Baltimore Noir - Laura Lippman [78]
A few minutes later he got another break. The barmaid hailed some friends as they came through the front door. Then, perhaps because it wasn’t yet crowded, she delivered Branko’s second beer and walked out from behind the bar to chat with them, at a table next to an automatic bowling machine across the room. Now was his chance. He dropped from the stool and slipped through the opening, which she hadn’t closed behind her, then darted through the back doorway. There were no shouts in his wake, so apparently no one had noticed. He opened a second door down a small hallway, and Dusko looked up suddenly from a small crate where he sat watching a baseball game on a black-and-white television.
“You are a baseball fan?” Dusko asked, a quizzical look on his face. “You wish to know the score?” Then a change came over his face, as if Dusko had recognized something from home in Branko’s eyes, or perhaps in the black leather jacket with too many silver buckles. He stood slowly, and his next words were in their native tongue.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
Branko pulled out the Glock.
“Marko Krulic sent me.” He nodded toward the rear door. “Let’s go.”
Dusko backed toward the exit, not taking his eyes off Branko as he fumbled with the dead bolt and chain. The door creaked open to the night. Still no pursuit or noise from behind, although Branko didn’t dare risk a glance in that direction.
“Outside,” he said.
Dusko stepped into a tiny alley, barely lit, but kept a hand on the door frame.
“Let go of that. Move it.”
Then something stirred in the darkness, startling Branko. It was a rat, he saw now, a huge one scuttling toward a hole in the concrete. But it provided just enough of a distraction for Dusko to lunge for the Glock, his hand striking Branko’s just as Branko squeezed the trigger. In the tight space of the alley the shot sounded like a small, sharp explosion. The gun clattered to the pavement. Branko reached quickly to pick it up, but Dusko kicked it with a huge grunt, then shouldered past him as Branko lunged across the alley to retrieve it. Got it. But by the time he turned, Dusko was slamming home the dead bolt, safely back inside.
Branko felt like an idiot and began to worry as he heard shouts inside, a real commotion. He looked around for an escape, but just ahead the narrow alley was blocked by a small fence running from ground to rooftop. He went the opposite direction, and the alley turned one way, then the other, before reaching a cinderblock wall topped by chain link and two strips of barbed wire. Branko climbed to the top of the blocks, then jumped, catching a sleeve on the wire, tearing leather and feeling something rake his hand on the way across. He landed awkwardly in a parking lot filled with forklifts, then had to climb a second fence, more carefully this time, before he was back onto Aliceanna, about half a block east of Flip’s. He didn’t dare head in that direction, so he ran east, then turned left on Washington Street before slowing to a brisk walk. No sense attracting unnecessary attention. His heart drummed. He couldn’t believe he’d let Dusko slip away, and so easily. Now he’d have to replan everything, and the man would be on his guard.
Branko needed to get back to his car, so he headed west on Fleet Street, averting his face as he crossed Wolfe in case anyone was on the lookout down at Flip’s. Once safely across he felt better. Then he began wishing he had the rest of that second Natty Boh. Watery or not, he needed a beer in the worst way.
A few blocks later he was calmer, perhaps because he had yet to hear a police siren. What Branko didn’t know was that the police were the last people Dusko would have called. For one thing, his green card was expired. For another, he too had old friends from the old country who would be happy to lend a hand.
In any case, Branko’s wandering as he tried to get his bearings—it was too dark to get out his map—had put him within sight of a bar on Ann Street. It was called the Wharf Rat, a promising name even if it briefly reminded him