The Dewey Decimal System

by Nathan Larson

  Under normal circumstances, New Balance running shoes would be a dealbreaker for me, on a lady. Yeah, I’m snobby like that. But in Iveta’s case, it somehow makes her all that much … more. Like she doesn’t even need to try.

  Take a piss and wash my face, scrub it with the alcohol. I look exhumed. Both eyes are black, likely my nose is broken, as well as a cheekbone. Bandages and tape cover my ears. I don’t study this in detail. And I’m wearing a gauze turban where my hat should be.

  Speaking of turbans, I contemplate this particular hotel for a second. Nowadays, the Millennium is reserved for the legion of workers involved with the Freedom Tower project, which of course saw a setback last February when it was, well, blown up. The upper floors, where we seem to be, judging by my look out the window, are reserved for the money guys, the sheiks, the Saudis.

  The original Freedom Tower project, by the way, included repairs to the Islamic center and that massive mosque, so nobody could say the money people were taking sides.

  As we learned, it was never that simple anyway.

  The Saudis, who also own the Millennium itself, have been undeterred by the disaster, and are pressing forward. Of all construction sites and crews, they seem to be the best funded, are making swift progress; and beyond that I know nothing about them. Except that they’re working with private money and aren’t part of the federal Great Reconstruction program.

  The only reason I can recount even that much is that there was a brief media to-do where a prominent (Republican, natch) senator tried to get the plug pulled on the project, her point being something like it was Saudi money and Saudi men who helmed those planes, way back in September 2001, so how could we in good conscience allow them to take ownership of this property, etc. But nobody seemed comfortable with that kind of thing, this type of thinking being out of vogue; and anyway, it was soon overshadowed by bigger stories.

  Why I can remember trivia like this and cannot conjure up simple facts about my own life, this is beyond my understanding.

  Regardless. I limp out of the bathroom, clock Iveta’s black Reebok sports bag … and my briefcase, phew … and my suit jacket, sitting with the bloody towels. It’s pretty well fucked, to say nothing of the pants, which are unspeakably screwed. My heart in my throat, I plunge my hand into the front pants pocket. Okay, the key is where it should be. For now I hold it in my fist.

  Goddamn, this was my last suit.

  I sigh and shake down the jacket, hearing the dulcet percussion of pills hitting plastic bottle. At least I had that much foresight, put the pills in my pocket … Can you imagine, had I not?

  Retrieving these babies, I take one, cupping my hands under the water faucet and drinking. Again I douse my hands with the rubbing alcohol.

  I go back out and take another gander: briefcase, check. Shoes, check. Kevi vest, check. My hat. Fantastic.

  Iveta must’ve gone over the car pretty thoroughly. My shoulder holster is on the floor, complete with guns. All good news.

  I register the keycard, sitting on the desk, a pair of cards. I grab one. Then I pick up the severed leg-bracelet, pull another fluffy bathrobe out of the closet near the door, and slide into it. I’m lost in the thing, it dwarfs me. I pull the sash tight, gasping in pain as I constrict my rib area. I loosen it and drop the key in the robe pocket, making a mental note to not leave it behind.

  Exit as quietly as possible so as not to wake Iveta. The Do Not Disturb sign is already hanging off the exterior handle.

  I’m back in less than ten minutes.

  Recalling the fact that the hotel has an open-air restaurant, I took the stairs down to the twelfth floor. Walked straight through the place, head held high, Central American staff gawking but nobody saying shit. I tried to vibe Saudi. Got to the edge of the balcony and threw the ankle bracelet as far as I could manage. It cleared the fence and landed within the construction site near some yahoos in hard hats standing around bullshitting. I ducked out before they could look up. Back to the stairwell, decided I just couldn’t do it, actually hailed the elevator, took a deep breath, and rode it back to our floor.

  Baby steps. I’m working on it.

  Iveta is up when I get back to the room. Sitting in bed, smoking, the TV is on BBC with the sound muted. It’s a rerun, they’re all reruns, the G20 meeting is happening in Toronto. When was that, 2010?

