It wasn't long before midnight.

The metallic smell of sooty rain drifted in through the high, open window of the Sudetenje ballroom, bringing with it the occasional whiff of petrol and burning ozone.

The long, red curtains had been pulled away from the panes and sagged like hanged men on either side of the glass. A gust of wind stirred them, pulling one away just long enough for Perun to see a lone street lamp, its round top and cage the only thing sheltering the milky glass and the bulb within from the rain that fell in slashes, almost transparent against the yellow glow inside. 

The curtain fell closed. 

In the distance, thunder rumbled.

The cavernous room was dark. The smooth parquet of the dance floor, ringed by empty tables, disappeared into the night at the far end. A single broom stood propped up against the wall as if forgotten.

The bar lamps, their creamy glass shades speckled with flecks of reptilian colour, were the only source of light. The metal rivets around the polished wood of the back bar and counter gleamed like warm, coppery flesh, and the bottles of colourful alcohol lined up behind glittered in the light like jewels on display.

Perun turned his head away, closed his eyes, and breathed in the flavours of the city outside that had floated in on the breeze.

Perhaps the rain would last until dawn.

A good downpour would be perfect. Not only would it provide cover from the surveillance of the Golem Patrols, blurring their mechanical eyes and slowing them down, but it would also make the murdering easier.

It was far more pleasant to carry out necessary killings to the gentle pitter-patter of falling rain than to silence or the clanking of machinery. How assassins could dispatch their victims in running factories, to the sound of alarms or to the rush and wheeze of city traffic, was beyond Perun. The sensory caress or sting of rain on his hands and face, a cold wind making the hairs on his arms stand at attention, made all the difference in the world and turned a necessity into something enjoyable.

Perun loved the rain. Murder he could take or leave.

A sob came from the man bound with black electrical cord to a chair that had been pulled from one of the tables surrounding the dance floor. Perun reached out and slapped him on the back of the head in a gesture that could have almost been interpreted as friendly.

"P. . .please. I have children," the bound man croaked, as if the slap had jarred loose his tongue. "Three. Three innocent little children. Please don't make them into orphans, please. I'll pay back what I owe! I'll. . .I'll find a way, I will. You'll get back-"

The youngest of the three elegant women grouped around the illuminated bar -- a blond with her hair in a stylish roll over one eye -- lifted her hand just slightly. Perun reached out and slapped the man's head again.

Harder this time.

"Shut up. Your fate hasn't been decided yet," he said, only loud enough for the man to hear, then crossed his arms behind his back, hooking his thumbs into the leather X of his suspenders.

It was true, Janek Krovak, the defaulter, had three children, a wife and ailing parents. It was also true that he had played too high for too long in Perun's backroom gambling dens that dotted the city like sights of interest on a pocket map of criminality.

There was no changing fate. Fate was what changed you.

The muzzy sound of tyres on wet asphalt drifted in from the outside, and the bound debtor sobbed again, slowly shaking his hanging head.

Perun felt no pity. The man had been foolish. Very foolish.  No one could say that the reputation of The Hammerfist did not precede him by kilometres. No one could say he didn't have a notion that things might end like this. 

If the three women at the bar decided against him, then Krovac would be dead before the sun rose. If they told Perun to untie him and see him home safely, then he would awake in his bed, believing the whole bizarre scene to have been a particularly vivid nightmare.

And perhaps that's exactly what it was. A nightmare.

Perun looked up to the gigantic mural stretching across the back wall of the ballroom. In the jungle scene, he could make out smooth black panthers, a red and golden giraffe, hairy monkeys and here and there, a long, wavy snake made of blue diamonds slipping through the grass. For some reason, he'd always had the notion he could make out the spires and roofs of the city he'd spent his entire life in among the lush foliage. Perhaps one of the animals up there depicted him? Or even Old Veleček?

What common past could be possibly be referring to? What trick was up the old man's sleeve?

Perun looked down at his wrist watch. The hands were inching a little too close to midnight for comfort. If Krovak was supposed to die tonight, he'd best get a move on. Perun had no desire to be stopped by a patrol with a corpse, or what could easily pass for one, in his car.

His fingers began to tap an irregular, impatient beat against his side of his thigh as he looked to the three women again.

The youngest, the blond with the stylish roll, took a drag of her cigarette, letting the smoke seep out of her mouth like steam from a grate. Her blood-red nails slid against the wooden top of the bar, communicating her thoughts like pushing jettons across the felt top of a gambling table, wild and erratic.

