Nerv Erf

This is not a blog. If it was, why would I be repeating myself?
This is more like a scribble-book which only spammers read.
Now, even the spammers are gone.
I haven’t read it myself since 2017.
At that time, I figured I could scavenge half a novella out of it, plus some foul smelling poems. Maybe a proverb or two.
But then, like at the dump, nobody but me could see the value in all this trash.
Now it’s a dump scribble-book with even its redeemable odds & ends picked clean.
So then. Why don’t I have it removed? Bulldozed into the ground?
For what purpose?
No one reads it except for ex spammers.
Also, that would cost money.

At the border, Zdravko and Rusim were met by two Turkish cops. Redjeb had the cherubic look of an assassin. Gulbie could have been a stooge but her hands gave her away. Unless cows had hands. From the border they drove in convoy to Fenerbahçe. The day looked like another perfect day, only Turkish.

Vila was right about one thing. That Balkus was a beautiful sight. To say she took up a berth was like saying the Vatican was just another arms factory. To get in wasn’t hard. Gangplank style. Front door. Direct to the middle of a dance floor. All tasteful in a super yacht kind of way. Up the stairs. Somewhere would be the guy or girl in charge of going nowhere.

“Tell me what you see,” said Zdravko. Rusim was poking his nose round the door to the bridge.
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
“It’s not really that good. There’s no one up here.”
“Upward then.”
Rusim duly walked onto the bridge. Three storeys up was where the DJ used to be, twiddling his four thousand thumbs. Spinning his wheels. Steering the dance floor to open sea.
But that wasn’t right, was it? A fridge with a whole room to itself.
Zdravko wandered round, admiring the gizmos. Gulbie checked the windows, stalking the views one by one. Redjeb studied everyone else from the doorway.
“Let’s take this thing for a spin,” said Rusim.

Freedom was an all-night road trip wheeling ever closer to forgetting who you were. Knowing and forgetting were roughly the same thing, given the right kind of morning showed up. Some mornings smelt better than others. Zdravko stared close to the window, leaning into the dark. Maybe the Opel knew where this was going. Maybe Rusim. It was a seven or eight hour drive to Istanbul.

At Plovdiv, Zdravko took over the wheel. There was only so many vodkas a man could drink. Rusim let it go at that and didn’t wake up till the border.

Nadejda wanted to talk to Rusim so Zdravko put her on speaker.
“So you’re the other guy,” she said.
“You know I’m the other guy,” said Rusim.
“How’s it going?”
“I’m driving home. What you up to?”
“Nothing much. Cooking dinner.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Couscous.”
“Couscous what?”
“Lamb.”
“And how do you do that?”
“One small brown onion chopped. I read it off the page.”
“Simple.”
“That’s just the beginning. After that is one garlic clove halved.”
Rusim got a call of his own. “Put her off speaker a minute,” he said pulling up outside some house in the middle of nowhere.
“Hey,” said Zdravko putting the phone back to his ear.
“It’s you,” said Nadejda.
“Rusim got a call. I’ll ring you back,” said Zdravko and hung up.
Rusim muffled his phone against his shirt. “Gomenko wants to know where we’re at.”
“Tell Gomenko we got a lead. Super yacht. Balkus. So far, all we have is a name. We’ll know more tonight.”

Rado pulled into a gas station on Simeonovsko shose. Some hood was filling up an orange Camaro one pump over. The hood looked at Rado’s nondescript-looking Peugeot.
“So what do you put in that thing?” he asked.
“Diesel,” said Rado.
The hood gave a slight nod, then clunked his nozzle back into the pump, screwed the fuel cap on, and walked off to pay. After a couple of steps, he suddenly turned, walked hurriedly back to the Camaro and got in. The engine roared into life and he tore off at high speed. Another engine started up loudly behind Rado but with another kind of roar. Rado glanced around. A grey Lamborghini Estoque. The Camaro was going so fast up the road it got the speed wobbles. The Lamborghini reversed out of the station and up the hill at full throttle. Approaching the bend in the road the Camaro lost control and smashed into a street sign. Rado pulled out his phone. The Lamborghini screeched to a reverse halt next to the crashed Camaro. The hood was already out of his car waving his arms about. The Lamborghini guy got out, opened the boot and pulled out a slender, aluminium-type case. Calmly, the case got unpacked. The hood seemed to be wanting to go and stay at the same time. By the time he’d figured he was leaving, the Lamborghini guy had got his billiards cue in one piece and walked after the hood who was scrambling up the bank to the side of the road.
First was the feet. Rado zoomed in on his camera. The hood rolled over on his back, complaining. The Lamborghini guy strolled round to get a better look. Next was the legs. A couple of shots. More than a couple. The hood rolling around. They say a bit of pain never hurt anyone. But it does.
Everyone else at the gas station had somehow disappeared. Rado zeroed in on the two cars, making sure of the number plates. He panned back. The Lamborhini guy was making a closer inspection of the hood’s head. Then he stepped back, stood astride the hood’s broken legs and raised the cue over his head. He stood like that for a couple of seconds. The cue came down such that the hood’s head must’ve got mashed. Again, the Lamborghini guy stood for a couple of seconds. Then he walked back and had a good look at the Camaro. Then he put away his stick, got back in the Lamborghini, and drove back down the hill. By the time he passed, Rado had put his phone in his pocket and had wandered away from the pumps.

