The Dewey Decimal System

by Nathan Larson

  Guys running, coming around the side of the Prius, I’m thrown on the hood. My hat rolls off. Damnit. If my cheekbone wasn’t broken before, it is now.

  Handcuffs close over my wrists, not for the first time this week. They’re pulling my stuff out of my pants and jacket and tossing it on the hood … my ID, my Homeland badge, the locker keycard, my pills. All my gear.

  “Is this the piece of dogshit who got Anne?” says one guy.

  “Yeah, it’s him. Lemme,” responds another. Mike, was it? Japanese dude. Or whatever.

  Sure it’s Mike, because he says, “Hey, bitch.”

  “Who the fuck are you talking to?” I say.

  “Step aside for a second.”

  “Hey, gentlemen—”

  A crisp punch to my kidneys shuts me up. Back facing the hood of the car now. Another punch lands. Then another. Another. I’m getting pummeled here.

  I turn my face to the right and puke. Again. A string of bile. I don’t count the number of hits he gets in, but the guy honestly lets me have it. I start to drift.

  “All right, hold it! Agent Shimosato!”

  The beating stops. I’m pulled up by my hair.

  “That,” says Agent Mike in my ear, “was for Anne, you bastard fuck.”

  “Oh man, did you have a thing with Anne?” I manage to say. “Make no mistake, sugar, she kicked my ass into next week, not the other way around.”

  “Agent Shimosato!”

  In my ear: “We’re not done. Believe that.”

  Then I’m manhandled around the car. Up the incline to the Navigator.

  “Grab his stuff,” somebody says.

  I just see blue suits and guns, the door to the Navigator is opened and I’m tossed in the backseat.

  “So. Hello,” says the man opposite me.

  I look up, bleary, and am met by thick glasses and a tracksuit. Brian, Brian Petrovic. Unsurprisingly.

  My shit is dumped on the floor of the Navigator, briefcase, guns, and all. The door is slammed shut.

  It’s quiet for a bit. Then, “Won’t make the same mistake twice,” says Brian. Smiles. Picks up my guns.

  I’m on my side, but through the smoke-tinted glass I idly register two federales high-fiving each other. Whooping. Touchdown, like.

  Brian doesn’t register this. Clears his throat. “So, so,” says the man, “Let’s have a look.” He picks up the briefcase. “Combination.”

  I don’t say anything. I’m in a lot of pain.

  He smiles and looks at me sideways. “Come now. Combination?”

  I drag myself up into a sitting position, gritting my teeth. “Six-six-six,” I tell him, cause what am I going to be, clever now?

  He chuckles at that. Twiddles the lock, opens the case. “So. Did you perhaps get my note?”

  “I did.”

  “And your thoughts on this …”

  “I’m not feeling like the deal is particularly favorable to me.”

  The man is quiet for a bit, nods. “When we last met, there was I think some confusion.” He peeps the night-vision goggles, frowns, sets them aside.

  “Oh yeah? What was that?”

  Brian takes a box of bullets out of the case, places them next to him. He folds his hands and leans forward. “So. Multiple things, really. The first being you stole my property. This has caused me a lot of problems. You can never comprehend how important this object is to my people. And to me personally, as a broker.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “So. So, you see, I had an individual, a buyer for that particular piece and he was very unhappy to hear that it has disappeared. I have to delay my trip abroad till this is settled.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Brian looks at me. “You have endangered me. This man, this buyer. He is very unhappy. I want to keep myself from bigger problems, so I want my property back.”

  “I can understand. It sounds stressful.”

  Brian has Yakiv’s file open. He’s squinting at it, turns on the overhead lights in the back. He flips through the file, frowning, flips back to the front. Slowly, a grin works its way across his face. He holds up the file, taps it. “So. Another issue I am dealing with, as matter of fact, concerns this man.”

  Huh. I wait for it.

  “I’m told you have abducted him. No? Something crazy. So, so, you walk into his place, just take him, shoot your way out. Cowboy. This is true?”

  I shrug.

  “Well, so, if it’s true, you might know where he is located.”

  My brain is working hard. I don’t respond.

