The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [48]
The post office gal seemed perky and alert. Tessie had praised her. Slobodan had increased Tessie’s salary by three kronor an hour for the extra work she was taking on. If the post office gal kept at it he would raise her salary as well. Then Dakar would have a solid service team that could be supplemented with extras.
Slobodan’s mood improved and he waved Jonas over.
“Get me a grappa and offer Lorenzo Wader, or whatever the hell his name is, a cognac.”
Jonas sent a snifter sliding across the counter. Lorenzo looked up with surprise, glanced at Slobodan, raised the glass and smiled. Slobodan nodded, but without returning the smile. Lorenzo was a new acquaintance. Slobodan believed he was in the illegal gambling business. Perhaps he was checking out the scene in Uppsala in preparations for a foray into this market. Not that Slobodan had anything against this. It would very likely be good for business.
Slobodan had the impression that Armas and Lorenzo knew each other from before, or at least that Armas had heard of this well-dressed crook—for a crook he undoubtedly was, Slobodan was sure of it. But Armas denied having ever laid eyes on Lorenzo before.
Slobodan turned his body slightly so he could study Lorenzo more closely. It was difficult to pinpoint his age. Between forty-five and fifty, but he could also be ten years older. A well-dressed scoundrel with money and a certain measure of style, Slobodan decided. He had never heard Lorenzo raise his voice, had actually never heard him speak, and that was a testament to his style, in Slobodan’s opinion. He hated loudmouths, who allowed their voices to dominate a room. Lorenzo was a man who comported himself without fuss. He had dined here a few times, but mostly spent his time in the bar, always started with a Staropramen, thereafter ordered a double espresso and a cognac and smoked a cigar.
He always arrived alone but was often joined by a man Slobodan assumed was a subordinate. The man, barely thirty and very pale, always listened attentively to Lorenzo, but rarely offered his own comments. He always drank rum and Coke, which according to Slobodan was the most unimaginative drink that could be served, often excused himself to go to the men’s room and often remained at the bar for a while after Lorenzo left. Then he relaxed, ordered another rum and Coke, and savored a cigarette or two.
Lorenzo twisted his neck and met Slobodan’s gaze, nodded and smiled. Slobodan slipped off his bar stool and walked over to Lorenzo, who pulled out a chair and made a gesture of invitation.
“Thank you,” he said and gave Slobodan a new smile.
Slobodan nodded and scrutinized his guest a little further. Lorenzo had dark brown eyes and a small white scar between his eyebrows. His hands were unusually small and gave Slobodan the impression that Lorenzo had them manicured regularly. He gave an almost feminine impression, smiled in a relaxed manner, and there were no questions in his eyes, no anxiety, only a touch of mischief and mockery.
“Is everything to your satisfaction?”
“It feels like home,” Lorenzo answered.
Slobodan stretched his hand across the table and introduced himself. After the eyes, he judged people most by their handshake. Lorenzo’s was quick but a little too dainty for Slobodan’s taste. His hand was cold.
“I haven’t seen Armas in a while.”
“Do you know him?”
“How does one define ‘know’?” Lorenzo said and his smile started to wear on Slobodan. “We had a little contact many years ago.”
Slobodan waited.
“In my younger days,” Lorenzo said after tasting his cognac, and something in his face revealed that he felt it was much too long ago.
“He is away right now,” Slobodan said.
“Vacation?”
“Among other things.”
“Armas is mulitfaceted,” Lorenzo said.
Slobodan didn’t like it. He scoured his memory for when they had discussed the new guest and certainly he had made a comment about Lorenzo, but he could not recall that Armas