NINE
Come back inside," Father Paul insisted. "I'll buy you a drink."
Allen checked his wristwatch. "Already?"
"It's nearly dinnertime," Father Paul said.
Allen's body was all screwed up. He couldn't tell if it was morning or evening. While he was contemplating his jet lag, he found that Father Paul had him by the elbow and was gently guiding him back into the caf¨¦.
Beyond the computer terminals, the caf¨¦ opened up to tables and a long bar. Artwork of various types hung on the stucco-brick walls, little price tags in the corner of each frame. Father Paul selected a table under a large painting of a block-headed three-breasted woman, the artwork a seeming cross between Picasso and Jack Kirby.
"Those pilsners look good. Hang on." Father Paul went to the bar and came back with two beers. He set one in front of Allen. "These are brewed in the town of Plzen. Czech brewers have been perfecting their art for centuries, and Czech beer is counted as some of the best in the world."
Allen sipped. "It is good."
"Damn right. Oh, hey. Smokes. Be right back."
Father Paul went to the bar again and returned with a pack of Pall Malls. He lit one, puffed. "There we go. That's the stuff."
"What are you doing in Prague?" Allen asked.
"I'm surprised Penny didn't mention it."
They drank two beers each, and Father Paul smoked five cigarettes while they exchanged stories. Allen explained he was here to do research for Dr. Evergreen, and Father Paul told Allen he was attending a conference on St. Augustine.
"All pretty boring religious stuff," said the priest. "I'm hoping to sneak away and see the sights."
Father Paul looked at his empty pint glass, pushed away from the table, and started to rise.
Allen motioned him to sit. "My turn."
He took the empty glasses to the bar. Somehow the place had become crowded with a mix of bohemian expatriates, locals, older, younger, frat guys in Ping golf caps, art-fags and greasers, tweed academics, hipster throwbacks, a smelly Bulgarian, and an old, old man in a black beret, smoking a dark pipe. An eclectic crowd. Not quite as diverse as the cantina scene in Star Wars, but close. The place smelled of cloves and pipe tobacco and beer and sweat.
"What can I make for you?" asked the twenty-something girl behind the bar. She had a thick French accent. She had streaks of hot pink in her brown hair, numerous earrings, a flimsy black tank top. Too much eye makeup.
"Two more pilsners." Allen set the glasses on the bar.
She took the glasses, filled them one at a time. "You're new."
"Just got in today."
"You're not a poet, are you? I do not think I could stand it if you were another poet."
Allen laughed. "No."
"I am Katrina."
"Allen."
"I'll be seeing more of you in here, no? All Americans come to the Globe."
"Sure."
"Someone has taken an interest in you perhaps." Katrina motioned with her chin as she topped off the beer.
Allen followed the gesture to the girls in a corner booth: three of them, looking straight at him, no attempt to conceal that they were openly observing his every move. The pale one with black, spiked hair, looked scary. She lounged with one combat boot up on the table, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, dark eye makeup making her look like a raccoon. Brutally pretty, the expression on her face said she resented the world.
The blonde would have looked at home at any sorority fund-raiser, but even among the Globe's eclectic patrons, she seemed out of place. Pink, close-fitting T-shirt, white jeans, corn-silk hair in long braids. Very Reese Witherspoon-ish.
The third wore only black. She had an olive complexion, hair cut short like a boy's. Hawkish nose. She smoked a thin cigar like she dared anyone to ask her to put it out.
All six eyes drilled into Allen.
He turned back to Katrina, still feeling the watchers at his back. "Maybe they've just never seen such a staggeringly handsome specimen before."
Katrina snorted.
Allen carried the beer back to the priest.
"You talk to the barmaid?"
Allen nodded. "She's French."
"You gonna hit that?"
Allen sputtered beer, coughed. "What?"
"Hey, I may be a priest, but I know how it works, you know? Besides, I can't indulge myself, so I like to hear about what everyone else is doing. Hearing confession is a big part of my week."
"I only talked to her for a minute."
Father Paul sucked hard on his cigarette, blew a big gray cloud over Allen's head. "We should do some shots."
Allen grinned. His face felt warm and numb. "No, we shouldn't."
Father Paul laughed.
They did shots.
Something amber that burned Allen's throat and set fire to his belly. Allen grabbed Father Paul's disposable lighter and lit one of the cigarettes.
The night, very slowly, began to blur.
The Globe became impossibly crowded. Allen was forced to squeeze in between people as he maneuvered to the bar and back or made trips to the restroom. Men and women pressed up against him, greeted him in a variety of languages. The place had become a United Nations of booze and musk and animated chatter.
