“What’s it going to be, Guinea?”
“The Fall, El Huncho, The Fall.”
“Yes, off course,” muses the trench-coat-clad freak… then to himself more sadly, “yes… those were the days: The ring, the bull and all gold and red around. How I loved the crowds of Madrid. Never were women so fair, unapproachable and yet passionate as the wildest of dreams all tangled in dark hair…”
The Half Guinea smiles, half indulgently, knowing that he has hit the mark in his companion this evening in the basement that is Andrew’s Pub in Podil. As it happens, a dark-maned Ukrainian woman is crooning of past love as they speak. The drummer is mute, and the violinist looks queer.
“But nothing beats Moscow,” adds the oily Mediterranean.
The Hunched Cornish grows serious again, dropping his heavy hand and the half-filled glass of uzvar (Hr 12) back down on the table with a thud.
“Then it will all be over by Winter, I suppose?”
“You got it, Hunch Ball.”
“Yes, I do, Guinea, and it’s much more than you’ll ever understand, do you hear me?”
Now The Guinea grows silent. Both listen to the crooner, swarthy but kind-faced, lost in her own words, long-vowel Ukrainian sung like a secret that everyone is supposed to know. Andrew, the big guy who presumably runs the place, doesn’t look like he knows, though. He just keeps flitting about checking on everything, as if the place were a fine dining establishment or something…
Meanwhile, on a park bench beneath a canopy of trees overseeing Podil, the never-ending Dnieper and a constellation of lights from the left bank and beyond, sits John Smith. He’s clad in the light-gray suit and fedora of a detective. He’s reading “Pilgrim’s Progress”… or rather holding it open in his hands.
“So once again, The Ferret has been taken into custody, albeit by an alcoholic oaf with no apparent purpose in any plot. No sense there, is there… especially as the little creep is actually three creeps – by my count, at least, or two, if you subtract the one who got pulverized with the meat hammer. Anyway, it looks like Davies is our man. He certainly fits the bill from what I know of him… more than what I’d like to known, frankly, but no one ever said this job was going to be easy.”
An imitation wolf call is heard in the distance. Rusty orange leaves occasionally fill the air, sprinkling down upon the scene as if from nowhere. The night breeze is light but audible.
“But I just can’t believe this is all about bootleg Viagra for heaven’s sake,” continues Smith, still clutching his book. And even if it were, is that any reason to cut off a man’s ears…? That little number certainly took Soiree out of the picture – at least as far as I’m concerned. Still too many characters to keep track of though. Like that Boner fella. Does he really take himself serious? Well, he’s none of my business, of course, all the less as his name’s no longer on the masthead of the Kyiv Poster, whatever that means…”
Again, the wolf call, sounding almost scary in its stupidity.
“And let’s not forget Losser – a Porky Pig lookalike if there ever was one,” Smith smirks to himself, almost as if trying to cut the tension.
The leaves have stopped falling now and the park has grown quiet like in wintertime.
“So let’s just assume for a moment – just for kicks and giggles – that Losser’s stellar rise to prominence in Kyiv’s expatriate community actually means something. What, I don’t know, but let’s just say it does. He’s got the watch, which could be more than just a cheap and poorly placed advertisement, at least in theory, anyway. So he makes it to the top, toppling Boss Lard and others along the way. PR, the corner office at Handwriting International and enough books to his name to create a library – on the Internet of course,” says Smith, now smirking for real.
“Does Davies jump into this at some point… ask, demand or simply take his piece of the action, or the whole pie, without even having to bring out that knife of his again?”
Wolf call, loud and near now.
“And then there’s Animal Boy of course. No longer content with kidnapping and abusing tourists, the son of a bitch has graduated to attempted murder… But at least he’s no longer running around in his skivvies…!”
The crowd at Andrew’s Pub is beginning to disperse, but The Hunched Cornish has still not returned from the men’s room. The Half Guinea has relocated to a seat near the bar, where he is engaged in what appears to be a conversation of seduction with a slim African woman. A woman’s scream is heard, sudden and frightening but short. Shuffling feet, hushed exclamations, a guffaw and then questions of concern. Andrew has made his way to the toilet area, and soon all dies down, except some rude giggling and more hushed exclamations.
The Half Guinea, casually looking over his shoulder, notices the swarthy Ukrainian songstress exiting the ladies’ room slightly pale but already composed.
“He just dropped a flower over the toilet stall was all,” one woman says.
“It’s still kind of creepy, though, with him dressed up in that Matador get-up… and then running away,” says another woman.
Back beneath the canopy of trees overseeing Podil and beyond, Steve Kowalsky sits on all fours in front of Smith reciting poetry.
Dog gone, done gone
Where’s my doggy gone?
Oh, where’s my doggy gone?
It’s night already, everyone
the air is black and cool.
Where’s my doggy gone?
Where’s my doggy gone?
Jaw extended and head arched back, Kowalsky emits a wolf call as lonely as it is long. Smith stares blankly down at his book. Next to him sits the talking dog detective, in dark glasses reading a newspaper by the moonlight.
The Half Guinea, October 26, 2013