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39

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A bottle of Scotch and a glass stood on the small desk that Mort was occupying. As well as those items, Balkan's 'Nine Gates' and Fargas's charred copy sat open on the desk, in front of him. He took out a cigarette, placed it in his mouth, and lit it. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Mort froze and wondered who it would be this time.

"Monsieur, I have the key for the rental car you wanted for you," A male voice said through the door.

Mort's heart rate slowed. "Oh, come in."

The door slowly opened and a young man entered the room. "Where shall I put the key, Monsieur?" The man asked.

Mort glanced around the room and noticed a key rack on the wall, just next to the door. Mort pointed to the key rack. "Right there."

The man nodded and placed the car key on one of the hooks.

Mort took a drag on his cigarette and blew out the smoke. He placed the cigarette back in his mouth. "Thanks," He mumbled with the cigarette in his mouth.

The young man walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. Mort looked back down to his work and studied what remained of Fargas's copy. He flipped to the contents page. "Contents.." He said aloud, tracing his finger down the page.

Finding what he was looking for on the contents page, he spoke aloud again. "Eighty-three," he said to himself, flipping the charred pages quickly. "83," he repeated. He flipped some more, then paused. "Eighty-one," He said aloud, and turned the page. "Eighty-two." He looked to the next page. "Ninety-nine."

He looked at the page numbers, flipped backwards, then forwards. "Ninety-nine?" He asked aloud. He turned the book on a slant and saw that there were pages missing from the spine. "You cut it out.." He began.

He traced his finger down the rough spine, thoughtfully. "You son of a bitch." He looked at the open book. "You... cut it.. out of the book.."

Wait a minute, who did it and how would they? A voice from inside his head asked.

"I don't know... But he did it," Mort replied.

Who? Think about it, The voice persisted.

Mort shut Fargas's scorched book. "I don't know." He opened Balkan's copy at the same place.

What was missing from the charred copy were the engravings. The hermit with the keys, dog, and lantern among them. The engraving that Shooter had wanted him to look at so badly. The engraving that had given him his first lead on the job. And now it was gone.

Mort chugged his glass of Scotch and leaned back with the cigarette between his lips, thinking hard. He glanced at his watch and stood up.

He was on his way to the bathroom, when the phone rang. Mort groaned and made his way over to the phone. "What fresh Hell." He picked up the receiver. "Yeah?"

"Where have you been all day?" The voice on the other line asked. Mort recognized the voice as that of Boris Balkan.

"Ha, I might ask you the same question. What do you want now?" Mort asked, picking up the whole phone.

He went into the bathroom and dropped the phone on the floor. It made a little ringing noise.

"Relax. You're going to meet me at Bowie's Store tomorrow. I want to see how you're coming along on my job." Balkan said.

"Yeah?" Mort asked, placing his cigarette in his mouth and then unzipping his fly. "Well I've got big problems, Balkan. This crazy guy showed up and he's been interfering with my work," Mort explained, pushing his hair back and urinating in the toilet.

"Oh, really?" Balkan asked. "Well, did you get the Fargas copy?"

Mort scoffed. He said that he was having a major problem and all Balkan could think about was that goddamn book. If Balkan wasn't loaded with green, Mort would so beat his ass.

"Well, the worst part is, I had a chance to get the book out, but it went up in smoke. It's still readable, but it's burned badly. And, Fargas. He's dead now. So do you still wanna go through with it?"

There was a long pause. Mort was becoming impatient. He zipped up his fly and flushed the toilet.

"Mr. Corso. Did I just hear a toilet flush?" Balkan finally asked.

Mort smiled a big goofy grin and picked up the phone. He walked out of the bathroom and sat down on the couch once more. "No," He lied.

Mort heard Balkan let out a long sigh. "You are to get the final copy of 'The Nine Gates' for me. I've arranged an appointment with the owner, Baroness Kessler, for tomorrow."

Mort shook his head. It's always business with Boris Balkan. "I'll attend the meeting, but I can't guarantee that I'll get the book," Mort said. He removed his cigarette from his mouth and held it between his fingers, blew out some smoke.

"You will get it," Balkan said sternly.

Mort sighed. Fine, whatever it would take to please the fucker.

"Okay. I'll get it for you," Mort said, putting the cigarette back in his mouth.

"I knew there was a reason that I hired you," Balkan said.

"Alright," Mort replied, knowing that this was the nicest thing Balkan had ever said to him.

"Bring the two books. Nine P.M. sharp," Balkan instructed.

"Alright. I'll see you there," Mort replied, puffing out smoke.

"And bring your six-gun, pilgrim," Balkan added and then hung up.

Mort took the receiver away from his ear, looked at it suspiciously then replaced it. He gulped. "What the fuck is a six-gun?" He finally asked, aloud. He stood up, stubbed out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and made his way over to the bed. He lay down, sadly thinking.

He placed his hands behind his neck and thought for another moment before sitting up. He flexed his jaw and scowled. "Oh, Shit," He said aloud, got out of the bed and made his way to the wardrobe. He opened it and pulled out his trusty old bathrobe.