The Dewey Decimal System

by Nathan Larson

  Pretty proud of how that came out. I feel her really thinking now.

  Wondering how this impacts my overall plan. I add: “But I need your consent to move forward with any litigation, as you are his emergency contact and have de facto power of attorney in this situation.”

  More breathing. I try to sync my breath to hers. Shit. This has been unexpected. The spouses are separated. Might be a major problem.

  There’s part of me that finds this to be good news. I squash that aspect of myself, gotta be on point. Anyways, I decide not to abort this mission, yet.

  I hear the chain being slid out of its track, and the door comes open. A longish nose, a face that suggests nobility despite the sweatshirt and jeans. Deep green eyes, flickering, indicating that involuntary mental flinch many white people exhibit upon coming face-to-face with a person of color. I have a lifetime’s worth of experience with this reaction and I do not take it personally.

  Iveta rallies. “The boy is sleeping, just, a …” Clearly sorry she opened the door, but I’m already coming in.

  With what I hope is a reassuring but concerned expression, I step into the house, Iveta backing up.

  I extend my right hand. “Charles Bartosch,” I say in English. “I apologize, I assumed you were from the Ukraine.”

  She accepts my handshake, cool rough hands, glancing past me at the street, takes a step forward to try to steer me backward, saying: “No, it’s just that …”

  I bend her hand back, hard and fast, twist her arm up; she doesn’t scream but takes a noisy gulp of air, good girl. Kick the door closed behind me, turn her around, and, forcing her into a kneeling position, I place the Beretta square on the nape of her neck. Her hair is up in a blue bandanna, and it’s a lovely neck. I note a mediumlarge mole an inch below her hairline.

  “Shhh. It’s okay, it’s okay,” I tell her.

  I’m momentarily dizzy at the reality of being near this woman, but this is the kind of thought hiccup that gets a man killed in such situations, so I promptly backburner my emotional/empathetic self, nix that shit.

  She says a couple things in what I assume is Latvian, a language I don’t understand, then in English: “God-DAMNIT, what you want? I’m motherFUCKING stupid. I could tell you weren’t Ukraine, this accent is bullshit.”

  “I’ve been told different. In fairness, now, I was going for second or third generation.”

  “Motherfucking thugs. You, Yakiv, all fucking garbage, criminals, why come here? You’re not Ukraine, no black guys are coming from Ukraine.”

  “Yeah, I imagine not.”

  “My cousin, he comes in here five minutes—if he finds you here you have big problem.”

  I don’t buy that classic for a second.

  “Mrs. Shapsko, I don’t believe you. I think you’re on your own here. Am I right?”

  She starts trembling, which I don’t like because even though the safety is on, I don’t want her to go jerking around and perhaps cause an accident.

  Accidents happen. I’m living proof.

  Me saying: “Where’s your kid, lady?”

  Iveta lets out a long, low moan. “Noooo, no, the boy is not here. Please. He’s at friend’s house. Please.”

  I push her neck a tad with the gun. “I’m not here to hurt anyone, see? Now you just said your boy was sleeping, so don’t try to tell me different. Where is he?”

  “No. No.” Iveta digs in. Presses her neck against the gun. “You’re here for me, I know this, I knew this would come, Yakiv has sent you to kill me, motherfucking coward, because he can’t do it for himself. I see what is happening. I won’t fight. I won’t fight. Please.”

  Damn. Brave girl.

  “I am not going to hurt anyone, all right? I swear to you. Okay, no children. But I need you to do something for me. First, please be still. Hush now.”

  Iveta is breathing rapidly through her nose and tears have appeared in her eyes. “No. Fuck you. Killer.”

  This tweaks me. For the second time in twenty-four hours I feel like a situation is sliding out of my control; I’m not accustomed to this sensation.

  Feels bad.

  “Not here to hurt anyone, Iveta, I’m not a killer but I’ll repeat: do what I ask, and we don’t involve the kid. Okay by you?” She’s quiet. I’m studying that mole. Can’t help it, say: “You should get that there mole looked at.”

  “What?”

