The bar wasn’t as busy as he’d hoped. Three of the seven tables were occupied by couples. Two men sat at the bar. His man wasn’t among them.
He chose a table against the wall, near the rear door. Always keep your back clear and your exit close. Not that he expected any trouble. He figured the black man was a hustler who’d found some dirt on Rosenbaum. Why else would he be surveilling the doctor’s office?
He ordered a bottle of Brooklyn Sorachi Ace. It wasn’t quite like De Koninck, but it came in a big bottle with a champagne cork, reminding him of the Belgian doubles and triples. His beer came and he poured the first glass.
A man entered, looked around, and slid onto one of the bar stools.
Vermeulen fingered his pack of Gitanes. The smoking ban in bars and restaurants was probably for the best. Still, nothing made him crave a cigarette as much as a nice glass of beer.
The next newcomer was the caller. There was nothing distinct about him. Short-cropped black hair, oval face without any distinguishing marks. His skin color was more toward the brown ales than the stouts. The clothes were a step above street casual, last year’s designer stuff you’d find at outlets.
The man plopped himself into the chair opposite him.
“You buying?” he said.
Vermeulen had to smile. A hustler indeed.
“No.”
“Suit yourself.”
The man waved to the waiter and ordered a Hennessy.
“Okay,” Vermeulen said. “Tell me how you found my phone number.”
“I got my sources.”
“And what sources might those be?”
“None of your business.”
“Then let’s start with your name? Since you know mine, it’s only fair.”
The man nodded. “I’m Earle. Earle Jackson.”
The waiter brought a snifter of Hennessy for Jackson.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson. But I’m still curious how you found me.”
Jackson shrugged. “Your rental car.”
Vermeulen nodded and sipped more beer. “Nice. You have a creative side. Why are you keeping an eye on Dr. Rosenbaum?”
Jackson looked at him but remained silent.
“Listen,” Vermeulen said. “You asked me what I wanted from Rosenbaum. I want to know the same about you.”
Jackson tossed back his cognac. “The doctor is into something that isn’t on the up and up,” he said.
“So you want to cash in on that? Like you wanted to cash in on me?”
“I’m an entrepreneur. I’m always looking for opportunities. Why are you interested in him?”
A couple came into the lounge and took the next table over. The woman wore a wool beret over her hair and large sunglasses that covered her eyes.
“I came across his name during an investigation,” Vermeulen said.
“You a cop?”
“No, I’m an investigator for the UN.”
“I didn’t know the UN had cops.”
“I’m not a cop, although sometimes I wish I were. How do you know that the doctor is into something illegal?”
“Just like you. I came across his name.”
“Was it on a piece of paper?” Vermeulen said.
Jackson looked at him, surprised. “What makes you say that?”
“That’s how I found his name. Where did you find that paper?”
Jackson looked around the bar, then leaned forward. “On a dead man,” he said.
“Was his name Abasi?”
Jackson jerked back. “How did you know that?”
“An educated guess. Rosenbaum’s name and address seems to find its way into the pockets of foreigners. I heard that a Kenyan named Abasi was found dead at Broad Street Station. How did you find him?”
Jackson’s face showed his suspicion. “He didn’t look so good,” he finally said. “I walked over to him to see if he needed any help. The man could barely talk. I was trying to get him to a doctor. He was bleeding like a stuck pig. Next thing I knew, he was dead. He died in my arms, man. Scared me bad, real bad.”
“But not bad enough to keep you from going through his pockets.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Mr. Jackson. That’s how you found the paper with the address. What else did you find?”
“Nothing. After Abasi died, I got out of there. Ain’t no good for a black man to be found holding a dead body.”
“So someone else took his things?”
“Must have,” Jackson said.
“Then how did you know his name?”
Jackson looked at him, eyes narrow. “Okay, he might’ve had a passport.”
“You took that. Anything else?”
Jackson shook his head.
“Was there money in his pocket?”
“Nope.”
