The White Van

by Patrick Hoffman

A man pushed past Emily and asked for three scratchers. Muhammad rang the man up and then handed Emily a black cordless phone. “Stay here with it.”

  She dialed the phone.

  “Nine-one-one emergency,” a voice said.

  “Yeah, can you send a cop,” said Emily, turning her back to the clerk and stepping aside to let a woman pay for a can of beer.

  “What’s the nature of your emergency?” said the operator.

  “A woman is being attacked,” said Emily.

  “Okay, ma’am, where are you calling from?”

  “I’m at Sixth and Howard, but I saw this a block up at Sixth and Minna, on Minna in front of the Auburn Hotel.”

  “What hotel?”

  “Minna Street, between Sixth and Fifth; it’s an alley.”

  “What did the suspect look like?”

  “He was in a vehicle. In a silver parked car.”

  “Okay, what was his race?”

  “Don’t know, didn’t see him, but I bet he’s a white Caucasian.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “He’s sitting parked on Minna.”

  “What type of vehicle, ma’am?”

  “I couldn’t see, but I saw him hitting a girl. She looked like she might be a student or something.”

  “Okay, what race was the girl?”

  “She was trying to get out. It was bad, send help, I gotta go.” Emily hung up and handed the phone back to Muhammad.

  “Why you lie to them?” he asked.

  Emily walked up Sixth Street with her hands in her pockets and her hood over her head. The gun was in her jacket pocket. She felt keenly awake. When she reached Minna she leaned against the wall near some winos and waited. This is my block.

  Ten minutes later a black-and-white patrol car turned left onto Minna and slowly drove toward Fifth Street. Sixty feet in its red and blue lights popped on. Two cops stepped out.

  The one who’d been driving went and stood behind the silver car. The other one walked onto the sidewalk and pulled out a flashlight and shined it into the car.

  The officer spoke with the man inside and then appeared to take some identification from him. He stepped back and called something in on his chest radio.

  Emily watched the cop disappear back into his squad car. After a few minutes he walked back, bent down to the driver’s window, and handed the guy his license. They talked for a few seconds and then the cop returned to his own car.

  Emily moved from the corner and trotted along the wall. She was scared, but she also felt an anger that seemed to carry her along. The cop car rolled away. The silver car was parked facing away from her so she was coming at it from the back. She could see the shape of a man in the driver’s seat.

  Emily jammed the gun in through the man’s open window. He flinched back and Emily reached in with her free hand and clicked the unlock button on the door. She jumped into the backseat.

  He was a bald man with a thick neck. He struggled against his seat belt, trying to lean away from the gun. “All right, all right,” he said, leaning forward.

  “Sit up, asshole. Hands on the wheel. Sit up or I’m gonna blow your fucking head off.” Emily was surprised at the sound of her voice. “Roll your window up.”

  The man reached for the window button and pressed it. Nothing happened. “Okay,” he said, “I have to turn the car on to put the window up.” His voice sounded pinched.

  “Turn it on. Roll it up.”

  “Okay, all right. I’m reaching with my right hand for the key. I’m turning the key.”

  “Shut up!” said Emily.

  “Turning the key.” The man was obviously scared. He seemed to be in his fifties, and he had an American accent, not a Russian one. He was shaking. He turned the car’s electrical power on and rolled up his window. The car beeped. Emily looked behind her; the alley was empty. She started to second-guess herself.

  “What the fuck you doing here?” asked Emily. Her mouth was dry.

  “Nothing,” said the man.

  “Bullshit, cracker motherfucker—what the fuck you doing in this alley? Put your hands on the wheel.”

  The man put his hands from his head to the wheel.

  “Take the keys out,” said Emily. He took them out. “Now, I’m going to ask one more time, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m a private investigator.” The man tried to turn his head to look at her, but Emily put the muzzle of the gun against his ear.

  “Don’t turn. Go on.”

