Rusim stopped halfway along the bridge crossing the Slatina. He was dressed in a white shirt, faded grey trousers and worn-out brown boots.
The Slatina was a slut, he told himself. A bite on the arm with false teeth and no comeback.
Zdravko was late.
He crossed to the other side of the bridge and stood looking upstream smoking a cigarette.
A concrete river trapped in its reverse direction.
Pedestrians. Cyclists. The scrabble of lunchtime.
Things cooked themselves, as the Shopi say.
Work was a drug. And every other fluffhead wanted to get out of it.
Which included getting the fuck outta here.
And someone coming around the corner soon.
But hell.
Here’s what we’re gonna do.
Some other gypsy’ll be sleeping in.
He’ll be rosy.
I’ll be standing here on this bridge just for fun.
Upstream is a stash of secret reasons not to eat.
Else why would anyone be on the edge of a bridge looking at people with nothing to do?
“You’re the busy fuckbrain, isn’t it?”
“I was most of the morning on the phone and at the office,” Rusim admitted without looking around. He threw away his cigarette, turned and looked Zdravko up and down. “Don’t ever think I’ve seen you in a suit before,” he said.
“Me neither.”
Rusim shook his head.
“So where are we going?” Zdravko said.
Off the bridge, Rusim turned towards town. “Some people think you can demean a man for long enough and he’ll run away and die,” he said.
“Where the fuck did that come from?”
“Don’t know. Just thinking to myself. I didn’t know you were following me.”
“I guess we’re all gonna crawl off and die then?”
“I’m weighing it up.”
“I can see you’re in a good mood,” said Zdravko.
“I don’t like waiting. Don’t like too much of anything this morning.”
“Well it’s not morning any more. And I’m not some skapanyak on a pristine beach who could never say sorry. I’m perfectly sorry. That’s twice in a row. Three minutes late each time. Six minutes in total.”
“Asshole. Remember, I got a fucking camera in my pocket. I’ll put you in my book.”
Somehow, Zdravko and Rusim just kept walking. There was nothing to stop for. Without too much thinking, they walked right past a Chinese place selling every kind of fruit and vegetable. Factory shops selling whiteware, T shirts, auto parts. A takeaway joint. A random gas station.
No shop selling leads. Shops selling leads were all out.
“I don’t even know how I could be late.” Zdravko stopped at a pedestrian crossing. “I’m never late.”
“Maybe jet lag?”
“I’ve never had jet lag.”
“Maybe too much banging?”
“I don’t think so. I got an alarm on my dick.”
“That must’ve been pretty good, Africa?”
“More than good,” mumbled Zdravko.
“That good?”
Zdravko twisted his face. “I’ve got this cheap hotel in Maputo. First night in town, I get to meet some people. Next day, I’m hanging out in a fishing village up the coast.” He stepped onto the street. “I’m in heaven. Every day. Fishing for kinds of fish no one’s ever eaten before!”
Rusim took a turn into a service lane housing the back end to a row of shops. “This whole Gjoeb story smells like a set up,” he said.
Zdravko said nothing.
Rusim gave him a look. “There is no Gjoeb,” he said. “He’s a made-up name in a figment Hungarian universe. He escaped from the only halfway decent sitcom in Bulgaria, abetted by a dead guard.”
“A set up for the purpose of what?”
“Something that don’t smell too good for us.”
Zdravko walked into the the delivery entrance of a restaurant. “Apart from being late, what else could I do to really piss you off?”
Rusim didn’t answer.
“Well?” Zdravko insisted.
“You’re missing the point.”
“I’m on the point.”
“What could you do to really piss me off? What, you gonna try something new? Turn up two hours late?”
“Gjoeb’s a real fuck who’s got more brain cells than Julius Caesar.”
“Well, it’s not looking good. This whole morning’s been a lot of dead rats. Barring a trip to Budapest or England, I got nothing except Gjoeb’s money comes from the British Virgin Islands. CJLL Trust, run through a legal firm out of London. Brewer Thain. I got the crazy idea to look through the leaked banking details of clients from Mossack Fonseca. Bingo. Or no bingo. Looks pretty stand up. Money comes in from Brewer Thain. Sole payee is one fairly wealthy R. Gjoeb. Where the lawyers get their money from is the next question. Meanwhile, his mother remains in a rest home outside of Budapest with Alzheimers. Dad’s dead. No siblings. No kids. But this you know. Other than that, no telephone, no contacts, no chattels. No motive for stealing a horse. Hardly a cigarette butt. But we still gotta check in on the folk dance lady.”
“Let’s do that.”
The kitchen was in full swing. Somewhere very close, people were eating.
“We’re gonna find this guy,” said Zdravko.
