Fiddler’s Best Friend

1

On the last Monday of the month, Chief and the other heads of the city's police departments held a press conference. Accredited journalists of three state and two metropolitan newspapers, two television channels, one radio station, as well as a couple of dozen "voiceless observers" who could not ask questions, but had the right to get information, were briefly informed about the criminogenic state of the city. The number of crimes of each type, how many of them had been solved and how many more cases were being processed. It was all part of the routine: informing the population that they live in a city where crimes are few, and where they are quickly solved, and the perpetrators are punished, is very important for the peace of mind of citizens.

In the first half of the year, everything was calm in the areas controlled by Chief, that is, in the Central District, except for one specific crime in March, when a husband suddenly stabbed his wife and then jumped out the window naked. His motives were never established.

The second half of the year began with unexpected intrigue. The July murder in the central park was not an ordinary incident, and the August hospital massacre was also a serious crime, and the press conference after that event had been long and heated.

In September, no high-profile crimes occurred, but it was uncomfortable for Chief to report that "the perpetrator of the massacre had not yet been caught". A few minutes later, however, the breath had been knocked out of him.

"We have received information that the killer copied the appearance of one of your leading employees. Is that true?"

"Who told you that?" Chief reacted sharply. The journalist noted the reaction.

Everyone in the room went quiet.

"An anonymous source," the reporter continued, unabashed. "Do you think the killer could have changed his appearance with a silicone mask or used other means to do that?"

Chief didn't remember answering that question. For the first time in many years of work, his composure gave way because no one knew the version about the mask, except for the employees of his department.

Which meant there was a mole among them.

***

"What are we going to do?" Chief asked sternly.

Cord scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"Maybe it's not so bad…"

He and Force were standing in Chief's office. Force seemed a little nervous, though maybe it was just Cord's imagination.

"What do you mean?" Chief looked at him sternly.

"You said that the journalist does not disclose sources. And you have seen nothing like this in any magazines or newspapers?"

"No."

"So, there is a chance that you should not look for an informant in official publications. Maybe not in any publication at all."

"You think the killer might have contacted the journalist himself?" Force added suddenly.

"Isn't that possible?"

Chief looked carefully at his best employees but said nothing.

"I take it, Chief, that only the three of us know about the leak?"

"Exactly."

"You know, I think it's best to leave it that way. Force and I will search for the mole."

***

In fact, Cord wasn't really going to look for a mole at all, because he had already guessed who it might be. However, it was worth somehow making sure his version was correct. As for now, he decided not to take any action. The leaked information didn't seem to be interfering with the investigation, which meant there was nothing to worry about.

Although there was one point that was, in fact, alarming. From day to day, when information is published, the killer would know in what direction the investigation was moving. Was that bad? Well, how to put it…

The fact was that the investigation was not moving anywhere. All through September, Cord and Force (sometimes with Crane) had worked through all the versions of the massacre at the hospital, looking for motives, interrogating all those involved two or even three times… It was no use.

2

With the beginning of Indian summer, Cord and Dia often went for walks in the park, where from time to time, they met Fiddler. Usually, during the afternoon, he played music in one square of the park. For himself (and for Dia when she asked), he played classical music, but when people gathered in the square, he put up two plywood signs with a list of popular songs and their prices. On the list, there were dance and pop hits, rock ballads, and jazz standards.

Fiddler did not at all resemble a homeless person, rather a young musician. As October approached, he began to dress in a beige mid-season coat, gray woolen trousers, a red check scarf casually tied around his neck, a black felt hat, and shiny leather boots. He looked utterly intelligent, and the artistry with which he performed the compositions invariably attracted many people. (As he once said to Cord, he even had regular listeners.)

One day after completing his concert, Fiddler said to Cord:

"Do you remember, a long time ago, I said I wanted you to meet someone?"

"Yes, there was something like that."

"So… Can you meet with him on the first of October?"

"That is… The day after tomorrow?"

"Well, yeah."

"Dia, we don't have any plans for Friday night, do we?"

"Nope," she replied with a smile.

"Good. So I am free."

