I watch his back till I can’t see him anymore. Me and Hakim, we lie there for a bit.
It’s not for me to understand what just transpired. Why Diaz didn’t simply pull that trigger. But in this act of not doing, the young man has transcended the situation. Shown himself to be the more radiant, vital being.
Fuck it. Let’s trim the bonsais and get reflective later.
Check for the baggie and its contents. Phew. I fumble with Diaz’s discarded belt. Unclip the radio. Sit up, mentally checking for further injury. Beyond my face. Spit. Clear my throat. And key in a series of nines.
“Rosenblatt,” the DA picks up right away.
“Daniel,” I say, pulling out some PurellTM.
Staticky pause. Then, “Dead man, Decimal. You are a motherfucking. Dead man.”
I hawk another chunk at the sidewalk. “Daniel, I’m not calling to chew fat. Calling to let you know, I’m on my way.”
“Won’t even. Waste my energy. I will hire. Every butcher in town. To motherfucking tear you. Limb from limb. The cunt too. Won’t raise a finger myself. Not a pinky. Over here. Both of you, the cunt. And you, Decimal. Will watch her suffer. Won’t be fast, be assured. Graphic. Sharp focus. Well lit. Follow?”
Static. Wait till I’m sure he’s done. “Daniel,” I say. “Fair warning. I’m coming to kill you, sir. I want you to say it, that you’ve heard me.”
“No, you hear me. You will wish. You’d done her yourself. You hear me.”
“See you soon, Daniel.” Who can talk to this guy?
This time, it’s me who terminates the call.
Find myself turning the corner on the eighteenth floor of the Millennium, my radar vibing bad shit.
I pause, back up around the wall. My shoes are still damp from the basement back at the Chelsea Market. Can’t feel my face.
I reconfirm the key is in my front pocket and the keycard in my rear right. Wearing the radio.
Feeling hyperaware, uncomfortably so; everything is slightly too detailed, too real. I encounter this state frequently. That is, after I’ve killed multiple people.
Take another look down the hall. From my perspective here, it looks as if the door to our original booking is slightly ajar.
Praise Allah I got that extra room, and I hope to fuck Iveta is still in it, sitting tight. And my briefcase. The hand.
Pull my Beretta. Come around the corner and up against the far wall. Move down the carpeted hallway. I really don’t want to hurt anybody else today, but so fucking help me, if Iveta is in any way endangered I’ll do it happily.
Ease the door open with my gun. The lock has been jimmied in a rather ugly fashion, big gouges in the wood, the reverse end of a hammer or a crowbar.
There’s an envelope, the hotel’s stationary, stuck to the front door. My initials on it, D.D. For the moment, I leave that alone.
I can see partially into the space. It’s been trashed. Hairs on the back of my neck go erect. What the hell is wrong with security up in this joint? Embarrassing.
Listen. A television, down the hall maybe. I wait for ten seconds, breathing, don’t hear anything new, so I step inside.
The couch is cut up, the mattress slit straight down the middle. Air-conditioning panels have been pulled off the walls. It’s a complete and total. Pillows, the leather on the desk, all slashed wide open. It’s comprehensive.
I check the closet. Check the bathroom … chunks of porcelain cover the floor, the toilet decimated. Incredible. Whoever came through here must have had a bagful of tools.
Stepping out of the bathroom, fuck, too late, there’s that nanosecond in which I sense the proximity of a human. I walk right into the barrel of another Sig Sauer.
At the end of which is Iveta.
I’m afraid she’s going to pull the trigger so I’m ducking out of the way, on automatic pilot, am about to take her down, woah, check myself, I’ve got her around the midsection … She pirouettes away, lets out a torrent of gibberish, then: “Jesus, you scared me so much. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
She collapses on the disemboweled couch, dropping her gun. Wearing the dress I snagged for her. Looks good in it.
“Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. I almost shot you.”
Rubbing my forehead, the veneer of sweat, I say, “Well, it wouldn’t have been the first time.”
“Jesus,” she says, her lip trembling. “What happened to your mouth?”
