The Dewey Decimal System

by Nathan Larson

  Making my way up Manhattan Avenue, likely the first black man ever to traverse this neighborhood in Brooklyn with the hand of John the Baptist in his pocket.

  Things are all loopy, and I must get it together. Nobody’s gonna do it for me.

  Come on, Dewey, you just killed two hulking knots of muscle simultaneously, John Woo style. Outfoxed a for-real war criminal, if indeed that’s who that cat is. Even if the idiot let me hang on to my guns, so the exit was just dumb luck.

  You’re a freaking badass soldier man. You can do this much.

  A minivan blasts by me, I jump away from the curb. I see a beard, hat, earlocks. The van goes straight through the lights that blink yellow yellow yellow without a glance or a pause.

  Tactics. Get ahead of me. Too easy. The beard, hat, earlock disguise, cheap and easy. No, no, no. I tell myself to move it. Just regular citizens doing regular citizen stuff. Jews and their minivans.

  Perspective starts to shift on its axis and I stumble sideways. Straighten myself out. I take my heart rate and count to ten, System style. My pulse is through the roof. This is bad.

  The rain has stopped, I barely register this and do not care. I’ve swung north because I want to find the Pulaski Bridge, which divides Brooklyn and Queens. Thinking I’m out of pills I’m out of pills I’m out of pills. Fuck.

  I would hijack a vehicle but I’m far too shaky to drive. All I’m seeing are industrial machines anyway, forklifts.

  Moving through a two-dimensional warehouse area, nothing to see even without my peripheral vision, which is fading fast, I’m out of pills, adrift in Brooklyn of all things. I’m not lost, though: I tweak left on Ash Street, I think I’m pretty close.

  Limbs are stiffening up. My jaw.

  I’m out of pills. A killer migraine squats behind my left eye. This is not good. I close my hand over my key, even this is not helpful. I can’t connect to the System; nothing’s working.

  Pass a shuttered business called Pom Wonderful. What the hell could that be? Koreans, Chinese? I need to distract myself, I can’t lose it out here. The wildlife will get me for sure. If my heart doesn’t explode first.

  Out of pills out of pills out of pills. I see the bridge. I see it. Can I get up on it from street level? I don’t know.

  Thank Christ, there’s a metal stairwell. Can I manage it? Don’t see an option. I make the stairs, slip on the wet metal, crack my shin on a stair, pull myself up, fucking drag myself up, one flight, two flights, and a third set deposits me, blinking, blind, up on the ramp to the Pulaski Bridge.

  The fucking air, the ambient filth, it’s killing me. I drop my briefcase, go to pick it up, fall. Get my hand on the case and I convulse. It’s really bad now. I think I start calling for help. Anybody. Come on. I can’t go further. If they’re tailing me I’m finished, and I don’t care.

  I go flat on my stomach. I think of Iveta. Thinking, I’m sorry, so sorry. I tried. Somebody with a loudspeaker trying to get my attention, but God kills the lights, and my mind just strolls away.

  I thought I might just wander around,” I say to the faceless woman in the main office at Woodlawn Cemetery, “and see if I can find the, uh, site. I won’t be long.”

  “Sir,” she replies, “there are over 300,000 interment lots at this facility. It’s all computerized. Might I see your lot card?”

  I check my back pockets.

  I check my jacket pockets.

  I check my front pants pocket, feeling her eyes on me, finding only a key, feeling the panic making its way up my spine.

  “Just a moment,” I say to her. “I’m sure I have it here somewhere …”

  Ammonium carbonate.

  I sputter and gasp and realize my eyes are open.

  I’m looking at a young man in military garb, who withdraws the vial of smelling salts.

  “He’s up,” says the soldier. “Sir!”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, that’s not …” I manage.

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  I lift my head. I’m halfway inside an Army Aggressor— another one? Outside is a depressing-looking stretch of elevated road. A bridge, I’m on a bridge. A couple other soldiers stand around, looking tired.

  “Sir, do you have a medical condition we might need to be aware of?”

  I look at the boy. Earnest and black.

