The Dewey Decimal System

by Nathan Larson

  “So, my man. Kindly don’t do anything stupid …” Which is overkill because this fellow isn’t capable of much at this point.

  I create a tight tourniquet above his leg wound, tie it off. Wrap up his wrecked hand, loosely. I feel a tad bit bad about the hand, that’s not going to ever be remotely the same should he live through this. Which, alas, I couldn’t allow anyway. Ah well.

  Word to the motherfucking wise: don’t be a punkass creep who prowls around other people’s homes, goes through their stuff, then waits for them in the dark. People might rightly assume you mean them harm and react as they see fit.

  Squatting next to the guy, I put the flashlight in his face. His eyes dilate, which I take as a positive.

  “Hey. Sunshine. I don’t dig getting shot at. Especially by a bunch of unattractive dudes.” The man’s breathing is labored, noisy. He may be going into shock, so I speed it up. “And I don’t dig it when people go through my stuff. What do I call you?”

  For the time being, I lay the three bodies out on the roof, feet-toward-park so they don’t roll down the slight incline. Morning showed up an hour ago, shaping up to be one of those opaque cloud-covered migraine-type days that slow cook you like a boiled egg.

  I’m just too freaking tired to do anything else with these folks, and I have yet to deal with my ear, beyond duct-taping a ball of polo shirt to my head. I am stripped to the waist, and I chew off a chunk of yak jerky, which is the consistency of tar but does the job of keeping me standing.

  The Empire State Building is looking majestic as ever—despite the 2/14 massacre on the observation deck, it appears exactly the same as it did prior. Why shouldn’t it? Likewise the Chrysler Building. What happened there? I don’t remember.

  From this vantage, I’ll be able to toss the corpses into the garbage pits in Bryant Park, whereupon they will be burned, hopefully unnoticed. It seemed like a good plan earlier, but by the time I dragged the third man up here I was close to passing out from the exertion. Maybe I’ve lost blood as well.

  Thankfully for those of us who need to wrap up dead bodies and suchlike, painters had been working on the main hall at the time of the building’s evacuation, so there’s plenty of burlap tarps with which to swaddle bodies, like babies, should the need arise.

  I leave them there, three bundles of joy.

  Anyhoo, I didn’t get much out of the main man. But what little I did get seems pretty promising: his name, his ID, and a photograph.

  I shuffle down the stairwell, and as I reach my floor, I pull the smudged scrap of paper out of my back pocket. As he was dying, I asked if I could do anything for him. The man said yes, tell his family he’s sorry. Hence the occasion to obtain a written name. I never got to ask where his family is, not that I have time for tangents like that.

  The ID card has him down as Goran Milankovich, in the employ of Do Rite Construction, with an address on Little West 12th. Likewise, his two buddies carry cards reflecting the same employer.

  I peer at the scrap again. The lettering in Goran’s hand is a form of Cyrillic that I assume is Serbian, but apparently my reading comprehension isn’t up to the same level as my command of the spoken language. This happens sometimes.

  The biggest surprise, however, is the photo. It’s a crappy print on regular paper, but it’s clearly Iveta Shapsko. She’s quite a bit younger, and is smiling for the camera. She wears a sundress or a strappy loose top (it’s torso up), and a body of water is visible behind her. There’s a low wall as well, painted blue and white, vibing Mediterranean. On the flip side are more of these Cyrillic scribbles. I get goose bumps as I clock the English characters, 42nd/5th Ave.

  My address. On the back of a photo of Iveta.

  So, despite my exhaustion, the last thing I do before giving my ear some attention is to pull out the Library of Congress Russian Transliteration Table and check this text against the chart of all known Cyrillic alphabets. Just to be positive. In about five minutes I’m sure the writing is of Serbian origin, describing the library’s entrances.

  What’s with all the Serbs all of a sudden?

  Close the book, thinking goddamnit. Yakiv spoke of a Serbian man, the father of Iveta’s kids. Was it Branko Jokanovic? I think I have that correct. A “war criminal,” no less. Sounds like a joke, dubious at best. But no more so than any other detail of this assignment, about which I’ve gotten lots of information but essentially know nothing. I don’t even know what the assignment is anymore.

