Walking Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

renewed his assault on his plate, all without looking at me. His hands were stubby and broad, but surprised me by being clean.
     
“I'm. Eating.”
     
I dropped a fifty-euro bill onto his plate. It stopped his fork short, and his other hand darted forward, snatching the bill up. He put it to his mouth, sucking the oil and sauce that had begun to collect on it, and as he did so he finally turned his attention to me. Then he nodded, folding the bill one-handed and shoving it into a pants pocket, before gesturing for me to take the chair opposite him. He never let go of the fork in his other hand.
     
After I'd taken a seat, he resumed eating, asking around a mouthful, “For how long?”
     
“Depends on if it's the right girl. I'm looking for a specific one.”
     
“I don't remember you. I've never seen you before.”
     
“I don't think she's one of yours.” Actually, I was prayingshe wasn't one of his. “You were pointed out to me as someone who could help me find her.”
     
His chewing slowed, and the fork came down and a napkin came up, and he cleaned his mouth and his chin, again watching me. He was rightly suspicious, but curious, too, though I suspect he was mostly wondering how many more of those euros I was carrying, and what the most efficient means of parting me from them might be.
     
I answered without his asking. “I've got money. I'll pay for the help.”
     
A slight nod, followed by a pull from a fresh bottle of beer. “Who gave you my name?”
     
“I asked around.”
     
“Asked around. Where did you ask around?”
     
I used my head to indicate the harbor, out the window.
     
“People talk too fucking much,” he muttered. “Tell me about this girl.”
     
In my pocket, I was carrying a printout, a picture of Tiasa that I'd pulled from old security video at the house, and for a moment I thought about showing it to him. But already I wasn't liking where things were heading, what I'd stepped into the moment I'd arrived in Batumi, begun searching for Zviadi around the port. It hadn't taken long to learn that the man was a pimp, and the women who'd pointed me to him had done so only with great reluctance, and only after I'd crossed their palms, their apprehension visible. The girl who had finally told me to check Sanapiro was maybe— maybe —sixteen.
     
“Young,” I told him. “Black hair, blue eyes. Tall and slim. Local girl. Pretty.”
     
“How young?”
     
“Fourteen.” I was careful to not betray any revulsion when I said it.
     
“Sounds like you know her pretty well. You've been with her before?”
     
“Can you help me find her or not?”
     
“I got a girl, almost as young. Blonde. Ukrainian.”
     
“I told you, local. If you can't help me find her, then I'll take my money somewhere else.”
     
He waggled his fingers at me, telling me to calm down, grinning. Bits of dinner were visible between his teeth. “Just checking. I tell you what, I'll make a couple of calls, you give me an hour or two, then meet me at Lagoon. You know Lagoon, just down the street, at the corner of Portis Shesakhevi?”
     
“I can find it.”
     
“One hour, two hours most, okay?” He finished his beer, wiped his hands and face again with his napkin. “Two hundred euros. In advance.”
     
“You've got fifty,” I said, not because I wasn't willing to pay that much, but because if I did, he'd have known I was a fool. “You get another fifty if you've got information for me when I see you again.”
     
“Maybe I can't find you this girl,” he said, shrugging.
     
“Then you've already been paid for doing nothing.”
     
Zviadi used a fingernail to clean his teeth, then got out of his chair. His lower body was a surprise, compared with his upper, his legs so relatively slender I wondered how they managed to support him. He trundled out of the restaurant without another word, leaving me to pay for his meal.
     
     
The Dnepr wasn't in any condition to drive, so I'd had to take a bus down