I blank him.
“Mr. Decimal. I have treated you with dignity, let you keep your things. Can you perhaps consider to return the kindness?”
I say nothing. My briefcase is wedged between my feet.
He peers out the window again. “This is so very tiresome. I would like a coffee.”
He taps the driver on the shoulder, tells him something. The power locks come down with a soft thump, and the engine starts humming.
“Hey,” I say, hand on the door.
We jet away from the curb.
“Come with me to Brooklyn,” says Brian. “It’s the place for the best coffee.”
With the bridges out save the Queensboro, you have basically one choice when it comes to getting out to Brooklyn. That’s the Battery Tunnel.
I don’t like the idea of an enclosed space, especially when said space is a structurally compromised underground tube, with ungodly amounts of water pressure from the East River tirelessly attempting to crush it. Don’t like it at all.
As we zip down the West Side Highway, virtually free of traffic, I am treated to a nice view of the Freedom Tower construction site, where work apparently continues apace even on a Sunday, and even in the rain.
This might be a kick for some, but it’s strictly tourist stuff for those of us who have grown weary with what has been nothing more than a construction site for seemingly eons. Believe it or not, there are those pilgrims who still journey down here and weep for strangers, mourn America’s ravaged virginity.
What a colossal waste of time and tears.
I note with amusement that the Navigator’s GPS system, in a mode that indicates places of interest apparently, demarcates this area to our left as GRND 0. Must be an old car.
Battery Park City flashes by, and without fair warning we’re in the tunnel, yellow lights coloring us jaundiced and sickly. I grip the door handle and turn my face away from “Brian” or whoever this man is. Don’t want to be perceived as a pussy. I clench my eyes tight, give my key a quick check.
Think about the System: yes, it works, it protects: odd-even motorway designations, even when I’m not in the driver’s seat, a good omen. West Side Highway, a.k.a. 9A … and I know this death hole will deposit us onto 278, a.k.a. the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
Of course, upon its construction, this strip of underwater roadway was known as 478, thought to be the mouth of a new road for which its planners had big ideas, never to see fruition. I only know this because I read too much. I would think the System can overlook this bit of trivia and still consider me in compliance. I don’t know why this tunnel disturbs me so completely, when I’m perfectly content to ride the subway.
It’s all moot when I hear the rat-a-tat of raindrops on the windshield once more. I take a long, deep breath. Wasn’t so bad. Luckily, nobody’s a talker here in this car. I sneak a pill.
We take the ramp and merge onto 278 eastbound, unhindered by traffic, blast past the once-genteel neighborhoods of Carroll Gardens, Cobble Hill, and Brooklyn Heights, dipping under the Promenade, to our left and across the water are sweeping views of lower Manhattan … If you ignore the disemboweled bridges and absence of traffic, it could be 2011 again.
Up and around the bend, I get a really good look at the wreckage of the Brooklyn Bridge. A couple cranes stand unattended. Never seen it from this angle, only the Manhattan side; there’s bits left standing, but you can see how the explosives must have been spaced in order to achieve this kind of damage. Not for the first time do I admire, just from a logistical standpoint, the exhaustive thought that went into 2/14.
Past the industrial-turned-fancy-residential area known as Dumbo, and a look at the remains of the Manhattan Bridge—again, I haven’t seen things from this angle. The scope, the scale, it’s pretty astounding.
Past the Navy Yard, which had been in mid-rethink, now abandoned for more immediate concerns. Northeast over Flushing Avenue, up a ways and to our left the shipwreck that is the Williamsburg Bridge, completing the trinity of dead bridges, through the once-teeming neighborhood of Williamsburg, all hipsterdom up and gone, only the Dominican workers remain and even then only sporadically. The Hasidic community still holds it down, impenetrable as ever, and not quick to walk away from their sprawling cache of real estate, however worthless it might be now.