  “The mole. On your neck. It’s, like, discolored. Go to a dermatologist.” I feel stupid, she’d have a tough time finding a dermatologist. “Just some advice.”

  “Are you fucking crazy? You break into this house …”

  “I didn’t break in, let’s walk it back. You let me in.”

  “Liar. Killer. I do nothing for you. Nothing.”

  “Yes you will, hon. Or we bring out the child. Final offer. Sorry about all this.”

  She deflates. I adjust my grip on her.

  “I’m a very serious man. All I want is to talk now. You talk to me, and I leave.”

  “What do you want?” She’s barely audible.

  We’re at the foot of the stairs in the foyer. I drag her toward the dumpy living room, she knee-walks the rest of the way. Get her seated in a sky-blue La-Z-Boy.

  This is a lot harder facing her. Those emerald peepers laser-beam raw spleen.

  “Is your telephone still working? Your landline?”

  “No. I have this radio. Like a, um … police radio.”

  I nod. “What’s going on with you and Yakiv? I want the whole deal.”

  “What’s going on? But you must know if he sends you here …”

  “The guy did not send me. Okay? Help me out, what’s your situation, the status of your relationship.”

  “This is private …”

  “Not right now it’s not, and if you don’t start dancing with me I’m going upstairs.”

  “Okay! Okay. This is torture just to speak of, so you are torturing me just now.”

  “No I’m not. You’ll know it if we get down to some torture, which I would be very sad to see happen. But it’s always an option, please speed up your narrative here.”

  Iveta adjusts her bandanna. I sit on a coffee table, the gun still pointed in her direction.

  “Yakiv is a dead man to me. A rapist and murderer. I know he will kill me, or send someone like you.”

  What the fuck is with this hostility? “I’ve gathered you’re not getting along.”

  She laughs. Minus the amusement. “Not your fucking business. But yes, you could say that. You could say that. I cannot sleep. Every small noise. I’m so afraid for the boy, that he might … hurt the boy.”

  “Why would he want to do that?”

  Iveta assesses me. She shakes her head. She’s got snot and tear residue on her lip and cheeks but she’s no longer crying.

  I want to take a pill, I desperately want to disinfect my hands. Nervously I touch my key, but just for a second.

  There’s a box of Kleenex on the coffee table, and I hand her several. She takes them but doesn’t clean herself. This is making me nervous.

  “But why are you here?” A tear slides down one side of her face.

  “You haven’t answered my question. If you answer my questions, I might possibly consider answering yours. Why would Yakiv want to harm you, or his own kid?”

  “The boy, from another man, another piece of shit.”

  “Detail noted, but let’s stick to my question.”

  Iveta bobs her head, wipes off the snot with a tissue. “Perhaps you think he is good man. An honorable man. Perhaps you think he will hold up bargain you have together.”

  “As I’ve said, I have not been sent by Yakiv, and neither do I know the dude.”

  She looks at me, taking in my suit, my shoes, my skin. “What are you, black? I can’t tell.”

  Sigh.

  After two African American presidents and a Chinese woman on the moon, can we not yet say we’ve evolved a “postracial” consciousness? Even as those once-termed
“minorities” make up the majority of the population in this country?

  Of course not, though this bullshit “postracial” term was popular several years ago. Can you imagine? What a freaking joke.

  Well, am I black? Say, “That’s off-topic, but I am of mixed racial heritage, and yes, my father was from Trinidad. My mother was of Filipino/Saint Lucian extraction. All this giving a … darker tinge to my pigment. Is that helpful?”

  I don’t know if I’m lying or not, cause I don’t recall exactly. But it sounds accurate, and it flows smoothly out of my mouth.

  “It is helpful, actually, I tell you why,” says Iveta, balling up the Kleenex. “Yakiv hates blacks, South Americans, Chinese … he hates all these people, and most of all the black. The only job he might give to black guy, MAYBE, is hired killer, and since you haven’t killed me yet and ask all these questions, I’m thinking maybe you don’t know my husband. As you say. Giving you money would be very very painful for Yakiv.”

