Page 137 of Two Marlboros

“Michael Cossner?”, I asked.

The boy’s eyes went wide. That was enough to dispel all doubt, if there ever was any.

The apartment smelled like stale air. It opened onto the living room, headed by a slick couch placed in the middle of the room and a CRT TV resting on a short, narrow cabinet; the room’s only window, halfway between the couch and the TV, had its blinds down three-quarters and let in little light. From the adjoining walls were cracks so deep they looked like lightning, and from upstairs came improper footfalls and footsteps running from right to left. There were patches of mold on the ceiling that seemed to want to spread like wildfire, and the smell of stale air suddenly became more pungent.

Michael was wearing a pair of Bermuda shorts and a lightweight zip-up hoodie. It was zipped up to the top despite the heat, and the hood, from which hair sprouted at chin level, was pulled up part way.

He motioned us to sit on the couch. I accepted the invitation and made myself comfortable; Ash, on the other hand, remained standing, arms folded. He glanced at Michael from head to toe and did not take his eyes off him; the moment the boy noticed, the smirk he had put on when he had let us in the house died instantly.

“May I offer you a drink?” he asked, and his voice barely trembled.

“Never mind, thank you,” Ash replied, continuing to stare at him. The boy occasionally looked up at my colleague, only to return to the carpeted floor soon after.

Finally, he cleared his throat and looked at me. “So how can I help you?”

“We are here to ask you some questions about the robbery that took place on July the 30th, at the Lexington Avenue post office,” I replied. I abandoned the relaxed pose I had had up to that point and rested my forearms on my thighs, crossing my hands and Michael’s gaze.

“I wasn’t there that day,” he hastened to reply. The next moment he was back staring at the floor.

“And where were you?” intervened Ash, his arms still folded, and his eyes planted on the boy. A sardonic smile appeared on his face.

“I was on sick leave.”

“We thought you were on your way to Europe.”

Michael shoved his hands into the pockets of his Bermuda shorts and hunched his shoulders. His expression cracked and he shifted his gaze in the direction of the window. He said nothing for several seconds and seemed to have no intention of retorting. Meanwhile, my eyes had grown accustomed to the dimness of that room: to the left of the couch, I glimpsed a corner of the apartment used as a kitchenette, equipped only with a gas stove surrounded by a couple of cabinets and a set of wall cabinets with crooked doors.

“What can you tell us about the robbery?” Ash continued, and once again that mocking smile appeared on his face. I wondered what he was getting at.

Michael sighed and looked at my colleague. “Well, like I said, I wasn’t there.”

“Okay,” Ash replied. Still with his arms crossed he began to walk around the living room, passing between Michael and meand filling the air with just the sound of his footsteps. He looked up at the ceiling and let his gaze slide over the window and the furniture until he brought it back to the boy.

“Who gave you this apartment?” he urged him again. He took a few more steps and stopped near the sofa, close to where I was sitting.

“Was it William who told you I was here?”

“Yes, he gave us the address.”

Michael’s expression changed again, and the tension that had been building in him from the moment he had opened the door for us seemed to leave him altogether, perhaps because of the thought that his location was not so easy to spot without a shred of a clue.

“And he also told us several things,” Ash went on, “mostly related to some alleged problems you’d be involved in.”

Michael’s eyes widened and his breathing seemed to halt for a moment. He exhaled the air all at once, moved toward the window and, once he was in front of it, barely ducked to peer through the blinds. He looked for a handful of seconds, then straightened up and went back to Ash and me.

“Somehow you had something to do with the robbery, didn’t you?”

Michael looked at us for a moment, after which he pulled a hand out of his pocket and used it to run it through his hair in a nervous gesture. As he did so, the hood slipped behind his head, and on his hand became clearly visible the same tattoo I had been eyeing in the picture onRumors.

“I’m pretty sure they were looking for me,” he replied, and returned his hand to his pocket. “I owe them, these drug dealers. I was expecting them home any minute, but I think they used the post office to divert suspicion.”

Ash and I exchanged a look, because playing William’s card had been a good idea. I realized only then that Ashton,in addition to Justice, was also very much responding to his personal ambition: he wanted to get to the top, with no obstacle between him and a promotion.

“Can you tell us anything else? Maybe about a certain Waitch?” continued Ash.

At the second question, Michael stiffened and ran a hand through his hair again. He began to pace back and forth briefly, his gaze lost on the ground. Finally, he stopped and sighed.

“Did William tell you about this?”

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