so bad it was good bit

Zdravko leaned one arm over the rail to scan the dance floor below for Rusim. Rusim was never that hard to find. He danced so bad it was good, especially if he smoked a cigarette. Not everyone could get the idea of dancing badly. They preferred to be young, dress sharp and have all their hair. And cigarettes probably weren’t allowed no more. Amidst that sea of bodies dancing in time, Rusim was with some girl who was looking pretty good. Zdravko returned to the conversation and Georgieva.
“I fell asleep today,” he said. “In the forest.”
There was no obvious reaction. A cop with a bad mind wasn’t any more admirable than a cop with a good mind. Georgieva had pinball eyes and a suit to match. Her frizzy black hair was the kind that was practically unmanageable. She must have looked at herself every morning and thought: “OK. Fuck it. I’ll just tie it up again.”
At the end of the table Petrov seemed in a particularly good mood. “You need a rest,” he said. “You look all worn out from your holiday.” Petrov was dressed like mafia central. Leather jacket, next generation T shirt, religious bling, and shoes made from the blood of halfway honest, in-debt citizens.
“You have something to tell me.” Zdravko kept his focus on Georgieva.
“We have a line on the guard.”
“Good.”
“Want to come along?”
“Why not?”
“Your Gjoeb must be one stupid motherfucker,” put in Petrov.
“I hope so,” said Zdravko looking directly at Georgieva.
“The Grand Hotel,” Georgieva said.
Petrov stood up, peering over the dance floor.
“Sit down Trendafil,” said Georgieva.
Petrov sat down.
“We were lucky,” said Georgieva, her demeanour unmoved. “One of the other guards at Pazardjik had a few stories to tell. One thing led to another.” A fleeting wistfulness passed across her lips and eyes. Then it was gone.
“Hats off,” said Zdravko.