  “I’m a private investigator. Please don’t hurt me. I’m just working. I’m a good guy.”

  “Bullshit. Good guys don’t sit in alleys. What are you doing?”

  “I work for King Insurance. I’m working on a case.”

  “What case? Talk fast, asshole.”

  “I’m here investigating a bank robbery.”

  “You a cop?”

  “I told you, I’m a PI.”

  “Give me your wallet.”

  The man reached for his wallet on the seat next to him and handed it back to her. A car drove past them down the alley. Emily, her eyes going up and down from the wallet to the man, managed to fish out a license and a business card. She held the card up so she could read it and keep an eye on him at the same time. The card read: Timothy Nichols, WWW Investigations, 1001 Lakeview Rd, Sacramento, CA.

  “Okay, mister, listen to me Mr. Motherfucking Nichols,” said Emily, looking over her shoulder and then slumping down in the seat. “Listen to me good: you’ve got one chance to save your life or I will pull this trigger, so help me God. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.” Emily waited for him to reply but he was silent, so she continued. “Begin from the beginning and tell me everything. And I know why you’re here so don’t fuck with me.”

  “All right,” began Nichols, “all right. No problem. I’m from Sacramento. I work for King Insurance.”

  “The card says WWW.”

  “King, I subcontract from King Insurance.”

  “What are you doing”

  “Okay, there was a robbery. I got a call on Tuesday to come to the city and look at it. Just a formality. It’s just an insurance thing. Like a—function—”

  “I don’t care about all that,” she said, pressing the gun to the back of his head. “Tell me why you’re parked here.”

  “Okay, no problem—look.” The man tried to steady his breath. “Robbery. I came out. I looked at the video with the manager, the bank manager, I talked with the police inspector, we talked, that’s it. I promise.”

  “Why are you in this alley?” said Emily. Her lips were smacking when she spoke. She needed water.

  “I’m here—I sent my report to Los Angeles, my boss, the insurance man. I wrote it. I sent it.”

  “So, what’s the bank robbery, what happened? What’d you say?”

  “I said what the police report said: a lone female comes into the bank and walks up to the manager and hands her a phone. Wig, glasses. Walks out with the money. Case still open.”

  “So what the fuck are you doing here? I’m not playing with you. How’d you end up parked right here?”

  “I followed the bank manager. All signs pointed to her.”

  “Talk faster,” said Emily. She was high and she couldn’t understand what he was saying, but whatever it was, she wanted him to say it faster.

  “I’m telling you. I’m telling you how I got here. The manager was in on it—”

  “You said that, go on.”

  “I followed her. She met with another lady and guy.”

  Now Emily was interested. “Go on,” she said.

  “I followed them.”

  “Who?”

  “The new lady and man.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Russians.”

  “And what’d they do?” asked Emily.

  “They drove around in a van for a few days and they kept coming here.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And w
hy’d you stay here?”

  “See what they wanted.”

  “What’d they want?”

  “To find the lone female.”

  “Liar.”

  “I didn’t say it was you.”

  “It’s not me, asshole.”

  “I’m just saying I was sitting here wondering when this lone female was going to arrive.”

  “Man, you’re in over your motherfucking bald-ass head.”

  “I didn’t say it was you.” He sounded like he might cry.

  “It’s not me, motherfucker, get it? But I got a friend who was in his room and now he’s missing, probably with his fingers all broken out. All right? And I got a true suspicion to believe it’s because these so-called Russians did it.”

  “We should call the cops.”

  “No,” said Emily, touching the gun to the back of his head again. “We ain’t gonna call no fuckin’ cops to come here and do this and that. Give me that paper.” She pointed the gun at a manila file on the front passenger seat.

  Nichols leaned over and picked up the file and handed it back to her.

  She looked through it, her eyes going from the man to the paper and back again.

