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Fiction

The Barrister from Bar Doli

By Vlado Trifonov
Translated from Bulgarian by Peter Skipp

She often called at this underworld hangout.

The place was a celebrated haunt of gangsters no matter what innocent name it bore. Innocuously named Doli, it was one of a hundred Sofia dives whose patrons  slaughtered each other night after night to gain prestige or partake of simple pleasure.

She went there not just for the adrenalin rush she loved since she was but a few years old (at five, she chopped off the head of one of her granny’s chickens with a kitchen knife and boasted of it to all her nursery school mates), but also to earn in a couple of hours what your average Bulgarian earned in a couple of months. The hoodlums here fell over each other to throw wads of cash at the ladies, especially after a few lines of coke.

She was a freelance prostitute with recourse to the services of several policemen for her personal safety. She called these minders “my bodyguards” and plied them with whisky and upmarket drugs, though they were happy enough just to be allowed to sit at her table. Her presence made them feel like real men; they never regarded her as a prostitute—she made them feel special. For she was not only smart, but also good-looking. The combination of good looks, depravity, and brains smote the Organized Crime Squad officers, rendering them ready to do anything in return for a mere smile

Though all manner of strangers kept falling for her all the time, she invariably managed to disentangle herself without occasioning slight or, God forbid, turning infatuation into hatred. So ably and judiciously did she tread the slippery slope, her handful of female friends likened her to an Asian panther.

The former landlord of the bar idolized her so much, he named not only the bar but also his dog after her. The dog—a self-willed, thickset Rottweiler bitch—got shot on the street in front of the establishment, with two bullets in the chest and one in the head to make sure. The new landlord left the joint’s name unchanged.

Doli was reading for her master’s degree and did not care a hoot if anyone knew of her extracurricular activities. Quite the opposite: she saw her bargirl experience as exceptionally valuable fieldwork, all the more so since her master’s was in civil law. What better place to study the character of one’s future clientele?

Convinced the world was headed toward the abyss sooner or later, she wanted to be among the first to get to know the demons. “Just to get used to them,” she quipped.

With time, she found that the humbler hoodlums who dwelt in the underworld’s valleys were more generous and easy-going than those who occupied the summits. She called the latter “bigheads” and despised their vanity. This did not sate her thirst for knowledge of either type.

She experimented boldly while waiting for the stroke of luck that would bring her great romance and great riches.

Whenever she had a spare moment, Doli would go to church, light a votive candle to Our Lady, and pray most humbly for her intercession before the Lord. If He saw something amiss with her life, prayed she, may He forgive her and hold back His punishment. Fearing He might give her short shrift, she dared not pray to Him directly, preferring the intercession of His Mother.

Education, to her, was a big scam used by people mainly to score silly points. Art, on the other hand, emanated from God. She therefore kept a diary, intending to publish it one day and turn it into a bestseller. Abroad, naturally. She had heard good things about author-publisher relationships in England, the rapidity of recouping one’s investment and a number of other matters essential for a writer’s success and confidence. Nevertheless, her undoubted preference was for Holland. Visiting it some time ago, she was enchanted by its tall fair people amid its low, flat land. She liked their spirit, their easy and untrammeled humor, the way they smoked marijuana whenever and wherever they wanted, their terrific cheeses, their two-story houses with tiny flower-decked gardens, the proper motorways that had nothing in common with Bulgarian motorways, the way they had a sex museum as well as a Bible museum, the way they tolerated no smug vanity, and the way their lives were ordered in a manner even Germans could only dream of (she liked order, and her clients were made very aware of that).

The Belle statue in Amsterdam with its inscription “Respect Sex Workers all over the World” reduced her to tears. That it stood right outside the Oude Kerk troubled her not in the slightest. Both institutions alleviated the human condition—prostitution through the flesh and the church through the spirit—so it was logical for them to be side by side. This was her view and it was good enough for her.

But most of all, she admired the perfectionism of the Dutch system that enabled any publisher to forecast how many copies of Doli’s diary they would sell before they had even printed it. Not to mention the punctilious remittance of royalties.

All in all, Doli was a remarkable woman and this was apparent even at first encounter.

A little after midnight, a bearded type strode into the bar with the gait of a Michael Corleone, closely followed by four tough guys who wore shades and kept their hands in their pockets. They clustered by a booth occupied by other bearded, though less tough guys and told them to scram because this was a private booth. The guys in the booth offered various excuses, but those facing them took their hands from their pockets and, a brief but dramatic episode of physical contact later, the booth lay vacant.

Corleone stood to one side, monitoring the actions of his chaperones without getting involved, until at length he lifted his shades onto his forehead and moved into the empty booth with a broad, forgiving smile.

“Right, guys! Pick your poison!” said he with a castrato voice that stood in stark contrast with his shades and bristly beard.

Michael Corelone, whose real name was Miko, longed to be recognized as a tough guy. This persistent longing had driven him to become first a boxer, then a boxing coach. When it had soon transpired that he had neither the courage real boxers needed, nor the talent real coaches needed, he had switched vocations and his new calling of contract man had suited him from head to toe. By ambushing his victims, he avoided having to confront men that were tougher than  he was.

Another aspect of Miko’s personality was that he adored power in all its forms and was ready to part with anything to possess it. Little could rival the sweetness of the shiver he felt down his spine when reading the exploits of hoodlums mistreating their victims in the crime columns. Descriptions of torture excited him most, prompting him to elaborate on them in his fantasies to the tiniest detail, invariably casting himself as the main character.

To boost his public standing, he acquired a doctorate in acupuncture and pulse diagnosis. Purchasing the degree cost him a small fortune, but its value as cover for his true occupation was worth every penny.

Though a PhD, Miko remained semiliterate: something that didn’t trouble him in the least. He loved to quote his father, who had trained school kids in Defense of the People and had always said that too much literacy led to sedition and that only a good beating and a good shag could sort seditious people out. His father had also authored the remarkable historical assertion that the Russians had crossed the Danube using inflatable timber assault craft.

Are the Sicilian Mafiosi literate? You can bet they aren’t! And are they successful beyond belief? What’s the good of literacy when you are shooting someone in the back? None! All you need is cunning—and an expensive silenced pistol. Add to that a PhD and never look back, reasoned Miko.

In short, Miko was one of those men who were born villains and whose every undertaking inexorably led to criminality. He was aware of his odd Balkan macho charm and projected it in front of women with persistence, without compunction, and in pursuit of clear objectives. His glassy, vicious eyes reflected his character well.

None of the bar regulars knew much about him. All that was known was that he minded the millions of a major Russian mafioso who lived in America and that he had done time in a Hungarian jail as an accomplice to murder. He, on the other hand, knew all about the regulars, and also all about Doli—in terms of both academic and pecuniary pursuits.

“That’s the sort of bitch you need! Money of her own, friends in high places, keeps her eyes peeled, bound to get far, could become a prosecutor or a beak and not only get you out of trouble, but have enough readies to look after you, dress you up nice . . . ” droned a friend he was working with on some urgent foreign business.

“If you say so!,” cackled Miko, his castrato voice ringing around the establishment.   

Doli fell head over heels for him. It happened quickly and out of the blue. The instant Miko Corleone took out a chunky pen with an 18-karat solid gold tip and began drawing hearts and daisies on her hands, she felt a heaviness in her solar plexus and shivers creeping down her spine. She said he was romantic. Some time later, the same romantic was all over her in the hallway of her tiny flat, tearing pieces of her clothing and dropping them on the floor while she emitted gurgling sounds, legs clasped tightly around his waist.

“I’m a self-made man, my girl.”

