EXCERPT: AT THE DROP OF A HAT A THRILLER SHORT STORY Written for the short story anthology, Thriller, published by Mira Books and the International Thriller Writers Organization. Bashkim was tossing a suitcase into the back seat when she arrived. The Mercedes seemed low to the ground, like it was carrying a heavy load, but Jane thought that unlikely. Albania exported little but its own people. Standing in the clear Adriatic light, she sensed Bashkim checking out her hiking boots and Levis, the fleece-lined vest she'd thrown over a red ribbed turtleneck, and felt something shift. A flicker of apprehension went through her. Had she misjudged him? Then he broke into a familiar smile and her misgivings evaporated. "You ready?" She climbed in. As the apartment blocks, then the dismal shanties on Tirana's outskirts gave way to farmland, they chatted about Albanian literature and culture. Then talk turned to the present-day. "It's wonderful, what you're building here. There's so much opportunity." "There was more opportunity in France," Bashkim said. "But I couldn't get residency." "But the West is so sterile. Everyone's obsessed with money, getting ahead. There's no sense of family, of what's really important." "You think people here aren't obsessed with money?" he said, jabbing the gas. After that they sat in silence. The Mercedes jostled with donkey carts and tractors, passing so close that Jane could have plucked wisps of straw from a farmer's hair. An olive-green truck of Soviet vintage emblazoned with the letters STALIN passed them, stuffed with young Albanian men who hooted and hollered. But other vehicles fell into line behind them, content to let the Mercedes lead. Bashkim punched in a CD and the strains of Mozart wafted through the car. The pleasant odor of his cologne hung in the air. "I'm really lucky you were going to Skopje this week," Jane said, trying to recapture their earlier ease. "How often do you make the trip?" A smile curled around the edge of his mouth. "Whenever business requires it." She studied him. He was blond, with blue eyes. This too, had surprised her. He could have been a surfer from her college back home, if not for his pallid skin and something ineluctable in his profile that, framed against the raw landscape and crumbling stone buildings, she suddenly saw as quintessentially Balkan. "Do you go to Skopje for restaurant supplies?" she asked. There was a pause, an intake of breath. Then, "You are very curious." Jane shrugged. "Just wondering." "Sometimes it's best not to wonder too much." He let the words hang in the air and she felt it building again, an odd pressure in her head, the tingling of individual hairs on her nape. For a long time, she studied the scrubby landscape, bereft even of litter. © Denise Hamilton HOME