by Paul Bishop
There was movement on the other side and a man cleared his throat. The night locks were undone, and the door opened a sliver. Brenner shoved it wider and stepped quickly into the room. He held a set of folded nanchakus—nunchucks, they were commonly called—in his hand and shook the collapsed martial arts weapon at the pleasant-faced man. The two stout and short wooden clubs were joined by a short length of chain. He’d removed them from the backpack strapped to his motorcycle.
“You were in the Desert Rose and the bar yesterday,” he said calmly. “I don’t think it was a coincidence.”
The other man—in his forties, by his estimation—held his hands up with the same measured calm. “I’m quite sure you know how to use those things,” he said and pointed at the nunchucks. “I can assure you that I won’t give you any reason to beat a rhythm on my graying head.”
He was dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt but it wasn’t difficult to imagine he’d look at home in an old-fashioned smoking jacket and silk pajamas. Before his visitor could respond, he added, “But how did you know I was staying here as well? I made sure to let you two lovebirds leave ahead of me last night.”
Brenner took a step toward him. “You jonesing for Sela, man? Is that it? I can cure you of that condition real quick.”
“Mister Brenner, violence is not necessary, really.” He gestured toward the round table and the two chairs found in each room. “Have a seat and I can explain why we reached out to you.”
“I don’t give a shit about ‘we,’ understand?” When he’d seen the pleasant-faced man again the previous night, he’d wondered about it being happenstance. When he and Sela Wu returned to the motor court after dinner, he’d gone out later to the front desk. An overweight but pretty twenty-something who’d checked him in when he’d first arrived was on duty behind the desk. She’d also been at the race and, after a little flirting—which including giving her his phone number—he had the room number for the man who looked like that guy her parents used to watch on TV.
“I represent an entity that could use a man of your talents,” the older man said. He’d sat now and basically talked up to the still-standing Brenner. “My name is Efrem Koburn, and yes, this looks a little creepy, but I’m no freak. I merely wanted to see how you handle yourself, I guess you could say. How you were when not on stage if I make my meaning clear.”
“You don’t.” Brenner wasn’t sure how to interpret the vibe that emanated from the man. He seemed sincere but he also seemed like a man practiced in persuasion.
“Let me show you this.” Koburn stood and stretched for his folded pants atop the small dresser. In response, his visitor let one of the nunchuks dangle, ready for a strike if need be. With no apparent concern, the other man retrieved his wallet and removed a card, which he handed to Brenner.
It read, Vigilance Initiative, and an eight-eight-eight phone number was printed below the name.
“Scuba diver, award-winning surfer, you can fly a jet, you’ve won mixed martial arts matches.” He flicked his hand as if he were a magician about to make the lady in his act disappear. “You’re a high school dropout, yet I’d wager you appreciate the physics involved in where your sweet spot is when making three-pointers.”
The stranger smiled faintly at his six-foot, three-inch visitor who still gave the impression of a fluidly muscled jungle animal capable of both beauty and harm in its actions.
“Your nickname, Noc—is that some kind of surfer term? I would have thought your friends would have an affectionate term for you for the seemingly effortless way you have of mastering various skill sets.” He considered what he was saying for a moment, then added, “Oh, is it some kind of idiomatic rendition of how you knock out or eliminate your competitors? Possibly originated by a drunk buddy in a bar?”
A deadpan Brenner said, “You got a point, Koburn?”
“You’re wasting time, Ned. Earning pocket change and rent money with your abilities. You could do much more for yourself and your fellow man.”
“Is Vigilance some kind of pyramid scheme, huh? Gonna recruit me to sell high-rise condos on undeveloped parcels?”
“How about saving lives and fighting for justice?” The pleasant-faced man became serious.
Brenner crumpled the card and tossed it on the table. “How about you make sure you stay away from me and Sela? You do that and leave your smoke-blowing for the suckers.” He walked out and the other man shook his head slightly.
