Encounter Group by Warren Murphy

Author:Warren Murphy [Murphy, Warren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2009-12-17T07:00:00+00:00

"Why, yes... I am looking for a place which sells tacos. "

"Tacos? Hmmm. About the only place hereabouts carrying those things is that Irish bar on West Street. Name escapes me, but it's easy to find."

Pavel Zarnitsa abruptly turned around with a false grin on his face. "To you, I am grateful. Good-bye," he said as he brushed by.

The cab driver also asked about his accent, and Pavel briefly considered taking the pieces of the plastic pistol from his suitcase and assembling them. The pistol was spring-driven, like a zip gun, and it would easily go through the car seat and into the driver's back. It would not do to call attention to himself in any way, but Pavel decided a dead body was worse than a puzzled driver, so he changed his mind.

"I know," the driver bellowed as they pulled up before the Will Rogers Lucky Shamrock Bar and Grill. "You're a Polack!"

"A what?"

"You know-- one of those guys from Poland. We get a lot of you people since the Russkies busted up the union."

"Yes, that is right," Pavel told him as he paid the fare. "I am Polack. Good-bye to you."

Pavel Zarnitsa walked up to the bar, happy he had not killed the cab driver. Now he had a reasonable explanation for his awkward accent.

"A Scootch and three tacos, please," he told the bartender.

"A what and three tacos?"

"Scootch. On the rocks."

"I getcha. Scotch on the rocks," he said, setting the drink before the black-haired customer.

"Please do not mind my accent," Pavel told him. "I am a Polack, new to your country."

"That so?" the bartender said as he took three frozen packets from an under-counter freezer, stripped them, and put them in a sizzling Fry-o-lator, where they immediately turned the color of dry soil. "Most Polish people don't like being called Polacks. Nice to meet someone different."

"I am a very reasonable Polack," Pavel said, sipping his Scotch. "I even like Russians. Are you not going to make my tacos?"

"That's them in the Fry-o-lator."

"Really? I have never seen them prepared before. I did not know they were fried in oil. Amazing. How long do they take?"

"Done now," the bartender said, dumping the tacos onto a plate next to Pavel's Scotch.

Pavel took an eager bite and didn't know whether to chew or spit. He chewed slowly and swallowed with difficulty. A ghastly expression settled on his strongly molded features. Doubtfully, he forced himself to eat the whole thing.

"I do not understand," he said finally. "This taco is hard. The shell is hard, not soft as in New York. And I tasted no meat."

"This ain't New York buddy. I don't make 'em on the premises. They come in frozen and I unfreeze 'em. No meat, either. Just refried bean filling."

"Pah! These are not tacos. These are fakes!"

"I can get you something else..."

"You can get me another Scootch," Pavel said miserably. "I am no longer hungry."

"Suit yourself."

After fortifying himself with another drink, Pavel gave thought to his investigation into the strange newspaper reports suggesting something was wrong with America's missile bases.

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