He unclasped and opened the manila envelope and shook a lot of wads of bills onto his lap. Tucking the empty envelope into the space between his thigh and the chair arm--the narrow space, even when he hunched over a bit--he held up one of these wads, with a Citibank band on it, and said, "Fifty twenty dollar bills.
One tousand dollars. Five each man. Okay?"
"Sounds good, Grijk," John said.
Grijk smiled at John. "You da only one can say my name right," he said.
"Oh, yeah?" John didn't seem to know exactly how to handle this information. "I'm glad," he said.
"So lemme gi-your money."
"Okay," John said.
Grijk struggled and floundered, having trouble getting out of the soft morris chair with all the wads of money in his lap. After he got nowhere for a few seconds, Andy said brightly, "Let me help with that," and bounded out of his chair and across the room to grab up a lot of cash.
"Tanks, Andy."
Andy turned to Tiny, but Tiny waved him away, saying, "I got a different deal. Not a better one, Andy, believe me. Believe me."
"I believe you, Tiny."
Andy distributed wads of money to John and Stan and himself, and it was fascinating to J.C. how all that paper just seemed to disappear. Very soon, the three were sitting there just as they had been before, beers in hand, expectant expressions on faces, money nowhere to be seen.
"Before we start," John said, "I know this doesn't have anything to do with the job itself, the job itself is we just go in and get the bone and come out and hand it over, but before we start I just got to ask you: How can a bone get you into the UN›"
Grijk would have answered, but Tiny stopped him with a raised hand, saying, "Let me, okay?" To the others, he said, "I had the same question, and I asked Grijk, and he told me, and an hour and a half later I understood. So you could hear his version, or you could hear my version that leaves out all the wonderful details."
"Your version," John said, and Stan and Andy nodded. Grijk looked sad.
"Okay. In twelve hundred and something, this girl got killed and eaten by her family, all except the leg with the gangrene. So when the Catholic Church decided she was a saint, that leg--or the bone, there was just a bone by then--it was a relic."
"A relic with gangrene," John said. "Not by then," Tiny said. "I'm just giving you the highlights here, Dortmunder."
"Okay, Tiny."
"By that time," Tiny went on, "the bone was in the cathedral at a place called Novi Glad, that was the capital of one of the provinces of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. That province was half Tsergovia and half Votskojek."
Grijk made a weird sound in his throat, almost like a growl. J.C. blinked at the sound, but no one else paid any attention to it.
Tiny continued: "Also by that time, you got two religions involved. You got the regular Roman Catholic Church out of Rome, that said that leg was a saint to begin with. I mean, the girl was the saint, the whole girl. And then there was a schism, the Eastern Unorthodox."
Stan said, "Jewish, you mean."
"No, no," Tiny said, waving a big meaty hand. "There's no Jews around there."
"Dere was vun," Grijk said, "bud he vent to Belgrade. Or Lvov, maybe.
Somevere. Anyway, now we godda ged our suits from Hong Kong. It ain'd da same." "That's the long version, Grijk, do you mind?" Tiny said, and turned back to his audience. "The Catholic Church split up," he said,
"just like all those countries over there keep splitting up."
"Balkanization," Grijk said with astonishing clarity.
"That's the long form," Tiny warned him. "Anyway, out east you got the Eastern Orthodox Catholic Church, that's a schism from the regular Roman Catholic. And in some little places, you got the Eastern C/worthodox, that's a schism from the Orthodox. Okay?
We set on that?"
"All set," John agreed. "That's all the religion I'm gonna need for a month."
"Me, too," Tiny agreed. "Anyway, when the AustroHungarian Empire broke up, that province that was the two countries got to be
One tousand dollars. Five each man. Okay?"
"Sounds good, Grijk," John said.
Grijk smiled at John. "You da only one can say my name right," he said.
"Oh, yeah?" John didn't seem to know exactly how to handle this information. "I'm glad," he said.
"So lemme gi-your money."
"Okay," John said.
Grijk struggled and floundered, having trouble getting out of the soft morris chair with all the wads of money in his lap. After he got nowhere for a few seconds, Andy said brightly, "Let me help with that," and bounded out of his chair and across the room to grab up a lot of cash.
"Tanks, Andy."
Andy turned to Tiny, but Tiny waved him away, saying, "I got a different deal. Not a better one, Andy, believe me. Believe me."
"I believe you, Tiny."
Andy distributed wads of money to John and Stan and himself, and it was fascinating to J.C. how all that paper just seemed to disappear. Very soon, the three were sitting there just as they had been before, beers in hand, expectant expressions on faces, money nowhere to be seen.
"Before we start," John said, "I know this doesn't have anything to do with the job itself, the job itself is we just go in and get the bone and come out and hand it over, but before we start I just got to ask you: How can a bone get you into the UN›"
Grijk would have answered, but Tiny stopped him with a raised hand, saying, "Let me, okay?" To the others, he said, "I had the same question, and I asked Grijk, and he told me, and an hour and a half later I understood. So you could hear his version, or you could hear my version that leaves out all the wonderful details."
"Your version," John said, and Stan and Andy nodded. Grijk looked sad.
"Okay. In twelve hundred and something, this girl got killed and eaten by her family, all except the leg with the gangrene. So when the Catholic Church decided she was a saint, that leg--or the bone, there was just a bone by then--it was a relic."
"A relic with gangrene," John said. "Not by then," Tiny said. "I'm just giving you the highlights here, Dortmunder."
"Okay, Tiny."
"By that time," Tiny went on, "the bone was in the cathedral at a place called Novi Glad, that was the capital of one of the provinces of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. That province was half Tsergovia and half Votskojek."
Grijk made a weird sound in his throat, almost like a growl. J.C. blinked at the sound, but no one else paid any attention to it.
Tiny continued: "Also by that time, you got two religions involved. You got the regular Roman Catholic Church out of Rome, that said that leg was a saint to begin with. I mean, the girl was the saint, the whole girl. And then there was a schism, the Eastern Unorthodox."
Stan said, "Jewish, you mean."
"No, no," Tiny said, waving a big meaty hand. "There's no Jews around there."
"Dere was vun," Grijk said, "bud he vent to Belgrade. Or Lvov, maybe.
Somevere. Anyway, now we godda ged our suits from Hong Kong. It ain'd da same." "That's the long version, Grijk, do you mind?" Tiny said, and turned back to his audience. "The Catholic Church split up," he said,
"just like all those countries over there keep splitting up."
"Balkanization," Grijk said with astonishing clarity.
"That's the long form," Tiny warned him. "Anyway, out east you got the Eastern Orthodox Catholic Church, that's a schism from the regular Roman Catholic. And in some little places, you got the Eastern C/worthodox, that's a schism from the Orthodox. Okay?
We set on that?"
"All set," John agreed. "That's all the religion I'm gonna need for a month."
"Me, too," Tiny agreed. "Anyway, when the AustroHungarian Empire broke up, that province that was the two countries got to be
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