Parking For Medieval Madness Patrons Only

We take the alleys, sidestep garbage and old boards with rusty nails and various alley hazards, and slink our way over to the condo, sneak back up the rear entrance through the parking lot that Sergei’s condo shares with the Medieval Madness restaurant, which is packed and having a New Year’s jousting contest. We head up the back stairs that people usually take when the elevators are out and we get up to the sixth floor and turn the corner carefully toward his hallway. The walk to Sergei’s door is slow and frightening. This is that noise in the middle of the night, the unknown shadow. This is real fear. I can hear parties all up and down the hall. People talking, the sound of televisions blaring from speakers.

Sergei’s door is closed. He knocks and we step back to each side, though I’m not sure why. There’s no answer. He knocks again. I can feel my heartbeat in my neck and hands. Still no answer. Mr. Bird chirps. There’s the faint noise of the stereo playing.

“Hello,” Sergei yells.

Maggot Arm Joe swings the door open. “What the fuck are you knocking for at your own door?”

“Was worried,” Sergei says.

“Well, welcome to the fucking club,” Maggot Arm Joe says.

The two of them have already packed some duffel bags, and the computers are stacked in a pile.

“We take as much as we can carry,” Sergei says.

“Hold on,” I say. “Why don’t we just give them the computers and walk?”

Maggot Arm Joe looks at me like I’m an idiot. “First of all, these may still be worth something. And secondly, they’ll put us in federal prison.”

“I bought those computers,” I say. “Not a crime.”

“And then you tried to blackmail a government employee—which is what federal witnesses are—with the information. That’s a felony.”

I say, “You never told us that.”

He stops loading himself down with bags and says, “I’m sorry, Nick. Did you think this was all on the up-and-up? What we were doing?”

“Well, no,” I say, searching for something better.

Sergei says, “Enough. We have clothes in bags. We have meat in desert. We take computers and stop on way for drinks.”

I’m swept up in their wave, and before I know it, I’m holding two leather shoulder bags and three stacked computers and heading down the service elevator with Sergei and Maggot Arm Joe. Mr. Bird sits on Sergei’s right shoulder and makes this whilling noise every few seconds. We get to the parking lot, dump the stuff in the back of his SUV, and start to pull out.