“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘louse.’ And for what it’s worth, the description of me as a ‘shitbag’ is pretty accurate. But ‘pig’ would be even better. Because I am a pig. I have no idea who you’re talking about. I don’t recognize the name Stärk, and I’m terrible at first names, so maybe you could describe her for me? Is she dark? blond?”
Tony’s heart-shaped mouth stayed open. “Blond,” he said.
“Aha. Big breasts?”
“Er, yes.”
By now the rushing sound felt like a large fan going full speed inside Bob’s head. He leaned back in his chair, curved his hand and moved it up and down in large gestures in front of his crotch. “Keep going, Stärk, please. Tell me more.”
He heard the sniggering from Kjos stop and glanced over at the three men watching. They looked shocked, even Hanson, whose face no longer reflected pleasure, just disgust.
Bob looked at Tony. Saw his words sinking in and knew he’d managed to pull the man down with him in his delicious, liberating free fall of rage. Tony took a step toward Bob.
“I’m warning you, Tony,” said Bob, his voice so quiet it sounded as if he was giving advice to a friend. “It will be a long time before you see your children again. You can get up to three years for assaulting a police officer in the execution of his duty.”
“We have no children,” said Tony.
“Oh, but your wife is pregnant,” said Bob with a smile. “I promise you. These little swimmers here…” He pointed at his crotch.
As Tony leaned across the desk and swung at him, Bob pushed off with his feet. There was a screeching sound from the wheels of his chair as it spun across the floor. The chair came to a halt against the neighboring desk, and Tony was coming toward him, teeth bared, right hand ready to swing again. Bob grabbed the handcuffs from the top of the pile of papers so one of the steelhinges covered his knuckles. He stood up, saw the punch coming and dipped his knees so that it struck his forehead instead of full in the face, at the same time reeling backward and lashing out with his right hand. With the difference in height the punch came up from below and there was a crunching sound as the steel crushed the bone in Tony’s nose, followed by a second punch from the same fist that hit him full in the mouth. The man stood there, swaying.
“My teeth…” he said, before Bob hit him again. And again. A full storm raging in his head by this time. Blood mist. Acid rain.
Bob was still swinging as Hanson and the two others pulled him off the doubled-over body. Bob saw that the man’s face was covered in blood, with blood coming from every orifice, but that didn’t calm the storm in his head, just the opposite. Now was its turn to speak, and it did so in a long, piercing tirade:
“If you can’t hold on to your wife that’s your own fault, you fucking loser! You pathetic, worthless nothing! Go hang yourself, don’t come here blaming other people! It’syourfault.Yourfault!”
—
I was lying in bed again.
I had made a mistake.
Dante was alive. I’d hit him in the stomach, too low down. How could that have happened? I had made allowances for the fact that I was higher than my target. Was there something about the physics, something in the calculations I had gotten wrong? Because if that was what had happened, I needed to know. It was important. I had to understand these things. If I didn’t then I’d get it wrong again, and there was no room for that. Okay, easy now, the plan was still holding. But I needed to be sharper.
I closed my eyes. Heard a child crying. Knew it was her, Anna.
Two hand grenades underneath the bed. I don’t know why I found the thought so comforting. Maybe it was the certainty thatif I couldn’t sleep, all I had to do was squeeze the safety catch on one of them, pull the pin and let go, and it would all be over. Anyway, it calmed me, and I felt myself falling asleep. But just as I was about to slip away the other thought came back: that lying there in the hospital, Marco Dante was like that Maserati of his. Protected. Off-limits. I felt the surge of adrenaline again, cursed silently and turned over on my side. Tried to think about something else. Listened for the sound of crying.
11
Liza, October 2016
Liza Hummels held open the door of Bernie’s Bar as one student helped another to make it through.
“Sure you can get him home all right?” she asked.
“We live just round the corner,” the boy snuffled.
Once they’d left, she closed the door and locked it.
“Why didn’t you let me throw him out?” asked Eddie, the other bartender at Bernie’s. They took turns covering the day shift, with the older, more alcoholic clientele; but evenings, when the students drank there, they were both on.
“It was his birthday,” said Liza.
“Everyone has a birthday,” said Eddie.
“Yes, but this guy found out today that he failed the same exam for the third time.”