  “Just now, I ordered coffee for both of us,” she says, smiling at me and closing her robe tighter.

  “That sounds perfect.” My voice is hoarse as hell, did I get kicked in the throat? Not that I recall.

  Where do I begin? “I’m rather amazed,” I say.

  “About what?”

  “You worked hard to keep me alive here. Could’ve left me for dead, I would have understood.”

  She shrugs.“Only fair. Consider what you did for me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She puts out her cigarette, has another poised and ready. “I know at least two people who want me to disappear. Maybe three. And I know you have been in contact with all of them. I can assume only you have been protecting me.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “You knew my location, you did not come after me, and you must have misdirect others so I could not be found.”

  I think: is that really what I did? Maybe a little bit.

  “That’s perceptive. I hadn’t thought about it but I reckon you’re on the right track.”

  She tilts her head. “What are reasons for this? I’m sure these men told you terrible, nasty things I have done. That I am this dangerous person. I don’t know what they said. But why not believe them?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. Also, I was, I am, curious. About you.”

  Iveta lights the new cigarette, waves the match out and drops it in the ashtray. “Curious, curious how?”

  I lower myself into the sofa chair. “When people come to me and want to … okay, disappear someone, I want to know why. Just generally. And I want to know why it is that they can’t just do it themselves. If they have solid reasoning, that they can demonstrate, then that’s one thing. If not, well …”

  I shift in my seat, trying and failing to get remotely comfortable. My ass hurts. And sometimes honesty … well. Hurts too.

  “You know, I may come off like a psychopath but I do have a System, a kind of moral code.”

  Iveta smokes, looking past me out the window. “I shot you.”

  “In the knee. It was a tactical move. You could have gone for a kill shot, you would have been well within your rights, you know that. I can tell you have training.”

  She lifts her shoulders in a noncommittal gesture.

  “And I did break into your house and threaten you and your son …”

  “True,” she says.

  “Which makes me think, where is the kid? Where’s Dmitri?”

  “London. Rather, in transit. Stay with my sister, it’s better. Don’t want him in the middle, be used like hostage.”

  “How could you have possibly gotten him on a trans-Atlantic flight?”

  “I have a friend in D.C., working at the embassy for Latvia. I call her, it’s easy.”

  “And you didn’t go with him.”

  “Are you disappointed?” She smiles. “No. I have no travel documents, you see, so I cannot get anywhere. Everything is with Yakiv … Lucky, I had Dmitri’s papers at this house in Queens.” She takes a drag, lets it out slow. “Besides. So much to do here.”

  “Yeah?” I say.

  There’s a soft knock at the door.

  “That’s coffee,” says Iveta. “Do you mind?”

  While Iveta is showering (again) and changing in the bathroom, I get a hankering for a cigarette.

  Pat down my jacket. No cigarettes. Keep forgetting. But: three sheets of awkwardly folded paper in the inner pocket … Trump letterhead?

  Oh yeah, the list of residents at the Trump Tower. Courtesy of who’s-that-kid … Reginald the doorman, for whom I wish only the best things.


  I see Iveta’s pack of cigarettes, grab one. With a menthol between ring and forefinger, I get back to my coffee. I’m really hungry, I realize.

  Spread the crumpled paper out. Might as well have a look. Humming as I go down the list. A, B, C … Toward the end: Rosenblatt, Daniel. Number 1119.

  Immediate knot in my stomach.

  I light the cigarette, hand shaking a bit. Check on my key, still present. I memorize: apartment number 1119.

  It used to be you’d throw a rock in this town and hit a Jew. Less so these days.

  District Attorney Daniel Rosenblatt. Same man? My gut says absolutely yes. How could it not be, given this wacky job?

  I fold up the papers, slide them into my pocket. I don’t have a clue what this means in the larger scheme. But. Still.

  This is a rough call, but I fetch my pistol.

  Iveta emerges in a minute or so, fully dressed. Sits down across from me, takes her cup with two hands. Like a girl.

  “I’m cold. Too much AC.”

  She’s got flecks of blood on the front of her T-shirt. My blood. Small spatters of red and brown decorate her jeans and sweater.