"Great!" Fiddler was delighted. "I need to warn you right away, we'll be going to a rather… Hmm… How can I put it…? A rather 'specific' place. That is, Dia cannot come with us."

"Hey! How so?! Now I'm intrigued!"

"And where to exactly?" Cord asked warily.

"To the bar of a motorcycle club."

***

"Seriously?" Cord asked, surprised.

When Fiddler mentioned the motorcycle club, he mysteriously fell silent, and Cord did not ask him anything further. He decided to let it be a surprise. After all, how many motorcycle clubs are there in the city?

The fact was that the climate of a country with four seasons, of which five months are frozen over, four are dank and cool, and only three ever see any radiant sunshine, did not contribute much to the emergence and development of full-fledged motorcycle clubs. When could they ride? Therefore, the local clubs looked more like clubs of motorists, that is, those who like to tinker with technology and drink beer and barbecue in garages. The "seriousness" of such organizations was usually characterized by the presence of a logo, but nothing more. In general, motorcycle clubs here were a kind of peaceful male hobby, like fishing or hunting, and not near-criminal organizations with brutal bearded men in leather jackets.

Well, apart from…

"Why didn't you say that we are going to the Wolfpack?"

Yeah, of all the motorcycle clubs in the country, there were only two associated (according to rumors, of course) with crime. The first, the Polar Bears, from the north, were so severe that they rode all year round—even the thirty-degree frost did not stop them. The second was their twin brothers, the more numerous and well-known the Wolfpack motorcycle gang. These two gangs had no competitors, and the borders of their territories ran along the fifty-fifth parallel.

Above the entrance to the bar of the same name hung the huge metal head of a wolf, on either side of which there were two smaller heads. The wolves at the edges were grinning menacingly, while the central one calmly looked at the visitors.

"It still does not fit in my head, how someone like you can be connected with such an organization?"

"Like me?" Fiddler smiled. "Well, I'm not such a frequent guest here, and the people here are more peaceful than they look."

***

The bar comprised two large rooms. In the first, where all the visitors sat, there was a huge bar, tables, and chairs, and a small stage where occasionally a rock group which had been invited performed. The second was a billiard room. However, there was also a bar, but this time for billiard accessories, and instead of a stage, there was a platform with two dartboards.

It was really calm inside. Nobody glaring at them with hostility, at most only with curiosity, and no one came up to find out who they were and why they had come there. Although the look of the clientele was appropriate—leather jackets, bandanas, and brutal looks—Cord's fears were dispelled. The people were just people, and there was nothing dangerous about them.

They went to the bar.

"Hello, Mort!"

A big, long-haired man was looking for something on the shelves at the back of the bar. Hearing Fiddler, he turned towards the counter, and a wide, good-natured smile appeared on his face.

"Oh-oh-oh, look who showed up! Hello, buddy!" He grasped Fiddler's outstretched hand in two of his and shook it intensely.

Out of habit, Cord profiled the individual. The young man behind the bar was really huge, clearly over two meters tall, and muscular: the rolled-up sleeves of his checkered shirt looked like they were about to rip apart because of his muscles. His diction was also unusual: the big fellow spoke in deep bass and clearly enunciated his words.

"Meet, Mort! This is my friend Cord," Fiddler introduced the investigator. "I told you about him."

"Hello to you, my friend!" Mort said to Cord without changing his expression. "What brings you to our abode?"

"Fiddler said you serve the most delicious beer in town!"

"And how! Sit down, buddy, I'll pour you one right now! How much would you like?"

"Well, a mug, for starters."

"Here you go!"

Pulling a half-liter beer mug from under the counter and doing a graceful trick with it, Mort walked over to the kegs and began pouring lager into it.

"For starters, this is the very thing!"

"Thank you!" Cord nodded.

"And me too, if you would be so kind," asked Fiddler.

"The usual?"

"Uh-huh."

Mort grabbed another mug and filled it from the wheat beer keg.

"Cord, I have to ask you," he muttered softly, "are you here to harvest our souls or not?"

Cord felt that the room had abruptly quieted down.

