“Like landmines?” I said. “Maybe a flame-thrower?”

“Some electronic stuff” he said. “State-of-the-art stuff. For surveillance. We can track him, find him, listen in on him —with this stuff we can hear him fart from a mile away.” I really did want to get into the spirit of things here, but it was very hard to show any interest in Weiss's digestive process, and I hoped it wasn't absolutely essential for Chutsky's plan.

In any case his entire James Bond approach was making me uncomfortable. It may be very wrong of me, but I began to appreciate just how lucky I had been so far in life. I had managed very well with only a few shiny blades and a hunger —nothing state of the art, no vague plots, no huddling in foreign hotel rooms awash with uncertainty and fire power. Just happy, carefree, relaxing carnage. Certainly, it seemed primitive and even slapdash in the face of all this high-tech steel-nerved preparation, but it was at least honest and wholesome labor. None of this waiting around spitting testosterone and polishing bullets. Chutsky was taking all the fun out of my life's work.

Still, I had asked for his help, and now I was stuck with it. So there was really nothing to do but put the best possible face on things and get on with it. “It's all very nice”1 said, with an encouraging smile that did not even fool me. “When do we start?” Chutsky snorted and put the guns back in the briefcase. He held it up to me, dangling it from his hook. “When he gets here” he said.

“Put this in the closet for now.” I took the briefcase from him and carried it to the closet. But as I reached to open the door I heard a faint rustling of wings somewhere in the distance and I froze. What is it? I asked silently. There was a slight inaudible twitch, a raising of awareness, but no more.

So I reached in the briefcase and got my ridiculous gun, holding it at the ready as I reached for the closet's door knob. I opened the door —and for a moment I could do nothing but stare into the unlit space and wait for an answering darkness to spread protective wings over me. It was an impossible, surreal, dream-time image —but after staring at it for what seemed like an awfully long time, I had to believe it was true.

It was Rogelio, Chutsky's friend from the front desk, who was going to tell us when Weiss checked in. But it certainly didn't look like he was going to tell us much of anything, unless we listened to him through a Ouija board. Because if appearances were any guide at all, judging by the belt so tightly wrapped around his neck and the way his tongue and eyes bulged out, Rogelio was extremely dead.

“What is it, buddy?” Chutsky said.