“Oh. Just … I fell down.”
Realize she’s weeping. Shaking. “Tell me … Yakiv … or maybe don’t tell me.”
Not sure what to do. I crouch down next to her. “Okay.”
She looks up at me, her face contorted, smeared. “No, tell me.”
I contemplate how to put it. Not exactly sure. I just look at her.
She puts her face in her hands, shoulders bouncing up and down. Sobbing.
“Iveta …”
Reaching out, she grabs my hand. It’s not letting up. She’s got her mouth open and is just keening. It’s awful. I honestly don’t know what to do and I tell her this.
“Iveta, I don’t know what you want me to do, what you want me to say.”
We sit for a time. It starts to subside into hiccups. She has one hand pressed against her eyes. “Why am I like this? It’s just … Okay, now it becomes real. I need. I’m sorry, there’s lot of history.”
“I can understand. I think.”
“Don’t want you to think you did this, the wrong thing.”
“No, believe me. I have no doubt.”
“I don’t cry for him. I cry because it’s all fucked and ugly.”
She’s gripping my hand. I’m desperately bad at this stuff. Just freeze up. Her breathing begins to slow. She laughs. It’s a brittle sound.
“Sorry. I cry a lot, okay.”
I think she’s recovering. I try to be gentle. But like I said, I am vibing very bad shit.
“Who was here, do you have any idea?”
Shakes her head. “Don’t know, it was terrifying me. They just destroy this room, look for something, I don’t know what. I listened next door. So loud. I tried to call downstairs, no one answers. Oh my God, thank you for this, thinking of another room for us, I don’t know what they would have done …”
I’ve got a pretty good sense of what this is all about.
“Did you see … on the door?” she says.
“Yeah, did you read it?”
Iveta shakes her head no. I go grab the envelope. Open it, carefully.
Hotel letterhead. Neat, small handwriting, black pen. Masculine lines, written quickly.
Attn Mr. Decimal: A Proposal
Surrender my property.
Surrender the woman.
In exchange:
Your continued good health.
Your liberty.
Your library.
Hoping for a timely conclusion to this episode.
Contact at yr earliest convenience.
Bst regards,
B. Petrovic
Ball it up, stick it in my pocket.
Iveta stirs. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Doesn’t matter. Give me a second to think.”
I go in the bathroom. Douse my hands in PurellTM. In the shattered mirror I see Hakim Stanley, his eye a blank space, looking back at me. Mouthing, You. I turn my head quick, pushing the vision away …
“It’s Daniel,” she says from the other room. “Yeah? His people. I know it. He will hurt me. Best case, deport me. He said he would. They’ll put me in prison.”
Hot water. I grab a towel, dab at my lips. Return to Iveta, drop the towel. “Okay, get your stuff together. We gotta move.”
Iveta, seated, gazes up at me, snot and tear streaked. Her eyes, damp and ocean-green. “Right now? Jesus, where do we go?”
I take out my key. It’s worn and brass and nothing special, but now it all makes sense. A convergence.
The key, warm in my palm.
“Only one place jumps to mind,” I say.
&nb
sp; The 5 train is a block away, the Fulton Street station. Made positive I had the briefcase. Opened it up in the bathroom.
Downstairs I have Iveta wait by the elevators, while I scope the lobby. Don’t know who I’m looking for, but I don’t think I see them. The place is dead save the desk attendant, who appears to be sleeping, and a seated Saudi couple in traditional dress. As we pass by them I notice the man is reading an old issue of the Economist. The woman is veiled, and wears Miu Miu stiletto heels and a delicate gold ankle bracelet. Thick lashes and dark peepers clock me, slide over to Iveta in her new dress, giving her a solid once-over, that energy exchange specific to all the world’s beautiful women.
Out into the evening, the burnt-plastic air. Coming up on midnight, wonder if the trains are running. Sentries are posted at the dual entrances to the 4/5, leads me to believe they’re in operation. Poses problems. Can’t utilize my laminate, as it’s likely to get flagged. I’m sure Daniel would like to have a word at this point.