"No, why would I need you? Fiddler wanted to introduce me to you, and here I am."

"Well, how…" Mort closed the spigot and put the mug in front of Fiddler. "We're kind of like bandits here. Or don't you think so?"

Cord drank his beer calmly.

"Did you kill someone here?"

"No."

"First kill and then call," Cord smiled.

An answering smile appeared on Mort's face. He waved his hand.

"It's okay, guys."

And the bar was again filled with the noise of voices and the clinking of glasses.

"I didn't quite understand what you were checking."

"Ha! Nothing! A small show for a new visitor! And generally," Mort winked, "since we are bandits, we know the laws. And we know order too. An investigator would not have come here without being accompanied if he were on a case."

To the left of the back of the bar, the kitchen door opened, and a small middle-aged man came out, not looking at all like the local contingent. He glanced at the bartender and said:

"Thanks, Mort, you can go now." He then looked at Cord and Fiddler sitting at the counter. "Fiddler," he nodded to the homeless man, "and this must be the one and only Cord?"

Fiddler nodded.

"Yeah."

"I hope you are not on a tab today?"

Fiddler glanced sideways at Cord, who was just taking another sip of his own.

"I hope so myself," Fiddler smiled slightly.

"Okay, today I will not scold you, since the day is special," muttered the bartender (and the owner of the establishment, and the head of the Wolfpack, but Cord did not know about that just yet). "Go wherever you were going already."

Mort, after listening carefully to everything, nodded happily and left from behind the counter.

"Well, friends, let's go to the billiard room?"

Cord thoughtfully finished the rest of the beer and put the glass on the counter.

"Wait, Mort," Cord asked cautiously as he stood up, "aren't you the bartender?"

The big fellow smiled good-naturedly.

"No, man, I am the bouncer. The only one here," he boasted, "because I am strong."

"Look, over there," Fiddler said, carefully carrying the beer he had not yet started.

Mort went to the counter and got three cues, two chalks, and a set of balls for them. Cord and Fiddler immediately went to the table, which was near the opposite wall from the entrance.

"Do not put your drink on the pool table," Fiddler warned and rolled a small table on wheels out from under the billiard table.

"We forgot about the snacks!" Mort, who came up with cues, caught himself. "I'll be right back!"

"I still do not really understand what is happening here and how to react to it," Cord admitted to Fiddler.

Fiddler smiled.

"It's Mort's birthday, that's all. And I wanted to give him a present. So I brought you."

"You mean, the gift is me?"

"Well," Fiddler was embarrassed, "I guess, yes. It seemed to me that you get along with him. And, as you know, one can never have too many friends."

"Scoundrel," Cord chuckled. "I suppose you are also drinking at my expense."

Fiddler raised his mug of beer in confirmation and took a few sips.

"Mort has an anniversary today," he added.

"How many?"

"Twenty-five. He's only a year younger than me, but you can't tell by looking, right?"

"Yeah. When you had a beard, I wouldn't have given you less than forty…"

"Hey."

"…and now you look like about thirty," Cord chuckled.

"Come on," muttered Fiddler and emptied the glass in a few offended sips.

***

Soon, Mort returned, pushing two carts of food in front of him. There were not only snacks but also full course meals and strong alcohol. Cord, finally realizing what he was really there for, relaxed. It was lucky that he had taken a lot of money with him. He'd sensed it!

They started a game of billiards: first Fiddler and Mort, then Mort and Cord. Gradually, as they were talking, Cord realized it was effortless for him to communicate with these two.

Mort told his story. He was a foundling. His parents, whoever they may have been, did not think of anything better for their baby than leaving him in a box on the doorstep of an orphanage, in the winter, in a minus thirty-degree frost. When he was discovered, he was neither alive nor dead. He was cyanotic, breathing weakly, and his eyes did not open. He was immediately taken to the hospital but could not be saved.

After that, however, a strange thing happened, and a child's cry was heard from the room. The doctor, who came out to tell the orphanage's head the sad news, rushed back and froze in place from shock—the baby, whose heart had stopped beating a minute ago, was now screaming.

