Tool of the Trade

Tool of the Trade

Joe Haldeman

Traveling in the Soviet Union, I was surprised to find, every now and then, KGB and Intourist representatives who could unbend a little and temper their reflexes of suspicion and defensiveness toward Americans. If I named them, it would not help their careers, but this book is dedicated to them, with gratitude for adding a humane dimension to what was often a rather bleak and scary experience.

Special thanks to the KGB man (or woman) who went to lunch (or was it dinner?) with us in Moscow (Leningrad? Kiev?) and, sitting down smiling, pushed the small flower vase toward me and said in a droll whisper, “Speak clearly.”

I hope that humorist finds a bootleg copy of this book. I wouldn’t hold out for a Russian translation.

—F
YODOR
D
OSTOYEVSKY
Notes from the Underground

They would be watching the airport. Couldn’t go back there. Try Amtrak? The bus depots? I stepped out of the grubby phone booth and tried to collect my thoughts.

They had Valerie. The man who picked up the phone told me so, in Russian. That was fast work. A good thing I’d had the cab let me off here, several blocks from home.

They won’t hurt her. Not until they can get some mileage out of it.

The air was crisp and smelled clean for Boston, traffic staying home with November’s first snowfall waiting heavy in the starless sky. Using my hand to occult a streetlamp, I could just see a few flakes darting in the light breeze.

Driving would be hazardous. They say the first snowfall’s a bitch even if it’s just a flurry. And me not having driven in snow since Iowa, twenty years ago.

Maybe I should take the T up to South Station and get on the first train to anywhere. No. They might have had time to cover it They might have had time to figure things out. So they could be frightened enough to kill me on sight. Which might be best for all concerned. Might might might. I would find a car.

I could just flag down the next cab and have him take me a few hundred miles. Too conspicuous, though, a hired cab on the interstate at this hour. The KGB couldn’t mobilize the Massachusetts Highway Patrol, but it wasn’t just the KGB I was worried about. A nice anonymous car would be best. I remembered there was a large parking lot behind the grocery store here on Central Square, and headed toward it.

There was a bar slouching next to the parking lot, not the kind of place I normally frequent, but the broken flickering
EATS
sign made my stomach growl. I’d only picked at the excellent meal on the Concorde, jetlagged and nervous, and had been running hard since it landed at Dulles. Nobody would be looking for me here, not yet I could spare a few minutes for a beer and a snack.

The air in the bar was hot and rich with cooking smells—Greek smells, onion and garlic fried in olive oil. The bar had seen better days, probably when Hoover was president. The only remaining sign of elegance past was the long bar of dark oak, expensive detailing slowly eroding under the bartender’s cloth. Otherwise the place was all aged Formica and linoleum, dull under the muted glow of plastic pseudo-Tiffany lamps advertising cheap beer. I sat down on the end stool. The brass footrail had holes worn in it from a half century of scuffing.

The woman behind the bar shuffled over and
leaned heavily toward me. “What’ll it be, honey?” she asked, instantly endearing herself to me. I ordered some pretzels and a beer and, on impulse, a shot of ouzo. There were several brands behind the bar, Greek neighborhood; I picked the one whose name was hardest to pronounce. I said it with a perfect accent and she nodded, unimpressed.

I watched thirty seconds of Gilligan and his island while she drew the beer and selected the proper package of pretzels. She poured a generous shot of ouzo and slid it over. “You’re a pr’fessor, right?”

“It’s that obvious?”

“Educated guess.” She laughed.

I touched the watch and stared at her. “Tell me why.”

“You, uh, you said ‘please’ and, well, you look like the kind of guy who don’t go to places like this. You know, tie and all. Like you’re, like you’re slumming?” She looked confused and moved to the other end of the bar.

I knocked back the shot of ouzo in one hard stab of licorice fire, and shuddered. One brandy after dinner doesn’t train you for this sort of thing.

“Stuff’ll grow hair on your throat,” the other man at the bar said. Late twenties, unshaven, swarthy, wearing a rumpled army-surplus field jacket and incongruous sunglasses.

“Celebrate the first snow,” I said, shrugging off my overcoat.

“Teach at Harvard?”

“MIT,” I said.

“Engineer?”

“No, psychology. Mechanics of language acquisition. Through semiotics.” That should encourage conversation.

“Sem-me-autics,” he said, sounding it out. “What’s so dangerous about semiotics?”

“What do you mean?” I said, knowing what he meant.

“How come a psychology professor carries a gun?” He had the sort of “directed whisper” that British men cultivate, though his accent was coastal South Carolina. I could hear him clearly from eight feet away, but I, was sure no one else could.