  As I lope toward the bathroom (the water is still running somehow, tainted, it’s a sort of amber; hell no, I wouldn’t even allow it to touch my clothes), I wonder why these Eastern European people can’t keep their local drama confined to the fucked-up region from whence they came. Always some kind of static or shadiness going down in their circles, it always boils over, poisoning other citizens’ business …

  Stop. I need to check this mind-set. I realize that it’s exactly this kind of xenophobic thinking that was exhibited by villains like J. Edgar Hoover, certain members of the LAPD in the mid-twentieth century, Bush II, the KKK. Slippery slope.

  I peel off the latex gloves and drop them in the trash. Tap my key. Assess my ear. Call it barely grazed. Little tiny bit of cartilage is missing, that’s it. Lucky stuff. Not much blood either.

  Applying some rubbing alcohol I consider whether it’s wise to stay here and sleep. The answer to that is of course not. I douse some paper towels in the alcohol, take down my pants, and scrub my entire body. It hurts but it makes me want to sleep less.

  Viewing myself in the mirror, it’s a fact that I look like a bit of an undead train wreck. Ribs protrude, I can see the top of my pelvis. My neck looks like a suede rope. I need to be taking better care of myself, finding more consistent food sources.

  Meanwhile, I have to figure out what the fuck to do.

  The System has a basic tenet, which is really just the same kind of logic they beat into us in the military. When you’re lost, make an inventory of what you know.

  Item one: the district attorney has hired me to kill Yakiv Shapsko, which he assumes will occur today. He is monitoring me electronically.

  Item two: Yakiv Shapsko has hired me to kill his wife Iveta. If I fail to do this he will kill me. Likewise, Shapsko is monitoring me electronically.

  Item three: some Serbian entity, who may or may not be Iveta Shapsko’s ex-flame/captor Branko Jokanovic, is looking for Iveta and myself, and has somehow connected her to either me or this address or both.

  Item four: Iveta Shapsko’s location is not known.

  Pulling my pants back on, I wonder where my shoes are and remember setting them down in the stairwell. With the briefcase.

  In about three minutes I’m dressed again, and I’ve swapped out shirts. I had blood on my collar, maybe it’s salvageable but it won’t do to walk around looking all nasty.

  I crack open the manila folder Yakiv gave me.

  Iveta Shapsko (née Balodis), aged thirty-nine, Latvian national, height five foot six inches, weight 127 pounds, brown hair, green eyes … Hold on.

  My gear is strewn everywhere but I locate the file the DA gave me. Plop it next to Yakiv’s. They’re identical, down to the photo of her in the aisle of a grocery store. It’s the same information, the same font, the same format. Must have come from the same source. Identical.

  Not totally identical. In addition to the location in Queens, I see Yakiv’s file on Iveta contains an additional address.

  Okay, that’s odd.

  It’s an eyesore of a high-rise at Columbus Circle: 1 Central Park West, the Trump Tower. I can’t come up with a connection there.

  Time to get organized. I locate my shoulder holster, within which I house both my Beretta and the new Sig Sauer. The Serb’s gun is one of those CZ-99s. I’ve heard good things about them but I appreciate how that Sig performed, and of course my Beretta is like family. I stash the CZ-99 with the rest of my shit.

  As an afterthought I get out my Kevlar vest, despite the heat outs
ide, which only serves to make me look like I have a normal-sized torso.

  Otherwise: I repack the briefcase with a six-pack of PurellTM, a green box cutter, extra surgical gloves, plenty of ammo, the goggles, flashlight, camera, my files, toothbrush, a ziplock bag of pistachios, jerky, and two pairs of underwear and socks. Confirm I have the key, front pants pocket. Both of Iveta’s files in hand.

  I repack my kit bag and place it back in its nook.

  It’s 7:45 a.m. Don’t know what I’m going to do when that wall clock, which is probably as old as the building, dies. And I still don’t know my next move. Fuck it; if I sit still I’m gonna sleep, and if I sleep I’ll likely get myself dead.

  Press my hat back on, wince as it touches my bad ear, pop a pill, and point myself at the rear exit.

  Outside, that smell. The Big Stench.

  As I pass the burning garbage pits, I chuck Iveta’s files into the flames.

