Rasputin's Bastards by Nickle David

Author:Nickle, David [Nickle, David]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: fantasy
ISBN: 9781926851662
Publisher: Harper Collins, Inc.
Published: 2012-06-15T06:00:00+00:00

THE GRAND INQUISITOR IN THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD

There were five guys in the Emissary’s lobby when Amar Shadak arrived. They wore track pants and jackets and expensive running shoes with squishy balloons in the heels that were supposed to make high-impact athletics easier on the ankles. The balloons were wasted on these guys. For one thing, there were at least twice as many chins as guys here. For another, when they talked, they made a wheezing fat man sound. And finally, two of them were smoking, in defiance of what Shadak understood to be a rigidly enforced anti-smoking law in the new mayor’s New York City.

But smoking and morbid obesity would have been the least of their concerns if a New York policeman were to stop them on the street. All of them, Shadak expected, were packing guns.

“Hey,” said one of them as Shadak set his bag down. “We’re closed for business, buddy. New fuckin’ management — you got it?”

“I am here to see my friend Gepetto,” said Shadak pleasantly. “I have an appointment.”

“Do you now?”

“I am Amar,” said Shadak. “I called ahead last night.”

“Amar,” said another one of the guys. “From Istanbul, right?”

“That’s right.” This one was taller than his friends, with greying hair. He looked Shadak in the eye. “They said a guy from Istanbul would be showing up here this morning. Guess you’re him.”

“That’s right.” Shadak smiled.

“You just fly in? Shoulda called from the airport. We woulda sent a car.”

“Under the circumstances,” said Shadak, “it was better I take a taxicab.”

The grey-haired guy nodded. He didn’t take his eyes off Shadak. “Sometimes that’s better,” he said.

“Don’t know who you can trust these days,” said the smaller man. He looked over to grey-hair. “Isn’t that right, Jack?”

Grey-haired Jack nodded. But he didn’t take his eyes off Shadak. His eyes scanned down his torso — probably, Shadak thought, checking him out for weapons. He didn’t blame him. Jack was one of Gepetto Bucci’s boys — and the whole gang of them had just discovered the biggest mystery of their lives here: a ghost hotel. Lights on, sheets turned. But empty. Whole staff gone AWOL. Not a guest in the place.

Shadak remembered the argument he’d had with old Bucci, when he’d first asked him to send someone over to the Emissary Hotel on Broadway:

“What the fuck you want to go to a fuckin’ dry cleaner’s for?”

“It’s not a dry cleaner’s. I need you to go to the 14th floor of the Emissary and find an old Russian named Kolyokov. I think maybe he is gone. If he is — I want you to bring some people to me.”

“There ain’t no 14th floor there. If it’s the address I’m thinkin’ of, it’s a fuckin’ dry cleaner’s. Not even Russian. I think it’s maybe Korean. Japa-fuckin’-ese. Fuck do I know? Does a shitty job and there’s no more than four fuckin’ floors in the whole building. Maybe you got the address wrong.”

“It’s the right address.”

“I’m telling you: you’re wasting a favour.”

“A favour is mine to waste.

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