“You sure? The other man who had Rosenbaum’s address had been promised ten thousand dollars.”
“Abasi didn’t have that much cash—”
“How much did he have?”
“I ain’t saying anything else.”
It was all the admission Vermeulen needed. “Did Abasi say anything to you?”
“Just ‘JFK,’ like he wanted to go to the airport,” Jackson said. He got up. “I gotta be going now. Getting late.”
“I don’t know what Abasi had to do for the money, but I’m sure he did it to help his family. Think about that, Mr. Jackson. Think about it and do the right thing.”
Jackson didn’t strike Vermeulen as ruthless. He might do the right thing and return the money.
After Jackson left the bar, the man who’d come in with the woman left also. A moment later, the man on the barstool who’d come in after Vermeulen followed.
Vermeulen was pouring the last of his beer when he realized that Jackson hadn’t paid for his cognac. He smiled. Just as he thought, a hustler to his core.
The woman with the beret got up from her table and turned toward him. She’d taken off her sunglasses. The moment of recognition lasted a couple of beats. It was the woman he’d met at the bottom of Rosenbaum’s steps.
Chapter Twenty
“We meet again,” Vermeulen said as he rose from his seat. “A pleasant coincidence.”
He was pretty sure it wasn’t, although he couldn’t imagine how the woman knew he’d be at this bar. He stuck out his hand.
“Indeed. Nice to see you again, Mr. Vermeulen,” she said, shaking his hand.
“I’m afraid I forgot your name.”
“You didn’t. I didn’t tell you. People refer to me as ‘The Broker.’ ”
“The Broker? Even brokers have names.”
“Yes, but it’s immaterial.”
“Why do I get the feeling our meeting isn’t coincidental?”
“Because you are a smart man. The good doctor gave me your card. The rest was easy.”
“What can I do for you?”
“You could start by telling me why in the world the United Nations is bothering with Dr. Rosenbaum.”
“What are you? Rosenbaum’s bodyguard?”
“My role is immaterial here; what matters is that you contacted the doctor. I want to know why.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. Besides, if you are here on the doctor’s behalf, I’m sure he told you already.”
He lifted his glass and finished the beer. Unlike that afternoon, the Broker was not smiling. But even her business expression was attractive. Her eyes were almond shaped and gazed at him with a wry scrutiny.
“He told me that you asked about a man from Moldova and a dead man from Kenya.”
“That’s correct.” He had no reason to help her. But if he could string her along, he might find out what role she played in this scheme.
“Listen, Mr. Vermeulen, let’s not waste each other’s time. I want to know why you, a UN investigator, have a reason to contact Rosenbaum.”
“There are many misconceptions about the UN. Such as, it only deals with international i
ssues. As it turns out, we deal with a host of issues even at local levels. People in other countries are well aware of that. In the U.S., not so much.”
She gave him a brilliant smile. “Nice deflection. But you won’t get rid of me that easily.”
“Why would I want to get rid of you? I enjoy the company of attractive women. May I ask what interest you have in my speaking with Rosenbaum?”
She signaled the waiter. “Would you like another one?” she said.
“No, I’d rather have a mineral water.”
“Good.” She turned to the waiter. “Two Evian, please.”
“With lemon?” the waiter asked.
She looked at Vermeulen with a raised eyebrow. He nodded.
“Yes, please,” she said.
When the waiter had left the table, the smile was gone.
“Here’s what I’m prepared to tell you. Dr. Rosenbaum is a busy surgeon with varied interests related to his profession. I take care of the business end of his endeavors. So when the doctor gets a visit from a UN investigator, it’s my job to be interested. The poor man can’t be expected to worry about such details, so I do it for him.”
Vermeulen nodded. The Broker was the exact opposite of Rosenbaum. She was in complete control of herself.
“What are these interests? Surgery? What else?” he said.
She smiled again. “That is public information. You should take a look at the hospital website. Dr. Rosenbaum is a world-famous surgeon.”