  I laugh. “That’s amusing.”

  “No, it is not funny. He is like a crazy man about this. I know from this that you cannot possibly be a friend of Yakiv. Impossible. Impossible. Maybe he hired you, but only maybe.”

  “Been telling you I do not know the man.”

  “Okay, so then … you don’t know he is killer. Rapist. Has no …” She indicates her forehead, blanking on the word.

  “Conscience?”

  “That’s it. No. He is beyond bad. See. Hates black …”

  “Yeah, we touched on that.”

  “Hates women. Hates communist. Hates, hates, hates. Please, I don’t understand who you are.”

  Communist? Another word that went out of circulation awhile back, when those governments that had formerly fallen into this category rose to dominant-empire status. What do they call them now? Like China? Benign postcapitalist military dictatorships. There’s probably a more elegant term available but I’m not privy to it.

  But who am I?

  “I’m nobody,” I say. “I’m a bad fucking dream. Interested in getting a hold of your husband. And that’s all. Do you understand?”

  She nods, eyes wide.

  Think I’ll kick it to her from another angle. “If he has committed crimes, as you say—”

  “Many murders, many rapes …”

  “Yeah, so if that’s a fact, I would like to see him treated as a criminal. I promise you. I work for the government.”

  Iveta drops her eyes. “Is this the truth?”

  “Yes, it is,” I say, and I’m not quite lying. Technically.

  “Then please, if you can take away this gun, it’s very frightening for me.”

  I give this consideration, thinking if I set the thing down somewhere near me and make the mistake of glancing sideways—

  Iveta is on me in a heartbeat, she’s got a pen or something, going right for my eyes.

  I catch her hand and we fall sideways. With her free elbow, she attempts to break the bridge of my nose; my head is slightly averted so she strikes my cheekbone.

  Reflexively, I crack her upside the head with my gun. She rolls off me, I didn’t knock her out, holding her hand to her temple, blood beginning to flow between her fingers. Head wounds bleed a lot.

  Damn, I didn’t come here to pistol-whip the woman. Make it right.

  “Iveta.” I get into a crouching position near her. “Iveta, do you have some, uh, first aid materials? You’ve got a bit of a cut there.”

  No response, she grunts and rolls sideways, supporting her head.

  I look around the living room. On the sad couch there’s bedding, a sheet.

  I almost gag, a used fucking sheet, search my pockets for some fresh surgical gloves. Make sure I haven’t dropped the key. Pulling the gloves on, I suck it up, grab the material off the couch.

  “Iveta. Let me take a look. I have to know you’re not going to jump me again, though. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she says, muffled by the arm covering her mouth.

  I take her hand away, there’s a shitload of blood, thanks be to Christ I put on the gloves; I apply the sheet and press it to her temple. She blinks at the blood in her right eye. I dab at it as best I can.

  We sit like this for a while. I actually have no idea as to what comes next.

  “Mama?” A boy’s voice, tremulous and scared. Shit. He’s in the doorway to the living room now, his mouth an O.

  I gotta say something.

  “Your mother hit her head but she’s fine. Go back upstairs. Okay?”

  The kid is frozen in place. Iveta shouts something in Latvian and he’s gone. I hear a door upstairs slam shut.

  “Ma’am,” I say, “I apologize for hurting you but you did assault me.”

  Iveta stares blankly. “You broke into my house with this gun.”

  “Nope, lady, you very kindly invited me in. Now you’re making up shit.”

  “You say you are government worker.”

  “I am. Part-time.”

  She swallows. “Yakiv is also government worker.”

  Well now. “U.S. government?”

  She nods.

  “Do tell,” I say.

  Bleeding under control, we’re sitting in the living room, across from one another. I’m in the chair; she’s on the couch. I get this notion like we’re about to go to the prom.

  There’s a nervous energy but I dig on it. I like this woman. So much so that I want her to stay okay. I’m watching her for signs of concussion and thus far she looks like she’s recovering fine. Keeps pressing the sheet to her head, checking it.

  “Hey, yo, listen. Stop doing that, it’s clotted, you’ll mess it up.”