There’s always the Donny Smith ID so I’d be okay, maybe, but I’m concerned about trying to run Iveta past a checkpoint. From what I’ve learned today, no doubt Daniel has a stop order on her as well.
No train then. We take a left off Fulton onto Broadway. Iveta is with me, quiet but watchful.
For the umpteenth time I steal a car, this one parked in front of St. Paul’s, yet another goddamn Prius. Candy apple red. Like it wants to be a sports car when it grows up.
FDR Drive down and around the bottom of the island, then all the way up to the RFK Bridge, a bridge the architects of 2/14 didn’t even have on their radar because who gives a shit about people up here, right?
Clocking the rearview. A blue Nissan has been with us since the financial district. Almost certainly a tail.
Behind the Nissan, a black Navigator.
Could have been with us back downtown too. Brian and company. Another tail. A tail on the tail.
It doesn’t matter, so I don’t mention it.
There’s a squawk of feedback. We both jump and I almost lose control of the car. Goddamn these cars, the crap handling. The radio phone, in my pocket.
A woman’s voice: “Echo 3, Echo 3. Diaz. Stanley. What’s your 20, over.”
I’m fumbling at the thing …
“Diaz, what’s your—”
I kill the call.
“What was this?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. I picked up a radio. Signals get crossed all the time.”
Sense her staring at me in profile. I don’t turn. “Okay. Scared me,” she says.
Check the rearview. Hakim Stanley rides quietly in the back, his single eye. No. I look through him. The Nissan and the Lincoln are hanging back but certainly with us. Convoy style upriver.
Iveta is peering out the window. “I have never been to Bronx.”
278 to the Bronx River Parkway, the Nissan and the Navigator still a good ways back. Exit 9 to Gun Hill Road.
Here comes the prodigal son.
Put the key in the door. It turns easily. The air in here is stale, but the place is spotless. Window shades drawn tight. It’s a two-bedroom job. I feel nothing for it.
I do a quick check of the apartment, gun drawn but held low. Single mattress on the floor of the larger bedroom. Check the bathroom, suitcase in hand. Close the door.
Drop an object in a ziplock bag. Stand on the toilet, gently remove the screen to the vent. Carefully set the object down within. Replace the metal screen. Hop down. Exit bathroom.
“Is this safe neighborhood?” calls Iveta.
Back in the main area. I shrug and make a so-so gesture. “Depends on your definition of safe.”
Iveta drops her bag. “What is this place?” Opens the refrigerator, which is empty, clean-ish, and not plugged in.
“Used to live here.”
“When?”
“Awhile back.”
“Live alone?”
“No.”
Iveta stares at me for a bit. Nods, leaves it at that.
I consider my plan. I consider the wisdom of leaving her alone here. That aspect of the whole thing is deeply flawed. But I decide it’s the best I can do.
May God protect her.
Iveta reading my mind. “So, Mr. Decimal. What happens now?” she says. Like that.
Me, I’m standing there with the briefcase, pig-sweating in the Kevlar vest.
It’s not her mouth, her expression. Something about her posture. Says we could call a time out. Maybe, just perhaps, discover comfort, quiet, a spot to rest, if only for a finite period. Within each other.
But no. To my eternal dismay, I hear myself: “Now what happens is I go straighten this out. You stay put. Sleep if you have to, but double-lock the door and keep your gun in sight. Don’t open the blinds.”
Iveta is saying something but I miss it as I close the door behind me.
Out of the building and past the playground, eating a pill as I go. I’m holding my breath, holding the briefcase under my arm, and pulling on the surgical gloves.
Don’t see the tail convoy, but I bet they’re around. Gotta pull them away from Iveta. Into the Prius. Deep breath.
I gun it out of the parking lot. Thinking: follow me. Follow me, please.
Hakim Stanley rides in the back, silent. As fast as I drive, I doubt if I’ll ditch him.
Heading east on Gun Hill, gliding on through the flashing yellow lights. Think maybe I was tripping. About that Nissan. Maybe I was reading too much into things, frazzled as I am. And there’s plenty of Navis. I’m shook up. Iveta, she throws me. Hate to be seen like this, thrashing around, flailing like a newborn.