The macho man trained his coyote eyes on her while she served coffee. He spread out his arms demonstratively: “Everything I have, I owe to this pair of hands. And to this head here,” and he patted his forehead. “To make a killing, you’ve got to be ready to kill. Me, I’m ready! You, if you want to live with me, have to be ready to rescue me. You ready for that?”

“You’ll teach me,” said she, looking devotedly into his eyes as she took his hands to kiss each finger in turn.

Glowing references from businessmen and judges, all of them eminent fraudsters and regular clients of hers from the Doli Bar, got her appointed junior prosecutor at the Metropolitan Prosecutor’s Office. Further such references propelled her to full-fledged prosecutor. 

Miko moved in with her. He would be away for days on end before returning unannounced and launching into lengthy nighttime binges. One day he disappeared without a word.

That evening Herr and Frau Zimmermann were holding a reception for Vienna’s crème de la crème. The Zimmermanns’ receptions were one of their ways of staying abreast of everything worth knowing. They held them several times a year, and each was enthusiastically discussed for weeks afterward.

It would be no exaggeration to say that most of this glittering city’s social intercourse revolved around the salons of the Zimmermanns’ vast residence. Much of the credit for this went to Frau Zimmermann, who was a tireless organizer and able entertainer to her numerous guests. The thirty-odd-year age difference between her and her husband only heightened conjecture about the multi-millionaire family.

Conjecture about Herr Zimmermann, a businessman and conservative liberal, was indeed widespread, its content differing depending on its source. His tenants (renting rooms and apartments in Vienna and other European centers was among Herr Zimmermann’s numerous business interests) called him an arrogant swine and wished to see him dead. Understandably so, for just a day’s delay in remitting rent meant that Herr Zimmermann, deaf to all pleas, would have the unfortunate tenants’ possessions thrown out of the windows and their power and water cut off. Pensioners, cripples, single mothers—all were fair game to him. He paraded his contempt for public opinion, singling it out as a reason for his success.

Others saw him as an example to follow. They admired the ruthless manner in which he ran his business and marshaled his young wife and hoped to become like him one day.

“You look so healthy and happy, darling,” bitched his former wife as she entered. “You know, that doesn’t bode well at all!” She was a lady of a certain age who gravitated around artistic circles.

“I’m healthy and happy because I’m just and upright, and honest people have always been healthier and happier than all others,” he cooed with a broad Hollywood smile.

“You con man!” said she, patting imaginary flecks of dust off the lapels of his smoking jacket with the back of her hand, “The only place you’ll ever get to be just and upright is a coffin.” Little did she suspect how apt her words would turn out to be.

A short distance away, the current Frau Zimmermann, in a killer white dress topped with a blue diamond choker, was charming a handful of politicians and bankers. Seeing her predecessor, she gave her a cheery wave that was returned in kind.

“I see the little vixen is making spirited use of your money,” continued the former Frau Zimmermann with a voice in which a trained ear could detect no mean measure of venom.

“Well, she’s young, she’s loving, so why shouldn’t I treat her! Money’s there to be spent, surely!” said Herr Zimmermann, stretching his smile to the utmost.

“Is it really you saying this?! Why, you’ve never even tipped a waiter! I take it you are aware she’s putting horns the size of a Siberian elk’s on you . . . ”

This was the last reception Herr Zimmermann held for Vienna society. Some weeks later, they found him in the street with a bullet through the back of his neck. The facts the police inquiry established shook even the most indifferent of his acquaintances.

It turned out to have been a contract killing commissioned by his loving wife, who also happened to be sole heir to his estate. Reckoning that life was too short to wait for her husband’s natural death, the young thing decided to hasten events. She asked her paramour, a private detective, to find a suitable contractor. That contractor turned out to be the Bulgarian Miko.

All details came to light when the widow made a full confession. The main contributor to the investigation’s rapidity and success, however, was the dead man’s former wife, who aired her suspicions as to the possible beneficiary of the killing before the police.

Frau Zimmermann and her private eye accomplice were sentenced and jailed, while an international arrest warrant was put out for Miko. Doli convinced him it would be best if he handed himself over to the Bulgarian authorities, which he duly did. She then left her job as metropolitan prosecutor, turned barrister, and took up his defense.

“I’ll get you acquitted, darling. I’m as certain of it as I’m certain my name’s Doli,” she whispered into his ear while they screwed in the prison visiting room.

“Just you fail and I’ll have your guts for garters,” whispered the macho man back in her ear.

He appeared in court as if dressed for a wedding. The white Armani suit, the white Berluti shoes, the shirt, the tie, the socks—all he wore had been bought for him by Doli. 

They charged him with murder and the prosecutor asked for a twenty-year sentence. Doli pleaded that her client was innocent, declaring Frau Zimmermann’s confession (which named the Bulgarian as the contract man) tendentious and untenable in view of the lack of any evidence linking her client with the victim.

“Your Honor, we are being asked to lend credence to statements made by an unstable woman, and moreover statements that—if believed—would destroy my client’s life,” Doli argued fervently to the judge. An old Communist Party nomenklatura cadre, he was a steady client of Doli’s in her other line of work. Though some of his colleagues guessed at his proclivities, they preferred not to upset his carefully wrought image as caring husband and father of two.

“I submit, Your Honor, that the correct verdict on your part would be that my client is entirely innocent. In delivering such a verdict, you will prove that Bulgarian courts are instruments of justice and justice alone,” continued Doli before moving on to expound her lover’s great contribution to the development of national sport.

One day, the prosecutor was unexpectedly replaced by a lady known in legal circles as The Leggy Prosecutrix. Mile Thigh, as she was also known, was Doli’s age. The two had not met. When they encountered each other in court, it was hatred at first sight. This might have been helped by the defendant, who immediately directed a lewd gaze to the prosecutor’s legs and refused to move it from there for the remainder of the case.

White as innocence itself, Miko kept fingering the knot of his necktie, shifting his shoulders, and tugging his shirtsleeves in an attempt to imitate the act of screwing the ass off the prosecutor.

For her part, Mile Thigh sensed a pleasant quiver descending from her neck all the way down to the shapely calves of her mile-long legs. The impudent (and promising) stare of the bearded Balkan brave awoke her feminine curiosity and prompted her to withdraw the criminal charge because of a lack of evidence and Miko’s lack of prior convictions.

The barrister and the prosecutor now proceeded to vie for Miko’s favours, inflating his confidence and making him play them against each other through frequent calls on both.

Until one day Doli decided to set things to rights.

“It’s time you decide: me, or that whore!”

“What’s your problem, babe?”

“And stop calling me babe. You know I hate it.”

“And I hate your poking your nose where it’s got no business!”

“Poke my nose, eh? You mean I shouldn’t have poked my nose into saving your ass and should have left you wearing prison garb instead of Armani? You mean . . . ,” and her eyes filled with tears of anger and outrage.

Miko pulled out a fat Havana cigar, lit it, puffed a couple of times, crossed his legs, and donned a mocking grimace.   

“Calm down! You did all that because you love me and because you like the way I shag you. You do like me shagging you, don’t you, eh? You just love the way I shag you, eh, babe?” he kept on, puffing away at his cigar. “Yeah, you love it! I know you love it! It’s no good your keeping your mouth shut like a jealous bitch. You are a jealous bitch, ain’t you, eh?” 

Doli instinctively grabbed the heavy cigar box and hurled it at him. It hit him in the face, splitting an eyebrow. Blood filled his eye and trickled down his cheek.

“You’re dead!” roared the contract killer, pressing his eyebrow with one hand and slicing the air with his cigar with the other, “I’ll kill you, so I will, and I’ll love doing my time for it! Bitch!”

