The Stingray Shuffle полностью

The Russians finally arrived at the address they had gotten from the reverse directory, using the urinal guy’s business card. They stared up at the grimy brick building, and it reminded them of the factories back in Leningrad. But they had heard Americans liked to spend a lot of money to live in depressing places. They walked quietly up the stairs and came to a landing with two doors.

“Which one?” asked Alexi.

“Take your pick,” said Ivan. “If it’s wrong, we’ll just try the other.”

Alexi stuck a lock pick in the handle. The door opened easily, as if by itself.

“Don’t be shy,” said a smiling woman with a glass of Chardonnay, holding the inside doorknob. The loft was cavernous, full of people in tank tops and black turtlenecks, nibbling fondue and sushi. Three spotlights lit up a large, blank canvas propped in the middle of the room. The stereo was extra loud, playing a synthesized mélange of electronic buzzes, beeps, chirps and sirens, the newest Nihilistic German discotheque music designed to make people think, “Gee, it’s got a great beat to dance to, but what would be the fucking point?”

The Russians mingled. More wine, more raw fish, more knocks at the door. The Eurotrash arrived. Someone rang a tiny brass bell; the crowd quieted and gathered around the canvas. The Russians strained for a better view from the back. A naked man came out of the bathroom spooled in Saran Wrap. He walked to the middle of the loft, produced his penis from the layers of plastic and whizzed on the canvas.

The crowd applauded to show they were hip, but not too much, to show they were hip.

Alexi turned to Ivan. “I think we have the wrong apartment.”

Eugene Tibbs stood panting at the corner of Broadway and Houston, looking back up the street. Finally lost him. He returned to his apartment, sluggishly climbing the stairs. Nihilistic music thumped from the apartment next door. Eugene stuck his key in the knob.

Inside the apartment, the Russians heard Tibbs’s key. “Someone’s coming!” They packed themselves in a closet. Lots of jostling, “Shhhh!” “No, you ‘Shhhh!’” They got settled in and peeked out through the slats in the accordion door.

Tibbs was ready to turn the doorknob when he noticed something. The talcum powder on his knob was smudged. He looked at the landing and saw footprints in the fine layer of white powder. Eugene tiptoed back toward the steps. He stopped when he heard someone at the base of the stairs. He slipped over to the landing’s window and climbed out onto the fire escape.

“What’s taking him so long?” asked Alexi. They slowly opened the closet door and ventured out. The place was a shambles. Drywall kicked in, wiring torn out, down feathers everywhere from slit pillows, jars of stuff dumped on the kitchen floor.

“Do we have to make such a mess every time we look for something?” said Ivan.

Alexi held a flowerpot in each hand and smashed them together. “We’re looking for something?”

Serge made it to the top of the stairs. “Two doors, hmmm. Eenie, meenie, miney moe.” He stuck a bobby pin in the lock.

“Someone’s coming!” The Russians piled back in the closet.

Serge opened the door. “Anybody home?” He turned on the lights and looked around at all the dumped-out drawers and broken stuff. “I could never live like this.”

He walked around the room, pawing through clothes, checking behind paintings.

“What’s he doing?” asked Vladimir.

“Shhhh!” said Ivan, peeking out the slats, strips of light across his face.

Serge was checking under sofa cushions when he heard the doorknob. “Uh-oh. Someone’s coming.” He jumped into a second closet on the opposite side of the room and peeked through the slats.

The knob turned and the door creaked open. In walked five huge men in tuxedos with waist-length dreadlocks — the crazy Jamaican gang from Queens in a turf war over the urinal guy rackets. They had gone to the mattresses with the Sicilians over control of the West Side, and guess who got caught in the middle?

“Hey mon — anybody home?” The Jamaicans walked through the loft with TEC-9 machine guns at their sides.

Ivan peeked through the slats and whispered out the side of his mouth: “Silencers.”

The Russians screwed suppressors on their pistols.

The last Jamaican stopped and stood still. The others turned around. He held a finger to his lips, then pointed at the closet. They raised machine guns.

“Hey mon! Looks like nobody’s home.” The Jamaicans clicked their safeties off. “We’ll just have to come back another time.”

The front door of the loft crashed open, and in rushed a crew from the Balboa crime family assigned to protect Tibbs. They opened fire on the Jamaicans. The Jamaicans shot back. The Russians let ’er rip through the closet door at the Jamaicans and the Italians, who both fired back at the closet in a confusing burst of triangulated fire. Music pounded through the walls.