  I show her the gun. Direct it at her.

  Iveta flinches. Then rolls her eyes, uncoils. Sits back, arms folded. “You must be fucking kidding. Again?”

  “Not kidding.”

  “Okay, what is this problem now? I thought we had become friends, Mr. Decimal.”

  “Yeah, I kinda did too.” I won’t lie, it’s not easy to be pointing a gun at this woman. But I say, “Tell me about DA Daniel Rosenblatt.”

  She goes very still. That right there, that more or less tells me the story. “You … know him?”

  “Obviously not well enough. But yeah. He’s my occasional employer.”

  I can see the gears turning as Iveta chews on this new factoid. “Well … this, this is a big coincidence.”

  “Is it?”

  “Daniel was very kind to me and to my child.” She takes a sip of coffee. Casual, cool.

  “Yeah? That’s a lovely picture.”

  “He told you about us?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then how do you—”

  “This is where you went, the Trump, after leaving me at your house. Right?”

  “Yes, but I thought you knew this. Not about me and Daniel. About where I am staying.”

  “I had an idea. But I only confirmed it for myself yesterday evening.”

  “So, perhaps you were not protecting me at all then.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I had plenty of opportunities to give you up, I just didn’t do it. Seemed wrong. I don’t know who anybody is. I’m playing darts in the dark here.”

  “Playing … ?”

  “Never mind. What I’m saying is I’m not sure whose side I’m on cause everybody is tossing bullshit at me and I’m running myself ragged trying to figure you people out.”

  Iveta scratches her neck. “If you have to know.”

  “I think that would begin to put me at ease here.”

  I recommit myself to training the pistol on her. Like I said, not easy. She searches my face. Sighs.

  “Daniel and me, we had very big fight. Really bad. Just last night, before I saw you. He went crazy. Said he had ‘new information.’ About me. Said he would turn me in to these authorities—with no papers I would be in big shit.”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry to hear that.” I hate my tone. I sound like a bitchy girlfriend. “But you understand, Iveta, there’s just too many fucked-up connections here for my taste. I start to get the sense that everybody’s talking to everybody else and the overall plan is to fuck with my skull.”

  She shakes her head. “This world does not revolve around you. Okay, I’ll tell you. About Daniel and me. Do you want to hear? Maybe not?”

  Keeping the gun up, I shake out another of Iveta’s smokes one-handed. I hate menthols. “Yeah, let’s hear it.”

  She stares at me for a bit. “You think I’m lying to you? Mister, you have big fucking ego, I tell you this. Okay, understand. You’re my only hope here. Do you understand that much?”

  What is she telling me?

  I pick up the matches, they say Trump Tower. Fold one down and snap my fingers, light up. Party trick.

  But I gotta admit, I’m distressed. I don’t like me, not like this. Forget for a second why I’m holding the gun. Oh yeah.

  I push forward. “I’m your only hope. If you say so, darling. You’re up shit’s creek in that case, cause I don’t have the best track record when it comes to taking care of people.”

  “I doubt that. Also, like I said, with Daniel, it is over. I’m afraid of him. He’s insane.”

  “He’s a douche bag. A cream puff.”

  “You sound like jealous husband.”

  I scoff at that shit. But she’s right. “Please. Daniel Rosenblatt? He’s got nothing going on save his title. Otherwise he’s just a squirrel trying to get a nut. A little man. Bottom-feeder.”

  “No, really he is dangerous. Very dangerous. To me, to you.”

  I wait. Trying to decide if I should pocket the gun. I don’t want to be doing this.

  She looks at her nails. They’re cut short. Seems to make a decision. “This trouble I had, in Riga …”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s not good at all. I was very young. Stupid, you know. Was part of this political student group. Do things like, small things, making statues explode, bomb threats on public buildings.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad. Dudes I knew in high school …”

  “Well. I had trained as nurse and was working at Latvian military hospital. Anyway. After work hours, I let some comrades in through, what is it, a service door, they plant explosives in basement. I had no idea about the explosives, I thought … simple vandalism or something. Like a symbol. I was wrong. Explosives went off and kill six people.”

