He’d then pooled the prewar Deutschemark savings of his in-laws and two old aunts to open a small cafe in a low-slung, well-protected building in the city center. He timed it perfectly, opening just as people began seeking night life again, realizing they’d either have to begin imitating the rhythms of a normal life or go crazy in their cellars. The cafe went over so well that he then opened a small cinema in a room across the hallway, stretching a large sheet across the wall at one end for a screen, and rounding up eighty mismatched folding chairs for seating.
Doing any sort of business these days, especially any successful business, inevitably put one into contact with the people running the rackets and black markets, and Goran had used his vantage point and his army contacts to make himself an informal expert on all the various rivalries and relationships. He’d sniffed out the likelihood of the November raid three days before it occurred, and could tell you on any given week who was up, who was down, and who had better be looking for a way out of the city. Through all this he’d developed a knack for knowing when it was okay to keep gossiping and when it was time to stop asking questions, and he knew better than to ever ask for anything more than his own meager piece of the action, just enough to keep his bar and his theater up and running. It was bad enough owing these people money. The last thing you wanted to owe them was a favor.
Nowadays you could usually find him either tending bar or next door in an office across the hall that adjoined the theater, a cramped place smelling of gasoline and throbbing with the pulse of the two generators that kept his business empire going from inside a small closet. He was almost invariably hunched over a computer keyboard, using special software to type subtitles onto the latest videotape he’d managed to smuggle in via a friendly journalist or aid worker. He now had enough extra titles in stock to print up a small schedule covering the next month of showings, and his efforts at marketing and posting signboards around town had paid off. Except on days of heavy shelling the theater was usually a packed house, even at the princely sum of a D-mark a head.
He and Vlado still drank together every now and then, a few beers rather than plum brandy, just enough to work up a belch or two and make the week’s memories shimmer and slide, enough to feel light-headed all the way home, then sink deeply into a yeasty slumber.
Vlado checked first in the cafe, opening the door onto an atmosphere of smoke and noise so thick it seemed he’d have to shove his way through. He scanned the room, every table full, maybe forty people in all. It was only 4:30, but with a 9 p.m. curfew, night life, such as it was, began with the first sign of dusk. The conversation was loud and boisterous. There wasn’t a soul in the place without a cigarette, but Vlado could see only four who’d actually bought a drink-two with beers, two with coffee. The guitars and vocals of an old Yugoslav rock band, No Smoking, blared from giant speakers in each corner. The group had been popular before the war. Now they were disbanded, and the lead singer was in Belgrade. No one here seemed to mind.
Vlado weaved through the tables to the bar, where a young woman stood, looking bored as she searched through a shoebox of cassette tapes for the next selection. He had to shout twice to get her attention.
“Is Goran here?”
“Try next door,” she said. “In the theater.”
Vlado moved into the hallway, elbowing past four revelers just arriving, then approached another doorway where a man sat at a card table having just sold the last ticket for the evening’s first showing.
“Vlado,” the man greeted him, grinning, although Vlado couldn’t recall his name. “You’re looking for Goran?”
“Yes. In his office?”
“On the phone. But I’ll tell him you’re here. Wait inside. You can catch the first few minutes of the movie while I get him. On the house.”
Vlado eased through the door. It was chilly inside, though not so smoky, and apart from the conversation in English blaring occasionally from the movie soundtrack it was quiet as a tomb. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw that every seat was filled, a crowd of people still in their heavy coats, the rising vapor of their breath just visible overhead in the wide beam of light from the projector.
From countless other movies and TV shows Vlado could tell right away that this one was set in New York, and by the creeping cadence and low tones of the soundtrack, it was obvious something sinister was afoot, that danger was approaching. But what struck him most about the scene was its neatness and order. Here was a working society with streets uncluttered by shell holes and burned cars. A place with bright lights, glass storefronts. You could walk around the corner and have a beer, a hot meal, a cup of coffee, stay as late as you wanted, and go home to a warm apartment with clean sheets and a light switch on the wall. And all you had to worry about were a few criminals out trying to shoot you. It looked like paradise. Now he realized why these people so willingly gave up a week’s pay for two hours of entertainment.
A hand tapped his right shoulder.
“In here,” a voice whispered. “He can see you now.”
Vlado reluctantly left the streets of New York and walked in to find Goran at the keyboard, muttering, his shirttail hanging through the opening in the back of his folding chair.
He turned, a smile spreading on his broad, unshaven face. “Vlado. Well, it’s about time. For two weeks I can’t get you in here for a beer, and now you pick a day when I’m trying to finish with some comedy I’m not even sure I can translate. Too much American hip-hop language and inside jokes. So where’ve you been?”
“Around.”
“So I’ve heard. The man about town. Keeping late hours at his apartment all by himself. Exciting life, Vlado.”
Vlado smiled. It was an old and frequent topic between them.
“So what’s up, then. Something by the look in your eye tells me you’re not here for a movie or a beer.”
“I’m looking for somebody. Neven Halilovic. I can’t remember what happened after the raid. Whether he was killed, pardoned into the army, or is still in jail.”
“You can stop looking. Last I heard he was dead. He was put in the army, all right, but never made it past the first month. One of those wild attacks across the Jewish cemetery that never comes to anything but more bodies across the graves. But offhand I don’t remember who told me all that, so I can ask around to make sure. Why? You fellows finally getting into corruption cases, or have you joined the special police force without telling me?”
“Only on loan. It’s the Vitas investigation. I guess you heard about him.”
“Only this morning.” He shook his head. “So that’s yours, is it?” Goran paused a moment, then nodded slightly “Yes. I suppose that would figure. Impress the blue helmets with an independent man. Show that we’ve really cleaned up our act in all the right places.” He laughed. “All of which you believe entirely, Vlado, right?”
“As a loyal public servant, I can only wholeheartedly agree.”
“So what’s the story on Vitas? Christ, he wasn’t up to his neck in the local rat’s nest, too, was he?”
He handed Vlado a beer.
“Thanks. I was hoping you might already have formed an educated guess on that yourself. But the Ministry seems to think so. Or at least, Kasic and a few undercover men do.”
“Kasic,” Goran snorted. “As if he would know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing really. I’ve just always thought his machinery was a little too well oiled, a case of style over substance, and it’s always worked for him. One of those fellows who always manages to put himself in the right place for the next promotion.”
“We can’t all sell movies and beer for a living.”