You would’ve thought a hood had a gun. When he woke up in the next world, he would start out on the simple task of thinking about the future. By then it would be too late. He’d have to re-hood himself all over again. With a gun. First thing every morning.

Up at Mikhail’s, nothing had changed. Meals got eaten. Girls got entertained. Calls got made.
Mikhail took Rado into the study and went over to the desk. The house was old. Ornate. Every room had its own style. The study was an exercise in wood and whiteness and big windows.
“You must have the easiest job in the world,” said Mikhail.
Rado was studying the titles. Some of the books looked so brown and fat and old, his fingers itched just to pull one out. “I ran into Nadejda today,” he said.
“So?”
“She’s fucking a cop.” Rado turned. From the other side of the room, Mikhail held up a fat, shiny envelope. Rado walked over. “At least you could say: she fucked a cop. That’s about as far as I got.” He took the envelope and placed his phone on the desk.
“Who’s the cop?” Mikhail stared quizzically at the phone.
“Don’t know. But then I ran into this guy.” Rado reached over and pressed play.
Mikhail studied the phone in silence. “Find out,” he said eventually, as if in a dream.
“You got a billiard table up here?”
“Ha ha,” said Mikhail. He stayed looking at the phone. “You been quite the busybody.”
“So hard it’s easy. The Camaro’s in storage.”
Mikhail frowned. “Get rid of it.”

“Sit down.” A woman of about fifty with dyed brown hair and dressed in a dark suit motioned to a couple of chairs with a silver pen. “My name is Vila,” she said.

“Detective Zdravko Nestorov,” said Zdravko holding out his ID. “This is Detective Pavlov.”

“And what can I do for you two?”

“Rusim needs a drink,” said Zdravko.

“And what do you need, Mister Mouthpiece?”

Zdravko smiled. He was a sucker for shoot from the hip women. “I need a lead.”

Vila looked over at the longhair. “Get these two guys a drink.” She looked back. “What’ll you be drinking?”

“Rakia,” the longhair suggested.
Vila eyed up Zdravko and Rusim. “Rakia all round, then.”

“Zdravko doesn’t drink,” said Rusim.

“Good. Perfect. More for us. What kind of lead?” Vila spoke with an accent Zdravko couldn’t quite place.”

“We’re looking for a man named Robert Gjoeb,” said Zdravko.

“I don’t know anyone called Robert Gjoeb. What kind of a name is that?”

“Hungarian.”

“Maybe you should try looking in Hungary. Can’t say I’ve heard of him. What’s he got to do with this place?”
“Nothing,” said Zdravko. “We came in here because we’re shit out of good ideas. And there you were, right across the street staring us in the face.”
The longhair came back with handful of shot glasses and a bottle of rakia.

“We’re just about closing up,” said Vila. “Doncho. You ever come across a Robert Gjoeb?”

Doncho took his time, racking his brains. “Gjoeb,” he mumbled to himself. “Robert… Gjoeb…” like it pleased him to be racking his yokel brains and pouring the drinks. “Can’t say I have,” he said.
 Vila put down her pen and picked up her glass. “Nazdrave, gentlemen!”

Doncho handed Rusim his rakia.

“Nazdrave,” said Rusim.
“Nazdrave,” said Doncho. “To Robert Gjoeb!”
Sometimes low-lifes made more sense than anyone. Rusim drained his glass in one go.

“Who owns this business?” asked Zdravko.

“It’s complicated,” said Vila.

“How complicated?”

“Complicated like a tree.”

“Crime is like a tree,” said Rusim.
“And how does that work?”
“Beats me. Old Shopi proverb.”

“A Shop?” quizzed Vila.

“Son of a Shop.”