It was a miracle, one that was difficult to believe, but which sometimes happens. Thus the name of the child was Mort, which means "death".

Since childhood, he was a large and strong but kind and smiling boy. Always glad to help as much as he could and never refusing to assist anyone. One day, this drastically changed his life.

At twelve, being manipulated by one of his then "friends", he joined a children's gang, which, as Mort was now sure, began as a game but gradually turned into a criminal enterprise. Minor crimes at first—taking away little things from younger orphans, blackmail, extortion; then, as he grew older, he and his gang engaged in full-fledged street thefts, vandalism, and armed robbery. During one of them, Mort and another gang member got into a serious conflict, and Mort killed him. Realizing what he had done, he left the gang and surrendered to the police.

The confession mitigated his punishment: after serving only two years out of the prescribed three, he was released ahead of schedule. He did not look for his old gang: he no longer wanted to have anything to do with them. He tried to start a new life, but the lack of education (although he tried to study in prison it did not help) and a criminal record did not allow him to find an ordinary job. Mort began to wander around the country for the next five years. He visited almost all the more or less large cities, where he worked low-paid but legitimate jobs (as a janitor, a security guard at a garage cooperative, and others). Then, tired of living hand-to-mouth, he began taking part in illegal events, namely underground fighting and death races. Mort revealed his interest in technology and mechanics, and he was sometimes even allowed to work in the repair shops, where one day something happened that allowed him to get a permanent job.

"The gang leader brought in his bike and I fixed it," said Mort proudly. "He was on the run with his gang. He saw me fix it and offered me to work for them. I agreed. At that time, money was tight, and here, suddenly, was a new job. They took me with them and brought me here. Here I work as a bouncer, but I also fix the bikes if they break. They pay well, I have a roof over my head, and hell, I recently got my own bike! With a sidecar even! Old and broken, but one day soon, I will restore it."

They sat for two hours and were all already pretty drunk. There were more and more people in the bar, and a small crowd had formed around them, listening to Mort's story. At the words about the motorcycle, some patted him on the shoulder and shouted approvingly.

"And you, Cord, uh… How did you become who you are?"

"You mean an investigator?"

"Yeah."

Cord considered.

"Well… To be honest, I have never been particularly interested in this profession. But at school, during vocational guidance, it turned out that I had good logic and excellent intuition, and they brought me in to have a conversation at the police department. They said that they needed such people and asked me to think about it. And then I went into the army for two years, after which I entered the Police Academy and study to be a practical investigator, just then the specialty had been introduced."

"What department do you work in?" asked an overweight biker in a denim shirt and a wheat-colored walrus mustache.

"In the Central Department."

"Oh, isn't the Villain working in your area?"

Cord, pouring himself a glass of whiskey, froze.

"Who?"

"Don't you even know who you are trying to catch? This asshole. Who killed that freak in the hospital. And who is supposedly one of ours."

A disapproving murmur spread through the crowd.

"What?" Cord barely had time to deflect the bottle before the whiskey began to overflow.

The Villain… Where did I hear that word?

"What do you have to do with it?" he asked.

"You don't even know? Some presstitute wrote about us. Something like the 'ghosts of the roads' who killed that bastard in the hospital. In short, like it's all a showdown between gangs."

"What kind of showdown? What journalist?"

"Do I fucking remember?"

"Flaminga, that's who," squeaked a thin biker, who was just skin and bones and balding.

Pink Flaminga? Wasn't that the one whose writing Dia had given me when I was in the isolation ward?

"Guys, do you even know that official data is printed in state newspapers and not in ladies' magazines?"

There were chuckles in the crowd. The mustached one grunted something and walked away from the billiard table. Cord finally downed the shot of whiskey and reached into his pocket.

"Speaking of work," he said. "Look at these photographs."

Cord handed Mort black-and-white photographs of all three crime victims—Piala, the long-haul driver and the doctor—and also the only suspect, Familiar.

"If you recognize anyone, please tell me."

"Are they suspects?" Fiddler clarified when Mort handed him the photographs.

Cord shook his head.

"Just people."