  “Mr. Decimal? Do you know who this man is? What he’s done?”

  “I have some idea.”

  Brian clears his throat. “Just for perspective … he entered U.S. in 2000 with his wife and two children. He is wanted by many, many different entities in several countries for his crimes.”

  I nod. “Yes, that’s all in the files there, I’m aware of that.”

  Brian smiles. “But. So. I am thinking, you’re still confused.”

  “How you reckon that?”

  “This day we met, at this church.”

  “Yes?”

  “The name you called me.”

  “I was addressing you by what I understand to be your given name.”

  Brian shakes his head. “This man,” he says, indicating the file, “this man is our Branko Jokanovic.”

  Hang on a minute. I’m trying to pull this all together. “So who the fuck does that make you?” I ask, and it’s deeply lame. I’m out of sorts here.

  Brian coughs. Or laughs, can’t tell which. “So, so, I’m just a procurer. Brian Petrovic. Middleman. Working with various government agencies. Working with your FBI on international matters. So, but, I have, on the side, this … extra work. Mostly deals with art and things such as this. So, this is where I am making my living, and the people I deal with here, they are not so … forgiving. I am fortunate to have these agents here, willing to make some extra time to join with me on these projects. Extra time for extra pay, of course.”

  “Sounds, uh, like a sweet setup … but I still … What about this Yakiv?”

  “We put word out via government channels and the general criminal circle that I was Branko, this was good because it makes real Branko relax, and perhaps makes him, a, what do you say, a softer target.” He smiles at me, a sad smile. “But official work with Interpol and FBI, this is sort of like public service. To find men and women like Branko Jokanovic. Like the woman you’ve just secured at this apartment in the Bronx.”

  I’m listening. I’m listening hard.

  See, I don’t give a fuck about Yakiv/Branko, whoever. I did what I did under the correct assumption that he was a mass-murdering war criminal. The name thing doesn’t make a difference.

  But Iveta. My fingers start to tingle as I overbreathe.

  “Which,” says the man, “brings us to the other major concern, so. As per my note.”

  “She has nothing to do with—”

  “Mr. Decimal, I’m very sorry, but she has everything to do with this. She is Branko’s wife. She, like Branko, is wanted in several countries for grievous crimes. Did you not know this?”

  I look at my hands, still gloved. I am watching this scene play out as if from far above my body.

  “So, so. She has you thinking something else, hmm?” He offers another melancholy smile. “What has she told you, my confused friend?”

  “There has been some sort of mistake here …”

  “Well. So. You are very confused indeed. This doesn’t bother me, if you are confused. But for yourself, what you should be concerned with is to tell me a) where are the ‘Shapskos,’ Mr. and Mrs. and b) where is the box. Otherwise, we have bigger problems than you can imagine.”

  I’m nodding. My lips have gone numb. I look at the yellow keycard on the SUV’s floor. “How would you feel,” I say slowly, “about working out some sort of alternate exchange?”

  Six pairs of dress shoes clap across th
e marble of Grand Central Station, ping-ponging off the walls like a beginner’s tap class.

  “Here.” We have arrived at the bank of lockers. “It’s number 14, the second set.” Get it? Two. Fourteen. Easy to remember. I’d point it out for them but I’ve still got the cuffs on.

  Brian takes the card and looks at it dubiously. Hands it to Agent Mike, who gives me a shitty look, walks over, and inserts it in the slot for the correct locker. He then opens it, and steps aside.

  Suddenly the FBI folks are looking anywhere but Brian, all nonchalant.

  Brian steps forward, withdraws a plastic bag, looks at me. “So. This had better be what I think it is.”

  I nod. “Have a look.”

  The older man withdraws the wooden box. Examines it, feels the markings like braille. Smells it. Slides open the side and has a good long gander at the hand within. After a time, he nods to himself and smiles.

  I realize I haven’t been breathing.

  Brian approaches me, putting the box back in the bag. “You must understand. This is not about religion. For us, it is a thing of national pride. We have so little. So, so, God gives us these priceless gifts.” He’s lost in a fog for a second, then snaps back. “Despite the difficulties you present earlier, you’ve just saved me much … inconvenience. And pain. So. And made everyone here some money.”