We exit at Meeker Avenue, turning on to Humboldt, which becomes McGuinness Boulevard, proceed to Huron Street, take a left, and come to a stop at an unmarked storefront near the corner of Manhattan Avenue. Unlike the more upmarket neighborhoods in Brooklyn, the bulk of the buildings around here sport metal awnings, shingled sidings, and the occasional glimpse of vinyl. It’s a nice enough area, I’m just saying it’s not known for its architecture.
Haven’t been out here in ages and am surprised to see babushka ladies toddling along with loaves of bread and salami poking out of their bags, generally as many people on the street as one might see in Manhattan. A few shops even look like they might be in operation. Guess the Poles work for cheap. Good for them.
I’m hustled into the storefront. Jesus, the smell out here is even worse than in central Manhattan, if that’s possible. I grip my briefcase.
Dim inside and thick with cigarette smoke. Automated slot machines line the walls on both sides and ancient men and women feed them with coins. Timewarp ahoy.
Hustled toward the back, through a swinging door and into yet another era, one that I’ve only ever seen in films, everything sepia toned, dusty wooden floor, wainscoting, a wet bar, and striped wallpaper. In the center of the room, a round table, over which the single light source, an Arts and Crafts–style brass lamp, hangs. The table sports an outsized MILLER TIME ashtray. That and the television mounted in the far corner are the only nods to anything remotely contemporary.
“Sit,” says the man who calls himself Brian. “Agata!” he calls.
The heavies fade into corners. I sit. Set the briefcase between my feet.
An elderly form that I can only identify as female by her dress materializes from behind the wet bar, scaring the shit out of me. The crone plops espresso cups down in front of Brian and myself, saucers with tiny spoons. She is almost completely bald and sports a huge tumor on the back of her neck.
“This neighborhood,” says Brian, as if reading my mind. “So much cancer. You know why?”
I have to say I am completely enjoying this scene, it’s an absolute trip. I nearly forget that this is all for real. Nearly.
“No, Brian, why so much cancer?”
He bangs his loafer on the floor. “Oil. Just below this floor. Below the street. Everywhere here. So, so. Biggest spill, until BP Gulf, in United States history.”
Oh yes. That rings a bell actually … “Right, Standard Oil? Pre-Exxon?”
Brian shrugs. “So, this detail I don’t know. I only know, a lot of sick people here.”
“Benzene.”
“Who?”
“Chemical compound, used as an additive in gasoline. Carcinogenic. Causes cancer.”
“Are you a scientist?”
“No, I just get in a lot of reading.”
Brian shakes his head and grimaces like I just told him something distasteful.
The harpy is back with a Turkish-looking coffee pot.
“Very strong, hmm, we call it domestic coffee. Very good, very strong. Extremely healthy. Vitamins.” He’s pouring for me, thick stuff, sure, like the Turkish variety.
Old lady slams down a bag of Domino white sugar.
“Take sugar?” Brian dips his spoon into the bag, transfers the white stuff two, three times.
“No thanks.” I sip at it but it’s scalding hot. I blow on the cup, set it back down.
“Okay,” says Brian, stirring vigorously. “So, so. Why do you choose to protect this woman?”
“Which woman?”
“Please. So.”
“Hey, why don’t you all tell me? You’ve been following me around for who knows how long.”
“Why do you try to
protect her? You know what she is? Hmmm?” He takes a sip. Another grimace.
I say: “I’m not protecting anybody. Save myself.”
“You would not protect her if you really knew this woman. She, she would not protect you.”
“We can go in circles like this all day, I don’t care.”
“Okay. Well, let me tell you, we can help each other.”
“No, I doubt that.” I sip my coffee.
“So, so. You want work?”
“I’m fine in that area.”
“Oh yes? Let me tell you. I give you the best job, you do absolutely nothing, make lots of money. Sound good?”
“Sure. Just like that, and you give me a job?”
“Yes, just like that.”
“Tell me more, Brian.”
“Construction site, you go in the morning, relax, have a coffee; at night, so, you go home.”
“And I suppose you’re hiring me on the basis of how good I am at being tailed, or maybe simply my skills vis-à-vis relaxing and having coffee? No catch? No quid pro quo?”
