Upon return chez moi, I immediately popped open a Guinness I’d bought en route and went pacing the room so fast as to almost bump into the walls. Which was not that hard, considering the size of the studio I was subletting in Hell’s Kitchen. I did have to slow down, lest I end up at Roosevelt Hospital, and they might be short on TLC if you reek of beer.
So I forced myself into slo-mo, rocking on my toes, and pausing often to light up. The call had to be brief and to the point. But I’ll spare you the dynamics of my thinking process. Suffice it to say that in 8.5 minutes I processed 37 options and selected 2.
Then I raced down the stairs, barely missing an elderly neighbor who regarded me… who cares how she regarded or even cursed me. I was already outside, picking up the receiver of the pay phone.
“CIA, how should I direct your call?”
Lovely drawl. I wondered if she had auditioned for Hee-Haw. I clenched a fist to control myself and exhaled: “Message for Agent Concorde.”
“Just a second, sir. Have a nice day.”
The male voice was a study in contrast. “Who am I speaking with?” Spread ‘em, muthafucka!
“My name is Konstantin;” I said, “and Joshua Concorde should call this number one hour from now.” I dictated and then repeated and hung up without fucking niceties. You might be in Ole Virginny but I was north of Mason-Dixon, so Fok you was a proper response.
I walked back in a brisk pace, no more running. Once inside, I opened another Guinness and settled down to wait. Any other activity in the hour – fifty-seven minutes already – left seemed inconceivable. I watched the local news: a robbery uptown, a protest at Columbia, and the city budget still deep in shit. The news cruised over my head and, denied landing, flew out the window. I could not think of anything else.
Finally, with a quarter of an hour left, I went downstairs and squatted next to the phone. Within minutes, I was besieged with offers of cheap sex from creatures of varying ugliness. Normally I would engage them in harmless patter; English had to be practiced, in snow or rain or heat or gloom of night.
But now I just looked away; if Josh called, I would have to tell them to fuck off, they would get unpleasant and then who knows.
Time was flowing slowly and indifferently, as it usually does. People walked dogs with intentions to have them shit next to me; I gave them my version of nine-hundred-meter stare, and they moved on. I was not quite dressed for the part (ach! I shoulda thought!) and lacked menacing tattoos – just your regular two-day stubble; even so, Tenth Avenue was not a place to mess with people who did not want to talk to you.
The one-hour mark came and went. And then my stomach checked in. I had stopped by the bathroom before I left, but this was the kind of back stab I could not cope with. I rose and headed for the pizza joint across the street.
Plain slice, with Failure for topping.
***
“This was not very impressive, Konstantin,” Josh said to my back. “Or is it Leonid. Or should I call you Fedor, perhaps.”
“Not Fedor, please.”
“Anyway, you should have left after five minutes,” he went on. “Then maybe come back in an hour. To make a long story short, you are not a professional. What are you?”
“Pizza first,” I said. “Then maybe a beer.”