Broken People (Excerpt)

One

Columns of smoke rose from the food stands lined up along the sidewalk. Despite the closed windows, a whiff of the spicy scent made its way inside the attic, tickling Dale’s senses. Or maybe the stench was lodged inside his nostrils. Either way, it made his stomach rebel. He couldn’t wait to leave Bratislava. After two months of preparation, he was ready. All he had to do was pick up Cole, do the job, and get the hell out of there.

He glanced over his shoulder at the deserted attic. Shadows darkened it as night fell over the city, hiding the bed, the table, the chair, and the old armchair abandoned in the corner. A heavy wooden trunk rested against a wall decorated with marks left by posters long gone and an old, mechanical clock that somehow still found the power to work. It didn’t look like someone had been living here for a long time, but it didn’t have to. He’d paid good money to rent the attic without having his stay registered at the police station. Officially, he’d never been there.

The last rays of sunshine trailed over the buildings on the right side of the street, setting their façades on fire. At the farthest end, a flash of gold lit up the top floor window. A fair-headed silhouette fiddled with the window lock, then disappeared inside. When the sun was gone, the light went on, but no one bothered to pull the curtains. Feeling like a stalker, he turned his attention back to the street and watched the traffic.

The bells tolled in the nearby church tower, and Dale stepped away from the window. It was time. He took the jacket from the back of the chair and put it on, patting his pockets as he moved. Everything he needed was in there, including a knife and a gun with a silencer. He opened the trunk and picked up another gun from the pile of contraband weapons. He slipped this one in the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t know what surprises Cole might bring with him since he arrived days earlier than planned.

Since no one came up here to visit, locking the trunk was just an old habit. Except for the old lady in the apartment below, no other neighbor knew he occupied the attic. He kept odd hours, made no sound, and never turned on the lights. How would they know? He did, however, make sure to turn the key twice to keep the homeless people out. More than once, one had stumbled in and fallen asleep on the staircase. It wasn’t worth the risk.

On the second floor, Dale caught a glimpse of a pair of crossed eyes watching him from behind thick glasses, and a head full of hair in large curlers underneath a colorful scarf. Mrs. Potec hurried to close her door before he could wish her a good evening. She probably relegated him to the same category, or worse, as the rest of the bums. Other than slamming the door in his face, she had never bothered to acknowledge his presence, for which he was grateful. The one time Dale had held the front door open for her, she’d looked at him like he was going to rob her. Thank God she hadn’t called the police.

Once out on Venturska Street, the stench of rotten fruit, cabbage, sausages, and the spices the vendors put in the food—poor men’s drugs—hit him full force. By the time he returned, he would have a headache and would want nothing but sleep. Dale forced himself to walk forward, following the middle of the pedestrian street. The streetlights flickered to life, and through the steam rising from the pavement, people looked like ghosts.

Tonight, it was less crowded than usual, which was both good and bad. Good because he would notice if he were being followed, and bad because it made it harder to hide and get lost in the crowd if he were. The trick was to remain incognito and not give into the little girl with huge eyes and baggy clothes who usually begged in that corner of the square. Street rats always remembered and came for more. He couldn’t afford that. So he ignored the filthy, open palm, the other one hanging limp and useless from the wrist, and he didn’t give her the spare change in his pocket like he wanted.

The little girl threw him a murderous glare and showed him a set of tiny teeth laced with bits and pieces of metal.

Dale increased his pace. He quickly passed the human statue and the blind harmonica player who gathered in the square each evening. Someone tossed a coin into the tin can at the human statue’s feet, and the blind man stretched out a hand to pick it up. Like a cobra, the human statue’s arm shot out and clawed at the blind man’s hand, the wide sleeve failing to hide the artificial tendons and the ripped, fake skin. They’d be at each other’s throat before the night ended, but by morning, they’d be good drinking buddies in whatever bar was still open at dawn. He’d seen them leave together on occasion.

Ignoring the budding conflict, Dale took a swift turn to the right and entered a dark and narrow alleyway that opened into a square yard, unusually empty for this hour. He crossed it and followed a labyrinth of quirky little streets leading to the outskirts of the old town.

At the end of the pedestrian area, Dale stopped on the sidewalk near a streetlamp to check his watch. Cole was late.

A few people rushed around him, hurrying to get home in time for dinner. The sign of the restaurant across the street blinked invitingly, but the aromas tickling Dale’s nose turned his stomach.

 Two cars rolled down the street with their windows open, neither of them stopping. The drivers were looking for someone, but not him. Meanwhile, it had started to rain. Dale pulled the collar of his jacket up around his neck. A gust of wind rolled a flyer intoone of the forming puddles. The cheap ink was already dissolving in the water, but not before Dale saw the mechanical arm throwing cards and flames, announcing The Nightingale Circus was in town. So that was where everyone had gone.

His attention distracted by the flyer, it took Dale a moment to notice the black van with tinted windows coming straight towards him. It stopped, the engine running, and the back doors opened. Something big fell on the pavement with a loud thud, and the van took off with a roar.

Dale had the gun in his hand but hesitated to fire at the van. More than likely, it was bulletproof, and shooting would draw attention. A patrol officer might have strolled in to inquire about what was going on. Instead of wasting bullets, he ran to the body lying motionless by the curb and, grabbing him by the shoulder, turned the man onto his back.

Cole’s face was barely recognizable under the bloody mess, and his hands had been burned to the bone, making what was left of his enhancements visible, all melted together along the bones. A good technician could replace those in due time, but he couldn’t do anything about the ruined muscles and nerves.

“Oh, fuck…”