VIII. Dave Makes a Date
In the last episode, Dave Devoran, also known as Dave the Dude, got a surprising offer from his friend. What follows is Episode VIII.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
I try to ignore them, but I hate it. I know the people at the tram stop are talking about me. Just because I have my tasteful and expensive American business suit on, they know I can’t understand them, so they whisper and gossip shamelessly. But a few words obviously sound the same in Hungarian as they do in English—words like sideburn. Alright, it’s true, I only have one sideburn: I accidentally cut off too much on the right side while I was shaving and I refuse to eliminate the one remaining symbol of post‑pubescence that inhabits my left cheek. But that’s no reason for these creeps to make jokes behind my back.
There’s one now, staring at me now. “Abba abba abba sideburns,” the grimy little man says. As soon as I look at him he turns away. I’m gonna slug him. I swear I will. I step back, I slyly move around behind him and ...
The tram comes. This guy doesn’t know how lucky he is.
I make it to work, rush to my little office at HungaroAmerTechImpexConsult Kft. and prepare for another day of insane inactivity. That’s right. I do nothing—eight hours a day, five days a week. It’s not easy, but someone has to do it. Of course all that will change as soon as my new boss gets back from his trip and I meet him for the first time. He’ll realize what a potential gold mine I am and I’ll be in charge of whatever it is they do here within a year. Until then I sit here and wait.
This morning promises more activity than usual, though. The first thing I see when I walk in is a phone message on my desk. I didn’t even know they took phone messages in this place. Who could have taken it? Who here knows my name? This is a mystery and you can just call me Sherlock, cause I’m going to get to the bottom of it. That’s right, I’m going to read the message.
Oh hell. It’s from my roommate Karl, the space case. It says that whatsisname, the important Hungarian official who was stabbed is said to be recovering and he may be able to identify his attackers. What has this got to do with the price of tse‑tse flies in Bangladesh? Has my roommate been licking too many airmail stamps? The mystery continues, but that’s OK: I’ve got all day to solve it. Or at least that’s what I think.
A knock on my door. It’s wide open for crying out loud, you need an engraved invitation? She enters, and when this babe walks in a room, she really walks in. Am I dreaming? Did she step out of a magazine? A stunning figure, even if she tries to hide it in that hideous business suit. A glint of intelligence in those pale brown eyes. A 50 kilowatt smile. Turn it down babe, so I can oggle the rest of you. She stares at my one sideburn but I turn my head to show her profile.
“I’m from the law firm of Swindlington, Croat &Toth,” she says, craning her head a bit. “I believe you know why I’m here.”
Oh shit! She must be working with Matt. He wants to get me involved in running guns to Yugoslavia, but I told him I need that action like a hole in the head—which is probably what it would get me. He’s trying to hook me into the deal anyway. He sure knows what kind of bait to use. But how could this angel in a $500 wool getup be involved with these creeps? Here’s a mystery I’d really like investigate.
“OK, suppose I do know what your here for?” I say in a voice that could chill the equator. “How do you figure in?”
“What? You watch a lot of TV don’t you? And that haircut ... Nevermind. You see I wanted to discuss—”
“That’s right, we’ve got a lot to discuss,” I cut in. “Meet me here at 8 o’clock tonight.” I toss her a book of matches and she looks at it, puzzled.
“The American Driving School?”
Oops. Wrong matches. I give her the address of the new Tex‑Mex place and we’ve got a date. I know I’m headed for trouble, but it’s the kind of trouble I like.