Fiddler held his gaze for a moment on Familiar, but then passed the photos on. Cord had little hope that somebody would recognize any of them. Therefore, when the pictures came back and the result was nothing, he was not too surprised.

"Listen, buddy," Mort stretched his arm for a bottle of whiskey and poured one for himself and Cord. Fiddler politely declined. "I don't know, if you have the right to say anything… but can you tell me why you haven't caught this Villain yet?"

"It's not that easy, Mort. Can I smoke here?"

There were chuckles. What a stupid question.

"Then where is an ashtray?"

There was a small one on the roll-out table, which Cord overlooked. Fiddler handed it to Cord.

"Thank you." Cord drank the whiskey which Mort had poured in one gulp, then lit a cigarette.

"So, Mort, you want to know what the problem is?" Cord had already drunk enough to turn on "loose lips" mode.

"Yes, we would very much like to know," a bearded biker who looked like a viking replied instead of Mort.

"Well, listen." Cord poured himself a whiskey and put it on the side of the pool table, next to the ashtray. "Do not get caught. The science is simple. Don't wank, don't smoke, don't bleed, don't touch—and no one will catch you. If a criminal has at least half a brain, he won't drop cigarette butts at the scene, for example. Fortunately," Cord smiled maliciously, "the majority do not have such brains, so usually crimes are solved as easy as one, two, three, and society learns about them only in the monthly official reports column called 'Statistics'. Here's is where luck gets bad: as soon as a criminal is more careful, investigations dry up, but even if the crime is still investigated… Forensic science is not like a magic wand which you wave and boom! Case solved! The maximum it can do is help to determine the identity of the suspect. The second stage begins, the search for the suspect. What do you think is the most obvious place where a criminal hides?"

"Well, uh… In his own apartment?" suggested Fiddler.

"Bingo! They usually hide in the same place they live. Because, I repeat, they have no brains. However, if there is even a drop of brain, then it becomes almost impossible to find them, and if the criminal is ingenious," Cord put out a half-smoked cigarette on the bottom of the ashtray, "then it becomes 'impossible' without the 'almost'."

"So what then? It turns out you can't catch this maniac because he did not leave a trace?" summed up Mort.

"As for that," Cord poured himself another whiskey. "So far, we do not believe that we are dealing with a maniac. A maniac today is a rare and almost elusive bird. When he begins his career, the police are not even looking for him because they do not see his system: everything looks like single murders. But then, when the score gets into the dozens, the police finally wake up and start acting. Even so, success is not guaranteed. Most likely, they will suffer failure. And this is even if the maniac is not particularly smart. If the killer is so developed that he allows himself to play with the police, to make riddles for them, for example, then consider it a bad thing because it is unrealistic to catch such a person unless by pure chance."

Cord suddenly realized that even more people had gathered around them, and everyone was listening in silence.

"Wait a second, I need to get my throat wet."

Cord had another shot of whiskey.

"Want a snack?" Mort suggested, holding out a plate with slices of five types of meat.

"No thanks. I don't eat with whiskey. Shall I continue?"

They all whispered approvingly.

"Okay. I dwelled on one problem. To summarize: it is very difficult to catch a maniac. Now the second problem—the current victims, and I will count only those that we assume are on the conscience of our killer. The first is a prostitute—a young orphan who became a working girl clearly not because of a good life. The second victim is a former trucker who was cheated on by his wife and who did not think of anything better than to start drinking. What do you think they have in common?"

Fiddler retook the floor.

"BDP."

"Right. Bums, drug addicts, prostitutes. 'Addicts' also includes alcoholics, in case you are not aware. These are the categories of people that no one gives a shit about. Whether the killer deliberately chose them is still unknown, but here, the bottom line is: their death has not caused public resonance."

"Wait, Cord," said Fiddler softly, "after all, the murders in the hospital stirred people up quite a lot."

"And what exactly stirred them up? The fact of the massacre or the fact of the death of the drunkard?"

"Well, it seems… Okay, I understand what you mean."

