“He’s cute,” Leigh said, toasting the swarthy drummer with her bottle of Korca.
Vlora bobbed to the music. “You know what they call a drummer in a suit?”
Murphy shook her head.
“The defendant,” Vlora said, buzzed, chuckling at her own joke. She turned to face Murphy. “Anyway, I’m not looking to start a romance — too much paperwork. I’d have to file an Outside Activity report with Rask, and I don’t want that son of a bitch knowing any more about me than he has to — especially when it comes to my love life.”
Murphy tipped her beer and toasted in Albanian. “
“Speaking of Freddie Rask,” Vlora said. “You okay? It looked like he was ripping you a new one today.”
“Yeah, well,” Murphy said. “I probably deserved it. I should have told him what my friend wanted me to do. I was just afraid he’d say no.”
“That’s exactly what he would have done,” Vlora said. “
“How’d you know my friend was a guy?” Murphy said.
“Leigh…” Vlora said. “What is it again that you think I do for a living?”
“Whatever,” Murphy said. “Anyway, we’re just friends. Life’s too complicated to have it any other way. For now.” She drank the last of her Korca, thought about another, but then decided against it. Her apartment was only five blocks away, but she wanted to go running in the morning. She looked at her watch. “Shit! It’s almost two a.m.”
Vlora shrugged. “Let me get this straight, this mystery guy, whatever his name is, sends you on a secret mission to interview a Uyghur guerilla fighter and gets your ass on the chopping block. Sounds like a real peach sending you out on something that radioactive without telling your boss.”
“Most of the shit we do is radioactive,” Leigh said. “Besides, he needed help.”
“All men need help, sweetie.” Vlora polished off her drink and waved at the waitress, asking for another. The waitress shook her head, which in Albania meant “yes.”
“I’ve gotta call it a night,” Murphy said. “You’re staying?”
“For a minute.” Vlora gave a long sigh, staring at the drummer again. “I’m rethinking my aversion to writing that Outside Activity report.” She looked up suddenly, bending to her philosophical side now that she had a few glasses of rakia in her. “Don’t get too mad at Rask. I mean, yeah, he’s a dick, but don’t you carry that burden of him being what he is. No matter where you go or what you do, there will always be a Freddie Rask — they just have different faces and names.”
“I know,” Murphy said. “I just didn’t appreciate him keeping the blinds to his office open so everyone could witness my beheading. I mean, I’m not some junior case officer straight out of training. He knows that.”
“
The street was dark and cold and quiet when Murphy stepped out of the Illyrian Saloon. A young couple came out of the bar behind her, giggling and cooing at each other and making her feel more alone than she already did. Vlora was a good drinking bud, but not someone Murphy would have hung out with had they not been in the same office and shared a mutual hatred of Rask.
A scooter putted by, heading east toward the stadium. A dog barked somewhere down the street. She was thinking about how you didn’t hear many dogs in the city during the day, when the unmistakable sound of a boot scraped the pavement behind her. Continuing down the sidewalk, she shot a nonchalant glance over her shoulder. An Asian man in a skintight leather jacket, going the same direction she was. He was short, maybe not even as tall as Murphy, but looked broad in the shoulders, a weightlifter, maybe. His short stature and sudden appearance made her think of a Pukwudgie — the creepy little swamp goblins her dad used to tell her about to keep her from venturing away too far in the dark.
She’d been too tipsy to notice him.