The waiter brought two glasses of sparkling water. The lemon twists were lodged on the rims like yellow glass ornaments. Vermeulen took a sip.
“I’m sure the website presents glowing accounts of his lifesaving work. Are there pictures of grateful patients?”
“Look it up yourself,” she said. “Why does the UN have an interest in Rosenbaum?”
“I’m curious why poor people from less-developed countries show up in the U.S. with fraudulent visas and the doctor’s address in their pocket.”
“And how does that affect the UN?”
“Ms. Whateveryournameis, now you’re wasting our time. You know as well as I do that Mr. Luca and Mr. Abasi had obtained their visas using fraudulent invitation letters from UN offices.”
A flicker of annoyance flashed across her face.
“Abasi died, apparently on his way home,” he said. “And Luca is sitting in detention after having been promised ten thousand dollars. They are collateral damage, but for what?”
There was a new fire in her eyes. “Don’t stick your nose into business that isn’t yours, Mr. Vermeulen. I will put an end to the use of the UN invitations. That should terminate your involvement in this matter. Do not bother Dr. Rosenbaum any further or I will bring my own resources to bear.”
“The kind of resources that killed Joseph Odinga in Elizabeth?”
It was the impossible header into the upper left corner of the goal. Her face turned into a mask, her lips into thin threads. He’d scored.
“That’s all I needed to know,” he said. “The next time we see each other, it’ll be when someone puts handcuffs on you.”
The Broker put on a brave smile. It was a mere shadow of the radiance with which she’d almost charmed him.
“That won’t happen, so you can stop fantasizing,” she said. “We will see each other again, but you’ll regret the circumstances of that meeting.”
He shrugged.
“Just like your friend will regret this evening,” she said.
“Who? You mean Jackson?”
“Oh, is that his name? He also harassed the doctor. A bit more crudely, to be sure, but he’s a bother nevertheless.”
“What are you doing to Jackson? He’s just a little hustler.”
“Well, he got in over his head. Should have thought about that before he picked up the phone.”
“You’re having him killed just because he called Rosenbaum?”
His blood was pulsing in his temples now. This woman was evil.
She glanced at her watch. “Not yet. He’s probably at the regret stage right now. And spilling his guts telling my associates everything he knows. Because he thinks it’ll keep him alive.”
“But it won’t.”
“Of course not. Just like you won’t survive our next meeting.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Jackson didn’t know what to make of Vermeulen. The man obviously knew that he’d taken the money from Abasi, but he didn’t push it. “Do the right thing,” was all he said. Man, just like Grandma, Jackson thought. Do the right thing, Earle, and you never have to worry. Yeah, right. As if that was gonna work. You live in Newark, you’re gonna worry, no matter what you do.
Vermeulen wouldn’t turn him in. His threats were just for show. Vermeulen also knew the doctor was up to no good, but rather than squeeze him, he wanted to bust him. Do the right thing. Man, what a waste. Between the two of them, they could’ve milked the doctor for a pretty penny.
Jackson was walking along Edison Place toward the Newark Penn Station to catch a bus home. Do the right thing. He couldn’t get that out of his head. The envelope with the money—now down a couple of C-notes—felt heavy in his pocket. The Kenyan brother came all that way to make money for his family. Damn, that was a bad spot to be in.
Edison Place was deserted. At that time of night, those who ventured into downtown Newark took cabs. Earle wasn’t worried, though. He’d grown up here and knew how to navigate the streets. Which was why he didn’t pay much attention to the footfalls behind him.
When he reached Mulberry Street, the steps were still following him. He turned around. In the glow of the streetlights, he saw a white man maybe fifty paces behind him. He hadn’t seen a white man walking a Newark street at night in a long time. The man slowed down when Jackson looked at him. Then he started to run.
Jackson didn’t think twice. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the white man running after you was a cop. He sprinted diagonally across the intersection to a parking lot. Weaving through a few parked cars, he headed straight for the Edison parking garage. No better place to lose the guy than in the concrete maze of a six-story structure. He leaped over the boom that controlled access to the ramp.