  Left, left, and left again, letting the System be my guide. I flop westward almost as far as one can go, and hang yet another left. To breathe is akin to inhaling a hot liquid plastic. If I wasn’t used to it, I’d fucking choke.

  Pickup truck rattles past, the open bed full of Chinese men supporting a slab of marble between them. A couple give me hard looks. Fuck those dudes. At least they know what they have to get done today, however menial. I’m still trying to get my schedule straight and nobody’s going to be giving me a helping hand.

  Regardless, I’m heading down Eleventh Avenue. Smelling the Stench, smelling the contaminated water.

  Working on a plan.

  I got to figure the DA expects to see me drop in on Yakiv, so one future stop on the gimp train is Odessa Expedited, which by chance I will nearly walk past on my way further downtown.

  Cause first: let’s have a look at Do Rite on Little West 12th and see what gives.

  Past the car dealerships, where fossil fuel–only Lamborghinis and Bentleys collect dust. Past the husks of fancy restaurants and hot spots gone cold and empty. I pass the bones of Mario Batali’s last and least successful eatery.

  Brings to mind the Midtown Militia. In my opinion, they’re most likely one of these urban myths, like the Central Park Sasquatch. Keep people scared. Control mechanism. But if these tales are to be believed, you’ve got a roving pack of former hedge-fund managers, Wall Street types, armed to the gills with carbines and shotguns, who will open up on anything resembling an official vehicle or individual. The story goes, these men and women saw the writing on the wall precrash, and converted their collective wealth into gold bars. Which they hold in storage in an underground vault, somewhere near the former UN building. Hoping to wait it out.

  You hear stories, stories about intrepid treasure hunters who set out, like Cortés, seeking the fabled City of Gold. And you hear stories of these brave souls washing up on Brighton Beach, their bloated, waterlogged bodies riddled to mesh by .45 caliber holes.

  And of a patrol, usually on Madison Avenue, stumbling upon a set of decapitated heads, mounted on the poles that formerly demarcated bus stops for the notoriously slow M1, 2, or 3 uptown local routes.

  Who can say? Anyway, I’ve got plenty more to worry about at the moment.

  Here we are. Hang a left on to Little West 12th Street. It’s early yet, but there’s no activity whatsoever, which is surprising. A forklift in the middle of the street.

  I past the old Standard Hotel, which shows signs of inhabitation. Trust it: the designer hotels will be the last to go, cause the folks with the money need somewhere to lay their crowns.

  The address I have is 14 Little West 12th, and I come upon the spot, the street number spray-painted in yellow across the metal pull-down shutter. Closed up tight. Is it a Sunday? Does anyone still pay attention to that stuff?

  To the left of the garage-style entrance is a glass door with the number 14 on it. There’s a buzzer marked Do Rite, among others. I try the door, locked. Press random buzzers, avoiding the one for Do Rite.

  Nobody home. After waiting a spell, what the hell, I take out the Beretta and smash a hole in the glass. Remove my jacket, wrap it around my hand, reach in, and after some groping I open the door from the inside. Straightforward stuff.

  I mount the stairs, putting my jacket back on, grimacing at my goddamn leg … On the second landing, down a narrow hallway, I locate a door with a plaque announcing Do Rite. The building is dead quiet and dark. I take this opportunity to take a pill. Note: I have three pills left.

  What the hell, I pull on surgical gloves and knock three times, hard. Wait, with my ear to the door, holding the Beretta loosely.

  Pretty sure nobody’s around. I back up and brace myself against the wall. The door splinters on my fourth kick; the knob falls off and rolls down the hall.

  Not very subtle, but I never did learn to pick a lock.

  Dark in there. I open my case, get the flashlight, turn it on. Feel my key nervously. Proceed inside.

  Threadbare wall-to-wall carpet, smelling of mold. Office Depot file boxes stacked up, flanking the hallway. The boxes are dated, I run the light over them for a good while. Seemingly they run from 2003 to present. I move on.

  A larger room, a couple cubicles with manual typewriters and cheap chairs. On the walls, an idyllic looking beach scene, with Cyprus in a flowery script. A musclecars calendar, with a photograph of a Dodge Charger, open to the correct month and year. Also, a map of the lower half of the city, with four white thumbtacks, all marking points in the financial district.

