Roadside Picnic

Noonan's hand froze as it was reaching for the so-so. Now I know who to begin with. I'll begin with him, oh how I'll begin with him. Nobody's ever begun with anybody the way I'll begin with him. And it'll be a pleasure. He turned on the wipers and drove down the avenue, seeing almost nothing in front of him, but slowly calming down. All right. Let it be like it was in Singapore. After all, it ended well in Singapore. So what, I got my face slammed down on the table one lousy time! It could have been worse. It could have been some other part of me and it could have been something with nails in it instead of a table. All right, let's stay on the track. Where's my little establishment? Can't see a damn thing. Ah, here it is.

It wasn't business hours, but the Five Minutes was as lit up as the Métropole. Shaking himself like a dog coming out of the water, Richard Noonan entered the brightly lit room that reeked of tobacco, perfume, and stale champagne. Old Benny, not in uniform yet, was sitting at the counter eating something, his fork in his fist. Spreading out her huge breasts on the counter among the empty glasses, Madame watched him eat. The room had not yet been cleaned up from last night. When Noonan walked in, Madame turned her broad, heavily made-up face toward him. It was angry at first, but immediately dissolved into a professional smile.

"Hi!” she said in her deep voice. “Mr. Noonan himself! Missed the girls?"

Benny went on eating; he was as deaf as a doornail.

"Greetings, old lady! What do I need with the girls when I have a real woman in front of me?"

Benny finally noticed him. His horrible face, covered with blue and purple scars, contorted into a welcoming smile.

"Hello, boss! Came in out of the rain?"

Noonan smiled in return and waved. He did not like talking with Benny: he had to shout all the time.

"Where's my manager, folks?” he asked.

"In his room,” Madame answered. “He has to pay the taxes tomorrow.

"Oh, those taxes! All right. Madame, please fix my favorite. I'll be right back."

Stepping soundlessly on the thick synthetic carpeting, he went down the hallway past the draped doorways of the cubicles—a picture of some flower painted on the wall next to each one—turned into a quiet dead end, and opened the leather-covered door without knocking.

Mosul Kitty sat behind the desk, examining a painful sore on his nose in the mirror. He did not give a damn that he had to pay the taxes tomorrow. The completely bare desk top held only a jar with mercury salve and a glass with a clear liquid. Mosul Kitty raised his bloodshot eyes at Noonan and jumped up, dropping the mirror. Wordlessly, Noonan settled into the armchair opposite him and silently watched, while he muttered something about the damn rain and his rheumatism. Then he said:

"Why don't you lock the door, pal."

Mosul, his flat feet slapping the floor, ran up to the door, turned the key, and returned to the desk. His hairy head towered over Noonan, and he stared loyally into his mouth. Noonan kept watching him through half-shut eyes. For some reason he remembered that Mosul Kitty's real name was Raphael. Mosul was famous for his huge bony fists, purplish and bare, that stuck out from the thick hair that covered his arms like sleeves. He had called himself Kitty because he was convinced that that was the traditional name of the great Mongol kings. Raphael. Well, Raphael baby, let's get started.

"How are things?” he asked gently.

"In perfect order, boss,” Raphael-Mosul replied rapidly.

"You smoothed over the problem at headquarters?"

"It cost 150. Everybody is happy."

"It comes out of your pocket. It was your fault, pal. It should have been taken care of."

Mosul made a pathetic face and spread his hands in a sign of submission.

"The parquet in the hall should be replaced,” Noonan said.

"It will be done."

Noonan said nothing, puckered his lips.

"Swag?” he asked, lowering his voice.

"There's a little,” Mosul replied in a low voice, too.

"Let's see it."

Mosul rushed over to the safe, took out a package, and opened it on the desk in front of Noonan. Noonan felt around with one finger in the pile of black sprays, picked up a bracelet, examined it from all sides and put it back.

"This is all?"

"They don't bring any,” Mosul said guiltily.

"They don't bring any,” Noonan repeated.

He aimed carefully and jabbed his toe with all his strength into Mosul's shin. Mosul grunted and bent over to grab the injured spot, but immediately straightened out and stood at attention. Then Noonan jumped up, grabbed Mosul by his collar and came at him, kicking, rolling his eyes, and whispering obscenities. Mosul, moaning and groaning, rearing his head like a frightened horse, backed away from him until he fell onto the couch.