“That’s annoying,” I said softly. “The tailor charged me a great deal. He claimed that only a real pro could spot it.”

“There you go,” he said with a small proud smirk. “Come on. What’s your real racket?”

“Psychology,” I said. “Teaching and writing, some consultant work.” I actually did publish a paper or two every year on language acquisition and semiotics, but that was a smoke screen, or protective coloration. The Institute would not approve of my most important work, since they have a policy against conducting secret research in defense matters—even if the country you are defending is the United States. In my case, it was not.

“Sure, psychology. If you say so, Doc.” He carefully poured beer right up to the rim of his glass.

I stared at him. “And what line of work would you be in? To know about such matters?” He laughed sardonically. “No, really,” I said, and kept staring.

He laughed again, nervously this time. “I—this is crazy.”

“Yes,” I said, and didn’t blink.

“I… I do lots of things.” Dots of sweat appeared on his forehead and upper lip. “I deal dope. Heroin and coke, mostly. Got three girls down in the Zone. Used to do some wet work there. You know.”

“I don’t know. Tell me about it.”

“I—I messed up some people for the, for the local, you know. The Family. Killed one, piece a cake. Piece a fuckin’ cake. Back a the head, one shot, pow. From across the room, one shot.”

“That’s
good
,” I whispered. “Do you have a gun with you now?”

“Sure. In this business—”

“Give it to me.”

“Hey. I couldn’t.”

“Walk over here and slip it to me under the bar, where no one can see.” He shook his head hard, then eased off the barstool, sidled over, and passed me a small bright-blue automatic. I never took my eyes off him. It works better that way. “Now. Do you have any heroin?”

“Yeah, five bags primo.”

“Do you have the means for injecting it?”

“The works, yeah.”

“Good. I want you to go into the men’s room and inject all of it into yourself.”

“Hey. I couldn’t take that much even when I was on it. Kill a fuckin’ horse.”

“Nevertheless, you will do it. Inject it into a vein. In the men’s room. Now.”

He shook his head but his eyes returned to mine. Then he went back to where his beer was and looked at it, but didn’t get back on the stool.
“Now!”
I whispered sharply. He shuffled back toward the men’s room.

An unusual degree of resistance. Probably an approach-retreat confusion due to being an ex-addict. Like I feel about cigarettes.

I gave him a few minutes, finishing my beer. A man stood up and headed for the john; I quickly followed him. I got there just in time to block the entrance as
he came backing out. He touched me and spun around, agitated. “Hey—there’s a guy—”

I put a finger to my lips. “Shh, I know. There’s a man throwing up in the toilet. That’s what you saw. Disgusting, isn’t it?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Guys oughta learn how much they can handle.”

“You are going to leave and never come back to this place.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Don’t forget your coat. Don’t forget to pay.” You have to cover details like that.

“Sure.” I watched him retrieve his coat and reach for his wallet and then turned my attention to the men’s room. It was an ugly place, thick purple paint rolled over walls and partitions, the porcelain appliances yellowed and cracked. Smell of old piss and too little cheap disinfectant. I used the urinal from a safe distance.

He was slumped on the toilet with his head between his knees, knuckles on the grimy floor. The hypodermic was still stuck in his forearm, its reservoir full of blood, and a thin trickle of blood ran down to pool in his palm. I put a finger to his carotid artery. The pulse was shallow and irregular.

It stopped. I shoved the body back into a more upright posture, so it wouldn’t be discovered right away. Like hauling on a bag of grain, hard work for a man my age. There was some blood on the floor but I scuffed it into amalgamation with the background dirt. A wad of paper served to jam the stall door closed.

I went back to the bar and signaled the bartender. She came over, and I leaned close. “What do I look like?” I asked softly.

“What?”

I stared at her. “Describe me, please.”

“Tall guy. White, bushy white beard, well dressed—”

“No. I am black, short, bald, and wearing work clothes. Greasy jeans and an Exxon shirt that says Freddy on the pocket. Right?”

“Exxon shirt with Freddy on the pocket.”

“Good.” I looked down the row of booths and found a likely prospect, a young man with a parking-lot ticket sticking out of his shirt pocket. He was sitting next to a pretty girl who was drinking diet soda from a can; he had a draft beer. They were talking quietly.

I sat down across from them. “Hey,” he said. “What—”

I turned it up. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Just this one beer.”

“Good. Come on, we’re going for a drive.”

He scratched his head. “Okay. Where to?” Good question. They’d expect me to go to New York; especially the KGB. They seem to think all the rest of the country is a suburb of Manhattan.