Budapest in Pieces by Richard Wake

Author:Richard Wake [Wake, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Manor and State, LLC
Published: 2022-11-20T16:00:00+00:00

24

The land deal with Laszlo was almost finished, but there was one more signature needed from me. He said I could supply it in his office, and we made an appointment. He said it wouldn’t take 10 minutes, not that it mattered much to me. I was glad to have a reason to get out of bed and make the walk across the Chain Bridge into Pest.

I still wasn’t exactly sure what Laszlo did for a living, but this was a busy day. His secretary was typing furiously when I arrived and barely acknowledged me, simply saying, “Just knock and go in. He’ll appreciate the interruption.”

I did as instructed, and when I opened the door, I saw Laszlo and some women involved in what was quite obviously an unpleasant conversation. It was quite obvious mostly because Laszlo’s face was contorted into a snarl, and the woman was repeatedly gesturing at him by rhythmically waving a handful of documents in his direction. The waves were more like jabs, actually, and each jab of the paperwork acted as a kind of emphatic punctuation. I took only a step inside the office and waited, and the words I heard her say were, “…due (jab)… last (jab)… week (jab).”

They both saw me standing there, and Laszlo responded with what could only be described as a growl, and the woman dropped the papers on his desk blotter and turned on her heel and rushed past me.

“Idiot,” she said, more to herself than to me as she passed by.

“A close friend, is she?” I said, settling into the chair next to his desk. Laszlo was scooping up the papers and shoving them into a side drawer.

“Goddamn fucking bitch,” he said.

“In general, or just today?”

“Every fucking day,” Laszlo said. “Entitled fucking bitch.”

“Entitled why?”

“Entitled because she lived in the basement of some abandoned building in 1943 and 1944 and took potshots at some Arrow Cross assholes, and now she thinks that experience entitles her to a crown and a goddamned scepter.”

Almost reflexively, I looked at the photo on Laszlo’s desk, the one with him standing with his comrades in front of the onion domes in Moscow. So did he.

“Is she your boss?” I said.

“She wishes.”

“So why do you take shit from her?”

“Because the paperwork is late,” Laszlo said, “and because her boss, well, because she was almost certainly sucking his dick in that abandoned building between potshots at the Arrow Cross. So, you have to be careful. You have to navigate. You need patronage.”

“And what, you have none?” I said. “You didn’t suck any dicks in Moscow?”

“I have plenty of patronage,” he said. He reached into the deep desk drawer on the right and pulled out a bottle of something and two glasses. I looked at my watch: 11:25 a.m.

“Close enough,” I said, and he poured twice.

“Speaking of my patronage,” he said, after taking a slug. Then he opened a file folder and shoved a paper in my direction. He pointed to a line on the bottom, and I signed.

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