"Exactly. People were outraged by the arrogance of the criminal, perhaps even admired his skillfulness since he managed to escape. But no one cares about the dead, even the doctor. And this means, as long as the Villain, I will call him that, does not kill someone important, there will be no active manhunt for this maniac. What's even more significant," Cord chuckled in annoyance, "if the killer himself turns out to be someone important, then the investigation will stall without even starting."

"Is that fair?" the mustached biker in the denim shirt said with indignation.

"We are not talking about justice. We are talking about the genuine state of affairs, and the world we live in is shitty enough for such crap to be the common order of things."

A murmur was heard in the hall.

"So you want to say that the police don't give a fuck about murders if the victims are ordinary people?" the "viking" was also indignant.

"Not ordinary ones, but those that are considered marginal by society. In general, yes. We, of course, investigate every crime. Usually, we find criminals, but if we can't catch the culprit right away, the case can easily fly off into the dark and be forgotten forever."

"And you are the same, right? You don't give a fuck about the lives of the people that the Villain has killed?" the "viking" growled.

"Of course. For me, these people are just another task that needs to be solved."

There was instant silence. Cord realized he had said too much.

Damn.

"Okay, guys. We should probably go," Fiddler broke the ominous silence as he began cautiously cutting his way through the crowd.

"Stop!" barked the thin biker and grabbed Fiddler by the sleeve.

"Listen, let him pass," Cord began menacingly.

"I don't understand, you think you are going to do whatever you want here?" the "viking" leaned on the billiard table and over Cord, breathing his alcoholic fumes on him.

"Guys, let's live together in peace, okay?" Mort suggested sadly.

"Mort, can't you see what a bastard he is?" the "viking" turned to the bouncer. "Right now, he clearly said that he does not care about the lives of ordinary people. He is as much of a bastard as the rest of the cops!"

"Viking, shut up!" Mort raised his voice. "Cord is my friend!"

Wow, the biker is really called Viking.

"Choose your friends more carefully, kid!" Viking turned back to Cord. "And you, scum—"

Mort grabbed him by the collar and threw him into the crowd of bikers. Out of surprise, the thin one let Fiddler go, and the philosopher sneaked past him.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!" screamed Viking.

"I POLITELY! ASKED! LET'S! LIVE! IN PEACE!" Mort announced in a thunderous voice and, taking a step, with a powerful knee blow to the stomach, folded Viking in half.

"Well, it's started…" muttered Cord.

He grabbed the cue and jabbed it into the thin biker's chest like a spear.

"Aaaaa!" the biker squealed and disappeared into the crowd.

Someone from the side grabbed Cord by the shirt and pulled sharply. He could not keep his balance and fell, bumping his head on the edge of the billiard table, and then he was the receiver of the first kick.

"Hold on, Cord!" noticing that his new friend was surrounded, Mort dispatched the bikers who were advancing from behind and began to go around the billiard table, distributing punches to the right and left.

Cord's left hand grabbed one attacker by the knee and abruptly pulled him down. The biker gasped in surprise and fell to the floor. Cord, turning over, immediately counterattacked him with a right hand to the neck. The biker wheezed and was out.

At that moment, a boot slammed into the back of Cord's head. Everything swam before his eyes, and Cord crashed down onto the biker he had just rendered harmless. Then Mort arrived, and turning to the attacker, smacked him in the nose bridge. The enemy collapsed to the floor in an unconscious pile.

"Get up!" Mort helped his friend up.

Cord staggered, a predatory smile on his face, as the crowd of bikers retreated.

"Well, shall we continue?" Grabbing the second cue from the billiard table, he broke it in half and held the pieces in both hands.

"Out!" shouted Mort and went to the right. Cord followed.

Mort cut through the crowd like an icebreaker through ice drifts, dispatching bikers that came within reach. Cord, beating them away with the sticks, did not allow anyone to approach him from behind.

"BASTAAARD!" roared someone who, separating from the crowd, rushed straight at Cord. At the last moment, he saw the danger from the right and could barely hit the attacker with the fragments of the cue. As if not noticing, the carcass in jeans grabbed him and pulled him forward with a roar.

