REAMDE

“How does BRAVE GIRL like Zula get such piece of shit boyfriend!?” Ivanov was hollering. “What would your parents think of you, Peter!? Who raised you anyway? Wolves? Gypsies? Answer question! Not just sob like little girl. Ah, you FUCKINK … PIECE … of SHIT!”

 

 

Each of the three words was punctuated by a boom. Csongor jumped at the first one and dropped the bobby pin. Soon enough he had snatched it up and resumed work on the manacle.

 

At the sound of Ivanov’s gun, Zula had instinctively turned away from the door at the base of the stairs and now she stayed in that position, focusing all her attention on Csongor’s hands, like a little kid who thinks that the monster will go away if she pretends it isn’t there. This was some really stupid shit, but nothing that had happened in the last few days had really prepared her for anything like what had apparently just happened to Peter.

 

“Csongor!” called a soft voice.

 

Zula and Csongor both startled and turned around to discover Ivanov in the room with them, a semiautomatic pistol in one hand, pointed at the floor.

 

“This is good,” Ivanov said. “Finally, someone is real man.”

 

Csongor gave up on picking the manacle and rose to his feet, standing at Zula’s side, facing Ivanov from perhaps eight feet away. Ivanov was gazing on Zula’s face in a way that made Csongor want to intercept the eye line; he took half a step forward and got between Zula and Ivanov.

 

“Yes,” Ivanov said. “This is proper. I always knew you were proper gentleman, Csongor. Now, move aside so that I can put bullet in head of lying bitch.”

 

“No,” Csongor said.

 

Ivanov rolled his eyes. “I understand you must continue gentleman behavior. Is all quite proper. But situation is as follows. I told Zula she must tell truth about apartment or I would kill her. Zula lied. Now I must carry out end of deal as promised. Surely you understand.”

 

Ivanov now raised the weapon so that he could sight along its barrel and sidestepped a little bit so that he could draw a bead on Zula. But Csongor moved to get in the way.

 

“Is not game of hockey. Is not puck. Is fuckink bullet, Csongor. You cannot stop it.”

 

“Yes, I can,” Csongor pointed out.

 

“Csongor! You are only man in whole building who deserves to be alive,” Ivanov pointed out. “Please stop being fuckink asshole. Don’t you want to get old and grow the mustache? Drive the bus?”

 

Zula could only interpret those questions as further proof of Ivanov’s derangement, but they seemed to mean something to Csongor, who shrugged.

 

“Zula wants you to live. Don’t you, Zula?”

 

It was an odd question. Csongor turned around to look at her.

 

As he did, Zula saw Ivanov lunge forward with unexpected speed.

 

The look on Zula’s face told Csongor that something was wrong and Csongor began to swivel his head back—just in time to receive a crushing blow on the jaw from the butt of Ivanov’s gun. Csongor spiraled toward the floor. Zula was able to get half underneath him and cushion the impact. She got her free hand under his head and cradled it until it reached the floor.

 

Then she was stuck, sitting on the floor with Csongor’s full weight on her lap. He must have weighed well over 250 pounds.

 

Zula wet her lips and opened her mouth to make the last speech of her life, in which she would try to explain to Ivanov why it didn’t make sense to kill Peter for not treating Zula chivalrously and then shoot Zula in the head while she was handcuffed to a pipe.

 

There was a series of deafening bangs. The side of Ivanov’s head was ripped off by an invisible shovel and flung across the room. He dove sideways as if trying to catch his brains before they hit the floor.

 

Zula now noticed that there was another person in the room: a tall black man. He was carrying a long weapon that Zula recognized from the re-u as an AK-47.

 

His eyes met hers.

 

“English?” he asked.

 

“American,” she said.

 

“Your confusion is understandable, but I was inquiring, not as to nationality, but as to language,” said the man with the assault rifle. “I’ll endeavor to make my questions less ambiguous in future.” He was speaking with some sort of British accent. He squatted down next to Ivanov’s corpse and began slapping it all over. “This the dude who cuffed you?” he asked, switching seamlessly to Ebonics.

 

A faint jingle sounded from one of Ivanov’s pockets. The man reached in and drew out a handful of change, sorted through it, and pulled out one item that was not a coin: a handcuff key. “Bingo,” he said. Slinging the assault rifle over his shoulder, he stood, strode over to Zula’s side, and unlocked the end of her handcuff that was locked around the pipe. “Freedom!” he proclaimed brightly.

 

“Thank you!” Zula exclaimed.

 

“Is an illusion,” he continued, and snapped the manacle shut around his right wrist, chaining his right arm to Zula’s left. Then he pocketed the key.

 

“Who are you?” she asked, squirming out from beneath Csongor.

 

“You can call me Mr. Jones, Zula,” he answered. He now let the assault rifle slip down off his shoulder, grabbed it by the barrel, and looked at it wistfully. “Difficult to fire with one hand,” he pointed out. He turned to look at her. His face was intelligent and not unattractive. “What’s the only thing more attention getting, on the streets of Xiamen, than two niggers handcuffed together?”

 

“I give up.”

 

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