“Make your mind up! Bitch, or babe? I wasn’t a bitch when I bought you a new wardrobe, was I? You ingrate! You’re no man! You’re a dastardly, murdering nobody. Can’t imagine what I ever saw in you!”

“Can’t imagine, eh? Well, let me tell you. You saw yourself in me. Like goes with like,” said he, mopping the blood from his face with the tablecloth before pulling out his gun and pointing it at her head. “Get ready to be shot. But first, strip! Come on, strip, you bitch! Off with everything!”

Something in his eyes told her she had better obey. She undressed slowly, leaving only her pants on, and glowered at him unblinkingly.

“Take it all off!” 

She obeyed again.

He pulled up a chair and stretched out on it, gun on his knee.

“You’re not bad. Not bad at all, for a barrister. Better than that prosecutor woman, any day. She’s only any good at blowjobs. You, you’re good at the full works!”

“If you’re going to shoot, shoot! If not, go!” said Doli with a forthrightness that surprised her as she began to put her clothes back on.

Scarcely believing his ears, Miko could only contemplate her wide-eyed for a moment, before switching to an unctuous drawl:

“Only kidding, babe! Me, shoot you, the most precious thing I’ve got? Where would I be without you, eh? You’re my good luck charm. I haven’t told you because I was keeping it a surprise, but I want us to get married. No kidding! Already ordered the rings, was going to pay for them one of these days. Even made a guest list for the reception. Just promise you won’t throw things at me any more. Promise, go on!”

“I promise,” said she, looking away from him. 

“That’s my girl! We two make a terrific pair and you know it, don’t you!?

“I know that. But does that whore know it?”

“Who? That prosecutor woman? Don’t you waste another thought on her!”

Several days later, Doli asked Miko to take her up into the mountains. She wanted them to go to the remote rocks where they had once picnicked and he had taught her to shoot. She said she had loved it and had rarely felt better in all her life.

Miko was only too pleased to grant her wish, all the more so since he was planning to ask her for yet another large loan to add to others that he never repaid.

She shot him with his own gun. As they stood side by side with her aiming at a tree some distance ahead, she turned smartly and shot him in the right temple.

She carefully wiped her fingerprints from the pistol grip with a snow-white handkerchief and placed the weapon in his hands. From the inside pocket of the sports jacket she had bought him, she retrieved as a memento the 18-karat gold-tip pen the erstwhile romantic had used to draw daisies on her hands.

She left the scene unhurriedly, looking serenely self-absorbed. 

At the funeral, barrister and prosecutor stood on either side of the grave, facing each other, in identical black outfits and identical dark glasses.

Politicians, judges, underworld supremos, and a sprinkling of Organized Crime Squad officers all expressed sincerest condolences. 

A light drizzle began to fall.

The Lufthansa jet departed on schedule. In Doli’s handbag was a manuscript entitled The Barrister from the Bar Doli. She would add final touches to it on the flight to Amsterdam.

Taking a break, Doli set the manuscript to one side to rehearse her coming meeting. Knowing that first impressions mattered most, she carefully coined phrases that would impress her literary agent as soon as he greeted her at the airport. How flattering it felt to have a real representative, like real writers do!

The agent was in fact a Bulgarian man who had emigrated to Holland some thirty years earlier and had gone on to acquire a solid reputation in literary circles. He accepted her commission, describing her writing as “intelligent, intriguing, and likely to appeal to a European readership” in the letters they exchanged.

The real reason was far simpler: an enthusiastic admirer of hers, formerly a piccolo and petty smuggler and currently a member of the European Parliament, arranged things. “To succeed in any situation, you have to play va banque and make use of connections. I’ve spoken with the man. Now it’s your move. Go for it!” he said, handing her the agent’s card.

In the glass of the approaching Schiphol terminal, Doli saw the approach of new debauchery in the world that awaited her, eager to extract its price. She was ready to bow to its demands.

From Куци ангели—2.  © 2015 by Vlado Trifonov. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Peter Skipp. All rights reserved. 

English Bulgarian (Original)

She often called at this underworld hangout.

The place was a celebrated haunt of gangsters no matter what innocent name it bore. Innocuously named Doli, it was one of a hundred Sofia dives whose patrons  slaughtered each other night after night to gain prestige or partake of simple pleasure.

She went there not just for the adrenalin rush she loved since she was but a few years old (at five, she chopped off the head of one of her granny’s chickens with a kitchen knife and boasted of it to all her nursery school mates), but also to earn in a couple of hours what your average Bulgarian earned in a couple of months. The hoodlums here fell over each other to throw wads of cash at the ladies, especially after a few lines of coke.

She was a freelance prostitute with recourse to the services of several policemen for her personal safety. She called these minders “my bodyguards” and plied them with whisky and upmarket drugs, though they were happy enough just to be allowed to sit at her table. Her presence made them feel like real men; they never regarded her as a prostitute—she made them feel special. For she was not only smart, but also good-looking. The combination of good looks, depravity, and brains smote the Organized Crime Squad officers, rendering them ready to do anything in return for a mere smile

Though all manner of strangers kept falling for her all the time, she invariably managed to disentangle herself without occasioning slight or, God forbid, turning infatuation into hatred. So ably and judiciously did she tread the slippery slope, her handful of female friends likened her to an Asian panther.

The former landlord of the bar idolized her so much, he named not only the bar but also his dog after her. The dog—a self-willed, thickset Rottweiler bitch—got shot on the street in front of the establishment, with two bullets in the chest and one in the head to make sure. The new landlord left the joint’s name unchanged.

Doli was reading for her master’s degree and did not care a hoot if anyone knew of her extracurricular activities. Quite the opposite: she saw her bargirl experience as exceptionally valuable fieldwork, all the more so since her master’s was in civil law. What better place to study the character of one’s future clientele?

Convinced the world was headed toward the abyss sooner or later, she wanted to be among the first to get to know the demons. “Just to get used to them,” she quipped.

With time, she found that the humbler hoodlums who dwelt in the underworld’s valleys were more generous and easy-going than those who occupied the summits. She called the latter “bigheads” and despised their vanity. This did not sate her thirst for knowledge of either type.

She experimented boldly while waiting for the stroke of luck that would bring her great romance and great riches.

Whenever she had a spare moment, Doli would go to church, light a votive candle to Our Lady, and pray most humbly for her intercession before the Lord. If He saw something amiss with her life, prayed she, may He forgive her and hold back His punishment. Fearing He might give her short shrift, she dared not pray to Him directly, preferring the intercession of His Mother.

Education, to her, was a big scam used by people mainly to score silly points. Art, on the other hand, emanated from God. She therefore kept a diary, intending to publish it one day and turn it into a bestseller. Abroad, naturally. She had heard good things about author-publisher relationships in England, the rapidity of recouping one’s investment and a number of other matters essential for a writer’s success and confidence. Nevertheless, her undoubted preference was for Holland. Visiting it some time ago, she was enchanted by its tall fair people amid its low, flat land. She liked their spirit, their easy and untrammeled humor, the way they smoked marijuana whenever and wherever they wanted, their terrific cheeses, their two-story houses with tiny flower-decked gardens, the proper motorways that had nothing in common with Bulgarian motorways, the way they had a sex museum as well as a Bible museum, the way they tolerated no smug vanity, and the way their lives were ordered in a manner even Germans could only dream of (she liked order, and her clients were made very aware of that).

The Belle statue in Amsterdam with its inscription “Respect Sex Workers all over the World” reduced her to tears. That it stood right outside the Oude Kerk troubled her not in the slightest. Both institutions alleviated the human condition—prostitution through the flesh and the church through the spirit—so it was logical for them to be side by side. This was her view and it was good enough for her.