He grins. “Quid pro quo. Latin. Yes, there is always quid pro quo. I have already given you a service in not disarming you. A show of trust, correct? We agree?”
Shrug. “Yeah, agreed. You’ve shown some trust. I told you I appreciate it.”
Brian nods. “So. You tell me where this woman is.”
“Ah, I get it …” I pause, calculating this thing, continue, “Let me see, I actually might have an idea of whom you’re talking about. Yeah, I think it’s coming back to me.”
“Please, with these games. So, so, do you want to have an arrangement or no?”
“Well it’s like this, see.” I slide my cup out of the way and lean forward. “I know a woman, the one I think you keep mentioning.”
“Okay, now we are having a conversation.”
“But I’m very sorry to say, I don’t know where she is. That’s the truth. In fact, I might as well be asking you, cause I’m looking for her too.”
Brian considers this, staring into the middle distance. Then: “I don’t believe you. So, for the last time. Where is the woman?”
“This is unfortunate, you know, because I honestly, hand to God, do not know where she is.”
Brian casts his eyes left and right, says something in Serbian. I sense movement in the corners and I’m pulling both guns and standing, squeezing off two bullets apiece, boom boom in stereo. I’ve never attempted this kind of rock-star move before, but I’m feeling pretty fancy, and I’ve been thinking about it since we sat down.
Both big men are hit, and both big men go down hard. After this, it gets very quiet. My ears are ringing. Gotta say I’m kinda surprised that panned out.
Brian takes another sip of his coffee. Finishes it off with an “ah.” Showing me he’s gangster like that. “So, so,” he says, “I see I have wildly miscalculated. Made a very stupid mistake, letting you keep these guns.”
I nod. “Yeah, looks that way.”
He tilts his head to the right. A loud crack, coming from his neck. “Foolish old man I am. Making such mistakes. It was a gesture of peace. I am … an optimist, this is my failing. Will undo me in the end.” He coughs, eyes on me. “So. But then again, I have been told you are a psychotic.”
I don’t disagree. We look at each other. One of the heavies is murmuring in the corner.
“So. Please, put him down,” says Brian.
“I’m sorry?”
“He may have failed me, but I don’t like suffering that is not needed. This situation, I take full blame for my bad decisions. Please.”
Okay.
Without taking my eyes off Brian, I walk sideways over to the big guy, glad I can’t really see his eyes in this light, and I plant one in his forehead. He seizes up, and is still.
“And please, yes, the other man.”
I cross the room, again keeping Brian in focus, pointblank shoot the prone heavy, dead or dying, straight in the brain-pan.
Brian has a half-smile playing across his face. “You are a born killer. So, so, I see that now. That’s very sad. Mental illness, this is always sad.”
I swallow. I don’t like people talking smack about that which they know nothing. Making assumptions. “No sir, I defend myself when I need to. By my math, this is the second time you have directed your people to do me harm.”
He shakes his head. “No, no. I have seen so many violent, heartbreaking things in this world. I see you too. Very natural.” Whatever. He’s on a Zen Yoda trip, says, “So, so. Maybe then this is what you’ve done to the three I sent to your home? Goran?”
I shrug. He nods.
Time to bow out. “Brian,” I tell the man, “or whoever you are, I am now leaving and I won’t be followed. Do you understand?”
“I will find you,” he answers, “and when I do, I will kill you five times over, once for each man. It will be better for you, then you can rest.”
This is when I play my trump card. Christ, I hope I’m right about this. “No you won’t, and here’s why.” I holster the Beretta, keep the Sig on him. Walk back over to the table, open my briefcase one-handed. Pull out the odd wooden box, hold it up. “Recognize this?”
Brian is very still. I’m trying to read him. “No, I do not,” he says, but his voice is a touch choked.
“Oh, so you don’t mind if I …” I place my gun against the object, cock the hammer.
“Stop,” he says. “So. Okay.”
Ha. “The hiding-in-plain-sight thing, it’s bullshit. Doesn’t work. Especially when the people digging around in there don’t know you’re hiding anything.”
Brian doesn’t respond.