I’m thinking such stuff, but that’s until I near Van Cortlandt Park. Then I clock familiar headlights. Back a ways but it’s definitely the blue Nissan. Followed up shortly by lights that, judging by their height and spacing, are likely to be the Navigator.
Okay then.
I hit 87 going southeast. The Nissan and Navigator still with me. I accelerate. Granted, it’s a Prius. But I floor the fucker.
The Nissan does likewise. The Navi falls back.
We streak by the crust of the old Yankee Stadium to the left, I think about that Down syndrome kid. Push it away. Stanley rides with me though, nothing I can do. Try to catch his eye in the rearview, he won’t look at me. He mouths, You.
The Prius is just barely in control. I’m all over the road. These cars, man, they must be fucking joking with these cars.
So shit. Let’s see how my friend or friends dig on Harlem. I make like I’m headed straight, but at the last possible moment I aim at the exit ramp on the right, missing a concrete divider by inches. Down the hill and up again, a hard right onto the 138th Street Bridge. I can smell rubber, even on top of the Stench.
The Nissan is up my ass the whole way. Effortless. It’s for sure got more torque, more power. I try to get a look at the driver but I have to concentrate on not sailing off the road. Bear left now, I’m leaning into it like I’m on a bike. Coming down the off-ramp that will terminate in 135th Street, I see the opportunity I had hoped for.
I prepare to brake, the Prius listing left and right. As we hit the bottom of the ramp, I stamp on the brakes, go into a semicontrolled spin, pinwheeling to the right. Hear the Nissan braking as well, I slide to a stop at an angle, blocking both lanes of traffic.
The Nissan has come to rest about ten feet up the hill, directly facing me. I try not to dilly-dally, I get my ass down, I’m out of the car with the Sig, go low around the door, lean across the hood, get a good look despite the headlights directly in my face, and shoot out the front two tires on the Nissan, pop, pop.
Duck back behind the car. Give it a second, then peek over the hood. Headlights at the top of the hill, and the Navigator bounces around the corner.
The doors on the Nissan come open on both sides, I estimate two guys exit the car, hard to see much beyond the glare of its headlights.
The Lincoln comes to stop at a discreet distance. I duck back down. Lov
e to get a do-over on this.
“FBI!” calls one of the dudes, crouching behind the Nissan’s door. “Drop the weapon and lay down on the ground, let’s not have this get any worse than it already is!”
Some action-movie shit. Drop my weapon? Not likely. I don’t bother responding.
I hear a gang of shoes slapping down the off-ramp. I peek again, there’s a flock of suits, four additional men, armed like Mexican drug runners. Apparently they’re not shy cause bullets commence pinging off my hood, not sure who’s firing but I try to lower myself, and crab it to the left, so I’m in front of the tire.
Positive hailstorm of bullets. Jesus. I don’t have a next move. Somebody’s yelling something and the volley tapers and stops.
I look under the car. The tires facing out on the Prius are all “shhh,” perforated, history.
Bullhorn crackle. “Gonna ask you again to put down your weapon and lay on the ground. You have thirty seconds to comply or we move in on you.”
Christ, I really have no options. Reckon: I should just rock it and go out in a blaze of glory, a big fat gun in each hand. But the impulse to live trumps everything. I’m afraid this is true.
“All right,” I find myself saying. “Okay. Look, I’m going to place my weapons on the hood of the car and then stand up with my hands on my head, okay? No shooting me, okay? I’m cooperating.”
There’s a pause, I guess they’re conferring.
Bullhorn feedback and click. “Okay, let’s do it just like that. If you come up with anything resembling a weapon, we’ll be forced to open fire. Do everything slow. Go ahead.”
Is this really how I want to do this thing? No. But sometimes you have to know your limits. And I hope I’m right about that.
So, I set the Sig Sauer on the Toyota’s hood, followed by the Beretta. Placing my hands on top of my head, I gradually stand. My bad leg is asleep.
The Dewey Decimal System Page 17