But most of all, she admired the perfectionism of the Dutch system that enabled any publisher to forecast how many copies of Doli’s diary they would sell before they had even printed it. Not to mention the punctilious remittance of royalties.

All in all, Doli was a remarkable woman and this was apparent even at first encounter.

A little after midnight, a bearded type strode into the bar with the gait of a Michael Corleone, closely followed by four tough guys who wore shades and kept their hands in their pockets. They clustered by a booth occupied by other bearded, though less tough guys and told them to scram because this was a private booth. The guys in the booth offered various excuses, but those facing them took their hands from their pockets and, a brief but dramatic episode of physical contact later, the booth lay vacant.

Corleone stood to one side, monitoring the actions of his chaperones without getting involved, until at length he lifted his shades onto his forehead and moved into the empty booth with a broad, forgiving smile.

“Right, guys! Pick your poison!” said he with a castrato voice that stood in stark contrast with his shades and bristly beard.

Michael Corelone, whose real name was Miko, longed to be recognized as a tough guy. This persistent longing had driven him to become first a boxer, then a boxing coach. When it had soon transpired that he had neither the courage real boxers needed, nor the talent real coaches needed, he had switched vocations and his new calling of contract man had suited him from head to toe. By ambushing his victims, he avoided having to confront men that were tougher than  he was.

Another aspect of Miko’s personality was that he adored power in all its forms and was ready to part with anything to possess it. Little could rival the sweetness of the shiver he felt down his spine when reading the exploits of hoodlums mistreating their victims in the crime columns. Descriptions of torture excited him most, prompting him to elaborate on them in his fantasies to the tiniest detail, invariably casting himself as the main character.

To boost his public standing, he acquired a doctorate in acupuncture and pulse diagnosis. Purchasing the degree cost him a small fortune, but its value as cover for his true occupation was worth every penny.

Though a PhD, Miko remained semiliterate: something that didn’t trouble him in the least. He loved to quote his father, who had trained school kids in Defense of the People and had always said that too much literacy led to sedition and that only a good beating and a good shag could sort seditious people out. His father had also authored the remarkable historical assertion that the Russians had crossed the Danube using inflatable timber assault craft.

Are the Sicilian Mafiosi literate? You can bet they aren’t! And are they successful beyond belief? What’s the good of literacy when you are shooting someone in the back? None! All you need is cunning—and an expensive silenced pistol. Add to that a PhD and never look back, reasoned Miko.

In short, Miko was one of those men who were born villains and whose every undertaking inexorably led to criminality. He was aware of his odd Balkan macho charm and projected it in front of women with persistence, without compunction, and in pursuit of clear objectives. His glassy, vicious eyes reflected his character well.

None of the bar regulars knew much about him. All that was known was that he minded the millions of a major Russian mafioso who lived in America and that he had done time in a Hungarian jail as an accomplice to murder. He, on the other hand, knew all about the regulars, and also all about Doli—in terms of both academic and pecuniary pursuits.

“That’s the sort of bitch you need! Money of her own, friends in high places, keeps her eyes peeled, bound to get far, could become a prosecutor or a beak and not only get you out of trouble, but have enough readies to look after you, dress you up nice . . . ” droned a friend he was working with on some urgent foreign business.

“If you say so!,” cackled Miko, his castrato voice ringing around the establishment.   

Doli fell head over heels for him. It happened quickly and out of the blue. The instant Miko Corleone took out a chunky pen with an 18-karat solid gold tip and began drawing hearts and daisies on her hands, she felt a heaviness in her solar plexus and shivers creeping down her spine. She said he was romantic. Some time later, the same romantic was all over her in the hallway of her tiny flat, tearing pieces of her clothing and dropping them on the floor while she emitted gurgling sounds, legs clasped tightly around his waist.

“I’m a self-made man, my girl.”

The macho man trained his coyote eyes on her while she served coffee. He spread out his arms demonstratively: “Everything I have, I owe to this pair of hands. And to this head here,” and he patted his forehead. “To make a killing, you’ve got to be ready to kill. Me, I’m ready! You, if you want to live with me, have to be ready to rescue me. You ready for that?”

“You’ll teach me,” said she, looking devotedly into his eyes as she took his hands to kiss each finger in turn.

Glowing references from businessmen and judges, all of them eminent fraudsters and regular clients of hers from the Doli Bar, got her appointed junior prosecutor at the Metropolitan Prosecutor’s Office. Further such references propelled her to full-fledged prosecutor. 

Miko moved in with her. He would be away for days on end before returning unannounced and launching into lengthy nighttime binges. One day he disappeared without a word.

That evening Herr and Frau Zimmermann were holding a reception for Vienna’s crème de la crème. The Zimmermanns’ receptions were one of their ways of staying abreast of everything worth knowing. They held them several times a year, and each was enthusiastically discussed for weeks afterward.

It would be no exaggeration to say that most of this glittering city’s social intercourse revolved around the salons of the Zimmermanns’ vast residence. Much of the credit for this went to Frau Zimmermann, who was a tireless organizer and able entertainer to her numerous guests. The thirty-odd-year age difference between her and her husband only heightened conjecture about the multi-millionaire family.

Conjecture about Herr Zimmermann, a businessman and conservative liberal, was indeed widespread, its content differing depending on its source. His tenants (renting rooms and apartments in Vienna and other European centers was among Herr Zimmermann’s numerous business interests) called him an arrogant swine and wished to see him dead. Understandably so, for just a day’s delay in remitting rent meant that Herr Zimmermann, deaf to all pleas, would have the unfortunate tenants’ possessions thrown out of the windows and their power and water cut off. Pensioners, cripples, single mothers—all were fair game to him. He paraded his contempt for public opinion, singling it out as a reason for his success.

Others saw him as an example to follow. They admired the ruthless manner in which he ran his business and marshaled his young wife and hoped to become like him one day.

“You look so healthy and happy, darling,” bitched his former wife as she entered. “You know, that doesn’t bode well at all!” She was a lady of a certain age who gravitated around artistic circles.

“I’m healthy and happy because I’m just and upright, and honest people have always been healthier and happier than all others,” he cooed with a broad Hollywood smile.

“You con man!” said she, patting imaginary flecks of dust off the lapels of his smoking jacket with the back of her hand, “The only place you’ll ever get to be just and upright is a coffin.” Little did she suspect how apt her words would turn out to be.

A short distance away, the current Frau Zimmermann, in a killer white dress topped with a blue diamond choker, was charming a handful of politicians and bankers. Seeing her predecessor, she gave her a cheery wave that was returned in kind.

“I see the little vixen is making spirited use of your money,” continued the former Frau Zimmermann with a voice in which a trained ear could detect no mean measure of venom.

“Well, she’s young, she’s loving, so why shouldn’t I treat her! Money’s there to be spent, surely!” said Herr Zimmermann, stretching his smile to the utmost.

“Is it really you saying this?! Why, you’ve never even tipped a waiter! I take it you are aware she’s putting horns the size of a Siberian elk’s on you . . . ”

This was the last reception Herr Zimmermann held for Vienna society. Some weeks later, they found him in the street with a bullet through the back of his neck. The facts the police inquiry established shook even the most indifferent of his acquaintances.

It turned out to have been a contract killing commissioned by his loving wife, who also happened to be sole heir to his estate. Reckoning that life was too short to wait for her husband’s natural death, the young thing decided to hasten events. She asked her paramour, a private detective, to find a suitable contractor. That contractor turned out to be the Bulgarian Miko.

All details came to light when the widow made a full confession. The main contributor to the investigation’s rapidity and success, however, was the dead man’s former wife, who aired her suspicions as to the possible beneficiary of the killing before the police.