The middle-aged one, a brunette in a slightly out-of-fashion dress, stood behind the bar, polishing a row of shot glasses with a cloth. Her expression hadn't changed when Perun's debtor had pleaded for his children, nor at the sight of the tears dripping down his unshaven cheeks. Her face was like carved stone, the small bundles of wrinkles around her eyes, almost invisible fissures, undermining its perfection. She set down the shot glass in her hand, took up the next, and began to polish, never taking her eyes off Krovak.

And then there was the old woman.

Her upswept grey hair was held in place by tortoiseshell combs, and the sagging, thin skin of her face allowed her cheekbones to curve out like new apples. She sat in a small, padded armchair at one end of the bar, her fingers steepled before her mouth. She seemed to be smiling, if only faintly. But that could have been a trick of the light.

Perun avoided looking in her direction as much as he could.

Even if no one else seemed affected, the erotic aura that surrounded her had caused Perun to make more than one costly mistake. She looked to be in her late sixties, but that was inconsequential. He knew that it would only take one crook of her finger in his direction and he would shed his clothes onto the floor of her bedroom night after night, for as long as she wanted him.

Perun turned his head to the open window again, feeling the time until midnight quickly ticking away.

If the women delayed much longer, he'd have to drive the Speedster down to the river with his headlights off, or risk attracting the attention of one of the floating metal spheres of the Golem Patrol. Neither of those options were appealing. 

It was fairly simple to out-run one Golem, but two or more could be tricky. Different routes to the same destination flickered through his mind as if running through the illuminated eye of a movie projector, but they all held their dangers. 

At least the rain was on his side.

The young girl's nails stopped sliding. The middle-aged woman set down the last of the shot glasses with a bang and slapped the cloth over her shoulder. The old woman sighed and rose from her chair, the folds of her cream dress falling perfectly into place.

"I'd recommend a bullet to the head. Faster and attracts immediate attention. It would be unfair to make his family wait too long. They aren't responsible for his actions. How you kill him is up to you, though, Perun, as always" she said, her glittering eyes trapping him and stopping time for a brief moment before he was able to breathe again.

The music teacher groaned and sobbed even harder.

The old woman turned to her companions. "Any objections?"

They shook their heads. Perun could easily imagine why. Krovak had been dealt a shoddy hand at birth and had played it even more poorly. What was there to say? There was nothing more left for him now but the rain, and the sandy banks of the river.

The judgement of the three women of the Sudetenje Ballroom was as brutal as it was fair, and Perun accepted their judgement. He instinctively knew that they held more power, in the end, than he did. He was glad to not have the entire burden of decision on his own shoulders. Even if it was only in this one area. 

The old woman came forward, the heels of her half-boots clicking on the parquet of the dance floor until she was standing in front of the doomed, shaking man.

"Look at me," she commanded.

He didn't look up. Unintelligible words bubbled up and escaped from his mouth, almost like the melody of a song in a foreign language.

"I said, look at me." The old woman reached out and grabbed the man's chin, forcing his face upwards until she could see his eyes.

"Your time is up, Janek Krovak," she said. "Next time I see you, don't be so stupid."

A precise chop to the side of the head, and Krovak slumped forward. Passed out, not dead.

Not yet.

The middle one of the women hung up the cloth she'd been using to polish glasses and slipped out from behind the counter. The youngest clamped a new cigarette between her ruby-red lips and slid down from the high, wood-and-brass stool. Together they disappeared out through the  gilded double doors of the ballroom without a word, only the sounds of their heels, first on marble and then on carpet, marking their exit.

The old woman retreated, watching Perun work from a few paces away. The enigmatic smile still played on her lips.

Placing one hand on Krovak's head, Perun pulled him back into an upright position by his hair, roughly jerking loose the electrical cords that kept the limp, unconscious man bound to the chair with his other hand. Then, before the body could tip to the side, Perun moved in front of it, flexed his knees in a squat, and allowed the body to fall forward over his left shoulder like a sack of coal.

Perun adjusted the dead weight until he was confident he could carry it down the two flights of stairs, through the long service corridor and into the alleyway without it slipping. Then he turned and headed for the ballroom door himself.

"Don't forget to remove his shoes," said the old woman as she followed him.

"When have I ever?" Perun replied with a twinkle in his eye, and left, Kovak's limp arms swaying behind him like a human version of a frock coat with tails.