2
The attacker was large, six-five or so, and although his belly protruded, there was muscle in his upper arms and chest. His fist clipped Brenner on the side of his jaw and he staggered. The big man pressed his attack but was rudely surprised when his quarry not only evaded his next blow but countered with a one-two combination that made stars burst behind his eyes.
“That ain’t shit, bitch,” the large man protested but he didn’t immediately wade in either. He had his fists up in defensive mode, as did his target, the side of his mouth bloody. Each man circled the other on the basketball court like old-time bare-knucklers. The larger man—called Griz which was, of course, short for grizzly, suddenly charged in an attempt to tackle and upend the smaller man.
Griz locked his meaty arms around him, determined to humiliate his opponent.
“See how you like this, you light-skinned bitch.”
In response, Brenner drove an underhand blow to his jaw that rocked him. The big-baller stumbled and released him while he did his best to stay on his feet. Griz’s side had been losing in the pickup game. There was something so goddamn sure about this golden boy with his effortless layups and steals that had gotten under his skin. That he was mixed-race also bothered him, but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe he imagined that this dude moved effortlessly through black and white communities in the same way he handled his business on the court. He had finally lost it when this mufu called him out, yet again, on his blatant fouls.
The big man looked around and suddenly, his adversary was at his flank and coming into his peripheral vision. He responded instinctively but raised his hands too late and Brenner was suddenly too close and between his arms. The uppercut he unleashed sent an electric jolt through the larger man and made him buckle at the knees.
The onlookers winced as one and muttered, “Da-yum.”
He fought back but the end was inevitable. While he managed a solid punch, his opponent deflected it and unleashed a flurry of combinations to his midsection and jaw, interspersed with cross blows. In less than a minute, Griz was down on all fours on the asphalt, breathing hard while his mouth dripped blood, mostly now from the missing front tooth.
“How manly you are,” a woman said. There were several other women about, but this one was dressed designer-uptown in a hip-hugging skirt and matching silk jacket. She had her arms folded and leaned on part of the chain-link fence. Black haired and dark-eyed, she was a knockout.
Brenner rubbed his fist with his other hand. “Yeah, really impressive, wasn’t it?” A couple of Griz’s friends helped him up and half-carried him off the court.
She walked over to him and several of the ballers on the court wished they could watch her repeat the walk all day.
“I won’t beat around the bush, Mr. Brenner. The Vigilance Initiative can use your services. You would be amply compensated.”
He smiled at her. “Is that right?”
“I tell you what, let’s have lunch and discuss my proposition.”
Outside the chain-link fence was a hot dog cart vendor. He nodded toward him. “Since we’ll probably not kiss on our first date, I’ll have onions on mine.”
It was her turn to smile but it was thin and unamused. “I had thought of somewhere a little more relaxing—say, the Ratskeller.”
In cargo shorts, sweat-stained t-shirt, and tennis shoes, Brenner said, “I’m hardly dressed for that.”
“True,” she answered and turned to walk away, “but there is the quite funky Carlos and Jane’s where you’ll fit right in.”
�
�There is that.” He followed her onto the street where her double-parked Benz sports car had received a parking ticket. She snatched this from beneath the windshield wiper and the two drove from Rucker Park in Harlem to the restaurant in the Village.
There, Brenner chose a microbrew beer and ordered seared Ahi tuna tacos. Ella Navarro asked for a faux Cobb salad made with tofu. She chewed as precisely as she talked.
“Do you know who Max Damakas is?” she said.
“That’s what this is about? I didn’t help his son expecting a payday.”
“Yes, we know. I’m sure it doesn’t surprise you that after the incident at the poker game, we had all the people in attendance investigated.” She regarded him coolly. “You stirred our interest.”
“Us—this Vigilance or whatever?”
She held a hand up, larger than he would have imagined. “A brief explanation is in order.” A pause followed while she drank a little of her fizzy water. “Many know that when Max was twelve years old, his mother and father were killed by mafia hoods.”
