by Toby Ball
Canada took a moment to settle, bring his volume back down to conversational.
“Take care of the press. Figure out what they’ve got. If you need to bargain, give them something—the cash that priest down in Little Lisbon paid to those Turks to let the Crosstown run through their backyard. That’s history at this point, no harm.”
Having ridden out Canada’s temper, Dorman nodded, flashed the boss his cocky half-grin, the one that seemed to inspire confidence. He was good at his job. He’d take care of the problems.
“COMPLICATIONS,” SHE ECHOED, HER VOICE BETRAYING NOTHING.
HE DIDN’T TELL HER ABOUT HIS VISIT EARLIER THAT EVENING TO THE steamy basement of St. Stanislaw’s Orthodox Church, the pipes from the boiler radiating heat in the close quarters, clanging as air bubbles forced their way through the ancient system. The men waiting around the table wore ties despite the stifling temperature, their sleeves rolled up. They mopped their brows with handkerchiefs.
The leader of the neighborhood delegation was Peter Trochowski, a stocky man, white hair ringing his bald crown, a red drinker’s nose.
“Mr. Dorman—”
“Call me Phil, Mr. Trochowski,” Dorman was alone, as he liked to be when he had to do this kind of work. He wasn’t in any physical danger. No one would cross Nathan Canada.
Trochowski’s collar was dark with sweat. “You have to understand that the Crosstown will destroy our neighborhood, the biggest Polish neighborhood in the City. This will be a tragedy, a wrong that cannot be corrected later.”
Dorman nodded, half-listening. He’d heard it before—again and again. He gave the same answers that he always gave: “We are well aware of the enormous impact that the Crosstown will have on your community, etc., etc. We will make every effort to help relocate both people and businesses, and so on.” Christ, it was hot in there.
The old man reacted the way they often did—with desperation. “This cannot happen in America.”
This part was never his favorite, but it was important. People needed to understand that their narrow interests couldn’t take precedence over the good of the City.
“Actually, Mr. Trochowski, in America we can take your neighborhood from you if it is in the best interest of the state, which, I’m afraid, this is.” He saw the loathing in their glares, felt it as an almost physical sensation.
He said, “I need you to understand that if we don’t build the Crosstown, the New City Project will not be completed, and if it is not completed every expert agrees that the City will die. Commerce will leave the City and the City will die and with it, your neighborhood.”
Trochowski, his face bright red and shedding sweat, wasn’t convinced. They never were at first.
“Let me explain it another way, Mr. Trochowski. Your neighborhood is already gone. The decision has been made. It’s too late to change that. We’ve made this situation plain with communities before, and we will make it plain to communities in the future. You can cooperate with us, and we will do our best to help you during this time of change. You can also cause problems, like the incident that you no doubt read about in yesterday’s paper, and in that case we will be less … predisposed toward your community’s welfare.” He kept his voice even. You had to be calm, keep it from getting personal, but never retreat for even a second. You could not give any hint that there was room for negotiation, because there wasn’t. It was a done deal. This way was better for everyone.
He showed them the case with the money, watched the effect that the stacks of bills had on the men’s faces.
Trochowski leaned forward over the table, sweat dropping onto the top bills. “We cannot be bought.”
“We’re not trying to buy you, sir. We don’t need to buy you. We’re trying to help you. That’s all we can do now.”
Trochowski stood and slammed the case shut. Sometimes they started by refusing the money. They usually came around.
It was a fool’s errand trying to explain to people that while he—Dorman—understood their distress and the devastating effect that the Crosstown would have on their lives, not building the Crosstown would have a different but no less devastating outcome for them as the City crumbled around them. Most didn’t understand, and if they did, they couldn’t see why it had to be their neighborhood and not the one to the east or to the west. These were decisions made through a calculus of money and influence. He didn’t want to know the details, only to have to keep them from people. The details weren’t his problem.