Having reached the platform on which they played darts, the carcass stumbled and let Cord go. Inertia slamming the investigator into the wall, and he hit the back of his head. Again.

"Shit…" Cord moaned, wheezing. He could barely focus and prepared to defend himself.

To no avail. The mustached biker in the denim shirt had already risen, flew up to Cord in two steps, and, grabbing him, again slammed him into the wall.

He knocked the breath out of Cord, but the investigator managed to grab a dart from the target hanging behind him with his right hand and stab his opponent in the cheek. Mustache goggled his eyes and yelled, and Cord jerked the dart toward his mouth, tearing his cheek open. Then, with a blow of the forehead to his face, the investigator stunned the enemy and, grabbing his collar with his left hand, finished him with two powerful blows to the cheekbone and temple.

During a moment of quiet, Cord surveyed the battlefield. Fiddler was nowhere to be seen. Mort stood surrounded, holding back the crowd, who gradually retreated. I need to help him.

"STOP YOU, SHITHEAD!" someone screamed, and an empty glass bottle flew into Cord's temple.

Stars shown in front of his eyes, and the dart fell from his hand. Stunned, he tried to find the source of the scream, but then a blow came from the left. He tried to counterattack with his elbow, missed, and immediately got hit in the right kidney. Staggering, Cord fell, and a hail of fast and strong blows fell on his head. He managed to protect his face with his hands, but realized that he could not stand it for long.

"STOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!"

And in a moment, everything stopped.

The bartender appeared at the arch leading to the other room. Silently passing the bikers lying on the floor and groaning, he approached Mort, surrounded by the silent crowd.

"Mort, what the hell is going on here?!"

Mort, breathing heavily, replied:

"A misunderstanding."

"What the hell kind of 'misunderstanding' is this?!"

In the hall, in which there were about thirty people, five were lying motionless, seven more were lying but stirring weakly, some were trying to get up, and others were writhing in pain. Most of those able to stand were also in pain and had had enough of the vast fists of Mort and the broken cue of Cord. The fight, albeit short, turned out to have been brutal.

Mort looked around the room.

"Where is Cord?"

"Isn't he here?" The bartender pointed to the darts platform. There, turning over on his side and staring blankly at one point, lay a bloodied Cord, and above him stood the thin biker, wet with sweat.

"Damn it, Tankman, what the hell have you done?" the bartender and Mort approached them. "He's an investigator!"

"Did you see how he got rid of Belly?" he exclaimed in a squeaky voice. "And how he was swinging the sticks? He's Satan, I tell you!"

"Cord, are you okay? Can you get up?" Mort went to his new acquaintance and helped him get up.

"In principle, I can…" Cord leaned on his shoulder and turned to squeaky. "You're fucking fast, man."

"Master sport of mixed martial arts," he smiled wryly. "In the past."

"Noticeable." Cord spat blood. "Okay. Where's Fiddler?"

"Calls a taxi," the bartender replied.

***

Reunited with Fiddler, they walked to the car. Cord said goodbye to the bartender and told him to prepare a bill for damages and drunkenness. He promised to come tomorrow or the day after to settle his account. The bartender nodded gravely, and they said goodbye to each other.

The taxi driver drove them in silence. Cord fell asleep in the back seat next to Mort. Fiddler sat in front and showed the way.

"We've arrived," the taxi driver said. "That will be five hundred from you."

Expensive, but he had no choice. Mort paid and then helped Cord out of the car.

"As far as I remember, you live on the fifth floor," Fiddler muttered, stepping into the entrance, "and there is no elevator. Damn."

Fiddler walked ahead, with Mort dragging Cord as if he weighed nothing.

"Do you have the keys?"

"Keysss?" Cord clarified with a braided tongue.

"To the apartment."

Cord muttered something unintelligible.

Fiddler pressed the bell. There was a trill in the hallway, and a few minutes later, a sleepy blonde in white pajamas with rabbits on it came out.

"Hello—" she began and immediately noticed Cord. "Oh my. Carry him in."

Mort and Fiddler exchanged glances, shrugged, and dragged Cord straight onto the sofa. The girl thanked them, showed the door, and started fussing over him.