“How come you call that fat crumb, Broncov, your sidekick?” Charon frowned, trying to collect his wits in the dread presence. “He didn’t ask about you. He took me for an illegitimate son of Joe Stalin’s, so how would he know you and I are pals? I bought this red tie and hired a sleeping dictionary to catch onto the language better, and—”
“Your dictionary probably spilled things to the MVD.”
“Not while my gold held out. Anyhow, those punks are way overrated. Tricky, maybe, and they lie good. They’d rather bump you off than eat breakfast.”
“Purge is the word. The old comrades Broncov threw out a month ago now fully understand its meaning. How is the comrade?”
“Gosh, boss, I’m sick of hearing that word. They say it just before they knife you. Broncov’s been busy, all right. Since taking over the Number One job he’s been sending a lot of his best friends down this way. To keep Joe Stalin company, he told me. He looks fat even if Bill Shakespeare says this new lot—”
“I suppose he and his pals plied you with liquor,” Nick said.
“They tried to drink me under the table.” Charon cut a laugh in half. “Gosh, I durn near forgot. Y’know what the sidewinder, Bronco, babbled ’fore he passed out? Top drawer stuff. Only he and this Vichy Volonskyvich know about it. Seems Bronco learned, somehow, about your taking a vacation, so he’s been torturing a lot of his friends into confessing they plotted agin ’im. He promised them an easy death if they’d carry on down here. How you like that?”
“The fools. What’s his plan?”
“I ain’t sure I got it all as his tongue got thicker from the vodka. But I learned Hell’s full of comrades who’ve sworn to their god, Lee-Nine, they’ll toss you to the wolves. They aim to pull Joe Stalin off his clinker-picking job and make him secretary here.”
“Go on,” Nick urged in ominous tones. “How?”