  He’s me, before the Devil stole my soul.

  “I … take medication.”

  “Sir, you lost consciousness. Do you have a specific medical condition that you can relate to me so we can better help you? What is the medication for?”

  “It keeps my heart from exploding.”

  The kid looks at me quizzically. “Sir, are you saying you have a heart condition?”

  “No, I ran out of med—”

  “Washington,” says another soldier from the front of the vehicle. “Wanted on the ’com.”

  “Sir, just relax and remain where you are. Okay?”

  I nod. The soldier ducks his head and climbs into the front of the vehicle, puts on a wireless headset. “Washington.”

  I glance at the roof of the truck. Metal crossbars forming … crosses.

  “Yes sir, we have him here.”

  Pause. I hear a helicopter, it’s far off. Or I imagine I hear a helicopter. Always, always with the helicopters.

  “He mentioned medication.”

  Pause.

  “Administer what now, sir?”

  Pause. I check for my key, it’s there. A constant.

  “For a heart condition?”

  Long pause. I fumble around … There’s the briefcase, thank God.

  “Okay … Right … I see … Okay … Yes sir … That’s right … Not a problem, sir … Yes, just a moment.” Washington climbs back to my area, says to me, “Sir, as it happens, we have some of your medication on hand, right here, so you can relax and I’ll prepare that for you.”

  He extends the headset. I have to admit the flood of relief I feel in my stomach is enough to perk me up a bit. They’ve got my stuff. Everything’s going to be fine. I put on the headset.

  “Hello.”

  “Decimal, you goddamn freak,” says the DA. “I hope you have. Some kinda fuckin overarching plan. That is obvious only to you. Cause you’re so fuckin brilliant.”

  “If you’ll let me explain—”

  “And Decimal. What. The fuck. Are you doing. In the fuck-ass borough of Brooklyn?”

  I close my eyes. “I’ve been asking myself that very question, sir.”

  There was no shucking and jiving to be done with the DA, not this time. He was buying none of it. So I came clean.

  Sort of.

  Now I slouch low in a car parked a few doors down from Odessa Expedited. I’m very aware of my ankle bracelet, the chip in my arm. I consider my options. All of which are pretty grim.

  I was abducted, I told Rosenblatt. Shapsko’s men, most likely, though I never did find out. Taken to Brooklyn. I escaped, but just barely.

  Rosenblatt was not impressed.

  The upshot: as far as the DA is concerned, I’m on very strict probation. Either I go to work and take care of this job, or I will be kicked to the curb. No more firstclass status and, most significantly, no more medication. I will be put out in the cold. Twisting in the wind. Persona non grata. And further, I will be considered hostile to city affairs, which will be taken into consideration if I encounter any authorities.

  I honestly don’t know how long I could make it under such circumstances. No matter which way I approach this thing, by far the simplest solution would be to do Yakiv.

  So be it.

  Rosenblatt has been monitoring radio communications within Yakiv’s organization, and has reason to believe Yakiv is at his office, here on West 26th Street.

  This was my last chance. I would, according to the DA, find a red Volt, key, and a bottle of my medication under the driver’s seat, near Odessa Expedited’s address.

  He stressed yet again: last chance for a slow dance. The train is leaving
the station. He then gave me his private line, an honor I have not previously been granted.

  Once the job is done I am to contact him, pronto, via his mobile phone. Any military personnel will be available to facilitate this with their equipment.

  Committed the number to memory. Easy: 999-999-9999.

  Fucking hell, man. Getting boxed in.

  I pop a blue beauty and scan the buildings across from Odessa, and think I see what I want to see. The stairwell at number 247, windows facing out, across the street.

  Exiting the Volt, I walk quickly to the building, try the door, which swings right open, mount the stairs, and take them up to the second landing. Simple as that.

  Hungry-looking rats scatter. I crouch, which is uncomfortable but manageable. Solid view of the entrance to Odessa. With half an eye out the window, I check both weapons. This should be pretty straightforward.

  I tap several times on one of the many panes in the checkerboard window, and presently it cracks. I’m able to poke my pistol through the discreet opening.

