The Lieutenant’s sons were sitting on a green bench in the public garden, glancing pointedly at the doors of the Hercules.
Arguing, they didn’t even notice that the wind was bending the fire-hose jet from the fountain and spraying them with mist.
They just jerked their heads, stared blankly into the clear sky, and continued to bicker.
Panikovsky, who had changed from the thick fireman’s jacket into an open-collared cotton shirt, due to the heat, was acting snooty.
He was very proud of the assignment.
“Gotta be a theft,” he insisted.
“Gotta be a mugging,” argued Balaganov, who was also proud of the captain’s trust in him.
“You’re a miserable, wretched person,” declared Panikovsky, looking at his counterpart with disgust.
“And you are an invalid,” retorted Balaganov. “I’m in charge here.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“I’m in charge.
It’s my assignment.”
“Yours?”
“Mine.”
“Really?”
“Who else’s?
You think it’s yours?”
The conversation entered a realm that had nothing to do with the task at hand.
The crooks got so agitated they even started pushing each other, ever so slightly, and hissing;
“And who are you?” Such actions usually serve as a prelude to an all-out fight, in which the opponents throw their hats on the ground, ask passers-by to be their witnesses, and rub childlike tears all over their scrubby faces.
But it didn’t come to a fight.
Just when the moment was right for the first slap on the face, Panikovsky suddenly pulled his hands away and recognized Balaganov as his direct superior.
Panikovsky must have remembered the thrashings he had received from individuals and entire collectives, and how painful those thrashings were.
Having seized power, Balaganov immediately became more amenable.
“Why not mug him?” he said less vehemently.
“Is it that difficult?
Koreiko walks down the street at night.
It’s dark.
I approach him from the left.
You approach him from the right.
I bump him from the left, you bump him from the right.
This fool stops and says to me:
‘You punk!’
‘Who’s the punk?’ I ask.
You ask who the punk is too and push from the right.
Then I throw him a good . . .
No, beating is forbidden!”
“That’s the thing, beating is forbidden,” Panikovsky sighed hypocritically. “Bender wouldn’t allow it.”
“I know, I know . . .
Well, fine, then I grab his hands and you check if there’s anything interesting in his pockets.
He, naturally, cries ‘Police!’ and then I . . .
Oh, damn, no beating.
Right, then we go home.
So how’s the plan?”
Panikovsky avoided giving a straight answer.
He took a carved souvenir cane from Balaganov’s hands—it had a V rather than a knob—drew a straight line in the sand, and said:
“Look here.
First, we have to wait until dark.
Second . . .”
Panikovsky drew a shaky perpendicular from the right side of the first line.