As he emerged from the old church onto the steps leading down to the sidewalk, he’d heard a whistle and followed the sound across the street, up to the roof of a four-story apartment building. A crude dummy fashioned from pillows hung from a noose dangling from the roof. Even from that distance, Dorman was able to read “Canada” written on the sign attached to the dummy’s chest.
NEAR TWO IN THE MORNING, TIRED AND DRUNK, DORMAN GATHERED his papers, another night passed without being able to confide to Anastasia.
He knew that people here took the girls home sometimes, but he had never done that with her. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to risk somehow queering their limited relationship. But he felt the tightening in his chest as he stood and she walked with him to the door, her hand on his arm. They paused at the threshold. He looked in her eyes, but she was unreadable.
15
GRIP KNEW THAT HE CAME WITH AN AURA, THAT ALL COPS WHOSE partners were killed in the line of duty had one. It was the kind of thing that set him subtly apart—just a bit on the margins—despite the number of friends he had on the Force and the far greater number who respected or feared him. It was a complicated weight to carry around, the Burden of the Dead Partner. Every cop that knew about Morphy—and who didn’t know Morphy, if only by reputation?—felt a number of things at once: the horror, of course—this was every cop’s nightmare—pity for the guilt he had to live with, and anger that he hadn’t been able to somehow rescue his partner, suspicion that maybe he wasn’t a cop that you wanted watching your back. This final reaction, the doubt about his capabilities, was the one that festered in Grip, brought out the rage in him and with it, sometimes, recklessness. He’d been put on admin leave for three months after Morphy’s death. When he returned, they’d partnered him with a detective sent over from Violent Crimes, an old hand who would keep an eye on him, offer counsel when necessary. Grip rode it out with the new partner, not as bad as it could have been because this new guy was nothing like the old. But that ended, too, and Grip was allowed to work solo, an arrangement that seemed a relief to everyone.
Now he stood with two uniforms across the street from a shabby little joint called Cafe?, where the Tech heemies drank coffee and smoked and spewed their Marxist bullshit. One of the uniforms, a mug named Schillaci who Grip barely knew, spit onto the sidewalk and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “You talk to Lieutenant Boyer?”
“What about him?” Grip scowled, chewed on his lip. He should have been in the cafe already—would have been, if these two shitbirds hadn’t seen him on the street and come over to see what he was up to.
Schillaci shrugged, “This is his neighborhood, thought you might have run what you’re doing by him.”
The fiefdoms. Since the last chief had been assassinated and Kraatjes took his place, the Force had shattered into dozens of little domains—sergeants, lieutenants, captains, all carving out territory. Things had become complicated, cops suddenly required to get permission from other cops to conduct business in their neighborhoods. This permission was sometimes withheld. Guns were drawn on occasion, though no one had been fool enough to actually pull the trigger.
And during all this, not a move from Kraatjes, holed up on the top floor of headquarters, doing god-only-knew-what, pushing black budgets through the Council. Most cops had thought that he’d gone into hiding, was ignoring the street, but he’d proved them wrong. A couple of lieutenants had made a move on him, a power grab, tried to frame him up with a cache of cocaine supposedly purchased with black
-budget funds. Kraatjes had sussed it out, though, caught them moving the drugs at night, the press on hand to report the whole thing. A month later, they’d been in the pen—forty-five to life.
No one had underestimated Kraatjes after that.
GRIP TURNED TO SCHILLACI, HIS RIGHT SHOULDER NOW CATCHING A LITTLE rain. “What am I doing, officer?”
Schillaci spit again, chin down, eyes up in their sockets to see Grip. “You haven’t said, but it’s got to be something, right? You’re not out here in the rain, enjoying the view. All I’m saying is, have you run it past Boyer?”
Grip frowned at Schillaci, leaned back against the wall. He’d be damned if he was going to clear anything with Chet fucking Boyer. He turned to the other officer, a younger guy, the tough look on the kid’s face taking some concentration.
“What about you? You watching Boyer’s turf, too? Going to make sure I don’t shit in his yard?”
The kid hesitated, and Schillaci saved him. “Come on, Detective, you know how it is now. This is Boyer’s neighborhood, you’ve got to work it through him.”