  Screwing the silencer on the Sig. Might as well do the guy with the weapon he gave me. If indeed it is traceable back to Branko (Brian?), maybe we get the double bonus of painting it like some sort of funky turf thing. Who cares, really; most of all I like the idea of dropping him with the bullet intended for his wife.

  I touch my ankle bracelet. Yakiv has to know I’m in the neighborhood. Like right on top of him. If I get the chance I will have to pull this off fast.

  I touch my key. Nothing to do now but wait.

  Don’t have to wait long. Approximately twenty minutes have passed, and without preamble, a couple big guys, interchangeable with the types I’ve encountered in the last couple days, come out the door, followed by Yakiv himself, who is laughing with the cut-and-paste pair of thugos that take up the rear.

  When he’s all the way out, he pauses. I lift the gun. He’s sweeping the block with his eyes, his mouth a wide grin. I have a clean shot. I start to apply pressure to the trigger finger.

  Yakiv makes a rolling movement with his arms, a disco move that says, Get on with it. Wrap it up. I’m positive it’s directed at me.

  His boys hang back, exchange looks.

  He’s wide open, I’ve got him pinned, there’s no way I’ll miss him when I pull the trigger.

  Except that I don’t.

  Yakiv walks into the middle of the street, looking this way and that. I withdraw the weapon. He’s raking the buildings with his eyes. For a second I’m sure he’s spotted me and I scoot back like a crab.

  He holds his arms up, Christlike. At this point I know I’m not going to shoot the man.

  Yakiv lifts his palms, shrugs, turns on his heel, and rejoins his buddies. Within ten seconds they’re piling into a black Chevy van, and within another eight seconds they’re gone.

  I couldn’t do it.

  Putting aside any of the issues the DA might have with the man, his motivation to send me after him, whatever that might be, because after all I’m not particularly concerned about the finer points of city politics, putting all this aside: I don’t doubt for a second that Yakiv would enjoy laying me out. Arrogant prick.

  So what keeps me from carrying through? Do the job, chill out the DA. Put things right with Brian/Branko, return the hand, choke down some pills, and get back to my literary womb.

  I can’t do it. For fuck’s sake, why?

  Because this gig, it stinks. Something’s not right, something’s off. At the center of this tangle is an unknown quantity. The linchpin.

  Iveta, around whom all this chaos orbits.

  It strikes me now, this is what I’ve been doing all along. Chasing my own ass, trying to determine how Iveta fits in. Has she been off my mind? Not for a half minute.

  I pull myself up off the floor, bounce down the stairs, and leg it toward the car, holstering my gun. Pulling out the PurellTM.

  That pulp cliché, the oldest of the old, the most tired of all tired phrases comes to me. But I dig the truth at its core.

  When in doubt, look for the girl. Cherchez la femme.

  Cherchez la femme.

  There are concrete pilings, vibing Kandahar, spaced four feet apart at the mouth of the Trump International Hotel and Tower at Columbus Circle. If that isn’t enough to dissuade you, there’s a metal police barricade, piles of sandbags, and at least six national guardsmen sporting M4 carbines out in front too.

  I steer the Volt into a spot on the park side of Central Park West and kill the engine. Wait. For a moment I forget why I’m here. Seriously. This happens, especially when I’m tired. I wonder where this fucking car came from. Stare out the front window at the dark park thinking, put it back together.

  I hear a helicopter but realize pretty quick it’s just in my head. Come on, Decimal, snap out of it. Look for clues. Check my pockets … not helpful. Notice the briefcase on the passenger’s seat. Open it … oh yeah.

  It all comes rushing back and I’m right there with it. Thank Christ I didn’t freeze at a more crucial moment. It’s frightening, let me tell you.

  A few moments later, an overweight dark-skinned man in a gray suit pulls up in a Lexus, parking a few spaces down from me. He struggles out of the car, gives me the eye. I make like I’m concentrating on the GPS unit in the Volt, punching random buttons. He moves off, I hear the double chirp of the lock and alarm being activated.

