more than a contract with a lawyer from Chicago, promises Death.
A strangled cough and the sound of throat clearing rises from the receiver.
What’s the matter, inquires Death, is your throat dry? Never fear: you won’t die before we meet, and that will be sooner than you think.
Go to hell! screams Tony. I’ll find you!
Let me make it easier for you, Death offers generously, here’s my cell phone number, and I’ll always be happy to tell you where I am. Have you got something to write with?
You can stick your fucking number up your ass!
Death is unfazed by the obscenity. He dictates the number, and hears the victim clicking the digits into the memory of his electronic diary, or his cell phone, and after he finishes he asks:
What’s your fucking name?
For you—Shylock, replies Death, you want me to spell it?
Go and get fucked!
At the moment we’re not in the mood, Shakespeare laughs, but if we feel like it, I promise you we will. Do you have any more requests or suggestions?
You’ll be sorry you ever met me, Tony promises.
One of us will be sorry, says Death, but we will meet.
Silence. Then the phone slams.
Who told you my name was Winnie? she asks.
Your fucking pimp, who sent you the blind Italian.
The minute you walked into the store, she confesses, I knew it was you.
Even though I didn’t have a limp, and I wasn’t particularly blind either?
Yes. For a second she withdraws into herself. At that moment I took it all in.
What did you take in?
You, she says. And a few other things.
What exactly?
That I’d been waiting for you for a long time.
Don’t try to give me that shit, he clips her wings.
I’m not, she vows. I need you. You can save me. If you want to. But I don’t have the right to ask it of you.
Everyone has the right to ask for help, he says.
But I know the danger I’m placing you in.
You want to free yourself of that scum?
Yes, she says, very much, but.…
Consider it done, he says.
It won’t be so simple, she brings him back to reality.
It’s up to him, he says. If he lets go—
He won’t let go, she states.
Then we’ll arrive at the moment of truth.
Aren’t you afraid at all? She examines him through narrowed eyes.
How long have you known him? he asks her. Maybe the answer will come from her, or at least a clue that will enable him to ascertain that this man is indeed the same Adonas who evaded death twice, in spite of the claims of intelligence.
I’ve known him for two years, she says. Why do you ask?
What do you know about him?
I know he has a collection of firearms and knives, and that he’s a computer and cell phone freak.
What’s his surname?
I don’t know, she says. Both the girls who work for him and the clients call him Tony, or ‘The Singer’.
Why ‘The Singer?’ he asks.
Because of his voice, she says, and she adds: He sings beautifully.
Have you seen him naked? he asks.
What do you want to know? she asks.
Distinguishing marks, he says.
Where?
On his stomach.
I’ve never seen his stomach, she says.
What have you seen?
Nothing, she says.
He doesn’t go to bed with you? Hanina is surprised.
No, she says. He does it standing up. From behind. With his clothes on.
Do you know where he lives?
I know one address, she says, but I think he has more than one.
Does he travel a lot?
Yes, she says. He’s always on the move. He keeps changing his cars and he owns a yacht, I think, and sometimes he disappears for a few days.
Does he play a musical instrument? he asks.
Play a musical instrument? She sounds puzzled. Not that I know.
No, he says to himself, she’s not helping me to identify him.
What are you going to do? she asks apprehensively.
He said things he deserves to die for.
I’m on probation, she says, and I don’t want to get into any more trouble than I’m in already.
It’s got nothing to do with you, he reassures her. It’s between him and me. And don’t worry. He deserves to die, but I won’t be his
A strangled cough and the sound of throat clearing rises from the receiver.
What’s the matter, inquires Death, is your throat dry? Never fear: you won’t die before we meet, and that will be sooner than you think.
Go to hell! screams Tony. I’ll find you!
Let me make it easier for you, Death offers generously, here’s my cell phone number, and I’ll always be happy to tell you where I am. Have you got something to write with?
You can stick your fucking number up your ass!
Death is unfazed by the obscenity. He dictates the number, and hears the victim clicking the digits into the memory of his electronic diary, or his cell phone, and after he finishes he asks:
What’s your fucking name?
For you—Shylock, replies Death, you want me to spell it?
Go and get fucked!
At the moment we’re not in the mood, Shakespeare laughs, but if we feel like it, I promise you we will. Do you have any more requests or suggestions?
You’ll be sorry you ever met me, Tony promises.
One of us will be sorry, says Death, but we will meet.
Silence. Then the phone slams.
Who told you my name was Winnie? she asks.
Your fucking pimp, who sent you the blind Italian.
The minute you walked into the store, she confesses, I knew it was you.
Even though I didn’t have a limp, and I wasn’t particularly blind either?
Yes. For a second she withdraws into herself. At that moment I took it all in.
What did you take in?
You, she says. And a few other things.
What exactly?
That I’d been waiting for you for a long time.
Don’t try to give me that shit, he clips her wings.
I’m not, she vows. I need you. You can save me. If you want to. But I don’t have the right to ask it of you.
Everyone has the right to ask for help, he says.
But I know the danger I’m placing you in.
You want to free yourself of that scum?
Yes, she says, very much, but.…
Consider it done, he says.
It won’t be so simple, she brings him back to reality.
It’s up to him, he says. If he lets go—
He won’t let go, she states.
Then we’ll arrive at the moment of truth.
Aren’t you afraid at all? She examines him through narrowed eyes.
How long have you known him? he asks her. Maybe the answer will come from her, or at least a clue that will enable him to ascertain that this man is indeed the same Adonas who evaded death twice, in spite of the claims of intelligence.
I’ve known him for two years, she says. Why do you ask?
What do you know about him?
I know he has a collection of firearms and knives, and that he’s a computer and cell phone freak.
What’s his surname?
I don’t know, she says. Both the girls who work for him and the clients call him Tony, or ‘The Singer’.
Why ‘The Singer?’ he asks.
Because of his voice, she says, and she adds: He sings beautifully.
Have you seen him naked? he asks.
What do you want to know? she asks.
Distinguishing marks, he says.
Where?
On his stomach.
I’ve never seen his stomach, she says.
What have you seen?
Nothing, she says.
He doesn’t go to bed with you? Hanina is surprised.
No, she says. He does it standing up. From behind. With his clothes on.
Do you know where he lives?
I know one address, she says, but I think he has more than one.
Does he travel a lot?
Yes, she says. He’s always on the move. He keeps changing his cars and he owns a yacht, I think, and sometimes he disappears for a few days.
Does he play a musical instrument? he asks.
Play a musical instrument? She sounds puzzled. Not that I know.
No, he says to himself, she’s not helping me to identify him.
What are you going to do? she asks apprehensively.
He said things he deserves to die for.
I’m on probation, she says, and I don’t want to get into any more trouble than I’m in already.
It’s got nothing to do with you, he reassures her. It’s between him and me. And don’t worry. He deserves to die, but I won’t be his
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