Brenner nodded. The couple had been greengrocers with a neighborhood shop in Hoboken. “They came forward and testified about a shooting that went down outside their store one night.”
“That’s right,” Navarro said. “It was Don Madraga, who knew them from way back and tried to punish them by burning their store down. But he didn’t order a hit on them.”
“The underboss, though, was the don’s son and he wanted to show he was tough and had the two of them killed,” Brenner added and sipped his beer. “But the son eventually tried to eliminate the father and died instead.”
“The horrible fate that befell his parents defined Max. Their cruel death drove him on and on to succeed in school and to become the engineer his mother had always wanted him to be despite a host of illnesses that beset him.”
“He did more than that,” he observed. Damakas’ company Xtar was consistently ranked among the Fortune Five-Hundred.
Their food arrived and he took the measure of his lunch companion. How much of the Damakas Kool-Aid had she drunk he wondered? Max Damakas was one of the world’s richest men due to his and his early partners’ innovations in the personal computer and software field. He gave generously to charities such as food banks, job programs, and education efforts. Also, he was apparently now a near hermit, said to suffer from mysophobia—a fierce fear of germs. His various homes and offices were rumored to contain doors that could be hermetically sealed amongst other elaborate precautions.
“And the Vigilance Initiative?” he said after they’d each taken a forkful and swallowed.
“It was started—” Ella Navarro’s practiced reserved demeanor dissipated as she stared blankly and muttered, “Trouble...masks.”
Several long seconds later, there was activity beyond Brenner’s right shoulder. From where they sat, they were both at an angle to the entrance. The glass door creaked slightly on its hinges and three men stepped hurriedly into the restaurant. Their intent was clear as they wore face masks and wielded handguns. The masks were of the Three Stooges—Moe, Larry, and Curly.
Moe took the lead and the three moved farther into the space. Patrons stared and swallowed hard. “Let’s have no panic, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “and me and my companions won’t panic. But get those wallets and purses on the tables like a minute ago.”
As the patrons complied, Brenner noted the three hadn’t fanned out to scoop up loose items like phones. The trio remained close together and walked in line to where he and Navarro sat. Their guns were raised and steady in their gloved hands.
He bounded out of his chair and threw the saltshaker at Moe. It was a heavy cut-glass container and he delivered it precisely at a place on his temple, directly above where his plastic face mask ended. Stunned, the leader of the Stooges toppled onto a table and his body fell sideways like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The couple who’d been seated there bolted up in a panic and obviously wanted to flee but were fearful of being cut down by gunfire. Larry and Curly clubbed them calmly out of the way using their weapons as cudgels.
Brenner maneuvered deftly past the falling couple and locked his hand on Curly’s wrist. Simultaneously, he raised his foot and used it to shove Larry back. He twisted his hand sharply and an audible crack preceded Curly’s yelp.
“Shizz.” The man swung wildly but after a blur of hand and arm movements from his opponent, a semi-conscious Curly sprawled face-up on the floor, his gun arm broken at the elbow.
Larry was taken care of by a limping senior citizen in a floppy hat who shot him with—of all things—a pen. Defying logic, the tip flew from the barrel and embedded itself in the last Stooge’s neck. His eyes fluttered and closed behind the eyeholes of his face mask before he joined his fellow robbers—all three now asleep and snoring.
“We’d better get out of here,” the older man said. He was no longer stooped as if with arthritis. He also sounded younger than he seemed.
“Yes,” Navarro agreed. She held a throwing star in her hand but slipped this quickly behind her wide buckle.
Brenner grinned at them. “If you wanted to get my attention, you did.”
“That’s good. Now, all of you pay close attention to me,” a new voice said.
The three looked at several NYPD police officers who crowded the front of the restaurant. They held handguns and shotguns aimed at their suspects.