It was during one of Allen's claustrophobic treks to the men's room that he felt the hand on his ass. He turned, saw the impish face of the blonde in the pink T-shirt as she melted in the other direction back into the crowd. Allen thought for a moment he'd been the victim of some petty crime, like maybe he'd been pick-pocketed. He checked. His wallet was still there.
In his other back pocket, he found a folded piece of paper.
In the men's restroom, he folded himself into a narrow stall, sat, and read the note. It was written on hotel stationery in sloppy red ink.
In the next stall, another of the Globe's patrons vomited violently, spewing chunks all over the next toilet and the floor of the stall. Allen flinched and lifted his feet. The acrid smell slapped him in the face like a fetid mackerel.
The note read:
Don't trust the priest. You have to meet me in the alley right now. Your life depends on this.
The Three
Allen tried to read the note again, but the words went blurry. The guy in the next stall spewed more vomit. Allen closed one eye, and in this fashion was able to confirm the note's message. It seemed like some outrageous prank, but he was feeling drunk and dizzy, and the puke stench in the small restroom was overwhelming. A short trip to the alley out back seemed like an opportunity to suck some clean air into his lungs.
He stepped carefully as he left the stall, slipped in some of the puke anyway.
"Hell."
The caf¨¦ beyond the men's room was still crowded and smoky. His face slick with sweat, Allen felt he might be sick now too. He pushed through the crowd and found a narrow hall, which lead to an old wooden door. He opened it, stepped out into the alley. The night air was cool relative to the interior of the Globe. Allen closed his eyes, breathed in through the nose, out through the mouth. He felt better. Slightly.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw the blonde with the braids at the end of the alley. There was just enough street light to see it was her. She held her hand up tentatively, a shy wave. Allen waved back.
She lowered her hand slowly, regarded him a moment, then gestured for him to follow as she disappeared around the corner. Allen stood a moment, baffled, then looked over his shoulder. It was still and silent in the cobblestone alley, the dim light casting lumpy shadows. The blonde in braids might almost have been some kind of ghost, except Allen doubted the tourists would tolerate a ghost that looked like a California sorority girl in a centuries-old city like Prague.
He headed toward the mouth of the alley, turned the corner.
She stood there waiting in front of a parked car, some foreign model Allen didn't recognize. The trunk was open. She gestured toward the trunk.
What the hell is this?
"Tell me your name."
She shook her head, put her finger to her lips in a shhhh motion. She nodded at the trunk.
Allen inched forward. "You want me to look in there?"
She nodded. Her smile was warm and inviting.
"Sure." Allen stepped to the edge of the trunk, looked inside. It was empty.
"Okay," he said. "I guess I'm not getting it. Did you want-"
Something heavy slapped him at the base of the skull. He tumbled forward into the trunk, felt somebody lifting his feet. His eyes went crossways, and he saw the fuzzy image of the blonde leaning into the trunk, touching his forehead, her lips moving with unspoken syllables.
Then the trunk thunked him shut into darkness.
He thought he might pass out. The base of his skull throbbed with a deep, nauseating pain, but he didn't lose consciousness. He heard a group of muffled voices, some heated conversation, but only one word came through clearly. Zizkov.
Where had Allen heard that word before? He faded a little as the throb in his head worsened. The next thing he knew the car was moving. He shifted and slid in the trunk as the car accelerated and made turns.
Allen had the fleeting thought that he'd left Father Paul stuck with the check back at the Globe.
TEN
The car continued to bump along, and Allen remembered where he'd seen the word Zizkov. He pulled The Rogue's Guide out of his back pocket, along with the disposable lighter. He sparked the lighter, which dimly illuminated the interior of the trunk, and flipped through the guide until he found the page he wanted.
• Zizkov: This working-class neighborhood is rich with authentic pubs, serving a variety of Czech beers at working-class prices. Although they are unlike the more touristy pubs of Stare Mesto, it turns out they are still more than happy to accept tourist money. Smelly backpackers can stretch their drinking budget here. The area is named for one-eyed general Jan Zizka. Stumble around long enough and you can probably find a few statues of him, both on horse and not. One of the area's primary sights is a giant, blocky Commie monument at the top of Zizkov Hill (known as the National Monument). The monument's architecture is of the typical "look at us, we're big" Soviet variety, but the view from the top of the hill is actually pretty decent. The monument's tomb, formerly occupied by party dignitaries, now lies empty-presumably waiting for somebody important enough to kick off.
There was more, but Allen broke off from his reading when he felt the car stop. He extinguished the disposable lighter, held his breath, and listened.
Footsteps on gravel. More muffled voices. The footsteps retreated, and Allen found himself alone in the silent darkness.
