The Black Angel

While we were still finishing our main courses, a man entered the restaurant and was directed to our table by the hostess. He looked like the kind of guy who sold stolen cell phones on Broadway: leather jacket, jeans, nasty-colored shirt, and a growth of beard that was frozen somewhere between “forgot to shave” and “hobo.” I wasn’t about to point any of this out to him, though. His jacket could easily have contained two of me inside it, as long as someone found a way to release its current occupant from it without tearing it apart in the process, because the leather seemed to be a little tight on him. I wondered if he was somehow related to the Fulcis from way back, maybe from when man first discovered fire.

His name was Most, according to Louis, who had apparently dealt with him before. Most was a papka, or “father,” of one of the Prague criminal brigades, related by marriage to the Vor v Zakone, the “Thief in Law” responsible for all homegrown organized crime. Criminal organizations in the Czech Republic were mainly structured around these brigades, of which there were maybe ten in the entire country. They dealt in racketeering, the smuggling of prostitutes from former Eastern Bloc countries, pandering, automobile theft, drugs, and weapons, but the lines of demarcation between criminal gangs were becoming increasingly unclear as the number of immigrants increased. Ukrainians, Russians, and Chechens were now among the main participants in organized crime in the country, and none of them were reluctant to use violence and brutality against their victims or, inevitably, against one another. Each group had its own areas of specialization. The Russians were more involved in financial crime, while the aggressive Ukrainians favored bank raids and serial robberies. The Bulgarians, who had previously concentrated on erotic clubs, had now branched out into auto theft, drug trafficking, and the supply of Bulgarian prostitutes to brothels. The Italians, less numerous, focused on purchasing real estate; the Chinese favored ru

“Hello,” he said. “Is good?”

He indicated the deer medallions in bilberry sauce on Angel’s plate, surrounded by a pile of spinach noodles.

“Yeah,” said Angel. “It’s real good.”

An enormous finger and thumb plucked one of the remaining medallions from Angel’s plate, and dropped it into a mouth like the Holland Tu

“Hey, man,” said Angel, “I wasn’t-”

Most gave Angel a look. It wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t even mildly menacing. It was the look a spider might have given a trapped fly if the insect had suddenly produced a small bill of rights and begun complaining loudly about infringements on its liberty.

“-eating that anyway,” finished Angel, somewhat lamely.

“Way to stand up for your rights,” I said.

“Yeah, well I don’t know what you’re looking so smug about,” he said. “You’re sharing the rest of yours to make up for it.”

The big man wiped his fingers on a napkin, then stretched out a hand to Louis.

“Most,” he said.

“Louis,” said Louis, introducing Angel and me in turn.

“Doesn’t ‘Most’ mean ‘bridge’?” I said. I had seen signs on the streets directing tourists to Karl?v Most, the Charles Bridge.

Most spread his hands in the gesture of delight common to all those who find visitors to their land making an effort. Not only were we buying guns from him, we were learning the language.

“Bridge, yes, is right,” said Most. He made a balancing gesture with his hands. “I am bridge: bridge between those who have and those who want.”

“Bridge between fucking Europe and Africa if he fell over,” muttered Angel, under his breath.

“Excuse?” said Most.

Angel raised his knife and fork and gri

“Good meat,” he said. “Hmmmm.”

Most didn’t look convinced, but he let it slide.

“We should go,” he said. “Is busy time for me.”

We paid the check and followed Most out to where a black Mercedes was parked on the corner of Nebovidská and Harantova.

“Wow,” said Angel. “Gangster car. Very low-key.”

“You really don’t like him, do you?” I said.

“I don’t like big men who throw their weight around.”

I had to admit that Angel was probably right. Most was a bit of a jerk, but we needed what he had to offer.

“Try to play nice,” I said. “It’s not like you’re adopting him.”

We got in the car, Louis and Angel taking a seat in back while I sat in the passenger seat beside Most. Louis didn’t look uneasy, despite the fact that he didn’t have a gun. This was purely a business transaction for him. In turn, Most probably knew enough about Louis not to screw him around.

We drove over the Vltava, past tourist restaurants, then little local bars, eventually leaving behind a big railway station before heading in the direction of the enormous TV mast that dominated the night sky. We turned down some side streets until we came to a doorway with an illuminated sign above it, depicting a figure of Cupid shooting an arrow through a heart. The club was called Cupid Desire, which made a kind of sense. Most pulled up outside and killed the engine. The entrance to the club was guarded by a barred gate and a bored-looking gatekeeper. The gate was opened, Most handed the car keys to his employee, then we were descending a flight of steps into a small, grimy bar. Eastern European women, some blond, some dark, all bored and worn down, sat in the murk nursing sodas. Rock music played in the background, and a tall, red-haired woman with tattoos on her arms worked the tiny bar. There were no men in sight. When Most arrived, the tattooed woman uncapped a Budvar for him, then spoke to him in Czech.

“You want something to drink?” Most translated.

“No, we’re good,” said Louis.

Angel looked around the less-than-glorified bordello.

“Busy time?” he said. “What the hell is it like when it’s quiet?”

We followed Most through into the heart of the building, past numbered doors that stood open to reveal double beds covered only by pillows and a sheet, the walls decorated with framed posters of vaguely artful nudes, until we came to an office. A man sat on a padded chair, watching three or four monitors that showed the gate to the club, what appeared to be the back alley, two views of the street, and the cash register behind the bar. Most passed him and headed to a steel door at the back of the office. He opened it with a pair of keys, one from his wallet and the other from an alcove near the floor. Inside were cases of alcohol and cartons of cigarettes, but they took up only a fraction of the space. Behind them was a small armory.

“So,” said Most, “what would you like?”

Louis had said that we would have no trouble acquiring weapons in Prague, and he was right. The Czech Republic used to be a world leader in the production and export of armaments, but the death of Communism led to a decline in the industry after 1989. There were still about thirty arms manufacturers in the country, though, and the Czechs weren’t as particular about the countries to which they exported arms as they should have been. Zimbabwe had reason to thank the Czechs for breaching the embargo on the export of weapons, as had Sri Lanka and even Yemen, that friend to U.S. interests abroad and the target of a nonbinding UN embargo. There had even been attempts to export arms to Eritrea and the Democratic Republic of Congo, facilitated by export licenses covering nonembargoed countries, which were then used to redirect their cargoes to their true destinations. Some of these weapons were legitimately acquired, some were surplus weapons sold on to dealers, but there were others that came through more obscure cha