Clean Hands

by Patrick Hoffman

  Yuri had to keep himself from smiling. He could take the thumb drive, burn a copy of whatever had been on this so-called top-secret phone, and tell Avi he didn’t like what he saw. Americans were so simple-minded. “This is how you negotiate?” he asked.

  “With the special money-back guarantee, yes, the price goes up,” said Avram.

  “Money-back guarantee?”

  “Money back,” repeated Avram, defeated.

  “Okay, we have a deal,” said Yuri.

  Avram sniffled, wiped his nose with the back of his fingers, and opened his desk drawer. He shuffled things around for a moment and then produced a small thumb drive. With a bent back, he stood and held it out for Yuri.

  Yuri grabbed the small device and examined it as though he could read the data with his naked eyes.

  “My house is made of money, and my house is made of bricks,” rapped Avram, wanting to appear less nervous than he felt.

  After dropping the phones off at American iPhone Repair, and eating a cup of noodles at a bodega where a friend worked, Youssouf Wolde had started back toward Washington Square Park. He rode slowly and kept his earphones around his neck. Before he got to the park he stopped at a coffee shop on East Twelfth Street. He stayed on his bike and looked in the window. When he saw his friend Lonnie, he knocked on the glass lightly until she looked up from her book.

  Lonnie was a nineteen-year-old NYU student. She was from Minnesota, a state he knew about because one of his cousins had settled there. She dressed like an American hippie, in baggy pants, handmade hats, and string necklaces with shells. They’d met in the park. She’d just walked up to him one day and started talking. She was the only non-crazy white person that had ever done that to him in the six years he’d lived in New York.

  She hugged him when she came outside, and said, “Dude, where have you been?”

  “Got sick,” he said, touching his stomach.

  “Poor Poobie,” she said. That was her nickname for him. She rubbed his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve brought you soup.”

  “You can’t bring soup to the Bronx.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause it would get cold on the subway.”

  “You’re hella stupid,” she said. She punched him on the shoulder. “You ready to get high?” she asked.

  “I gotta go give my partner something,” he said.

  “Look at you,” she said. “All gangster: ‘Gotta give my partner something.’”

  “Nah,” he said. “I’m a delivery boy.”

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  Lonnie was always down to hang, and she smiled all the time. He liked her for that. She didn’t care that he was poor. She didn’t care that he came from Africa. She liked to smoke weed and listen to music, just like him.

  While they walked toward the park, Lonnie told him about her struggles with teachers, and how they weren’t grading her properly. Youssouf listened, nodded when he thought he should, made his face sympathetic, elbowed her in the arm and laughed when she said something funny. But his mind was distracted. A sad feeling had settled over him. He wanted to be her boyfriend. He wanted to move back to Minnesota with her. Move into an American home. Buy a car. It was all a fantasy, though. She didn’t want that. He was just a delivery boy, and not even a real one at that.

  “What’s Malik’s deal?” asked Lonnie.

  “With what?”

  “With what he’s got you doing?”

  “Just running shit.”

  “You get paid for that?” she asked, with her head bent in a slightly flirtatious way.

  “He’ll give me twenty,” said Youssouf, pulling on the handlebars of his bike to pop the front wheel in the air. “Wish I was old enough to be an Uber driver, though. My cousin could make like a hundred dollars in one night. No boss. Just drive around, listen to the radio, smoke weed. Pick up girls. I’d get rich that way.”

  Lonnie’s face became serious. “Uber’s messed up, though.”

  “They all are,” said Youssouf. “But you gotta work. Can’t just be out here running phones for dudes.”

  “You should deliver weed.”

  “I’m Somali! Cops’ll be all over me. They checked my bag on the train last week. Terrorist shit. Look at me, I’m brown skin—African man.”

  “It’s not fair,” said Lonnie. She rubbed his back. “We’ll get you a real job. A safe job. I’ll hire you as soon as I start my business.”

  “What business?”

  “A plant store.”

