LITMIR.BIZ

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composed himself as he got to the ground floor, however, knowing that like the Green, Machtviertel wasn’t a place to show fear. He’d missed his chance with the people upstairs, but he could at least appear unconcerned to anyone outside.

      But then Largo remembered the bottle Margit had put in his hand.

      He took it from his pocket. It was morphia. A bottle of it as big as the one Dr. Venohr had given him at Remy’s. He stood in a shadow by the stairs and stared at it happily. He quickly unstoppered it and put two drops under his tongue. Almost immediately, the chills left him and a gentle warmth moved through his muscles and bones. Pure morphia, he thought. Not watered down. Magical.

      Feeling much better, he put the receipt book into his shoulder bag and made his way out of the Black Palace to his bicycle. As he unchained it, the crows shuffled and cawed at him, utterly unafraid. But with the morphia in his system, so was Largo. He rode swiftly back toward the courier depot.

      On his way out of Machtviertel, however, Largo had a coughing fit so violent that he had to stop on the side of the road. When he blew his nose with a handkerchief, what came out was as black as soot. As good as the morphia made him feel, he was still relieved to put Machtviertel behind him.

      It was a long ride back to the office.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      Herr Branca set down his pen and applauded mirthlessly when Largo arrived. “The prodigal son returns, and in one piece. Did you receive a warm welcome in Machtviertel?”

      “I was greeted with open arms. At least by the crows.”

      “And the people?”

      “They were more reluctant, but I successfully delivered the parcel.”

      “Merely reluctant?” said Branca. “I hadn’t heard that shyness was common among the denizens of the district.”

      “Maybe ‘shyness’ isn’t the right word. They certainly weren’t used to receiving deliveries.”

      Branca leaned on his desk. “What were they like, your reluctant customers?”

      Largo thought carefully about his answer. He’d formulated a story on the ride back, but the morphia let his mind drift and now he couldn’t remember much of it. “There was a man and woman. An old couple. They didn’t want to come to the door at first, but I talked to them until they were reassured that it was safe to accept the package.”

      “That was very professional of you. It was just the two of them then?”

      “As far as I could see.”

      Branca put out his hand. “Do you have your receipt book?” Largo handed it to him and he looked it over. “That’s quite a signature. Is it the man’s or woman’s?”

      Even light-headed from the morphia, Largo remembered the most basic rule of lying: stay as close to the truth as possible. “The man’s. It is a bit of a mess, isn’t it? His hand shook a bit as he signed it.”

      “That explains it, then. I take it there was nothing else interesting or notable at the Black Palace?”

      Largo looked at his supervisor. “You’ve been there?”

      Branca placed the receipt book in a desk drawer. “Many times,” he said. “I wasn’t born behind this desk, you know. I made my share of deliveries when I was your age.”

      Largo tried to picture a young Branca riding a bicycle through traffic, cutting around pedestrians, cabs, and speeding military juggernauts. It was like something from a dream of flying—very strange and extremely hard to believe.

      “I’m sure it’s changed since you were there, but it was my first trip so I’m not sure what qualifies as unusual. Perhaps if I go back sometime—”

      He immediately regretted saying it. What if the bastard takes it as an invitation to make me the company’s representative to the hinterlands? I’ll have cancer in a year and no tips to show for it.

      Herr Branca turned his head and looked at Largo from an odd angle. “Did you hurt yourself on the way back?” he said.

      Largo looked down at himself. “I don’t think so.”

      “Your hand is bleeding.”

      Damn, he thought. He wiped his fingers on his coat. “I’m fine, sir. It’s just a little ink.”

      “Ink from what?”

      Damn again. Why didn’t I wash my hands on the way in? he thought. It was the morphia, of course. He promised himself to be more careful in the future.

      “Just something I found on the street on the way out of Machtviertel. To tell you the truth, I didn’t even read it.”

      “Do you still have it?”

      Largo felt stuck like a butterfly with a pin through its middle. If he said he didn’t have it Branca would ask why he didn’t say that in the first place. And what if Branca searched him and found the paper and the morphia? That would be the end of all his dreams. Besides, he didn’t really owe them anything—although thinking about Margit made him feel a bit unsure. Still, he couldn’t think of any alternatives, so he gave in. Largo patted his pockets, trying to look calm and composed. He smiled when he seemed to discover the paper in one of them, and reluctantly handed it over.

      Branca opened the sheet and scanned it slowly. “Did you read this?”

      “No, sir. What does it say?”

      “Seditionist trash,” said Branca. “You say you found it on the ground?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Branca turned the paper over and looked at the back. “It’s remarkably free of dirt. And the ink was still wet when you found it? I can’t say I’m surprised. Machtviertel is swarming with radical hotheads. It’s all the dust, you see. It addles the brain.”

      Largo nodded, trying to look as if he agreed completely. “That makes sense.”

      Branca looked back at the paper. “You should be careful about what trash you pick up in the future. Your policeman friend—Tanz, I believe, is his name—was here earlier. After the incident this morning, I can’t imagine what he’d think if he found this on you.”

      Just hearing the undercover officer’s name made Largo tense. The sweet calm of the morphia all but disappeared. He thought about the Sergeant and what he’d said earlier. “An anarchist and a drug addict? At headquarters they’d feed him to the dogs.”

      “I see what you mean. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

      Branca wadded up the paper and threw it in the trash. From a desk drawer, he removed a new receipt book and handed it to Largo. “For this afternoon’s deliveries.”

      Largo was putting the book in his shoulder bag when something occurred to him. “Excuse me. This book is new, as was the one you gave me this morning. If you don’t mind me asking, will I always get new receipt books?”

      Branca held out the previous receipt book so that Largo could see the red stains along the edges. “This one is soiled. We can’t have our customers signing dirty books, can we?”

      “No, of course not.”

      “I’m glad you approve.” Branca took out a pocket watch and checked it against the office clock. “You had a long ride this morning. You may take an early lunch so that you can go home and fetch your knife.”

      “Thank you,” said Largo.

      “And wash that filth off your hands before you contaminate another book.”

      “Right away, sir.”

      Branca picked

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