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Thirty seconds after that, the Chrysler came slowly up Vámház körút.
Sixty seconds after that, Rákosi reported, “He’s turned onto
Királyi Pál. It looks as if he is going to the Képíró.”
“Don’t follow him. Drive around the block and then down Képíró U.”
Tor backed away from the panel truck and then drove onto Vámház körút and turned right. When he drove past Királyi Pál, he saw Eric Kocian turning onto Képíró.
A moment later, Rákosi reported: “He went in.”
“Okay,” Tor ordered, “you find someplace to park where you can catch him when he comes out. I’ll park, and see if I can look into the restaurant.”
“Got it,” Rákosi said.
Tor found the darkened doorway—he had used it before—from which he could see into the Képíró restaurant.
Kocian was sitting at a small table between the bar and the door. A jazz quartet was set up between his table and the bar. There was a bottle of whiskey on the table and a bottle of soda water, and, as Tor watched, a waiter delivered a plate of food.
Sausage for the both of them, Tor knew. Kielbasa for the old man and some kind of hard sausage for Max. Kocian cut a slice of the kielbasa for himself and put it in his mouth. Max laid a paw on the old man’s leg. Kocian sawed at the hard sausage until there was a thumb-sized piece on his fork. He extended the fork to Max, who delicately pulled off the treat. Kocian patted the dog’s head.
A procession of people—including three hookers, one at a time—entering and leaving the restaurant paused by Kocian’s chair and shook his hand or allowed him to kiss theirs. The more courageous of them patted Max’s head. Kocian always rose to his feet to accept the greetings of the hookers, but as long as Tor had been guarding him he had never taken one back to the Gellért with him.
In Vienna, he had an “old friend” who was sometimes in his apartment—most often, coming out of it—when Tor went to get him in the mornings. She was a buxom redhead in her late fifties. Kocian never talked about her and Tor never asked.
The band took a break and the bandleader came over to Kocian’s table, patted Max, and had a drink of Kocian’s Jack Daniel’s. When the break was over, the bandleader returned to his piano and Kocian resumed cutting the sausages—a piece for him and a piece for Max—as he listened to the music, often tapping his fingers on the table.
Tor knew that the old man usually stayed just over an hour and had gone into the restaurant a few minutes before one o’clock. So, glancing at his watch and seeing that it was ten minutes to two, he had just decided it was about time for the old man to leave when he saw him gesturing for the check.
Tor took out his cellular, pressed the autodial key, and said, “He’s just called for the check.”
“Let’s hope he goes home,” Rákosi replied.
“Amen,” Tor said. “You get in a position to watch him on the bridge. I’ll stay here and let you know which way he’s headed.”
“Done,” Rákosi said.
Eric Kocian and Max came out of the Képíró five minutes later and headed down the street toward Királyi Pál, strongly suggesting he was headed for home.
Tor watched him until he turned onto Királyi Pál, called Rákosi to report Kocian’s location, and then trotted to where he had parked the silver Mercedes.
He had just gotten into the car when Rákosi reported that the old man was about to get on the bridge.
He had driven no more than four minutes toward Vámház körút when his phone vibrated.
“Trouble,” Rákosi reported.
“On the way.”
Tor accelerated rapidly down the Vámház körút and was almost at the bridge when he saw that something was going on just about in the center of the bridge.
Max and the old man had a man down on the sidewalk and the man was beating at the animal’s head with a pistol.
Rákosi’s Chrysler Grand Caravan was almost on them.
And then a car—a black or dark blue Mercedes that had been coming toward Sándor Tor—stopped and a man jumped out and, holding a pistol with two hands, fired at the old man and the dog.
Rákosi made a screaming U-turn, jumped out, and started firing at the Mercedes as it began to speed away.