  “What do we have here?” Emily read from the notes. “Emily Rosario, DOB 1/11/83. SS #572-65-9275. Anthony Baptiste = Pierre. 3/18/70. 580 Minna #312.” She looked out the back window to make sure nobody was sneaking up. “Well, aren’t you a little cocksucker? You gotta be so smart—and you gotta lie like a motherfucker, too.”

  “I didn’t lie,” said Nichols.

  “Well, you forgot to mention Emily Rosario.”

  “I didn’t want to scare you.”

  “Why would that scare me?”

  “I don’t know.” Nichols shook his head. “I don’t know anything.”

  “And you got the room number?”

  “I paid some lady to follow them up.”

  “Follow who?”

  “The Russians.”

  “And why I am I supposed to believe it wasn’t you in the van out here doing too much?”

  “’Cause I’m cooperating. I didn’t bother anyone.”

  “So why they coming here?”

  “They want their money.”

  Emily stayed silent for a moment. She didn’t know what she should do with this information. Her head hurt. Her heart was pounding. She just wanted to find Pierre, so she could leave.

  “If you want, I’ll pack up right now and just go back to Sacramento and call it a day.” He tried to peek back in the mirror at her.

  “Where’s Pierre?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And who’s Emily?” she asked.

  “She shares the room with Baptiste, with Pierre.”

  “Well, Mr. Look-at-me-all-smart-over-here, she’s got nothing to do with this, so just forget about that bitch,” said Emily.

  “Done.”

  “Go be smart on your own ass time.”

  “Listen,” said Nichols, “we have the same goal. Whoever you are, your enemy is my enemy. We’re friends. I don’t know who you are—but I just gave you some valuable information. So as long as you’ve done nothing wrong, no reason to start now.”

  What was he saying? She was having a hard time listening and thinking at the same time.

  “You gonna run to the cops?” she asked.

  “I’m private. I don’t even like cops.”

  “You gonna share this information with the cops?”

  “No way.”

  “You gonna share it with your damn insurance boss.”

  “I don’t know a single thing about it.”

  “And that’s how it’s going to stay.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “All right. Here’s the deal. I don’t like making threats on no one; I don’t like telling people what to do”—she tapped the gun against the back of his head—“but it’s time for your ass to leave San Francisco. And it’s time for you to forget everything you’ve been learning on your little fact-finding mission. Next time I see you, I’m gonna kill you.”

  Emily got out. She walked back toward Sixth Street with her eyes on the car. When she got around the corner she stuck her head back around to look. The car was dark except for the red taillight. He’s still got his foot on the brake, she thought. He’s a lying motherfucker, too.

  7

  Sophia Kamenka moved through each room in Rada Harkov’s home and tried to make sense of what she was seeing. She found the linen closet open, with sheets spilling out; she found the wineglass on the counter; in the hallway, a picture frame was tilted ominously off center. There were traces of a puddle on the bathroom floor. The window showed signs of forced entry.

  Rada Harkov, the bank manager, was Sophia’s niece, her brother’s only daughter, and the only thing in Sophia’s life that didn’t seem soiled. Now she was missing. For the past two days every phone call had gone unanswered. She was gone. Hatred twisted in Sophia’s chest and guilt swelled in her belly. Yakov Radionovich, she repeated his name in her head: Yakov Radionovich.

  Twelve years ago Sophia had convinced her niece to move from Tel Aviv, where she had been living, to the United States. Sophia had promised it was better here. She had promised that Rada—incorruptible, smart, sweet Rada—would be able to make something of herself. This, she had told her, was a place where you could get ahead. And Rada had. She had gone back to school, gotten a degree from an American university, a job, promotions, married, and divorced. She had gotten a house—this house.

  Sophia sat down in her niece’s bedroom, as her thoughts, like glaciers, slowly fell into place; her guilt was complete and total. Images of Yakov Radionovich, his bald head, his sagging, mole-covered face, kept appearing in her mind.

