.
Luzhim sat back, sipping his rakia. “Why don’t you tell me. What would you do if I had already left?”