  Huh. “Jesus.”

  Iveta nods. “I know. It’s not good. This is why I left the country. If I go back there, I go to jail or worse. Daniel knows this, and he would use it. He would deport me, no problem.”

  This sounds a bit off. “How could Daniel possibly know this stuff?”

  “I told him. Some of it.”

  “Why?”

  “I trusted him. Like I am telling you now. And then he gets this ‘new information,’ I don’t know what it says.”

  “Uh-huh. It just, it seems to me he’s too much of a pussy to do something so extreme.”

  “Extreme? He is ordering executions. God knows what else. I’m frightened of Daniel like I am frightened of Yakiv.”

  “Who is a killer and a rapist, right?”

  “Yes. You don’t believe me about Yakiv. He charmed you, huh? He’s very charming, sure.”

  “I don’t believe anybody at the moment,” I say, and I mean it. Though fuck knows, if I want to believe anybody, she’s sitting right in front of me.

  Then Iveta does a crazy, reckless thing. Leans forward, softly places her hand over mine. My hand that holds the pistol.

  My stomach rises and flips. I stiffen up and immediately am thinking about PurellTM. On instinct. Then I’m thinking about her hand, her skin. Rougher than I expected. That’s not a bad thing.

  She holds my gaze. Calm. Says, “Mr. Decimal. Look at me. I’m just a person. You say I saved your life last night. Okay. You maybe save mine over last few days. I need you to at least try and hear me.”

  I don’t say anything. I like the fact that Iveta is touching me, holding the hand that holds the gun. I like the idea of it. The idea of her.

  “But I won’t be threatened by you anymore,” she says. “I don’t think you want it like this either.”

  Right. Cause there’s a piece that doesn’t fit in this configuration, hand on hand on gun. It’s the gun. The gun doesn’t fit.

  I lower my hand to the table. Iveta maintains eye contact and doesn’t let go.

  Very gently, I remove the Beretta with my other hand and p
lace it on the glass.

  Then it’s just us, just the hands.

  But it’s too much, so I pull it away, gradually, but I pull away.

  I nod at her. Lean back and feel a fuck of a lot better.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  Nod again. Weirdly, I feel myself choking up, but I nip that shit right in the bud. There will be none of that.

  “Okay, I tell you,” says Iveta Shapsko.

  Iveta saying, “First, I am a survivor.” She’s smoking now. Takes a moment to look at the cigarette. “Always, I survive. I had this big problem in Riga. Joined NATO army, went to Bosnian conflict. Trouble there too. When I met Yakiv in Odessa, he was a powerful man. Had been in Serbia, like me. Over there, everyone needs protection. Especially women. See what I mean?”

  I’m with her. Can’t describe the relief, with the gun out of the picture.

  “Not great situation, for women. This sex trade, within Ukraine and across borders. All over the world.” She picks up her coffee, puts it back down. “Yakiv will take me to America, easy for him, he has already this, what is it, network. So I come in with other girls. Easy.”

  I’m hearing her. I wonder if she was offended when I took my hand away. But I can’t read this woman.

  She says, “Then Yakiv and I became close. In the way that you do, the same experience. Like this. It made it easier …” She looks down for a moment, then continues. “It made it easier to look over the things he did, before. In Serbia, in Ukraine. Like a monster. But I need him, so I say past is past.”

  I get it. I nod.

  “So, time, it moves fast or it moves slow, but it moves. Things become difficult. We are fighting, all the time. At this embassy party, I meet Daniel. Now, I am in situation where I need to get away from Yakiv. Daniel, he is not handsome, he is not funny, but he is powerful in the way that Yakiv was back home. Like I said, I am a survivor. Yakiv went off this night with his friends and probably some whores. So I let Daniel seduce me. Why not? I need American protection in America, not fucking crap machismo Slav protection.”

  This is hard to hear. I say, “Rosenblatt is a … Rosenblatt is a bad guy. Orders hits, shakedowns, skims drug profits—whatever smells like money, he’s into it.” I should know, right?