  I nod.

  “The buyer is in Paris, I likely go tomorrow then, so, so. But. What about the other matter?”

  “Give me a pen and a bit of paper. And uncuff me, if you would.”

  Brian looks at his guys. “So, who has a pen? And keys for these things?”

  One of the fellows is behind me removing the cuffs, another hands me a pen and a tiny notebook.

  I rub my wrists, then write the following:

  Chelsea Market, 9th Ave btw W. 15th + W. 16th

  Chelsea Wine Vault

  Basemen thru trapdoor behind register

  Brian looks at this. Raises his eyebrows.

  I say, “You didn’t specify as to dead or alive.”

  Brian shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. Alive is always better, people get some peace, so, so, closure, like you Americans say so much. But either way. I get paid the same.”

  I nod at the notebook. “Go to that location. If things aren’t as I describe, the deal is off and you can do what you need to do. But I think you’ll find some, what, some closure there.”

  Brian is quiet, staring at the notebook. Then he moves closer to me. “Speaking of closure. My information. Much of it I got from a man you know. Here, in New York. A man who is your … sometimes employer, hmm?”

  “Are we talking about the district attorney?”

  He makes an unreadable head gesture. “These titles. Who can say? All I am telling to you is he is making things easier for me, this local government man. Seems to have some … personal motivation, I think. Interested in seeing these two disappear. I don’t know reasons why. Just for you to know. So, so. Do what you want with that.”

  “Was he your point person here in the city?”

  “Not until recently, but these last days, so, he feeds me information. Yes.”

  “I guess what I’m getting at: how extensive is the list of people who can ID Branko and his wife?”

  Brian shrugs. “I would think very, very limited. Definitely this man I speak of now. Also some CIA people overseas. And of course, this lovely couple’s victims. So. But they can hardly speak up now, can they?” He gives me an ugly grin.

  I’m thinking: uh-huh.

  “Anyway,” says Brian, “you won’t see me again, if this all is, hmm, checking out here.” He taps the address I gave him. “So, I am done in this city.”

  I extend my hand. “Do we have a deal?”

  There’s a pause. “Yes,” says Brian simply.

  We shake. I’m given my gear. The agents part. And I am on my way, strapping on my guns as I go.

  This time, up at the Trump Tower, I go through the service entrance, unobserved. Been neglecting the System. With the System, pathways become clear. Easiest thing in the world.

  Walk though a dark kitchen to a stairwell. Climb it to the eleventh floor. Swap out my surgical gloves for a new pair.

  I knock three times at number 1119. Wait. Knock louder.

  Daniel opens the door, disheveled, in a brown bathrobe. “Decimal. Goddamnit. I can’t sleep.” Gin comes off him in syrupy waves.

  I walk in, past him. He weeble-wobbles a bit.

  “I, uh, have been waiting. Thinking. About us, all this nonsense.”

  I’m looking at him in the dark. He turns a light on. Has to reach for it a couple times before he manages.

  “Decimal. Look. Bygones and all that. Fuck it. We got a thing together. That’s bigger than. I just … You wanna drink?”

  I follow him into a decent-size office/living area. Computer, papers, lots of files. A dumpy couch, fireplace. He’s got a miniature fridge and a fully stocked wet bar.

  “What can I get you? Dewey. Let’s have a drink, fuck it.”

  I take out the Sig Sauer. I just take it out, don’t point it anywhere.

  “I’m unarmed,” he says.

  I produce the silencer.

  “Dewey. Wow. It’s amazing. What we can convince ourselves of. She’s got you thinking, what? That in getting me out of the way, what, gonna solve all your problems. Am I right? When I’m right, I’m right.”

  “Daniel. You need to shut your fucking mouth. You’re making this worse.” I’m attaching the silencer.

  “Decimal. Look at me.” He sways a bit. “Will you give me two minutes? Straighten this out? It’s actually very simple.” His hand is trembling. “Decimal.”

  “I’m listening. Won’t make any difference.”

  “The stuff I said. About physically, uh, harming you. You know, I gave this reconsideration. Want you to know. Nothing to be worried about there.”