Frau Zimmermann and her private eye accomplice were sentenced and jailed, while an international arrest warrant was put out for Miko. Doli convinced him it would be best if he handed himself over to the Bulgarian authorities, which he duly did. She then left her job as metropolitan prosecutor, turned barrister, and took up his defense.

“I’ll get you acquitted, darling. I’m as certain of it as I’m certain my name’s Doli,” she whispered into his ear while they screwed in the prison visiting room.

“Just you fail and I’ll have your guts for garters,” whispered the macho man back in her ear.

He appeared in court as if dressed for a wedding. The white Armani suit, the white Berluti shoes, the shirt, the tie, the socks—all he wore had been bought for him by Doli. 

They charged him with murder and the prosecutor asked for a twenty-year sentence. Doli pleaded that her client was innocent, declaring Frau Zimmermann’s confession (which named the Bulgarian as the contract man) tendentious and untenable in view of the lack of any evidence linking her client with the victim.

“Your Honor, we are being asked to lend credence to statements made by an unstable woman, and moreover statements that—if believed—would destroy my client’s life,” Doli argued fervently to the judge. An old Communist Party nomenklatura cadre, he was a steady client of Doli’s in her other line of work. Though some of his colleagues guessed at his proclivities, they preferred not to upset his carefully wrought image as caring husband and father of two.

“I submit, Your Honor, that the correct verdict on your part would be that my client is entirely innocent. In delivering such a verdict, you will prove that Bulgarian courts are instruments of justice and justice alone,” continued Doli before moving on to expound her lover’s great contribution to the development of national sport.

One day, the prosecutor was unexpectedly replaced by a lady known in legal circles as The Leggy Prosecutrix. Mile Thigh, as she was also known, was Doli’s age. The two had not met. When they encountered each other in court, it was hatred at first sight. This might have been helped by the defendant, who immediately directed a lewd gaze to the prosecutor’s legs and refused to move it from there for the remainder of the case.

White as innocence itself, Miko kept fingering the knot of his necktie, shifting his shoulders, and tugging his shirtsleeves in an attempt to imitate the act of screwing the ass off the prosecutor.

For her part, Mile Thigh sensed a pleasant quiver descending from her neck all the way down to the shapely calves of her mile-long legs. The impudent (and promising) stare of the bearded Balkan brave awoke her feminine curiosity and prompted her to withdraw the criminal charge because of a lack of evidence and Miko’s lack of prior convictions.

The barrister and the prosecutor now proceeded to vie for Miko’s favours, inflating his confidence and making him play them against each other through frequent calls on both.

Until one day Doli decided to set things to rights.

“It’s time you decide: me, or that whore!”

“What’s your problem, babe?”

“And stop calling me babe. You know I hate it.”

“And I hate your poking your nose where it’s got no business!”

“Poke my nose, eh? You mean I shouldn’t have poked my nose into saving your ass and should have left you wearing prison garb instead of Armani? You mean . . . ,” and her eyes filled with tears of anger and outrage.

Miko pulled out a fat Havana cigar, lit it, puffed a couple of times, crossed his legs, and donned a mocking grimace.   

“Calm down! You did all that because you love me and because you like the way I shag you. You do like me shagging you, don’t you, eh? You just love the way I shag you, eh, babe?” he kept on, puffing away at his cigar. “Yeah, you love it! I know you love it! It’s no good your keeping your mouth shut like a jealous bitch. You are a jealous bitch, ain’t you, eh?” 

Doli instinctively grabbed the heavy cigar box and hurled it at him. It hit him in the face, splitting an eyebrow. Blood filled his eye and trickled down his cheek.

“You’re dead!” roared the contract killer, pressing his eyebrow with one hand and slicing the air with his cigar with the other, “I’ll kill you, so I will, and I’ll love doing my time for it! Bitch!”

“Make your mind up! Bitch, or babe? I wasn’t a bitch when I bought you a new wardrobe, was I? You ingrate! You’re no man! You’re a dastardly, murdering nobody. Can’t imagine what I ever saw in you!”

“Can’t imagine, eh? Well, let me tell you. You saw yourself in me. Like goes with like,” said he, mopping the blood from his face with the tablecloth before pulling out his gun and pointing it at her head. “Get ready to be shot. But first, strip! Come on, strip, you bitch! Off with everything!”

Something in his eyes told her she had better obey. She undressed slowly, leaving only her pants on, and glowered at him unblinkingly.

“Take it all off!” 

She obeyed again.

He pulled up a chair and stretched out on it, gun on his knee.

“You’re not bad. Not bad at all, for a barrister. Better than that prosecutor woman, any day. She’s only any good at blowjobs. You, you’re good at the full works!”

“If you’re going to shoot, shoot! If not, go!” said Doli with a forthrightness that surprised her as she began to put her clothes back on.

Scarcely believing his ears, Miko could only contemplate her wide-eyed for a moment, before switching to an unctuous drawl:

“Only kidding, babe! Me, shoot you, the most precious thing I’ve got? Where would I be without you, eh? You’re my good luck charm. I haven’t told you because I was keeping it a surprise, but I want us to get married. No kidding! Already ordered the rings, was going to pay for them one of these days. Even made a guest list for the reception. Just promise you won’t throw things at me any more. Promise, go on!”

“I promise,” said she, looking away from him. 

“That’s my girl! We two make a terrific pair and you know it, don’t you!?

“I know that. But does that whore know it?”

“Who? That prosecutor woman? Don’t you waste another thought on her!”

Several days later, Doli asked Miko to take her up into the mountains. She wanted them to go to the remote rocks where they had once picnicked and he had taught her to shoot. She said she had loved it and had rarely felt better in all her life.

Miko was only too pleased to grant her wish, all the more so since he was planning to ask her for yet another large loan to add to others that he never repaid.

She shot him with his own gun. As they stood side by side with her aiming at a tree some distance ahead, she turned smartly and shot him in the right temple.

She carefully wiped her fingerprints from the pistol grip with a snow-white handkerchief and placed the weapon in his hands. From the inside pocket of the sports jacket she had bought him, she retrieved as a memento the 18-karat gold-tip pen the erstwhile romantic had used to draw daisies on her hands.

She left the scene unhurriedly, looking serenely self-absorbed. 

At the funeral, barrister and prosecutor stood on either side of the grave, facing each other, in identical black outfits and identical dark glasses.

Politicians, judges, underworld supremos, and a sprinkling of Organized Crime Squad officers all expressed sincerest condolences. 

A light drizzle began to fall.

The Lufthansa jet departed on schedule. In Doli’s handbag was a manuscript entitled The Barrister from the Bar Doli. She would add final touches to it on the flight to Amsterdam.

Taking a break, Doli set the manuscript to one side to rehearse her coming meeting. Knowing that first impressions mattered most, she carefully coined phrases that would impress her literary agent as soon as he greeted her at the airport. How flattering it felt to have a real representative, like real writers do!

The agent was in fact a Bulgarian man who had emigrated to Holland some thirty years earlier and had gone on to acquire a solid reputation in literary circles. He accepted her commission, describing her writing as “intelligent, intriguing, and likely to appeal to a European readership” in the letters they exchanged.

The real reason was far simpler: an enthusiastic admirer of hers, formerly a piccolo and petty smuggler and currently a member of the European Parliament, arranged things. “To succeed in any situation, you have to play va banque and make use of connections. I’ve spoken with the man. Now it’s your move. Go for it!” he said, handing her the agent’s card.

In the glass of the approaching Schiphol terminal, Doli saw the approach of new debauchery in the world that awaited her, eager to extract its price. She was ready to bow to its demands.