“And they say response time is down in the city,” the senior citizen quipped. He was slightly stooped again and the timbre in his voice was no longer youthful. The three put up their hands. Given that there were two female officers among the cops, all were patted down, cuffed, and placed in squad cars. The officers also took statements from the staff and customers of Carlos and Jane’s. The Three Stooges were marched out in handcuffs sans masks and placed together in a paddy wagon.
Later at the precinct, a detective named Sirocco questioned Brenner in the interrogation room.
“You keep an apartment here?”
“In Brooklyn, yes.”
“But you’re not a full-time resident,” the detective observed.
“No, I’m not.”
Sirocco read more of a file he had before him. “You bounce around a fair amount.” He looked down to read something, then looked up again. “What exactly do you do for a living, Mr Brenner?”
He hunched a shoulder. “Bust suds at times in diners, get freight hauling jobs, that kind of thing.”
“Yet you manage to keep an apartment here and elsewhere, it seems,” the officer said and tapped a finger on the papers in the open file.
“It’s rent-controlled.” He’d actually won it in a poker game but decided not to volunteer the information. Most of the money he made was under the table, but he made sure to acquire two or three W-9s each year to show income to satisfy the IRS.
“How do you know Ella Navarro?”
“She picked me up on the basketball court.”
Sirocco suppressed a smile and his indifferent cop look returned.
There were more questions but oddly, he noted, the detective’s lines of inquiry weren’t geared to finding out if he had anything to do with the masked gunmen. It was his opinion that their goal wasn’t discovering ill-gotten gains either, but he kept that to himself too. A little more than three hours later, he was released. He walked out of the busy precinct into the dwindling afternoon. A classic, well-maintained gray-and-white Rolls Royce Silver Cloud, 1963 model, pulled up in the street.
The older man from Carlos and Jane’s was at the wheel with Ella Navarro in the rear. “How about a ride, Ned?” she offered. The rear door was open.
“Why the hell not?” He slid in and the car drove off.
Brenner said, “Those hitters were after you, weren’t they?”
“Yes,” she answered, “we’ve concluded that was so. The three men in lockup are known muscle for hire.”
“But what we don’t know yet is whether this is from the past or concerning the latest case
,” the driver added and turned briefly to look at Ned. His face pulsed beneath the skin and the muscles and fatty tissue flowed as if it were slow-motion lava. It usually took something exceptional to surprise him, but he gaped when this happened.
“Wild,” he said. The driver was the man named Koburn.
“It gets wilder,” Navarro said and allowed herself a brief smile.
They finally arrived at a stretch of land within view of the redeveloped Brooklyn Navy Yards that was the location for a collection of low-slung brick buildings with faded names on their sides. The car stopped at a riot gate and the entrance slid open. Once the Rolls was parked, they walked up to a nondescript two-story building. A large faded logo painted over the entrance proclaimed it to once have been the Haverstam Baking Company.
The three stood before an old-fashioned wooden door inset with a pebbled glass pane that was, amazingly, intact. Graffiti had been spray-painted over this and planks nailed across the doorway as well. Efrem Koburn removed a brass skeleton key from his pocket and inserted it in the worn lock of the old door. He turned it and the modern whir of oiled gears and mechanisms grumbled when he removed the key.
The boards and the door slid up to reveal a steel door outlined in heavy-duty rivets. This door slid away to the side, and the three entered. Brenner was sure there were hidden cameras watching them and no doubt certain security measures would be initiated should a forced entry be attempted. The inside wasn’t quite what he expected. For some reason, he’d assumed it would be white and gleaming with people in lab coats tinkering with futuristic-looking machines and unrecognizable devices.
Instead, the interior was sleek and the chrome and steel touches reflected the style of an efficient and professional corporate office. Carpet and framed art hung along the walls completed the overall impression. A few personnel in business attire walked from one place to another and held file folders and one talked on their hands-free unit. A scrubbed man in his early twenties approached them.
