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.”