From Куци ангели—2.  © 2015 by Vlado Trifonov. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2015 by Peter Skipp. All rights reserved. 

АДВОКАТКАТА ОТ БАР „ДОЛИ”

Често посещаваше това свърталище на гангстери.

Да, беше си откровено свърталище на гангстери, каквото и невинно име да му измислеха. Казваше се „Доли” – един от стотиците софийски бардаци, където хората през вечер се избиваха за престиж и удоволствие.

Тя идваше заради адреналина, по който си падаше от малка (на 5 годинки отряза главата на една от кокошките на баба си с кухненския нож, след което се похвали на всички деца в забавачката), но и защото в бара за два-три часа изкарваше колкото средностатистически българин за няколко месеца. Тук бандитите се надпреварваха да замерят жените с пачки, особено след няколко линии кока.

Беше проститутка на свободна практика и имаше няколко полицая на разположение, които се грижеха за сигурността й. Казваше им: „моите бодита”, след което ги черпеше уиски и качествена дрога, но на тях им стигаше да седят на масата й. В нейно присъствие се чувстваха истински мъже и не я възприемаха като проститутка, напротив: компанията й ги караше да се чувстват специални. Защото освен че беше умна, тя беше хубава.

Хубост, похотливост и ум – тази комбинация силно привличаше служителите за борба с организираната престъпност, които бяха готови на всичко за една нейна усмивка.

Всякакви типове се влюбваха в нея непрекъснато, но тя успяваше да излезе от ситуацията без да ги засегне или, не дай си боже, да ги накара да я намразят. Движеше се по хлъзгавата повърхност ловко и предпазливо. „Като азиатска пантера е”, възхищаваха се няколкото й приятелки.

Предишният собственик дотам я боготвореше, че освен бара, кръсти на нейно име и кучето си – своенравна ротвайлерка с набито тяло. Застреляха го пред заведението с два куршума в гърдите и една контрола в главата. После дойде нов собственик, но името на бардака остана непроменено.

Доли учеше за магистър и изобщо не се притесняваше, че някой може да се досети за заниманията й извън университета. Напротив, смяташе работата в бара за изключително ценен опит на терен, още-повече че магистратурата й беше по гражданско процесуално право. Какво по-подходящо място да изучаваш характерите на бъдещите си клиенти?

Беше убедена, че светът рано или късно ще пропадне в ада, затова отсега искаше да е сред дяволите. „Да свиквам”, казваше на шега.

С течение на времето установи, че по-простичките бандити – онези от низините – са по-ларж и по-лесни за общуване, отколкото бандитите по върховете. Тях наричаше хвалипръцковци и презираше маниерниченето им. Това обаче не й пречеше да изучава и едните, и другите.

Експериментираше смело и чакаше късмета, който щеше да я отведе при голямата любов и големите пари.

Когато й останаше малко свободно време Доли влизаше в църквата, палеше свещи на Света Богородица и най-смирено я молеше за застъпничество пред Господ. Ако той вижда нещо нередно в това, което тя прави, нека да й прости и да не я наказва. Не смееше директно да му го каже, притесняваше се да не я отреже, затова прибягваше до посредничеството на Божията Майка.

Смяташе, че образованието е голяма измама и хората го използват предимно за да вършат глупости. Докато изкуството идва от Бога.  Затова си водеше дневник. Намеренията й бяха един ден да го издаде и той да стане бестселър. В емиграция, разбира се. Беше чувала добри думи за отношенията между автор и издател в Англия, за бързата възвръщаемост на вложените средства и ред други неща, важни за успеха и самочувствието на един писател. Но безспорният й фаворит беше Холандия. Посети я преди време и остана очарована от високите бели хора в ниската равна земя. Хареса духа им, това че могат да се шегуват за всичко, че пушат марихуана, когато и където им се пуши, че правят страхотно сирене, че двуетажните им къщи с малки дворчета са потънали в цветя, че магистралите им са истински и нямат нищо общо с българските, че наред с музей на Библията имат и музей на секса, че са люто нетърпими към показната фукливост и че съществува ред, какъвто дори в Германия не познават (тя обичаше реда и клиентите й го знаеха отлично).

А статуята на проститутката в Амстердам с надпис „Уважавайте проститутките по целия свят” я умили до сълзи. Фактът, че се намираше до най-старата църква в града, не я притесни. Двете институции задоволяваха човешки нужди: проституцията – на плътта, църквата – на духа и изглеждаше логично да са една до друга. Това беше нейното обяснение и то й стигаше.

Най-вече харесваше перфекционизмът на холандската система, която позволяваше на всеки издател да знае предварително колко продадени бройки от дневника на Доли ще има, още преди той да бъде отпечатан. Както и перспективата паричките да не се бавят.

Всъщност Доли беше небикновена жена и това се забелязваше още при първа среща с нея.

Малко след полунощ в бара влезе брадясал тип с походката на Майкъл Корлеоне, следван от четирима бабаити с черни очила и ръце в джобовете. Застанаха до едно от сепаретата, което беше заето от други също толкова брадясали, но не дотам бабаити и им казаха да се разкарат, защото това сепаре било тяхно. Онези опитаха да се обяснят, но тези извадиха ръцете си от джобовете и след кратък, но изпълнен с драматизъм физически контакт, онези се оттеглиха.

„Корлеоне” седеше отстрани и наблюдаваше действията на своите придружители, без намерение да се намесва. Накрая вдигна очилата на челото си и с широка всеопрощаваща усмивка зае място в опразненото сепаре.

– Добре, момчета, кой какво ще пие – попита той с гласче на скопец,  който изумяващо контрастираше на черните очила и четинестата му физиономия.

Майкъл Корлеоне, който всъщност се казваше Мико, копнееше да го признаят за корав мъж. И понеже този копнеж не го напускаше, най-напред  стана боксьор, после треньор. Много скоро се оказа обаче, че за боксьор няма нужната смелост, а за треньор му липсва талант. Затова пък като наемен убиец му потръгна отведнъж. Убиваше от засада и така не се налагаше да влиза в пряк контакт с по-силните от него.

Имаше и друго: този човек обичаше властта във всичките й форми, и даваше мило и драго да я притежава. Най-сладка бе тръпката, която изпитваше при четене на криминалните колонки, където престъпници малтретираха безпомощните си жертви. Особено го възбуждаха садистичните сцени – развиваше ги в представите си до най-малки подробности, а себе си виждаше неизменно в главната роля.

За по-голям авторитет пред обществото се сдоби с докторска научна степен по иглотерапия, акупунктура и пулсова диагностика, купена за немалка сума, която същевременно служеше и за параван на истинските му занимания.

Всъщност Мико беше полуграмотен, но това не го притесняваше. Обичаше да цитира баща си, бивш учител по военно обучение, че грамотните са подривни елементи и тях само бой ги оправя и опъване. На баща му принадлежеше и уникалната по смисъла си историческа аксиома, че руснаците са форсирали Дунава с дървени надуваеми лодки.

Да не би босовете на сицилианската мафия да са били грамотни? Не, нали? Обаче всички са преуспели. Каква грамотност трябва, за да пречукаш някого в гръб? Никаква. Трябват единствено коварство и качествен патлак със заглушител. Ако към тях имаш и една докторска степен, берекет версин! – разсъждаваше Мико.

Принадлежеше към категорията хора, които се раждаха подлеци и с каквото и да се захванеха, неизменно свършваха при престъплението. Съзнаваше странния си чар на балкански мачо и го използваше спрямо жените методично, без скрупули и с ясно начертан план. Характерът му се отразяваше в очите: воднисти и жестоки.

