I wash my hands on the way in? he thought. It was the morphia, of course. He promised himself to be more careful in the future.
“Just something I found on the street on the way out of Machtviertel. To tell you the truth, I didn’t even read it.”
“Do you still have it?”
Largo felt stuck like a butterfly with a pin through its middle. If he said he didn’t have it Branca would ask why he didn’t say that in the first place. And what if Branca searched him and found the paper and the morphia? That would be the end of all his dreams. Besides, he didn’t really owe them anything—although thinking about Margit made him feel a bit unsure. Still, he couldn’t think of any alternatives, so he gave in. Largo patted his pockets, trying to look calm and composed. He smiled when he seemed to discover the paper in one of them, and reluctantly handed it over.
Branca opened the sheet and scanned it slowly. “Did you read this?”
“No, sir. What does it say?”
“Seditionist trash,” said Branca. “You say you found it on the ground?”
“Yes, sir.”
Branca turned the paper over and looked at the back. “It’s remarkably free of dirt. And the ink was still wet when you found it? I can’t say I’m surprised. Machtviertel is swarming with radical hotheads. It’s all the dust, you see. It addles the brain.”
Largo nodded, trying to look as if he agreed completely. “That makes sense.”
Branca looked back at the paper. “You should be careful about what trash you pick up in the future. Your policeman friend—Tanz, I believe, is his name—was here earlier. After the incident this morning, I can’t imagine what he’d think if he found this on you.”
Just hearing the undercover officer’s name made Largo tense. The sweet calm of the morphia all but disappeared. He thought about the Sergeant and what he’d said earlier. “An anarchist and a drug addict? At headquarters they’d feed him to the dogs.”
“I see what you mean. I’ll be more careful in the future.”
Branca wadded up the paper and threw it in the trash. From a desk drawer, he removed a new receipt book and handed it to Largo. “For this afternoon’s deliveries.”
Largo was putting the book in his shoulder bag when something occurred to him. “Excuse me. This book is new, as was the one you gave me this morning. If you don’t mind me asking, will I always get new receipt books?”
Branca held out the previous receipt book so that Largo could see the red stains along the edges. “This one is soiled. We can’t have our customers signing dirty books, can we?”
“No, of course not.”
“I’m glad you approve.” Branca took out a pocket watch and checked it against the office clock. “You had a long ride this morning. You may take an early lunch so that you can go home and fetch your knife.”
“Thank you,” said Largo.
“And wash that filth off your hands before you contaminate another book.”
“Right away, sir.”
Branca picked up a Trefle that sat on the side of his desk and waited for the operator. He flicked his wrist, waving the back of his hand. “That’s all, Largo. You may go.”
“I’ll be back soon.”
“How delightful.”
Largo went to the employee toilet near the loading dock and washed the red ink off his hand with a coarse bar of gray soap.
With the extra time, Largo was tempted to have another drop of morphia, but he couldn’t afford to be foggy-headed again. He checked an inside pocket of his coat and found the vial of cocaine. It was just small enough that the Sergeant hadn’t found it earlier, especially after he’d been distracted by the morphia. Largo thought it over and decided to use a little powder when he was back at his flat. It would sharpen him up for his afternoon deliveries and still leave enough to share with Remy in the evening.
With those warm thoughts, the morning was already fading away.
When he reached Little Shambles, the traveling carnival he’d seen earlier in the butchers’ quarter was there, giving another impromptu performance. Largo hung at the back of the crowd at first, not watching the show but looking at the people, scanning the ragged mob for the police. When he didn’t see any he got closer—but stayed on his bicycle in case he had to get away quickly.
The performers were the same ones he’d seen in the morning. Keeping with the habits of Little Shambles, the clowns didn’t juggle meat this time but bottles of beer and whiskey. The beautiful acrobats did tumbling runs in the dirty street. There were some contortionists he’d missed earlier, bending themselves in unpleasant ways that reminded Largo of the convulsing man. Not wanting to relive that moment, he went around to the far edge of the crowd, where the chimeras were performing.
The tiger-suited man was there, barking orders at the small catlike creatures. Now Largo finally got a good look at them. They were hairless and had large, comical ears. The bare skin along their sides and legs changed colors as they went through their routines. At one moment they were striped with purples and at another spotted red. When they ran and jumped, they pulsed with a dozen colors, as if fireworks were going off under their skin. So beautiful, he thought. To be able to create such things.
He could have spent all afternoon there, but he needed to go to his flat, have lunch, and get back to the office without being late for once. It was heartbreaking to leave such beauty behind for something as mundane as another round of idiotic deliveries, but when he remembered the cocaine in his coat, it wasn’t quite as depressing.
After pedaling the last few blocks, Largo ran up the filthy stairs to his flat and locked the door. He put the harness and knife on first, got his bag, and then went to the tin box under his mattress and took a few coins for lunch and a Trefle call. Before he left, he laid a short, thick line of cocaine on the back of his hand and sniffed it up. At the bottom of the stairs, the rush and sense of well-being and beauty were overwhelming. Largo took off on his bicycle, thinking of Remy naked in her flat, her skin crawling with light and colors, catlike and perfect.
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