“Tell you what. Why don’t you go find Boyer, tell him to fuck himself, and if he has a problem with that, have him take it up with Zwieg.”
“Zwieg?” Schillaci was suddenly less sure of himself. “What’s Zwieg running here?”
“You’re so interested, why don’t you go ask him?”
Schillaci took this in with a look of pained uncertainty. Grip finished his cigarette and tossed it into the street. “What’s it going to be?”
The kid was looking at his feet, abdicating. Schillaci held what was left of his cigarette between his thumb and middle finger and with his index finger flicked it into the street.
“Make it quick.”
GRIP TURNED UP THE COLLAR OF HIS JACKET AND WALKED ACROSS THE street, holding his hand out to stop a truck that was creeping along, the driver trying to make out addresses. Grip could feel the tension in his shoulders, his temper straining against his control. Fucking cops acting like gangsters protecting their turf. Their job was tough enough without piling on more bullshit.
He paused under the awning of Cafe?, patted his gun, palmed his badge. Satisfied he was ready, he opened the door and eased into the smoky room, only five or six tables in addition to four that had been pushed together to his right. His entrance drew looks. He knew he stood out—suit, age, build. He walked over to the gathered tables, showed his badge, watched all the gazes gravitate to a chubby little guy, a few days’ stubble, old corduroys, ancient sweater.
“Can we help you, sir?” The guy’s voice was strong, confident.
We. “You Ben Linsky?”
He didn’t respond, but his eyes didn’t deny it.
Grip eyed a leather satchel leaning against Linsky’s chair. “Mr. Linsky, if you would get out of your chair and walk to the end of the table.”
Linsky seemed of two minds, but got up and walked slowly to the end of the table. The others stayed in their chairs, looking uncomfortable, though not especially threatened.
Grip lifted the satchel.
“Hey, man.” Linsky took a step forward.
Grip looked up, eyes wide. “Get the fuck back.” He saw the effect that these growled words had on the others, their eyes suddenly on the tables before them.
“You’ve got no right to—”
Grip looked at Linsky, giving him some credit for not folding. “Shut up.” He unlatched the closure and flipped back the flap.
“You don’t—”
“I don’t what?” Grip said, glaring, starting to enjoy this. “I don’t what?” He went back to the satchel, fingering through the mess of papers. An inside pocket bulged. Grip fished into it with a finger, hooked out a small linen pouch. He sniffed it, looking at Linsky while he did. Linsky was pale, trembling with fear or rage.
With two fingers Grip opened the little pouch and removed a small bud of marijuana, holding it theatrically up to the light.
“This your bag?” he asked Ben.
Linsky nodded, jaw set.
Grip smiled. “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to bring it in as evidence.”
“Can I at least get my papers, my work? You can keep the bag and the weed.”
Grip pursed his lips and shook his head. “That’s not how it works. You want any of it back, come down to the station in a couple of days. We’ll have it processed by then. Maybe you can get your papers back.”
Linsky chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully. The kids around the table started to get their courage back, at least enough to look up and watch the drama.
“Why are you doing this?” Linsky asked. Grip could see that he was truly bewildered.
He gave Linsky a harsh look and turned to go.
“What’s your name, detective?” Linsky’s voice was stronger this time, surprising Grip a little.
He turned. “Grip.”
Linsky nodded, an expression on his face that discomfited him, as if Grip had just lost some skirmish in a battle he hadn’t realized was being contested. Grip’s street sense picked up a shift in the balance of power.
He left the cafe, scowling at Schillaci and his partner, trying to fight the feeling that he’d somehow made the wrong move.
16
GRIP DRANK HIS BEER AND WHISKY AT A CORNER TABLE IN CRIPPEN’S, the bottle sweating onto a napkin by his right hand, the contents of Ben’s satchel spread before him. Grip had told Oswald behind the bar that he wanted some peace, and Oswald had pulled the three other chairs away from Grip’s table. From behind the bar came the high, tinny sound of a radio talker ranting hysterically.
