The Polish Program (LSD, #2)

7. Johnny B. Goode

Johnny B. Goode

"Sorry, Sir. Are you Mr Adam Kowalski of Treesome? Mister Woodward asked me to pick you up. There's been a change of plans. He found out that «Blaszczykowski» is no longer the hottest place in town and he felt ashamed he invited you to have dinner in a place like this. Would you be so kind and come with me, Sir? The limousine is parked right in front of the door."

Adam Kowalski looks good for his 70 years: a stout and stout-hearted man in an expensive suit, a deep voice like a singer of opera, smelling like a man of success. Adam Kowalski, born in 1947. His suppliers and clients nicknamed him AK47, after a Russian machinegun: when you have the power in your hands, you'll be the last man standing in a forest of chopped trees.

His generous smile signals approval about Mr Woodward's little detail of high quality. He speaks slowly, something I didn't expect. People who talk fast are only interested in convincing others; they want to give an impression, sell what they came for, without wasting time, so they can run off to their next victim. People who talk slowly are interested in the one they talk to; they want to be sure this other person has time to listen and think about what the speaker just said. Mister Kowalski knows how to make a first impression.

He says: "I assure you that there is nothing wrong with the food here. I've eaten here more than once and—"

"The wine doesn't match our standard, and the entertainment is hardly worth mentioning, as Mr Woodward said. Now, please, Sir, come with me. If you like it here, I'm sure you can judge Mr Woodward's taste after you've visited the place he thought would be better for the occasion."

Adam Kowalski finishes his drink and puts his glass on the bar. He searches his pockets for some pocket money to pay for it, but I'm faster. I put a 100 zloty banknote on the bar and tell the waiter to keep the change.

"Change? That whisky is 170 zloty, Sir."

Happily to have more cash in my pocket, I take out another 100 zloty banknote, put it on top of his brother, smile, and calculate that's 42,50 euros for one whisky, make that 50 euros, indeed a way to keep your restaurant in the top ten of places-to-be, with a three-month waiting list for reservations.

I open the back door of the limousine for Mr Kowalski, walk around, and get in. When I turn the key and start the car, the doors are already locked and barrelled, not possible to open from outside or inside. Without a sound, the car starts to move, and without a sound, Scarlett turns around on her hiding place in the front seat, showing the barrel of my Makarov (my Russian handgun, a souvenir from my adventure in Geneva) and a wonderful smile of welcome to her former boss: "Hello, Adam. Long time no see."

Such a small handgun should not impress Mr Kowalski, AK47, but women always say that size doesn't matter as long as it moves. The slight movement of the Makarov is enough to paralyse the AK47, who stutters: "What is this? Why are you pointing that gun at me, —"

He wants to say Scarlett's real name, but she interrupts him: "I thought you'd forgotten my name, calling me «dear employee» when you fired me. Well, I've forgotten it myself. I call myself Scarlett now. A new name, a new woman, a new profession, and I've learnt how to fire too. All that wood and timber and planking... It wasn't my passion. I'm glad I'm out of the woods. My new job is more entertaining: I'm in the meat business now. I cut off greedy fingers, I cut off horny dicks, and my favourite pass-time is to cut out loveless hearts. It pays well: one 80-kilo human body contains enough meat for a year, and you can easily lose 20 kilos without missing it..."

I interrupt the happy, loving couple and say: "We've arrived at the place of our meeting, Mr Kowalski. We've made reservations in the most exclusive place we could find: your own house. If you can be so nice to open the gate with the remote control in your pocket..."