Slick & Hustle: The Prague Story — Book IV
Prague looked different then. The people walking through it still believed they had time.
Read Chapter One — The Office.
Chapter 1 — The Office
Prague
Twenty-Five Years Earlier
The city looked different then.
Not because the streets had changed.
They had.
Not because the buildings had changed.
They had.
But because the people walking through them still believed they had time.
Morning sunlight reflected from hundreds of windows overlooking the Vltava. Tourists crowded the bridge. Street musicians argued over territory they did not own. Trams rattled through narrow streets older than most countries. Somewhere nearby, a church bell announced the hour to people who had no intention of listening.
Prague was alive.
Young enough to feel old.
Old enough to feel eternal.
Near the river stood a narrow stone building squeezed between two larger neighbors. Most people walked past it without noticing. The ground floor contained a small bookshop. Above it were apartments, offices and at least one business nobody seemed capable of explaining.
On the top floor, a brass plaque beside a weathered wooden door displayed a single word.
HARLOW
Inside, somebody was already arguing.
“That is not a filing system.”
“It absolutely is.”
“It is chaos.”
“It is organized chaos.”
“There is no such thing.”
“There absolutely is.”
The argument had been going on for nearly fifteen minutes.
Neither participant appeared tired.
A third participant looked exhausted.
Harlow lowered his newspaper.
“You’ve been here six days.”
The young woman standing beside an archive cabinet folded her arms.
“Seven.”
“That doesn’t help your argument.”
“It should.”
“No.”
The woman sighed dramatically.
She was intelligent.
She knew it.
Which was unfortunate for everyone around her.
Her name was Eleanor Mercer.
She had arrived one week earlier.
Since then she had discovered flaws in the filing system, the bookkeeping system, the interview process, the archive catalogue and, at least once, the coffee.
Harlow pointed toward the archive cabinet.
“Those files were organized before you were born.”
“Poorly.”
“Possibly.”
“Definitely.”
The older man stared at her for several seconds.
Eleanor stared back.
Neither blinked.
Eventually Harlow folded his newspaper.
“You realize nobody likes you yet.”
“I don’t require popularity.”
“No. But eventually you’ll require witnesses.”
A smile almost appeared.
Almost.
Eleanor sat down.
She was beginning to discover that arguing with Harlow felt less like winning or losing and more like being slowly rearranged.
It was deeply irritating.
And surprisingly educational.
The office occupied the entire top floor.
Large windows overlooked the river.
Books occupied every available surface.
Several stacks of documents occupied surfaces that had originally been intended for other purposes.
A map of Europe covered one wall.
Another wall contained shelves filled with archive boxes.
The room smelled faintly of paper, coffee and old wood.
It felt less like an office and more like a place that had gradually become one.
Eleanor looked around.
“How long have you been here?”
“Twenty-two years.”
She frowned.
“In this office?”
“In this argument.”
That finally earned a laugh.
A short one.
But a real one.
A loud knock interrupted the moment.
Before either of them could answer, the door opened.
An elderly man stepped inside carrying a toolbox.
He looked annoyed.
Which suggested he was having a particularly pleasant day.
“Your radiator is leaking.”
Harlow looked up.
“It was leaking yesterday.”
“Now it’s leaking more.”
The man pointed toward the window.
“You should fix it.”
“That’s why you’re here.”
The old man considered this.
“Fair.”
He disappeared into the next room.
Eleanor watched him go.
“Who is that?”
“The building’s caretaker.”
“Does he always look angry?”
“No.”
Eleanor looked surprised.
Harlow returned to his newspaper.
“Sometimes he looks disappointed.”
The caretaker returned ten seconds later.
“Someone left a bicycle in the hallway.”
Neither Harlow nor Eleanor responded.
The caretaker nodded.
“I assumed it was yours.”
“It isn’t.”
“It probably is.”
The old man left again.
Eleanor stared after him.
“He’s impossible.”
“He’s been saying the same thing about everyone else for thirty years.”
Another knock.
Then another.
Then the sound of somebody trying a door that was already unlocked.
The door opened.
Keizer Hustle entered carrying two coffees and absolutely no sense of urgency.
“Morning.”
Harlow checked his watch.
“It is nearly eleven.”
“Still technically morning.”
“It isn’t.”
“Depends on your perspective.”
Harlow looked toward Eleanor.
“You see?”
Eleanor nodded.
“I already dislike him.”
“Everybody says that.”
Hustle handed her one of the coffees.
She looked suspiciously at it.
“Why?”
“You look tired.”
“I’ve been here since eight.”
“Exactly.”
For a moment she seemed prepared to reject the coffee purely out of principle.
Then she accepted it.
Hustle smiled.
“A breakthrough.”
“Where’s Slick?”
Harlow asked.
Hustle looked around.
As though noticing the absence for the first time.
“Good question.”
“You arrived together.”
“We did.”
“And?”
“We are no longer together.”
“Helpful.”
“I try.”
As if summoned by the conversation, the office door opened once more.
Max Slick stepped inside carrying a paper bag.
Nobody spoke.
He placed the bag on the table.
Sat down.
Opened it.
Removed the pastry.
Then looked up.
“What?”
Harlow stared at him.
“You disappeared.”
“I bought pastries.”
“You vanished for forty minutes.”
“There was a queue.”
“There wasn’t.”
“There was.”
Hustle pointed at the bag.
“What did you get?”
“Four pastries.”
“Excellent.”
Eleanor looked between them.
Then at Harlow.
Then back at them.
“These are the people you hired?”
Harlow leaned back in his chair.
For a moment he considered several possible answers.
Eventually he settled on the truth.
“I’m beginning to suspect that was a mistake.”
The room filled with laughter.
Even Eleanor’s.
Outside, Prague continued around them.
The river flowed beneath the bridge.
Trams rattled through the city.
Tourists wandered streets that had existed for centuries.
And for the first time in a very long while, Harlow looked around the room and allowed himself a small moment of optimism.
The office was disorganized.
The caretaker hated everyone.
The filing system was under attack.
Half his staff were late.
The other half were arguing.
Nothing appeared particularly professional.
Nothing appeared particularly promising.
And yet.
For reasons he couldn’t quite explain.
It felt like the beginning of something.
The story continues in Chapter 2 — The Old Town.