Exploitation: Tenth Floor

© 2018 by Walter Reimer

A sequel to Exploitation, part of a series.


As the elevator wheezed and clanked and groaned its way upward, I was reminded of a story from the Soviet times about an architect who designed a block of flats, fifteen stories high. However, the poor fool had failed to incorporate either stairs or elevators in his design. Hauled up in front of a judge, he got a light sentence, only a year.

On the top floor of his new building.

The elevator sounded like it hadn’t had routine maintenance since Chernenko died, and I was happy to reach the tenth floor. That happiness faded when the doors opened only three-quarters of the way, and I had to push and shove them all the way open before stepping out. I almost got a smear of rust on my pants and blouse while doing it.

The doors promptly closed, and no amount of pushing the buttons would make them open up again.

Note: Next time, use the stairs.

My long ears start twitching.

I’ve heard all the clichés, that rabbits are perpetually scared and liable to jump at shadows; well, the most-decorated soldier in World War Two was a hare from Texas, so that argument kind of falls flat. I’m not related to him, although I had a grandparent who hailed from Galveston, but I’m not a fragile flower of lepine femininity either. My shoulder bag holds a small aerosol can of pepper spray and an expandable steel baton, and if those fail I have a pistol.

Where? None of your business.

Still, deserted hotel corridors can be a bit creepy, dimly lit by only a few bulbs. But it’s my job to mark and salvage possibly profitable items from this old Beaux-Arts hotel, and I’m under contract to do it. I get a small flashlight from my bag and start down the hallway.

Hmm, a few of these sconces – they’re Art Deco, not Beaux-Arts, but they’ll do quite nicely at one or two other projects my boss is bidding on. I take a few pictures and tag the best-preserved ones, and after checking the halls, I start on the rooms. With a building this large, it pays to be methodical.

It looked like half of the rooms had been redone in Modern Soviet Industrial Awful. They get a disdainful twitch of my nose and I soldier on. I’m somewhere around the southeast corner of the building and I stop, ears twitching.

I can see light coming from under one door, with a moving shadow causing the light to fluctuate. I can also hear someone mumbling.

There’s not supposed to be anyone up here.

No, it’s not a ghost. I’ve been through hundreds of old buildings in my career, and the worst I’ve seen was the odd feral rat. I walk up to the door and raise a fist to knock –

And the door jerks open, putting me face to face with a middle-aged rabbit in threadbare pants, an undershirt and suspenders.

For a moment, we just stood there and looked at each other.

Now, I have an odd little quirk, one my little brother discovered when I was seven and he was five. The little clot would sneak up on me, and there’d be about a half-second before I’d startle and yell. It’s not a healthy thing in terms of survival, but I’m not a soldier or a cop.

So . . .

“AHHH!” I yelled.

“AHHH!” he yelled back.

A pause, and we both yelled “AHHH!” at each other.

Finally he staggered back a step, ears semaphoring frantically, and dramatically clutched his left chest with his right paw while crying out in Russian, “I’m coming, Yelizaveta, I’m coming! This is the big one!” He sort of spoiled the effect by pausing to look behind him until he flopped into a chair, his left paw reaching down and picking up a clear glass bottle from the floor. He removed the cork and took a swig from it, smacking his lips when he lowered the bottle.

My nostrils twitched and I raised an eyebrow. I’d had samogan vodka before, and this was awful stuff if I could smell it from the doorway. The room was dimly lit by a couple lamps, the windows covered by – rugs? – and the place smelled musty.

I mustered up what Russian I could and asked, “Who the hell are you!?”

The buck appeared to not hear me at first, but one ear lifted and he suddenly blinked. “You’re not Russian. Ukrainian?”

My turn to blink. “American.”

“The KGB are hiring Americans now?” He shrugged and took another swig of his hooch. “Go ahead,” he said in passably accented English, “you can arrest me, finally.”

Okay, this was getting weird. “Arrest you?” I asked, taking a step into the room. “For what?”

A soft snort. “Do chekisti need reason?”

“Well, for starters, I’m not a chekist,” I said. I knew what the word stood for, of course. I’m not ignorant. “Who are you?”

He gave me a wary look as he took another swallow of vodka. Lowering the bottle again, he said, “Fedor Vasilievich Lopanearov. I was teacher before. Now, I hide here.” He gestured with his free paw. “Been here long time, so a cell in the Lyubyanka would be improvement.”

I sniffed again, and regretted it. “How long have you been here?”

Another shrug. “Since the coup.”

“’Coup?’” I yanked my phone out of my bag. “Go on, please,” I urged. “What coup?”

“Nu, the coup,” the rabbit said with a sigh. “The Party apparatus would not let go of power, you see? Tanks in the streets, I knew they would arrest the intelligentsia first in the purge. So I hid.” He paused and looked up at me, his ears dipping this time in curiosity.

The search engine had taken a minute or two – lousy coverage here – and I read what it had found for me. I looked up at him, openmouthed in shock. “You’ve been hiding . . . for twenty-seven years.” I decided not to ask him how he’d managed to get anything to eat or drink. I figured I’d be better off in the long run.

He nodded. "I know. Do you think they've forgotten me?" he asked hopefully.

"To be honest, I think everyone's forgotten about you." I was shaking my head. “You’ll have to leave.”

“Pochemu?” I explained, and he looked stricken. “Where am I to go?”

“Any family?” He’d given his name as Lopanearov, so I started scrolling through the Moscow phone directory. He got up and looked over my shoulder – phew, he stank – and he was completely enthralled by my phone. Finally I pointed at a name. “Recognize him?”

“Lopanearov, Genrikh Arkadievich,” he said, and he stepped back, deep in thought. “Nephew, perhaps.”

So I called him. Long story short, he vaguely recalled his Uncle Fedor, so I put the old rabbit on. He seemed a bit apprehensive at first, but he finally started talking. After a moment, he started crying.

Maybe an hour later, his nephew came to get him, and I went about my business.

I took the stairs down to the ninth floor.


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