В бара не разполагаха с много информация за него. Знаеше се единствено, че е въртял милионите на крупен руски мафиот, живеещ в Америка и че е лежал в унгарски затвор за съучастничество в убийство. Той обаче знаеше всичко за тях, както и за Доли: къде и какво учи, и как си изкарва парите.

– Такъв човек ти трябва на теб. Мацката и пари има, и връзки има, много е отворена, далеч ще стигне, може я прокурор да стане, я съдия, хем ще те вади от жегата, хем ще те храни и облича… – съветваше го негов приятел, с когото работеха заедно по някои спешни задгранични поръчки.

– Щом казваш – смехът на скопец прониза помещението, в което двамата се черпеха.

Доли не разбра кога се влюби – стана бързо и неочаквано. В момента, в който Мико Корлеоне извади масивна писалка със златно перо 18 карата и започна да рисува сърчица и маргаритки по ръцете й, тя усети тежест в слънчевия сплит, а по тялото й плъзнаха мравки. Нарече го „романтик”. По-късно „романтикът” я гърчеше в антрето на малкия й апартамент, късаше от нея дрехи и ги хвърляше на пода, а тя издаваше гъргорещи звуци, увила крака около кръста му.

– Аз съм селф мейд мен, моето момиче – втренчи се в нея мачото с поглед на койот, докато тя му сервираше кафето, и демонстративно разпери ръце. – С тези две ръце съм изработил всичко. И с ей тая глава тук – почука се по главата. – За да правиш пачки, трябва да си подготвен да убиваш. Аз съм подготвен, а ти, ако искаш да живееш с мен, трябва да си подготвена да ме спасяваш. Подготвена ли си да ме спасяваш?

– Ще ме подготвиш – погледна го тя предано в очите, хвана пръстите на ръката му и започна да ги целува един по един.

Назначиха я младши прокурор в столицата със застъпничеството на влиятелни измамници – бизнесмени и магистрати – стари нейни клиенти от бара. По същият начин получи и мястото на прокурор в градската прокуратура. 

Мико се премести да живее при нея. Отсъстваше с дни, после се връщаше изневиделица и започваха дълги среднощни запои. Докато един ден не изчезна, без да я предупреди.

Тази вечер господин и госпожа Цимерман даваха прием за каймака на виенското общество. Това беше един от начините да бъдат непрекъснато в пряк контакт с всичко, което си струваше да се знае. Правеха го няколко пъти в годината, а партитата им се обсъждаха дълго след тяхното приключване.

Няма да е пресилено ако кажем, че повечето от светските събития на този бляскав европейски град се случваха именно в салоните на огромното жилище на семейство Цимерман. Това се дължеше най-вече на госпожа Цимерман, която не се уморяваше да организира и забавлява многобройните гости. Разликата от трийсетина и повече години между нея и съпругът й само засилваше интереса към семейството на мултимилионера.

За предприемача, консервативен либерал, можеха да се кажат различни неща, в зависимост от това, кой ги казваше. Онези, които обитаваха квартирите на Цимерман (сред многобройните му дейности беше и отдаването под наем на стаи и апартаменти във Виена и други европейски столици) го наричаха арогантна свиня и мечтаеха да го видят мъртъв. С основание: дори ден някой да закъснееше с плащането на наема Цимерман нареждаше да изхвърлят вещите му през прозореца, да спрат тока и водата на нещастника и никакви молби не бяха в състояние да го трогнат. Пенсионери, инвалиди, самотни майки с деца… – не прощаваше на никого. Обичаше да казва, че не му пука за общественото мнение и затова е преуспял.

За други беше модел за подражание. Възхищаваха се на безпардонния начин, по който ръководеше бизнеса и младата си съпруга, и се надяваха един ден да станат като него.

– Имаш прекалено здрав и щастлив вид, това не е никак на хубаво –  заяде го още с влизането си бившата му съпруга, достолепна дама от артистичните среди.

– Така е, защото съм справедлив и честен, а честните хора са били винаги по здрави и по-щастливи от останалите – отвърна той с широка холивудска усмивка.

– Мошенико – изтупа тя с опакото на ръката си въображаемите прашинки от ревера на черния му смокинг, – ти можеш да си справедлив и честен единствено в ковчег – не спираше да го заяжда, без да подозира, че думите й ще се окажат пророчески.

Малко по-нататък настоящата госпожа Цимерман, в убийствена бяла рокля, комбинирана с колие със сини диаманти, омайваше компанията на неколцина политици и банкери. Видя ексъпругата и й махна с ръка. Тя отговори на поздрава.

– Виждам, че малката лисичка добре се оправя с парите ти – продължи бившата г-жа Цимерман с тон, в който внимателното ухо можеше да усети силна неприязън.

– Млада е, любвеобилна е, защо да не я поглезя. Пък и парите са ни дадени, за да ги харчим, нали така – разтегна докрай усмивката си господин Цимерман.

– Не мога да повярвам! Ти, който веднъж не остави бакшиш в ресторант…! Между другото наясно ли си, че твоята глезана ти слага рога, големи като на байкалски лос?

Този прием беше последният, който господин Цимерман даде за елита на Виена. Няколко седмици по-късно го намериха на улицата, застрелян с куршум в тила. Фактите, които разследването установи, бяха разтърсващи дори за най-хладнокръвните от обкръжението на известния предприемач.

Оказа се, че убийството е поръчано от любвеобилната съпруга, единствена наследница на Цимермановите пари и имоти. Младата жена  сметнала, че животът е твърде кратък,  за да чака господинът да умре от естествена смърт, и решила да ускори събитията. Уговорила любовника си, собственик на детективско бюро, да намери подходящ човек, който да свърши мръсната работа, и той намерил… българина Мико.

Тези подробности станаха известни след като вдовицата направи пълни самопризнания. Основната заслуга на бързото и успешно протичане на следствието беше на екссъпругата на покойника, която представи пред полицията своята версия за възможния поръчител на убийството и подозренията й се оправдаха.

Госпожа Цимерман и съучастника й бяха осъдени и вкарани в затвора, а българинът Мико беше обявен за международно издирване. Убеден от приятелката си Доли, че така ще е най-добре за него, той се предаде на българските власти. Тя напусна мястото си на прокурор в градска прокуратура, стана адвокат и пое защитата му.

– Ще ти издействам оправдателна присъда, скъпи, сигурна съм в това, както съм сигурна в името си – шепнеше Доли в ухото на своя любим наемен убиец, докато се чукаха в стаичката за свиждане.

– Ако не го направиш, ще те разкостя – шепнеше той на свой ред в ухото й.

На делото се появи като за сватба – нагизден от главата до петите. Белият костюм „Армани”, белите обувки „Берлути”, ризата, вратовръзката, чорапите… – всичко беше купено от Доли. 

Повдигнаха му  обвинение за убийство и прокурорът поиска 20 години лишаване от свобода. Доли пледираше, че нейният клиент е невинен, като обяви самопризнанията на Цимермановата съпруга (в които тя посочваше българина като извършител на злодеянието) за тенденциозни и несъстоятелни, както и че не е доказана никаква връзка между него и убития.

„Уважаеми г-н съдия, създава се илюзия, че трябва да се вярва на една неуравновесена жена, което може да доведе до съсипване на живота на моя довереник” – пламенно се обърна Доли към съдията, стара номенклатура, един от нейните постоянни клиенти. Същият беше известен сред съсловието като грижовен съпруг и баща на две деца, и макар някои да се досещаха за похожденията му, предпочитаха да си мълчат.