  She doesn’t respond. I’ve fetched her a glass of water, from which she takes a long drink. Wipes her mouth with her sleeve.

  “Yakiv is—”

  “A killer and a rapist, I know.”

  She shakes her head impatiently. “Mafia, back in Ukraine. Assume he start with running goods, not legal stuff. Guns, drugs. Then it was people. Before this ‘Occurrence’ …”

  I nod emphatically. Trying to vibe: skip this part. Everybody has a Valentine’s Occurrence story—where were you when, how you felt, how you’re feeling now, etc., etc. I’m not the least bit interested in such touchyfeely nostalgia, and I don’t want to hear it.

  But Iveta doesn’t go there. She continues, “Transport mostly girls, some boys, but mostly girls. For, you know …”

  Yup, I know. That was a worldwide epidemic.

  “Tell them they have job at nice restaurant or hospital, whatever. Then takes away the passport. Puts them in apartment …”

  “I know what you’re describing. Tragic.” I say it and mean it.

  “Me too, I was one of these girls.” Her face flares and she looks at me accusingly. “But I never did anything like that. I was student, trained as nurse, speech therapist you know, I have some skills. He was talking very poorly, like with a stutter. I can fix this. Also, he likes me very much. So I become his girlfriend, and later in Las Vegas we are married. God, he was so drunk. Well, okay, me too.”

  A wan smile. She takes a Newport out of an open pack on the coffee table. Offers me one.

  This is a loopy deal. We’re, like, hanging out. I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m allergic. To menthols.”

  “Oh. So is it okay if I … ?”

  “Yes, it doesn’t bother me secondhand. Plus, your house.”

  True this. She fires it up, exhales.

  “I should say to you, leave. Why haven’t I said leave?”

  I shrug. “I have a gun.”

  “Yes. What is your name?”

  “Dewey.”

  “That’s a strange name.”

  “It’s African.”

  She shrugs. “Dewey, I don’t know how you’re involved with this, but these people …” She trails off.

  “Well, I’m a freelancer. I’m not tied to one thing or the other, per se.”

  “Yes, but in the end we all work for somebody. I should re
ally check on Dmitry. May I go do this?”

  “Of course.”

  Iveta gets up and exits. I scan the room.

  Really and truly: the joint is depressing, and is in possession of not one item of interest. Amazing how people choose to live.

  I take the opportunity to bust out some PurellTM. The only thing that could make this place more depressing would be the presence of a cat.

  I hate cats. I really fucking hate cats.

  Subdued voices from upstairs.

  I take a pill. Have to chill, gotta destress. I can’t believe I started thinking about cats. Cats are satanic. Choke on a piece of steak in your apartment alone, and your beloved cat will walk all over your corpse and eat the chunk of meat straight out of your dead throat—

  “Dewey, don’t move.”

  Sweet Christ. I’m an idiot.

  Iveta is in the doorway, aiming what looks like a Sig Sauer P220 at my head. Naturally.

  “Place the pistol on the floor and kick it away.”

  Goddamnit. I could probably take her out first, but I do as I’m told. I don’t want to hurt this woman.

  The gun skitters away, under the fake rosewood IKEA entertainment center. I hate anything called an “entertainment center,” you just know it can only look shitty. I hate IKEA. It’s an inhuman environment, toxic. I wonder about the IKEA in Red Hook, Brooklyn, tomblike, abandoned.

  “Stand up slowly.”

  I start to get up, perhaps a bit too quickly. I’m anxious and unhappy with my performance here.

  “Slowly! I said stand up, but do it slowly!” She shouts this, her voice cracking on the “up.”

  Dmitry peers around her legs. He’s wearing a backpack, and holds a largish Reebok sports bag.

  They’re going to run.

  I stand, as slow as I conceivably can. Iveta tells Dmitry something, and he scurries out the front door. Yeah, they’re gonna jet.

  “I get it,” I say. “I won’t follow you …”

  As I’m finishing this sentence, I observe (too late now) that she has shifted her aim to my leg. Without pause, Iveta shoots me in the knee.