Katja From The Punk Band by Simon Logan

Author:Simon Logan [Logan, Simon]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Suspense & Thrillers
Publisher: ChiZine Publications
Published: 2010-04-14T20:00:00+00:00

PART SEVEN

KOHL AGAIN

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Got the stupid fucking thing in my hand now. Let’s get this shit over with.

Kohl walks into The Digital Drive-by. This time, it’s an air of superiority, of satisfaction, that surrounds him rather than his usual twitchy nervousness that follows him like a small swarm of sticky flies.

He nods to some of the regulars, hunched over cocktail machines, their faces emaciated from the glow beneath them. It’s good to have the regulars there often, providing a show for those who wish to be like them and a challenge to those who think they can beat them — either way the money rolls in.

And yet what is that compared to what he might now be in line for from Szerynski?

Beng, a six-and-a-half-foot Croat who had won local championships on the last three occasions, nods to Kohl as he walks past, his hands continuing to move deftly over the joystick and keys without his full attention. Kohl thinks perhaps he’ll organize a lock-down tournament, shutting out the small timers and amping it out to get some big money going. Why the hell not? Things were going well.

This is his kingdom, these are his people. He doesn’t need endless ego-stroking domains scattered across the island, as Szerynski and some others favour. This he knows, this he controls. He will consolidate his place, nothing more.

He pushes through a crowd and the electronic garble is broken by the sound of Fat Rita’s gritty shouts. The headset she wears, it looks like a piece of her gum that’s snapped around her head and over her ear. Her chubby hands defy reason as she sorts through piles of coins with the skill of a surgeon.

She stops talking when she sees Kohl approach.

Into the phone she says, “Oh . . . wait. Waitaminute. Here he comes.”

Clamps one chubby hand over the bud-like mouthpiece.

“Phone call for you. You wanna take this?”

Her mouth opens unnecessarily wide when she speaks, enough that Kohl can clearly see the pink wetness of her tongue and the ridges of the roof of her mouth.

“Who?”

She looks down at a scrap of paper on the desk before her.

“Shariski . . .”

And the room fades away, melts like wax from a candle.

“Szerynski,” Kohl says.

Fat Rita pops her bubble through the protestation. “Yah. That’s what I said.”

He makes a mental note to get rid of the woman if he ever finds a way to crowbar her from the booth. Motions for her to hand him the headset, and he is certain that beneath the white noise of the arcade there is a definite sucking sound like that of a leech being wrenched from its feeding place.

The device glistens, and Kohl takes it only after sliding his sleeve over one hand and wiping the metal and plastic parts clean with his other sleeved hand. The jacket will have to go now, of course. He’ll burn it later.

He pulls the headset on.

“Mr. Szerynski.”

Trying to sound calm, in control. No problem.

The voice on the other end says, “Vladimir.”

“I’m glad you called,” Kohl tells him, reaches into his pocket and takes out the vial.

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