  “That’s wassup, though,” said Youssouf. “That’s it. We can do it in Minnesota.” He looked at her. Her face looked like she’d just heard bad news. Youssouf’s face became hot. His mouth became dry. Too much, he thought.

  “I’m never moving back there,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause it’s fucking boring, and everyone’s white.”

  “Okay, so we’ll start it here,” said Youssouf.

  “Yeah, in Chinatown. We’ll call it Poobie’s Plants.”

  Less than half a mile away, Milton Frazier was backing into a parking spot on Mercer Street. Both Billy and Valencia had turned in their seats and were watching to see if he’d bump the car behind them; it was a Porsche.

  “Do you want me to jump out?” asked Valencia.

  “I got it.”

  And he did. He swung the car in, pulled forward, backed up, and they were good. Less than six inches on either side. Milton had long ago conquered his most obsessive traits, but he still couldn’t help taking a moment to remind himself that the vehicle was off, the lights were off, and it was fine to leave the car.

  The three of them walked to Bleecker Street without much talk. They made a left and walked two blocks to the subway’s exit. A jackhammer on Broadway pounded away at the pavement. A bearded man selling paintings of what appeared to be graffiti watched the three of them pass.

  It had been almost five hours since Milton had eaten his oatmeal and breakfast sausage. He had two hard-boiled eggs, a packet of salt, and two oranges in the SUV. He hadn’t eaten them because he knew Valencia wouldn’t like the smell of the eggs, and she’d love to tell him all about it. But he cursed himself for not bringing them with him. He shook his head while they walked.

  “Danny said he got out right here,” said Valencia, nodding toward the exit. “8:26 a.m.” They all took a moment to look around. “Let’s assume he knew where he was going and start this way.” Valencia pointed west on Bleecker in the same direction that the exit flowed.

  They walked west, each of them scanning buildings for obvious cameras. On the next block, they came to a designer clothing store. Above the door, and on the corner of the building were two security cameras. “All right,” said Valencia, nodding at the store. “I’ll keep going.”

  As she walked away both Milton and Billy stared at her for a moment, and then looked at each other.

  “Stupid job,” said Billy, raising his eyebrows.

  “It’ll keep the lights on,” said Milton. “You ready?”

  Billy took a breath, and told him he was. “Let’s do this,” he said.

  The store was a fancy place: the floors and walls were white, the light was muted, and house music played quietly from hidden speakers. There wasn’t a single customer. Two female employees, both African American, stood in the back and watched the two men approach. If my daddy could see me now, thought Milton.

  “Hello,” said one of the women, in a singsong voice.

  “Are you the manager?” asked Billy.

  “Yes, I am,” she said, offering a fake smile. “Can I help you find something?”

  “Yeah, we need to see the video from that camera,” said Billy, pointing outside.

  “I’m sorry, it’s not public,” said the manager.

  “I’m sorry, we should’ve introduced ourselves,” said Milton, stepping forward. “I’m Special Agent Lonzo Jones, FBI.” He showed his badge. “This is Special Agent Hallinan.”

 
; Billy smiled, showed his badge.

  “We’re not going to copy anything, but we need to see it,” said Milton.

  The manager’s eyes narrowed. A clock inside Milton’s head continued counting how many seconds had passed since they entered the store. He turned and looked at the street behind them, a hint that he wanted the woman to make haste.

  “Donald, can you help these men?” said the manager, calling to a suited guard standing near the door. The guard walked toward them holding his chin up as if he’d been challenged.

  “Video,” said the guard. “Come on.” He led them to a door in the back of the store. Behind it was a hallway with clothes hanging on movable racks. A plastic trash can sat overflowing with take-out boxes. At the end of the hall was a small office containing a desk with a computer on it. Donald hit the light switch and the room became bright. “Do you need me to do it?” he asked.

  “I think I can handle it,” said Milton. He stepped to the computer, pulled out the chair and sat down. He moved the mouse and the monitor came alive. There was dust on the keyboard, and he had to restrain himself from cleaning it. He looked at the home screen and found an icon for Sony 7X00. He was familiar with that system. “Okay, let’s see,” said Milton, talking to himself quietly.

