“That was Sing Po!” Graves exclaimed. “I never did find out what happened to him. I met him once in Seoul, but then he disappeared. .”
“The silk cord, as it turned out, was not such a sure thing after all. He wanted to use it one too many times, when he shouldn’t have. I stabbed him in the stomach. That was in Constantinople. .”
“You don’t say. .” Graves said.
They sat in silence: men who knew how to wait.
“I heard you always use a.45, García.”
“I used to use a 32–20, but the bullets are narrow and not immediately effective. Once, a guy with three bullets in him almost stabbed me.”
“I prefer German Lugers,” Laski said.
“We mostly use revolvers,” Graves said. “They have only six shots, but they’re reliable. It’s rare you have a chance to use all of them, anyway. Usually one’s enough.”
“Lugers, just like American pistols,” Laski said, “have to be kept very clean. But if they’re well cared for, they’re very effective. For a while, in Canada, I had to use an American.45, Graves, and I must confess, it served me very well.”
“Thanks,” Graves said. “I once had the chance to use a Russian submachine gun, and I can assure you, that is a terrific weapon.”
They sat in silence again. Anabella Ninziffer was showing too much leg. Fucking gringa! Seems we’re holding a wake. And what, exactly, did the dead woman die of? Well, she caught a fever. Oh, yeah, a fever my ass! Your dead woman barely had a sniffle, but she died anyway. With a light cord wrapped around her neck. And with bare legs. These gringas are indecent even when they’re dead. And we were going to have a party. A wake, for this old bitch! Half a million dollars just to kill this bag of rags. These Chinamen are real morons.
“García, my friend,” Graves said, “do you think there’s any rum left?”
“Maybe, in the kitchen.”
“Hopefully there’s milk in the refrigerator,” Laski said. “Americans always have milk. They are big milk drinkers.”
García stood up. No matter what, since we’re in Mexico, it seems I have to play the host. Fucking host. Please, welcome to my humble abode, make yourself at home with the fucking stiff.
He found a bottle of rum on the counter in the kitchen, and several bottles of beer in the refrigerator, but no milk. He brought the rum and two beers into the dining room.
“No milk.”
“That’s the problem with civilizing these Americans,” Laski said. “Before, they always had milk in their homes, but then, during the two wars, they learned about drinking, and now they don’t drink milk anymore. We have lost a lot by civilizing them. Hand me a beer, Filiberto.”
Graves picked up the bottle of rum and took a slug, while García and Laski enjoyed their beers. They continued to wait. That was their job, to wait, so that when the time came, they could kill with a sure hand. Anabella Ninziffer’s legs shone white in the darkness. García got up and covered them with another piece of newspaper. Fucking gringa! And Graves drinks and drinks and never gets drunk. I bet he’s never been drunk in his life. And he’s good at karate. I should have learned that as a kid, but there were other things to learn, like how to stay alive.
They continued to wait.
“Mexican rum is very good,” Graves said suddenly.
“Thanks,” García said. “Do you want another beer, Ivan Mikhailovich?”
“Yes, please. And, please forgive me for not going myself, but I prefer not to turn my back on either of you in the dark.”
García went to get two more beers. Fucking suspicious Russian! What are these two thinking about? Their own faithful departed? They don’t have a conscience. Gringo and Russian. Not a conscience between them. At least the gringo covered up the dead woman’s eyes. Maybe she reminds him of someone he shacked up with. Fucking gringo! All that shit about Vienna and Constantinople! They must see what a chump I am.
“Here’s your beer, Ivan Mikhailovich.”
“Thanks, Filiberto. It’s going to be very bad for me. .”
García sat down. His hand felt for his.45 that he’d left on the seat next to him. Got to stay alert in the dark. Especially with these two.
“Not that we don’t trust you, Filiberto, but I don’t like you having your hand on your gun.”
“The darkness,” Graves said, “breeds bad thoughts.”
They continued to wait. Nobody has said, like at wakes, how good and kind the dead woman was. For all I know they’ll say that at my wake. Marta says so. And she’s lying in my bed and I’m here pretending to be a big shot in international intrigue. Along with these two guys who know more tricks than an old fox. And what’s this crap about darkness breeding bad thoughts? Do either of them ever have any good thoughts? Touch your forehead first, so God will free you from bad thoughts. That’s what I was taught to say in Yurécuaro. These fellows should touch their foreheads first. But as far as I can tell, they don’t even cross themselves. And those who don’t know God will kneel before any old sonofabitch, let alone the devil. Forehead first, also with the bullet, so they don’t budge. Like that guy in Tabasco. He jumped around like a decapitated lizard. Forehead first, like a true Christian. It’d be good to pray for the dead woman, but I don’t remember any of the prayers they say at wakes. It’s strange that I never go to wakes. Maybe it’s because it takes one person to make the dead and another to pray for them.
Laski suddenly spoke, quietly, as someone does in the presence of a corpse.
“Might seem strange, but sometimes I do think about death.”
Graves laughed.
“It’s just that one day it’ll be our turn,” Laski continued. “We get used to seeing it come to others, but we must remember that one day it will come to us.”
“He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword,” Graves said. “That’s in the Bible.”
“Yes,” said Laski. “We also study the Bible in Russia. It is an interesting book. And our great writers have dealt often with the problem of death.”
“And your great leaders have employed it,” said Graves.
“One cannot govern without killing, Graves, my friend. All governments have learned this by now. That’s why we exist.”
“To conduct investigations,” Graves said, curtly.
“And to kill when the time comes to kill,” Laski insisted again, his voice low. “Yes, to kill. But I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking about the death that will come to each one of us. We kill, but we don’t know what it is to die. As if we said, we are death’s doormen, but we always remain outside.”
“You Russians, you’d rather be dead than feel left out.”
“Welcome to your death, we tell people. But we remain outside, until the day comes for us to enter. As if we were in the dentist’s waiting room. And deep down, we feel certain that our turn will never come, even though we know it will.”
“Are you afraid to die?” Graves asked, curious.
“Only those who know nothing of death are not afraid. We know too much.”
They continued to wait. These guys are turning philosophical on me. Every dog has his day. And there’s a bullet out there with each of our names on it. Or an electric cord, like this fucking gringa. Or maybe even pneumonia. He died in his bed, with last rites and a blessing from the pope. Damn! I’ve never thought of that. The colonel will die in his bed, same with Rosendo del Valle. There are categories of deaths, and there are men who are in the category of dying in their bed, with last rites. Straight to heaven. And when you get there, you turn into an angel. For all I know, this gringa already has her wings and her halo. Though she didn’t die in bed. And she of all people should have died in bed because when she was alive, that’s what she used most. But she had the bum luck to get involved in this international intrigue. And there’s Marta in my bed. So lovely, and all alone in my bed. And this gringa who wanted to leave her slutty life behind and enter the life of international intrigue. And they did her in with an electrical cord, and she couldn’t even make it back to bed, which is all she ever knew. And by the time she realized it, she was having a wake instead of a party. Fucking gringa!