  Another door leads me into an office, sunlight entering through diminutive windows. I switch off the flashlight and scan the room.

  Rather orderly, lots of papers in English and two different types of Cyrillic—one I recognize as Russian, the other is the Serbian variant. A small workspace with a desktop PC and what looks like an Orthodox icon.

  I take a second to flip through the nearest stack of papers … invoices, etc., correspondence, all legit business stuff, pretty dry, in English, Russian, and Serbian, all of which are signed by one Brian Petrovic.

  I scratch at my new microchip, thinking.

  Then my eye is drawn to the middle of the room. A coffee table, upon which stands an intricate scale model of what is unmistakably the Freedom Tower. I look at the model for a second, trying to figure out what’s wrong.

  Then I see it: there’s an extra tower, made for some reason out of what looks like rosewood. I nudge it lightly and it wobbles. It’s loose, not part of the mock-up at all.

  I pick up the box carefully. It’s about three inches wide and five inches tall. Smells like rosewood. I give it a gentle shake, something shifts. Turn it over a couple times. It’s featureless, save an engraved symbol that even I recognize as a Byzantine-looking cross, with that small extra crossbar running diagonally near the base. Could be Greek Orthodox. Could be Serbian Orthodox too. I can’t help it, all this arcane crap rattling around in my head. I like to read.

  It’s not immediately obvious how you open it, but after futzing with it for ten seconds it becomes clear that one side is actually a slat. It slides open down the length of the box, and I’m looking at something behind a thick plastic window. Again I’m slow on the uptake.

  A couple seconds later I realize I’m looking at a mummified hand, on a patch of red velvet. A very, very old mummified hand, the color and texture of a dried apricot.

  I want to assume it’s simian, but examining the fingernails … a gibbon? Nope. I’m no archeologist, but I’m gonna say it’s a human hand.

  An Orthodox cross, a human hand …

  At this very moment, I hear muffled voices. Sounds like two or more individuals, coming from the hall entrance. One of the two gives a “shh” and they go silent.

  Shit. I open my briefcase and place the wood box inside. No idea why exactly, but anytime you find a human body part anywhere, it’s worth paying special attention to. Just speaking from experience.

  Actually, I think this particular body part is a unique item that might come in
… handy?

  Ouch, sorry.

  Carefully now, I walk over and ease the door to the office shut, turn the lock. I take up a position to the left and cock the Beretta. Put my good ear to the piece of plywood that serves as the office’s wall.

  I’m there about three minutes when the doorknob is quietly turned, found to be locked, and jiggled quietly. On the other side of the wall I hear mumbling. Nothing happens for a few moments.

  Then I see the plastic of an ID laminate slide through the crack between door and wall, just above the knob. I realize what they’re doing and tense up for it. The plastic comes down slowly and pops the lock.

  As soon as I see male hands pushing the door open, I bring my gun butt down hard on the forearm. There’s a yelp of anguish, he tries to bring a Glock up with the other hand, I crack him on the knuckles, the gun falls to the carpet. I then get a hold of his arm, pull him toward me, twisting his hand up and behind his back. I turn him around, jerk him close, and stick my gun in his ear. All this and I’ve still got a two-fingered grip on the briefcase.

  I’m now facing the barrel of a pistol too, behind that a woman, maybe early thirties, brunette, dressed in a no-nonsense blue business suit. She’s got some subcontinental Asia in there somewhere, her skin has a nice tawny sheen.

  The man in my arms is wearing a cheap blue two-piece suit. Their attire screams “government” to me, but we’ll see.

  “Drop your weapon,” she says, sounding a little shaky. “Drop your weapon or I’ll be forced to shoot. We’re federal agents.”

  I smile—yes sir, it’s amateur hour.

  “I’m happy to drop my weapon, if you’d care to drop yours first. As you can see, I’ve got your man here and I’m not yet emotionally attached to him.”

  She’s blinking and her hands begin to shake a bit.

  The dude wants to be hero, says: “Anne, don’t you dare stand down. Take the shot. You can do it.” Too many Bruckheimer movies. He’s a small guy, he should take it easy.

  Anne is trying to rally. “I said drop your weapon.”