“It took me a bit, but if this is what I think it is? You’ll take me seriously when I say that if you or your men come near me ever again, I will destroy this uglyass thing in a heartbeat. Trust that.”
Brian remains still. He’s growing ashen.
“I’m pretty sure,” I say, “that your countryfolk are looking for this object. And I’m very, very sure they would not take kindly to thieves, not with something so precious as this shit.”
Brian speaks: “You are the thief, Mr. Decimal.”
“Well, you say tomato. I’m calling this life insurance. I don’t have a fancy fucking car and a bunch of big dudes at my beck and call. Remember, you started this jive, not me.”
Brian is silent.
“So now, I’m walking out this door, and if I get the slightest sense that anybody is following me, or should you attempt anything silly, this here thing gets thrown on the fire. Understand?”
Brian nods calmly. “I understand. So, so. You have my word.”
I reopen my briefcase, slip the object back in, eyes and weapon trained on Brian, who looks like he’s meditating. “Great. Good luck to you, Brian.” I back toward the door, turn, and exit.
Walk swiftly toward the main entrance. The front room has mostly cleared out (gunshots will have that effect), the few old-timers who remain don’t give me so much as a glance.
Out on the street, holy God, the air, the Stench, it’s like a physical blow. Unlike the other day, if anything the rain amplifies its power.
I try to pull it together.
I look right and left. Start moving just to put some distance between me and the storefront. I consult my internal map, which does Brooklyn slightly worse than Manhattan. I note the G train, maybe three blocks away, dismiss it, they don’t run that ridiculous route anymore.
Jesus. The G train.
Let’s be real, Brooklyn and Queens: the G train was useless in the best of times.
Go to pop a pill: no dice.
Bone dry.
Oh no. Oh no. Oh Christ.
I check my pockets, turn them inside out, palm the key, pat myself down, nothing. Must’ve dropped them. Or did I just run out? How could I have let this happen?
Well. Contemplate the old-school slot house/coffee bar. I can’t go back in there to have a look. Fucking cock-up. Have to get to the DA
. Have to get to Centre Street. He’ll be pissed off, but what’s new there?
It’s probably psychological, but the shakes set in immediately. I reckon I have about two hours before my heart explodes.
Two hours. I have to chill it out. Plenty of time. I breathe. I breathe.
I do a little PurellTM, suck some more hot plastic air, push my hat down against the rain, and set off unsteadily, west. At least the general direction I need to head.
The big thing, you know, is not to panic.
I’m probably not the first to think it, but I’ve got to get the hell out of Brooklyn.
After John the Baptist kick de bucket at the hands of King Herod, his head was presented to Herod’s daughter Salome on a silver platter, to her great delight.
Salome was one sick bitch.
But hey, most people know that much. What is lesser known is that poor John’s body was then hacked into multiple pieces, and spread throughout all corners of the classical world.
The city of Istanbul claims to have John’s arm, and a chunk of his skull. The Egyptians claim the very same thing. Possession of John’s much-abused head is claimed by no less than five nationalities: the French, the Turks (again), the Germans, the Syrians, and the Italians. The township of Halifax in the UK even claims to have the dude’s face, and in fact the very name of the place is derived from the Old English halig, meaning holy, and fax, meaning face.
And very much apropos the current situation: John the Baptist’s right hand is said to be held by the Serbian Orthodox Church.
The hand that baptized Christ Himself.
Believe it or not, that’s what I reckon I have bouncing around in my briefcase, as I stumble-swerve up Manhattan Avenue.
Apparently, Branko/Brian subscribes to this notion as well. Because I’m not being followed anymore. Am I?
I swivel and scope an old couple, white people, who recoil, even from across the damn road, and hustle off down a side street.
Look for shifty faces on foot or in cars, seeing none. I no longer think I’m being followed. Though honestly, my senses are swiftly becoming way too compromised to tell.
I taste iron in my mouth. I’m chomping on my tongue like it’s yak jerky. Which in all truth tasted better than my tongue.
The Dewey Decimal System Page 11
