Legends

“I would like to get off a hundred meters before it and walk the rest of the way to work off the meal.”

Radek laid a forefinger along a nostril. “You want to case the joint first.”

“Where did you pick up case the joint?”

“So I am crazy about old U.S. movies.” He transformed a thumb and an index finger into a pistol and jammed it into the pocket of his Tyrolean jacket. “I have a gub in my pocket, Mister.”

“What movie is that from?”

“Woody Allen. Take the Money and Run.”

“Uh-huh. Let’s go.”

Sitting in the back of the trolley, listening to the sparks crackling off the overhead electric cable, Martin studied the faces around him looking for the one that was conspicuously uninterested in him. Normally he prided himself on being able to blend into a crowd even when there wasn’t one. Now, however, he was in too much of a hurry to take the usual precautions. His American clothes, especially his shoes, made him stand out in any Czech crowd and people, naturally curious, would inspect him, some openly, some furtively. Martin figured if someone were following him he would be careful not to look at him at all. In the long ride from the mom and pop’s eatery to Mala Strana, then queuing to wait for a trolley on another line, Martin, still an artisan of tradecraft, didn’t have the feeling he was being tailed. Which, he knew from experience, could mean that the people following him were very good at it. Radek noticed him noticing the passengers around him. “If you are not wanting girls, what are you wanting?” he asked. He leaned closer so the haggard woman on the aisle seat brazenly scrutinizing the American couldn’t overhear him. “Cannabis, ganja, hemp, hashish, bhang, sinsemilla, cocaine, crack, angel dust, horse, methadone, LSD, PCP, uppers, downers. Only identify it, Radek will find it for less lousy U.S. dollars than you pay me a day.”

“I’ve never even heard of half these things,” Martin said. “What I’m wanting is to stretch my legs when we’re within walking distance of the Vyshrad Station.”

“Next stop,” Radek said, obviously disappointed that his procurement talents were not being put to the test. He plucked at the cord running the length of the trolley above the windows as if it were a guitar string. Up front a bell sounded. As the trolley ground to a halt, the doors scraped open. Once on the sidewalk, Radek pointed with his nose. In the distance, on the other side of the wide street, Martin could make out a shabby communist gothic structure trapping the last quarter hour of sunlight slanting in over the Vltava on its dilapidated roof, which was crawling with pigeons. He turned to Radek and offered his hand. “I won’t be needing your services anymore,” he announced.

Radek looked dejected. “You paid for ten hours, Mister. I still owe you seven and a half.”

“Consider the unused hours a gratuity.” When Radek still didn’t shake hands, Martin brought his own up to his eye and snapped off a friendly salute. “Good luck to you in medical school, Radek. I hope you find a cure for Alzheimer’s before Alzheimer’s sets in.”

“I kick myself for asking someone like you only thirty lousy crowns an hour,” Radek muttered as he turned and headed in the opposite direction.