A Plague on Both Your Houses by Robert Littell

Author:Robert Littell [Littell, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blackstone Publishing

Lice and Spare Rib and the Greek wrap themselves in white terry-cloth bathrobes and, water dripping from their bare feet, pad from the old tsarist-era banya to the private Turkish dining room next to it. The Argentine, who has put on weight and sprouted a drooping walrus mustache since becoming one of Timur’s enforcers, dips one last time in the wooden tub filled with ice water, then, shaking himself like a dog, collects his bathrobe and trails after his three friends. Lounging on one of the low Turkish couches with bath towels spread across them, Lice reaches over the folds of his sumo stomach and hits the button on the intercom. “We’re ready for zakuski, Dmitri,” he calls into the speaker. “And don’t fucking forget the double helping of blinis. Last Thursday your people forgot the extra blinis.”

“Extra blinis and extra salmon will be on the cart,” a voice calls back. “On our way up now.”

“Who the fuck was that?” the Argentine, suddenly alert, demands. “I didn’t recognize the voice.”

“It sure wasn’t Dmitri,” the Greek says. “Maybe his shift ended at six.”

“Hey, the whole purpose of a sauna is to relax,” Spare Rib says. “It’s probably that new guy they hired last week.”

The Argentine, who has been jumpy since the shooting at the Porsche garage—not to mention the very public dressing down he got from Timur for being trigger-happy—retrieves the stubby PSM semiautomatic from his knapsack and, punching the magazine home, stashes it under one of the small cushions behind his back. There is a knock on the door. “See who it is before you throw the bolt,” the Argentine tells Lice.

Lice pushes aside the round cover on the peephole and looks out. Snorting, he says, “It’s the zakuski cart.”

“You recognize the guys pushing it?” the Argentine asks.

“I recognize the zakuski,” Lice says irritably. “Or you want to eat or you don’t want to eat.”

“Let them in, for fuck’s sake, before I die of starvation,” Spare Rib says.

Shrugging, Lice throws the bolt. The Argentine reaches under the cushion for his pistol as two men, wearing the white trousers and white sweaters and white gloves of sauna attendants, plant themselves under the door’s metal detector. Lice looks up at the red bulb, which remains unlit. “They’re clean,” he announces, waving for them to come in. Seeing the unlit bulb, the Argentine relaxes his grip on the pistol. One of the attendants pushes the cart filled with zakuski and two bottles of iced vodka into the room. The other attendant shuts the door behind him—and then bolts it closed.

The Argentine sits up. “Why the fuck did he bolt the door?” he demands. “You—yeah, you—why the fuck did you bolt the door?”

The attendant flashes an innocent grin. “We figured you fellows, being that you’re Ossetes, would enjoy your zakuski more if the door was bolted when you eat, is all,” he says. With a flourish that catches everyone’s attention, the second attendant lifts the silver cover on the oval serving dish, revealing a side of salmon.

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