“Well, son of a Shop, we ain’t some business up a tree,” said Vila.
Doncho refilled Rusim’s glass.
“What happened to the other guy?” asked Zdravko looking around to the door.

“He’s locked up and gone,” said Vila. She turned back to her computer and typed something in.
“You got a glass of water in here?” asked Zdravko already out of his chair.
“Round the corner,” said Doncho. “What’s that thing around your neck?” Zdravko’s pendant had somehow found its way outside his shirt.

“I don’t know. What was that thing in your holster?”
“Russian police issue.”
Zdravko stopped. “This,” he said holding the pendant up to his chin, “is the seven pointed star. Ancient Thracian symbol of unknown meaning.”

“Thracian,” repeated Doncho.

“Thracians.”
“And what are Thracians?”
“No one knows,” said Zdravko and went off to look for a glass of water.

While Zdravko was out another round got poured.
“You idiot. What are Thracians?” Vila turned back from the computer. “Everyone knows who the Thracians were. They lived here before the Romans and Christianity and Muslims and mobile phones.”
“I’m a Thracian in my own shop probably,” said Doncho. “Drinking with a Shop. A Shop and a cop.”
“There’s a fine line between knowledge and dizziness,” said Vila.

Zdravko looked in the fridge for anything other than tap water. Some kind of bubbles. Maybe ice. Both of those were likely fluoridated anyway. He took out a bottle of mineral water and poured himself a glass.
He looked around the kitchen. Two sinks. A bench virtually spotless. An oven. A dishwashing machine. A tray with salt and pepper and other assorted condiments. Another bench with coffee, tea, sugar, cocoa and cookies. He bent down to take a closer look at the cookies. Beneath was a rubbish bin. On the far wall there were some inane health and safety notices. A photograph of a luxury pleasure boat hung above the fridge. “Balkus,” the caption read. Sleek and white, the yacht looked to be at least thirty metres long, moored up in a harbour three stories high.
The fridge started beeping to be closed.
“Nice yacht,” said Zdravko closing the door.

“We’re gonna learn a lot, or nothing,” muttered Rusim as he pushed through the door. Inside, The Thing Man was a neatly set out array of unrelated items. On the one side was musical gear, with instruments hanging on the wall. On the far wall was furniture and whiteware. In between were cups and spoons. Appliances. Gizmos. Tools. Jewellery. The whole place smelt like dead gardenia. Zdravko wandered up and started talking to a big, long haired guy at the counter who appeared wary. A lot of people had a nose for a cop a mile off. Another salesman was talking to some customer down the back. Rusim stayed in the gizmo section.
The next time he looked up, the guy at the counter seemed relaxed. Rusim found his way to the counter. The guy was talking to Zdravko about cars. Specifically, steering fluid pumps. The longhair had evidently modelled himself, including moustache and thin beard in the middle of his chin, on D’Artagnan. Pretty good for a yokel.
“I bet you don’t have one single stolen item in here,” ventured Rusim.
“I don’t run the place. You’d better ask the owner,” said the longhair, his huge hands resting on a piece of glass under which was a whole heap of stolen gear. His voice, like his hair and his hands, was big.
“And where is this fabled owner right now?”
“I haven’t seen her in a while.”
Rusim and Zdravko exchanged a look and pulled out their Makarovs.
“Listen, we’re running out of time here and we really need to speak to your boss. I forget her name,” said Rusim in an even tone, with one eye on the two guys down the back.
“You guys not big on homework, are you?”
“And you’re not too big on who’s holding the bazookas. Like they say, vain people are hard to miss.”
“Look. What d’you guys want?”
“Good. That’s better. Now where were we?”
“We were talking about steering fluid pumps,” said Zdravko. Zdravko and Rusim lowered their weapons.
“Her name’s Vila,” said the longhair.
“She sounds like a nice person.”
“I can’t remember where she lives.”
“Why should we care where she lives?” said Rusim. “We’ve already eaten”
“Sounds like you guys are really in the shit.”
“You got any rakia in this place?”
The longhair looked over to the other salesman and motioned with his head. “Come upstairs,” he said.

Outside Ravi’s, the sun was contemplating killing off some upstart cloud. Slowly.
Outside was only half a street. The one side was walking in shade. The other side didn’t have a footpath. Georgieva and Petrov wandered off to find their car. Zdravko and Rusim stayed put on the sidewalk looking around like they were already in the wrong place.
“This weather is really fucking up my plants,” said Rusim.
“What plants?”
“Some plants what need to be watered.”
“Like which plants?”
Rusim turned to Zdravko. “Like the ones that need watering.”
“Like grapes.”
“Grapes don’t need watering.”
“What then?”
“Herb garden. Don’t you know nothing about plants?”
“No.”
“You must be about to starve then.”
Zdravko figured they’d walk on the side of the road with sun and no footpath.