  For years Rada Harkov’s position as manager of the bank had been a nagging temptation to Sophia. Every time Rada mentioned the bank, even in passing, Sophia’s mind would drift toward thoughts of stealing. Rada would talk about work, and Sophia would nod her head as though she were listening, but inside she would be thinking, You’re the manager of a bank. How can you not want to rob it?

  Rada would have never agreed to it. They both came from a family of criminals, but Rada had long ago aligned herself with the normal life. When Rada was a child, her father, Ivan, used to joke that Rada’s red hair and pale skin marked her as a law-abiding citizen. He had been right.

  And Rada would have happily remained in the normal life if Sophia hadn’t made the mistake of doing business with Yakov Radionovich. Both Sophia and Radionovich shared connections with a larger crime syndicate based in Brooklyn, and led by a man named Vadim Vertov. Sophia and Radionovich’s relationship with each other had always been tense. Both felt that they alone should be in control of Vadim Vertov’s San Francisco business ventures. On occasion they were forced to work together, usually when drugs were involved; but for the better part of a decade they had been allowed to operate independently. Sophia believed that Radionovich was too stupid to run such a large operation; he was also, in her opinion, needlessly violent. Radionovich, for his part, still could not accept a woman as his equal, and Sophia knew that he believed that she was not capable of the kind of violence necessary for the mafia life.

  Two months ago Sophia had made arrangements to sell forty pounds of crystal meth to an associate in Southern California. The drugs were supplied to her by Radionovich’s gang with the understanding that payment would come after the deal was complete. The man Sophia chose to deliver the drugs had been arrested outside Modesto by the California Highway Patrol. The drugs had been seized.

  Radionovich used the occasion to pounce. He’d arranged a meeting at his teahouse, and within minutes of her showing up he’d begun haranguing her. Sophia didn’t understand where his anger was coming from; losing drugs was a natural risk of dealing drugs—she would pay him back—but Radionovich was acting as though this were the first time someone had been arrested. “My money,” she remembered him saying; “it is my money that you lost.”<
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  “So, what do you want me to do?” she had asked.

  Radionovich’s face had been red. She remembered him licking his upper and lower lips before he next spoke: “Your niece’s bank,” he’d said. “Take out a loan.”

  Sophia, sitting in Rada’s bedroom, tried to remember how the conversation had played out. She remembered feeling a sense of depression at the prospect of bringing Rada into this, but if that were truly the case, why hadn’t she refused the idea right from the start? She remembered Radionovich making vague threats: “Well, if you cannot pay, we have other ways of dealing with it.” But that wasn’t it, either.

  There was a part of her that knew she had been willing to go along with Radionovich’s suggestion, but right now, sitting on her missing niece’s bed, she was not ready to examine this willingness; instead she let her hatred of Radionovich take full bloom. She sat in Rada’s bedroom and hated the man with all her soul.

  Her mind went back to the meeting: “She will never agree to it,” Sophia had said.

  “She will if I don’t give her a choice,” Radionovich had answered.

  And that had been the moment when she could have stopped it all; she could have demanded that they bring the debate to Vadim Vertov to settle. In reality it was a small amount of money; she could have moved some assets around and paid Radionovich off within the week. So why had she agreed to go forward? Because Radionovich had been testing her mettle; he had been trying to bait her into going to Vertov, so instead of doing what he wanted she chose to act out of pride. She called his bluff and now her niece was missing.

  The rough outlines of the plan had been hashed out over the next few days. Radionovich would confront Sophia in front of her niece; he would demand she make payments on her debt. Sophia knew that Rada would never agree to rob the bank if the plan was brought to her; she had to be under the impression that it was her own idea.

  An encounter was arranged. Sophia took her niece to dinner in the Richmond. The restaurant, Russian and formal, was owned by one of Radionovich’s associates. As they were finishing their meal, the establishment cleared of patrons. The waiters casually disappeared to the back. Radionovich, Georgy, and two other men came into the place and sat down around their table.