"No, Ivan," he said, "what he tells that woman, this is not what brings the FBI. What brings the FBI is that you murdered him. His body, dead—this is why the FBI is coming here."
Cherkassky crossed his skinny legs. He did not take offense but he wanted to be logical, precise. "Here you are wrong," he pronounced. "The death of Lazslo—one death only. Burglary. Coincidence. Nothing here for FBI. Only for useless local cops. Two deaths, pattern. Your silly revenge, Gennady—this is what makes case for FBI."
Markov looked away. He squirmed, his fingers fretted between the cushions of the sofa. Then he smiled. It was the mean pathetic smile of an unhappy child who has succeeded in spoiling a game for everyone. He said nothing.
"The housekeeper," Cherkassky murmured disapprovingly. "This peasant cow Ludmila." He tisked. "Cowardly, Gennady. Idiotic."
There was a pause, then the fat man broke into a hoarse laugh that had tears in it, a keening giggle deranged enough to stop Tarzan Abramowitz from pacing. He rocked forward on the sofa, put fingers over his runny eyes. "When she goes into the water," he spluttered, gasping, "her legs, so far apart. Knees lifting up like she is ready to be fucked."
He laughed his baleful asylum laugh a moment longer then fell abruptly silent. Abramowitz resumed his pacing.
Cherkassky, immune to bedlam, calculated. The paper said the FBI was coming down. Coming down, it said. That meant not here yet That meant maybe there was time. Time to silence people who could hurt them, time to hide the most incriminating things. But they would have to act quickly and they would have to work together. The thin man cleared his throat. "Gennady," he said soothingly, "whatever has happened—"
His old lieutenant cut him off. "Have we always hated each other, you think, Ivan? Or is it something new?"
Cherkassky let the question pass. It didn't matter. "Gennady, listen, what we have to do—"
"Because," the fat man interrupted once again, "I think maybe is not so unusual for friends to hate each other. Life throws them together, they have need of each other. They have dinner, tell stories, jokes, and hate each other for years and years."
"Gennady, please, what must be done—"
"Yes, yes. Is clear, is clear. What must be done, we have to kill this woman."
"And everyone who helps her," Abramowitz put in. "Old man Katz. Old man Katz's friend with worthless dog—"
"Who is Katz?" said Markov.
The other two ignored him.
"Local guest house," Cherkassky said. "Paper says that FBI comes to interview woman who is hidden away in local guest house."
Abramowitz pivoted, thrust a triumphant hairy finger in the air. "All along I'm saying this! I know this guest house. Owned by younger Katz. This thing, you wouldn't let me, I could have done this days before."
"We do it now," Cherkassky said. "All three together."
There was a brief silence marred only by the whisper of Abramowitz's relentless shoes against the carpet.
"And then?" said Markov. He said it tauntingly.
"And then the FBI has no one they can talk to."
Markov snorted. "You kid yourself, Ivan. Plenty people they can talk to. Busboys. Clerks. They will turn on us to save themselves. You know they will."
Cherkassky said nothing. Abramowitz stalled, plucked at his suspender as at a twisted bra strap.
"And the shops?" Markov went on, taking bleak delight in tracing out the contours of their doom. "There is time to hide the jewelry? The paintings—where we put them? The dollars? How you explain all this, Ivan?"
To Markov's disappointment, Cherkassky didn't rattle. He sighed patiently, leaned forward, spoke softly. "Gennady," he said, "you think I am a child? I have thought of these things of course."
Reassured, Abramowitz eased back into motion once again.
Cherkassky pulled his long and pitted face, and wondered vaguely why it was that the more he hated his life, the more desperately compelled he felt to preserve it. He inhaled deeply then went on. "And the solution is that of certain minor things—smuggling, washing money—of certain minor things, though it is sad, we will be guilty."
"Guilty?!" said Abramowitz, shocked and grievously offended.
"Guilty," said Cherkassky, with serenity. "These are things the underlings know of us, will tell. And on these things the authorities must win. Why? Because these are things the authorities do not care about. Smugglers. Pfuh! Deportation only. There are plenty other countries! Worst will happen, perhaps we have a short stay in a prison where we can buy ourselves some comfort."