On another street, the sun disappeared behind the buildings.
“We need to let Gomenko know what’s going on,” said Rusim.
“We need to think a little bit carefully before we do that.”
“About what?”
“Our prospects,” said Zdravko.
“You mean Gomenko wants rid of us? I told you that already.”
“We got till Friday. He can’t get rid of us.”
“Like who else is gonna fight off them evil birds? What’s he got apart from two knights in aluminium?” Rusim waved his fist in the air.
“Actually, stainless steel?”
“Stainless steel. Whatever.”

They walked into an even dimmer street.
“And if we don’t find this Gjoeb I’m gonna kill Petrov,” said Rusim.
“Maybe I’ll come along, just to watch.”
“Skapanyak. Killed the only guy who knew anything.”
“I doubt Antonov knew too much.”
“But maybe something.”
“Don’t worry about Petrov. He’s so stupid he’ll get himself killed one day.”
“Fuck. We got nothing.”
“You know what they say about people like us? Get killed or get moved on. Well I aint moving on.”
“No? How bout them fish that no one’s ever eaten? What about the one true love of your life who happens to be living in Swaziland?”
“Maybe. But I’ll get there my own way. Jet lagged if possible. For the moment, we’ll find Gjoeb. I can’t wait to meet him.”
“You want to meet him?”
“Yeah. I want to know why. Why he needs someone’s perfect sixteen hand horse to go to the pet factory. Why he wants to go to prison. Why he wants to get out of prison. Why he’s not scared of people he ought to be scared of. And then, why they do nothing and let him off the hook. That’s the puzzling thing. I mean, the court documents and Georgieva’s report from the prison tell us nothing. I just want to know.”

Another street. The sun was back again.
“Where would you be now if you were Gjoeb?” asked Zdravko.
“I dunno. America or somewhere, given that horse story.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“Well I’m not no powers that be.”
“Me neither.”
“But Gomenko is.”
“Gomenko is,” said Rusim resolutely.
“Anyway, if they really wanted to find him in America, you know, they probably fucking would.”
“Maybe not for a horse.”
“Maybe not. Depends.”
Zdravko’s feet came to a stop. He looked across the street. Across the street was a shop selling god knows what. A big sign clung to the front of the building. The kind of sign so crass it could’ve run for parliament. THE THING MAN.
“That’s it,” said Zdravko.
“What’s it?”
“That sign there. That’s our lead. That Thing Man.”
“You are mad.”
“That I am not.”
“You are kidding me!”
Zdravko said nothing.
“So how’re you gonna follow this lead?”
“For a start, we’ll need to know everything there is to know about the Thing Man.”
“Now I really know I’m back in Sofia.”
“You got some better idea?” said Zdravko walking off.
“No. Just say it all over again.”
“Second hand junk’s the only lead we got.”

Brushing back his thinning blond hair, Michail Gruyev replaced the phone on the large antique table beside his bed. His black mood subsided as quick as it had come. Four hours making love to Hristiana had left him with a movie-style benevolence, which included the will to kill Russian cops.
Emerging half naked from the bathroom, Hristiana began dressing by the window. Michail’s eye lingered for a moment in her direction. Her adolescent movements. The shape of her legs. Hristiana was in the middle of threading her arms into a lightweight purple pullover.
Normally, she should’ve started clothing herself with something else.
But that’s the way it was with genius.
“Misho?” she said, the pullover covering her head.
“Krisi?”
Hristiana’s head emerged from the pullover. Then she started gathering her hair.
“Krisi?”
“Nothing.”
The pot plant by the French doors looked nearly dead. But that was the kind of plant it was. The nearly dead kind of plant.

Lieutenant Gomenko’s mobile rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, looked at it, then juggled it to his ear.
He swivelled around in his chair.
“I am,” he said, looking out the office window.
He listened some more.
“We’re not looking the best,” he said.
Outside, pigeons had stopped on the stonework and were looking around like they were lost.
“That didn’t help,” Gomenko said.
One pigeon flew off.
“That would be putting it mildly,” he said.
Then the whole flock of them took off.
“And what offer would that be?”
Gomenko’s eyes followed some back-to-front scene inside his head until they could follow no more.
“Understood,” he said, and pushed End Call.
Then he winced and gently slammed his fist into the desk.