 

 

„Смятам, че най-правилното решение, което можете да постановите е, че клиентът ми е напълно невинен. По този начин ще докажете, че съдът в нашата държава служи единствено на справедливостта” – продължаваше пледоарията си адвокатката. След което изтъкна големия принос на любовника си в развитието на спорта.

 

 

Неочаквано обвинителят по делото беше сменен и на негово място назначиха жена, известна в юридическите среди като прокурорът с най-дългите бедра. Между себе си я наричаха „Дългия балдър” и беше на годините на Доли. Двете не се познаваха лично. Видяха се в съдебната зала и веднага се намразиха. Може би причината беше в поведението на обвиняемия, който заби лакоми очи в краката на прокурорката и повече не ги отмести.

Целият в бяло като самата невинност Мико попипваше от време на време възела на вратовръзката си, мърдаше последователно ту лявото, ту дясното си рамо, опъваше ръце напред и подръпваше маншетите на ризата, сякаш искаше да каже на прокурорката: ше те скъсам, куклооо!

На свой ред „Дългия балдър” усети приятни тръпки, които тръгваха от шията и плъзваха надолу, чак до мускулестите прасци на километричните й крака. Наглият и същевременно многообещаващ поглед на този брадясъл балкански субект възбуди женското й любопитство и я подтикна да поиска спиране на наказателното производство. Обоснова се с липсата на достатъчни доказателства и чистото съдебно минало на мачото.

Оттук нататък адвокатката и прокурорката започнаха да се надпреварват за Миковото благоволение, а самият той изглеждаше доволен-предоволен и не пропускаше да доразпали страстите на двете си  любовници, прескачайки ту при едната, ту при другата.

Докато един ден Доли не  реши да сложи нещата на мястото им.

– Време е да се определиш: или си с мен, или си с онази курва.

XX– Какъв ти е проблема, бебчо?

– Престани да ме наричаш бебчо. Знаеш, че мразя.

– И аз мразя да си тикаш носа, където не ти е работа.

– Да си тикам носа! Аз ли си тикам носа, която ти спасих задника и вместо “Армани” сега щеше да носиш затворническо райе? Аз ли… –очите й се напълниха със сълзи на яд и възмущение.

Мико извади дебела хаванска пура, запали я, пуфна два-три пъти, след което кръстоса крак върху крак и изкриви лицето си в насмешлива гримаса.   

– Успокой се. Направила си го, защото ме обичаш и много харесваш да те чукам. Нали много харесваш да те чукам? Харесваш ли да те чукам, а бебчо? – продължаваше да повтаря той и да пуфка с пурата. – Харесваш, знам, че харесваш. Но не ми отговаряш, защото си една ревнива кучка. Кажи, ревнива кучка ли си? 

Сама не разбра кога хвърли масивната кутия с пури. Уцели го в лицето и му сцепи веждата. Потече кръв, която напълни окото му и продължи да се стича надолу по бузата.

– Мъртва си! – изрева наемният убиец, като притискаше сцепената си вежда с една ръка, а с другата размахваше пурата във въздуха. – Убивам те и те излежавам, кучко! – продължаваше да реве раненият мачо.

– Кучка ли съм? Нали бях “бебчо”. Защо не ми казваше, че съм кучка, когато ти купувах дрешки? Защото си неблагодарник. Ти не си никакъв мъж, а страхливец и убиец. Не знам защо се влюбих в теб.

– Не знаеш ли? Аз ще ти обясня. Защото такива като теб се влюбват в такива като мен – попи той кръвта от лицето си с покривката на масата, след което извади пистолет и го насочи към главата й. – А сега ще те застрелям, ама гола. Хайде събличай се, кучко! Сваляй всичко!

Нещо в погледа му й подсказа, че трябва да се подчини. Съблече се бавно, остави само бикините. Сетне го погледна в очите без да мига.

– И гащичките! 

Отново му се подчини.

Той взе стол, седна, изпружи крака напред и сложи пистолета върху коленете си.

– Бива те. За адвокатка даже много те бива. Повече те бива от прокурорката, няма майтап. На оная й дай само свирки да прави, докато ти можеш всичко.

– Хайде, стреляй, ако ще стреляш. Ако не, ставай и си отивай  –  каза Доли с изненадваща смелост и започна отново да се облича.

Мъжът се опули се, сякаш не вярваше на ушите си, продължи да я гледа още известно време, след което гласът му стана мазен и умилкващ:

– Шегувам се, бебчо. Как ще те застрелвам, като ти си най-ценното ми нещо на света. За къде съм аз без теб, нали така? Ти си ми талисмана на мен. Даже знаеш ли какво, мисля да се оженим, няма майтап, поръчал съм халки, остава да се платят, направил съм списък кой да дойде, кой да не дойде, обаче ще обещаеш, че повече няма да ме замеряш. Кажи, обещаваш ли?

– Обещвам – отговори тя, без да го погледне. 

– Ей така те искам! С теб двамата сме страхотна двойка и ти го знаеш, нали го знаеш?

– Знам го. А онази курва дали го знае?

– Кой, прокурорката ли? Изобщо не я мисли.

Няколко дни по-късно Доли го помоли да се качат на Витоша. Да идат на онези тайнствени скали, където двамата са ходили на пикник и той я е учил да стреля, а на нея много й харесвало и се е чувствала прекрасно.

Мико се отнесе към молбата на любовницата си благосклонно, още-повече че възнамеряваше да й поиска поредната голяма сума назаем. Пари, който никога не връщаше.

Гръмна го със собственото му оръжие. Стояха един до друг, тя се целеше в дървото отпред, но изведнъж рязко се извърна и го простреля в дясното слепоочие.

Изтри внимателно със снежнобяла кърпичка отпечатаците от дръжката на пистолета, сетне постави оръжието в ръката му. От вътрешния джоб на спортното яке, също купено от нея, извади писалката със златно перо 18 карата, с която някогашният романтик й рисуваше маргаритки по ръцете, и я взе за спомен.

Напусна мястото без да бърза, спокойна и вглъбена в себе си. 

На погребението стояха от двете страни на гроба, адвокатката и прокурорката, една срещу друга, с еднакъв черен тоалет и еднакви тъмни очила.

Политици, магистрати, босове от подземния свят и няколко кадъра на отдел ”Борба с организираната престъпност” поднасяха съболезнования. 

Започваше леко да пръска.

Самолетът на Луфтханза излетя по разписание. В ръчната чанта Доли носеше подвързан ръкопис, със заглавие „Адвокатката от бар „Доли”. Щеше да го чете по време на полета до Амстердам и да нанесе още някои корекции.

Реши да направи почивка, остави ръкописа настрана и започна да репетира наум срещата, която й предстоеше. Знаеше, че първото впечатление е много важно, затова старателно повтаряше отделни английски фрази, с които искаше да впечатли литературния агент още с кацането на летището. Ласкаеше се, че ето и тя, като всички сериозни писатели, вече има свой представител.

Агентът, българин по произход, емигрирал в Холандия преди трийсетина години, имаше сериозна репутация в литературните среди. Прие да я представлява заради „интелигентното и интригуващо четиво, което би се харесало на европейската аудитория” – така се изрази в разменената помежду им кореспонденция.

Истинската причина беше далеч по-проста: един неин възторжен почитател, бивше пиколо, бивш контрабанден играч и настоящ евродепутат, уреди връзката. – За да успееш където и да е, трябва да играеш на едро и със свои хора. Говорено е с човека, действай – каза той, докато й подаваше визитната картичка на литературния агент.

Погледна през илюминатора на самолета, който току-що се приземи. Видя модерната стъклена фасада на летище „Шипхол” и я обзе предчувствие за нови грехове в свят, който я чакаше, за да си поиска своето. Готова беше да му го даде.

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