He wasn’t particularly athletic. It’d been a while since he last shot hoops with his buddies. His side started aching with a stitch, and his lungs were burning. Running uphill to the second level didn’t help.
Except for a smattering of parked cars, the deck was empty. Not really the best place to hide. He turned left, ducked behind a concrete pillar and crouched next to a Chrysler 300. The car offered plenty of cover, but Jackson knew he had to keep moving. The man had been too close. He crawled between the car and the wall toward the next car. There, he got stuck. The idiot had pulled so close, there was no way to squeeze past. Good thing it was dark. He tried to keep his breathing quiet and crawled back next to the Chrysler.
The steps had slowed at the top of the ramp. There was a moment of quiet. Then the scratching of shoes on concrete came closer.
Running away was always better than picking a fight. Jackson knew that. He’d never let some false idea of manhood goad him into a confrontation. He’d known too many brothers who’d taken a bullet because they didn’t run. But there were times when running wasn’t possible. That’s when it was much better to attack. He crawled toward the center of the aisle and knelt next to the trunk of the Chrysler.
The steps kept coming, haltingly and cautious, but the man was not going to give up. Jackson put his left knee on the ground and tensed his right leg like a sprinter in the starting blocks.
The steps stopped. Even though his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he couldn’t see the man. The temptation to rise and glance through the car windows grew. He resisted. He had the advantage. He knew where the man was. No sense in giving that up.
A step. More silence. Another step. Jackson could make out a leg. Wait, he told himself. Let him come to you. One more step. The leg was now in full view. Not yet. The next s
tep put the man right in front of him. He lunged forward and slammed his shoulder against the man’s knees. In the NFL, that would have been an illegal block. And for a good reason. The man went down. His scream echoed through the garage. Something metallic clattered on the concrete. A gun? A knife? Jackson didn’t hang around to find out. He raced toward the end of the aisle, turned toward the down ramp, and almost skidded into another man who was pointing a gun at him.
“End of the road for you, asshole,” the man said. “Amateur night’s over.” The man waved his pistol. “On your knees, hands behind your head.”
Jackson lowered himself onto his knees and put his hands up. Amateur night? Dumb prick. But wounded pride wasn’t going to help him now. He needed to get away, and he couldn’t see how. His reliance on anticipation had a built-in flaw. If you couldn’t anticipate something, you couldn’t prepare for it. And this, Jackson didn’t anticipate. He stared into the gloom. In front of him, the ramp descended to the ground level. No cover anywhere.
The man moved past him to look down the aisle. The gun didn’t waver.
“Where you at, Andrej?” he shouted.
“Over here,” Andrej moaned. “I can’t walk. The bastard musta broke my leg.”
“Shit,” the man said. He turned and kicked Jackson in his side. “You gonna be sorry.” Then to Andrej, “Can you make it over here?”
“I told you I can’t walk. Get the car. I gotta go to a doctor.”
Jackson noticed the hand holding the gun drop down.
“What about this asshole?”
“Just shoot him.”
“I can’t shoot him here. The cops’d be here in no time. We’re supposed to take him to the mudflats.”
“I ain’t going to the mudflats, Gergi. My leg’s busted.”
The gun wasn’t pointed at Jackson anymore. This would have been a good moment to tackle Gergi. Except he stood next to Jackson. The time it’d take for Jackson to turn would be enough for Gergi to raise his hand again and fire.
“The Broker isn’t gonna be happy about this,” Gergi said.
“Her leg ain’t busted.”
“She’s gonna have a fit, just sayin’.”
Jackson examined the down ramp again. On one side, the ramp was bordered by a concrete wall that went all the way up to the next level. But the other side was open. A two-foot curb was the only barrier. He couldn’t tell what was below. It was a risk he had to take.
Illicit Trade Page 8