Grip had gone through the papers systematically, some of them held together with paper clips, some typed, some handwritten, and discovered that a good number of them weren’t actually Ben Linsky’s writing. There were short stories and poems by other people, which Grip skimmed, looking for evidence of Kollectiv 61, or, failing that, seditious or Marxist tendencies. But most of it was too fucking weird to make sense of, the rest simply tedious. Little comments were written in an exacting hand, the letters straight and compact. Grip read a few. Notes, presumably Ben’s, along the lines of “too much” or “where is the truth here?” Not much of interest. The authors of this shit weren’t any kind of threat to anyone.
He noticed that there was nothing of any length written in what he thought was Linsky’s handwriting. He switched out an empty for a full beer and picked up the next paper-clipped collection, typewritten, and with comments in Ben’s handwriting. He considered the possibility that Ben had typed and then commented on the text. For the most part, the pages seemed to be arranged by date. The first page read:
Grip set the sheet down, rubbed his eyes. What the hell was all this? Linsky—if Grip’s assumption about the typewriting was correct—seemed to be keeping a record of the activities of various people, though his brief reports seemed to Grip either incomprehensible, irrelevant, or both. They seemed, in fact, to be the type of records he would expect to be kept by the kind of person who would also write the ludicrous stories that were in Linsky’s satchel. But who the hell would want something like this, find it at all useful? Was it for Linsky’s own benefit? That didn’t seem right. But then who were they for?
He picked up a shot of whisky that the bartender had brought over, unbidden, and sniffed, trying to chase the smell of sweat and stale beer that seemed to always hang about the place. He threw back the shot, chased it with a tug on his beer.
He thought about a next step. Why were these particular people included in the report? Because they were Linsky’s friends? Could be. From what Grip could gather, they seemed—at least some of them—to be writers or poets or students. Did this make them less suspicious, or more? And for that matter, what about Linsky himself? Did this document make him seem less or more suspicious? Also, did this have anything to do with Kollectiv 61? That was the trouble, of course. Nobody—not the Force, not the press—had been able to actually identify a single member of the group. So
Linsky was the best connection available, circumstantial though that connection was. There must be some use for the document, Grip thought, some way to pressure Linsky with it. But nothing came immediately to mind.
Grip could sense a clock ticking, knew how urgent this must feel to Zwieg and Canada’s people. He was sure that they’d concluded from the sheer scale of the heist, even without Nicky Patridis’s confirmation, that the explosives were outside the usual black-market supply chain, that they were most likely in the hands of people who intended to use them. In truth, half the force should be on this case, ripping the goddamn City apart. But the facts of the robbery made that too dangerous. A large police effort would provoke scrutiny and that would be dangerous for the New City Project. More dangerous, probably, than the explosives themselves.
He was feeling the effects of the alcohol. And the anger welled up in him as he thought about these radicals, whether or not they were in Kollectiv 61. He hated their ideology, their idea that you had to tear society down to rebuild it. This case, he realized, had assumed a greater dimension—this was good versus evil, order versus chaos. Grip’s body felt charged, ready to act.
17
“WE MAKE A PITIFUL COUPLE, YOU AND ME,” PANOS SAID, AS FRINGS pushed his wheelchair along a sidewalk on the Tech campus. Frings’s cane lay across Panos’s blanketed lap.
“Old and decrepit,” Frings said cheerfully. “When did that happen?”
Panos made a noise between a laugh and a cough. Leaves were blowing across the grassy quad to their left; high clouds moved briskly across the sky. The bell in the campus clock tower tolled once for 11:30, and students began to emerge from classroom buildings, buttoning coats against the wind. They made way on the walk for the two older men. In some ways, Frings wished that he could be part of this environment, offer some kind of direction to these kids, guide their energy and ideology. But this was an irrational urge, he knew—though some of these students no doubt knew him from his writings, his moment was past. He was catapulting shots from the periphery—and there was a new generation that would have to storm the bastions.