He pushed up against the trunk, tried to give it a kick but couldn't maneuver for leverage. He was going nowhere. He waited, drifted off.
Allen's dreams swam with cold blue eyes. He ran through mist, the smell of moist earth all around him. He ran through the deserted streets of Prague, the night pressing in on him, and wherever he went he felt colder and colder. He ran faster, a freezing wind at his neck.
His eyes popped open. Allen shivered. He was stiff and cold and his head ached, probably a combination of getting hit and too much Czech beer. Shots. Good God, he'd done shots of some unknown booze with the priest.
How long had he been out? He couldn't tell if it had been two minutes or ten hours. Maybe Father Paul would call the police. Maybe after he noticed Allen was missing, he'd tell somebody, get some help. But how would help find him? For all Allen knew, he was five hundred miles from the Globe.
No. Surely he hadn't been out that long, and they hadn't driven that far. Someone had mentioned Zizkov, a neighborhood that wasn't so very far. And anyway, The Three had warned him against trusting the priest.
Who warned you, dumbass? The nice people who smacked you on the head and shoved you in a car trunk? What the hell am I in the middle of?
If only he could get out of the damn trunk.
The trunk opened.
A flashlight seared his eyes, and Allen winced. The outlines of two figures beyond the flashlight.
"He'll be fine," said a female voice. "I put a spell of well-being on him when we put him in."
"Well, he looks like hammered shit," said a male voice. "Let's get him out of there."
Allen felt hands under his arms lifting him out of the trunk. He felt weak, and his legs were wobbly as he felt his feet touch the ground. "Who are you?"
"Friends, Mr. Cabbot," said the man. "Although that might be hard to believe at the moment."
Allen felt a cool hand on his forehead. It was the braided blonde. "You'll be okay," she assured him.
"So you can talk."
"I couldn't speak during the luring spell, or I would have muddled the magic."
Allen pulled away from her hand. "Luring spell?"
"To lure you to the back of the car. So we could put you in."
"I'm full of beer, and a pretty girl wants to meet me outside. More like hormones than a spell." Allen looked down, saw a small automatic pistol in the man's hand. "You don't seem like friends to me."
"Yes, I see what you mean," he said. "It's important that you don't give us a lot of trouble until we've had an opportunity to explain ourselves. Amy, show Mr. Cabbot into the house, and we can all get comfortable. I'll be right behind you."
Allen followed the girl, the man with the pistol bringing up the rear. Allen expected to feel the gun stuck into his back like in the movies, but that didn't happen. He was acutely aware of the pistol anyway.
They were in the cramped, gravel parking area behind a small house. There were tall hedges on one side and a stone wall on the other, so Allen wasn't able to get a good look at the surrounding neighborhood-not that he'd be able to recognize anything in any case. He'd been in Prague less than a full day, and so far he'd had bizarre nightmares, gotten drunk with a priest, slipped in puke, been hexed by a sorority girl, and stuffed in a trunk.
And there was still the jet lag.
And the man with the gun right behind him.
He followed Amy into the small house. It was unimpressive, utilitarian, and drab, probably built during the iron curtain days. They ushered him into a small sitting room, and the man pointed him toward a threadbare easy chair with the pistol. Allen backed toward the chair and sank into it. The man sat across from him in a stiff-looking wingback.
"Amy, I could really murder a pot of tea right about now," the man said. "Can you come up with something while I have a word with Mr. Cabbot?"
"I'll see what's in the kitchen." She left the room.
Allen got a better look at his abductor. Middle-aged, wire thin, a gaunt red face, lined along the jaw, closely shaven. He had a head of thick hair that was pure white; his watery eyes were faded and blue. He wore nice clothes but nothing ostentatious-a light blue jacket, gray trousers, pressed white shirt. He could have been one of Allen's literature professors back at Gothic State.
"My name is Basil Worshamn," said the man with the pistol. "And I'd like to tell you a story." His accent was vaguely upper class and British.
"This doesn't end with you trying to sell me Amway, does it?" Allen said.
A tolerant smile. "I don't know what that means, but I take it as some kind of quip. I'm no traveling salesman, Mr. Cabbot. I'm in Prague on very important business."
"I can't imagine it involves me."
"Indulge me," Basil said, "and I'll stretch the limits of your imagination."
"As it happens, I'm in the mood for a good story," Allen said. "And also, you're the one with the gun."
"You're here to assist Professor Evergreen in some sort of research, correct?"
"He's writing a book chapter on Kafka," Allen said.
"Have you had the opportunity to meet his wife?" Basil asked.
Allen cleared his throat, swallowed.
"I see by the expression on your face that you have met her."
"At a party hosted by Dr. Evergreen," Allen admitted. "Briefly."