  I count to forty-five, make positive the man is headed into the Trump. He is. Once he’s through the revolving doors, I casually step out of my car. The cops aren’t even remotely looking in this direction.

  Understand, the smell. The Stench. Plastic, burning garbage. It’s a constant. I notice it whenever I exit buildings and cars. I wonder not for the first time what exactly we’re breathing.

  I mosey over to the Lexus … Yup, there’s his registration sticker right there in the windshield. Mustafa Demir, with a nice photo. He’s allowed long-term parking radius (LPR) in this neighborhood. Means he’s a resident. I think.

  Too easy.

  I pop the trunk on the Volt, stow my suitcase. On second thought, I open it back up and retrieve the digital camera and my bullshit Homeland Security badge. Shut the lid, make positive it’s locked. Get back in the Volt. Count to sixty. Choke back a pill. Get out and head for the Tower.

  As I’m approaching the entrance, the guys stiffen up, and when it’s clear that I intend to go straight on in, one of them calls: “Residents and their guests only, sir.”

  I hail them. “Yes, I know. I’m here to visit a colleague.” I hold up my ID.

  “What’s the name?” asks the talker of the bunch, taking a cursory glance at my ID. He’s got a PDA of some kind.

  “Mr. Demir. Mustafa Demir. He would have just come back from a meeting, I hope I’m not too early.”

  The guardsman goes to type in the name, then stops. I note his name tag says Reynolds, and he enjoys the rank of sergeant.

  “Demir? Sure, he just walked in. Talk to the lobby staff.”

  I salute him, proceed.

  Too easy. I take out my bogus Homeland Security/ Donny Smith badge. See, my operative axiom is this: people are kind of stupid; plus, if you’ve got a decent story, they want to believe you. That’s because people are also lazy and don’t want to have to do a bunch of extra shit.

  The Trump Tower still attempts to project a rarefied aura. Lots of lights, dimmed. Must have one of those underground generators. This effort at respectability includes having a civilian staff, which is absolutely perfect for my purposes.

  I approach the black kid behind the desk designated Reception, take him for midtwenties, well-tailored suit, solicitous smile. They make an effort here, even if this kid is the sole member of the “lobby staff.”

  I put the badge in his face. “Good day, sir. I need to have a word with your boss.”

  The kid is reading the badge, he looks ruffled for a moment but regains his cool. “That … that would be me, I am the day manager, sir, how can I help you?”


  Another young black man, uncorrupted. I’m haunted by these kids. I lower my voice. “Son, I need your complete cooperation with regard to a national security matter.”

  People love this stuff. Deep down. “Ah, yes … yes, of course.” His eyes flit behind me to the soldiers out the door. “Did you speak to—”

  “Sergeant Reynolds, yes, but as our investigation encompasses guardsmen activity, I am bound to not raise this situation with one of their ranks. Understand?”

  The kid is doing his best. “Yes sir.”

  “And I would ask you not to make any kind of signal or communicate with the men outside until our conversation is complete. Understand?”

  The kid nods.

  “Thank you. Son, if you’ll furnish me with a list of permanent residents here, as well as guests over the last few weeks … Do you have some sort of visitors’ log, where people sign in?”

  “Uh. Yes, we do.”

  “I’ll be needing to look at that as well. For the last several weeks, please.”

  The young dude looks seriously pained. “Sir, the difficulty … the problem is that we’re not supposed to give out that information without—”

  “Did I mention this is a national security issue? Son, we … What’s your name?”

  “Reginald.”

  “Reginald, we have reason to believe there may well be an active hostile cell operating in this very building in collaboration with the very military body assigned to protect it. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes sir, very clear.”

  “That was more than you should know. I need you to just stay calm and give me those records as if it were the most natural thing in the world.”

  The kid cannot believe he got stuck with this. He is looking around for some sort of assist, but it’s just not happening for him.

  “I’m willing to do that, sir, but I will need to take down your badge information. And it’ll take a moment for me to print out the residential list …”

  “Fine, thank you, Reginald.” I hand him my badge, which he accepts with very twitchy hands. “Take your time.”