and his head looked like it wanted to twist itself off his neck. But worse than that, the soldier’s arms and legs snapped and bent back at odd, unnatural angles. People shouted for a doctor, but no one would approach the sick man. Even those who’d never seen the Drops knew what it was and no one wanted to risk becoming infected.
Finally, the Dandy’s neck cracked and his head flopped back and forth like a dying fish. Blood oozed from his mouth. However, the more Largo looked, the less certain he was about what he saw. What came from the Dandy’s mouth wasn’t red.
It was black and thick and smelled like scorched oil.
“Don’t get it on you,” someone shouted, and the crowd moved farther back. Largo felt sympathy for the soldier, but he couldn’t waste any more time. He was starting to ride away from the scene when someone grabbed him from behind.
“Where do you think you’re going?” said the police officer. He was about Largo’s height, with dark lanky hair that fell into his hard eyes. His black uniform had three silver stripes near the cuffs. A bullock Sergeant, thought Largo. The officer had a fistful of Largo’s coat in one hand and a truncheon in the other.
“Nowhere, sir,” said Largo. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d like to be on such a beautiful morning.”
The officer looked up at the fog- and smoke-choked sky, then back at Largo. “What a clever young man you are,” he said. “Wait here.”
The Sergeant left and came back with a man in a long gray coat. He was much older than the Sergeant and very thin, with sharp protruding cheekbones. An undercover bullock. Largo despised ordinary police, but this covert one frightened him. Could he have signaled the Sergeant to grab Largo?
The undercover officer wore thick rubber gloves and held a large rolled-up sheet of paper.
“Do you know what this is?” he said.
“I have no idea,” said Largo.
The officer let the poster fall open. It was something political. There were strange symbols in one corner. In the center was a burning Proszawan flag being held by a caricatured figure Largo assumed was a politician.
“I’m Special Operative Tanz,” said the undercover officer. “What do you know about this?”
“Nothing,” said Largo.
“Really? They’re all over the city. Are you claiming to have never seen one before?”
“I’m not very political, sir.”
Tanz and the Sergeant glanced at each other. The Sergeant said, “What’s your name?”
“Largo Moorden.”
Tanz said, “That man back there is a radical. An anarchist. How do you know him?”
“I don’t,” said Largo.
“You were trying to run away,” said the Sergeant.
“No, I wasn’t. I was going to work.”
“You told me you had nowhere else to be.”
Largo gave the Sergeant a tentative smile. “It was a joke, sir. I was nervous.”
“Nervous?” said Tanz. “About what? Because you knew you’d been caught with a fellow conspirator?”
This was everything he feared, everything he’d been taught to avoid growing up in the Green. He tried to relax and keep his voice steady.
“No. I’ve just received a promotion and now I’m going to be late.”
“Who would give a fool like you a job?” the Sergeant said.
“Besides spreading sedition,” said Tanz, “what is it you do?”
“I’m a courier, sir. I deliver documents and packages.”
Tanz gave him a look as he rolled up the poster. “What a fine way to distribute propaganda. What’s your supervisor’s name?”
“Herr Branca.”
“His full name,” said the Sergeant.
“That’s all I know.”
The Sergeant made a disgusted sound and spit into the bloody street.
“Didn’t we arrest a Branca the other day?” said Tanz. “He was making bombs in his mother’s attic. The poor woman had no idea she was harboring a madman.”
Largo looked from one man to the other. He knew that no matter what he said, the police would find a way to turn it against him.
“That couldn’t be Herr Branca,” said Largo. “He’s an upstanding supervisor at the company.”
“What’s the company’s name?” said Tanz.
Largo told them. As soon as he said it the officers looked at each other.
“The Nachtvogel,” said the Sergeant.
“Yes. They have their eyes on your place of work,” said Tanz.
“I swear to you, sirs, I’ve done nothing wrong.”
The Sergeant grabbed him and roughly patted him down. He reached into an inner pocket of Largo’s coat and took out a small bottle. “What’s this?” he said.
“Medicine,” said Largo. “A doctor gave it to me.”
Tanz unscrewed the top of the bottle and smelled the contents. “What’s the doctor’s name?”
Largo’s throat went dry. He wished Rainer were there to tell him what to say. He’d been in the army. He knew how to deal with bullocks.
“That’s what I thought,” said Tanz. “What should we do with him?”
The Sergeant rapped the truncheon against his hand. “An anarchist and a drug addict? At headquarters they’d feed him to the dogs.”
“Please,” said Largo. He looked around and for a moment considered riding away, but that would just confirm the police’s worst suspicions. “I’m sorry about the morphia. But I’m not a criminal or an anarchist. I just want to go to work.”
Tanz looked over his shoulder. A group of men in thick gray rubber suits with hoods and gas masks were putting the dead veteran’s body in a sealed box. Armed Maras patrolled the edge of the crowd, keeping bystanders back.
“You’re lucky,” sneered the Sergeant. “We have bigger fish to fry than you.”
“Go to work, Largo Moorden,” said Tanz. “But we’ll be checking up on you and your Herr Branca.”
The Sergeant said, “You’re lucky it’s just us. Consorting with a criminal radical like this—people much worse than us would be interested in that.”