  No response from me.

  He’s sweating it, tries another approach. “Listen. This fucking broad. You’ve been misled. That’s fine. Me too. Look. Need you to know.” He waves his hand at the stack of papers near his desk. “Top of that pile. There’s a file, behind you. Everything you need to know about the woman we have called Iveta. It’s really bad-news kind of shit. She’s … Decimal, I’m telling you the truth. Right now. She has us both fooled. Playing us against each other. From the jump. Decimal.”

  I pull his desk chair around from behind his desk. “Have a seat,” I say. He plops down in the chair. I’m standing over him.

  “You gotta know. I met her at one of these goddamn parties. Very persuasive. Plus I’m flattered, you know? Don’t draw ladies like I used to. Anyway. I was, you know, hook, line, and sinker. The whole nine. I mean hell. They were living separate lives. Like me and my ex. Figured, get the husband out of the picture. Safety’s sake. Bring my best man in. That’s you. The best. Then, fuck’s sake, somebody at the State Department drops a dime on the pair of them. Sends this paperwork through. You can imagine. That it turns into this. My shock. So I gotta, I gotta make it right. Decimal. Say something.”

  I pull back the hammer and raise the gun to his forehead. A stain spreads across his lap, he’s pissed himself, drink or fear or both, but to his credit, maintains eye contact and keeps his voice steady.

  “Decimal. Under her file. You’ll find your own file. I think you might want to have a long look at that too. I admit,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I admit I took advantage. So fucking sue me. Your situation. You’re confused. The pills. They’re sugar, they’re nothing. You’ve had a lot of bad breaks. But you’re not what you think you are. Decimal. You’re a lot. Of fucking things. But you’re not this, this person in your head.”

  “Are you through, Rosenblatt?”

  “No. Decimal. There was never a wife and child. Decimal. Just went with the story. The story you had going. Followed your narrative. You have a whole mythology. I just went with it. But it’s all been, what. Imposed on you.”

&
nbsp; I won’t hear this. I don’t hear this.

  “So I’m thinking, you and me. Bring the biggest motherfucker of a lawsuit. The military has ever laid eyes on. Decimal, your file. You gotta know. The stuff they did. They opened up your fuckin brain …”

  No, I won’t hear this. “That’s enough. It’s not working,” I say.

  “You’re not—”

  “Rosenblatt, you’re about to die. Do you understand?”

  “You’re not. A freaking monster.”

  I shoot him then, his balding scalp, and he goes floppy. Blood and other viscous stuff hit the far wall. His bowels evacuate, I smell it. Cuts through the plastic.

  Dan, I am the sick black monster under your bed. I’m a stone-cold badass freak motherfucker of a baby killer. Doing what I groove on, what I do best.

  That’s who I am and that’s how I do it.

  Set my gun down behind me, on top of the file folders. Get out the digi camera, lens cap off. Too much backlight. I wanna capture the moment.

  I get a shot of him, side on. As always, it’s an anticlimax. If it weren’t for all the blood, you’d think he was sleeping.

  I pick up my gun, revealing the words:

  International War Crimes Tribunal, The Hague, Netherlands—Classified Material

  I’m thinking, just leave it be. Better to not know. But of course I flip open the folder.

  Right there on page one, a candid shot of Iveta. No makeup, considerably younger. Military uniform and cap. Her hand is raised, she is indicating something to two uniformed men. The name underneath the photo reads, Jovana Rac, Pristina, Kosovo, 1998.

  I’d like to believe this is cheap shit, an amateur forgery. I know it’s not. Flip the page.

  The heading is Prepared for INTERPOL by the ICTY.

  Read:

  … Jovana Rac is remarkable in the sense that women were an extreme rarity in the Serbian military forces, otherwise noted for their misogyny. Her usefulness is perhaps illustrated by the charges raised against her.

  Rac is accused of furnishing women and girls for convicted war criminal Radomir Kovac and for contractors at CYNACORP for the purposes of sexual enslavement and forced labor; and of involvement with so-called “rape camps” in the region of Foca. Additionally, Rac is accused of one count of genocide, and of human trafficking.