  “Computers,” said Billy, shaking his head, playing the role of the friendly one.

  A live feed of the store appeared on the screen. Milton compared the time on the feed to his cell phone’s clock and noted that it was a minute and twenty-two seconds slow. “One twenty-two,” he muttered to himself.

  He punched in 8:25 and clicked the a.m. icon on the search box. The computer worked for a moment, and then the screen changed, and he was looking at nine camera views, four of which were blank. He clicked on the one that was above the door, then clicked on the one he’d seen on the corner of the building. The corner camera provided a better view. He let it play for a moment, and then sped it up so it played at double speed.

  The security guard, Donald, stood above him watching with his hands on his hips. He seemed happy to help the FBI. Billy stood near the door with the manager, who looked worried she might get in trouble for something.

  “Bingo” said Milton. “There he is.”

  He stopped the tape, backed it up, watched it. Walking down the sidewalk, moving directly toward the camera, was a thin man in his thirties or forties. He wore sunglasses and a dark suit. His hair appeared to be gelled back. The man walked straight toward the camera, but—and Milton appreciated him for this—kept his face angled away from it. He paused the video. 8:27:52 minus one minute and twenty-two seconds would put it at 8:26:30. A peaceful feeling came over Milton; the perfect roundness of the numbers made him feel like the universe had clicked into its rightful place. He stretched his neck and studied the man on the screen.

  He pulled out his own phone and looked at the picture they’d received from the MTA surveillance in Grand Central. Neither picture was perfectly clear. In the earlier shot, the man hadn’t yet put on his sunglasses. Milton’s eyes, like a computer, compared the two images and looked for any deviations that suggested it was a different person. He looked at the man’s hairline, his skull-to-body-proportion, the width of his shoulders, the cut of the suit’s lapel, the length of the suit coat, the length and fold of the newspaper. Nothing suggested this wasn’t the same person. Milton felt 99 percent sure it was.

  After that, he performed a quick series of commands, his fingers striking the keys and moving the mouse. He clipped the video and set the clip on the computer’s desktop. Then he pulled a small thumb drive from the inside breast pocket of his coat, and without asking permission, plugged it into the computer and copied the file onto it. Approximately four minutes and fifteen seconds had passed since they’d entered the store.

  He pulled out his cell phone and called Valencia on speed dial.

  “Talk to me,” she said.

  “We have visual confirmation, 8:26:30, headed west on Bleecker.”

  “Perfect,” said Valencia. “Skip two blocks west.”

  Yuri Rabinowitz, his brother Isaac, and Moishe Groysman were just arriving at Daba’s Teahouse, a Russian restaurant on the boardwalk in Brighton Beach. They’d been told their uncle Yakov Rabinowitz was having lunch there with a few of his friends. A cold wind blew in from the ocean and all three men walked with their faces turned away from it.

  The restaurant had an open-air dining patio that stretched along the boardwalk. Just then it was completely free of customers. Moishe sat at one of the tables, pulled out his phone, and began looking at Instagram. The two brothers left their helmets and told their friend they’d be right back.

  Upon entering the restaurant, Yuri felt self-conscious about his clothes. He pulled at the collar of his leather jacket as though that would somehow transform it into a suit. He stole a glance at his younger brother, who as always, seemed perfectly unbothered.

  A broad-shouldered host, wearing a black jacket and bow tie, raised a hand, smiled, and let his head dip in greeting. Beyond the host’s station was the restaurant proper. It wasn’t particularly fancy, and at this hour, apart from their uncle and his associates sitting toward the back of the room, there were no other diners.

  In the space between their uncle and the host’s station, sitting at a table alone, holding a cell phone to his ear, was their uncle’s protector, Grigory Levchin. Crag-faced and massive, he pulled himself up from his seat when he saw the two brothers, covered the phone with his hand, and said in Russian, “Your mother was looking for you.”

  “Tell her I was at your mother’s house,” answered Yuri.

  Grigory grumbled, patted a heavy hand on Yuri’s back, and then leaned in and kissed both him and Isaac on their cheeks. He held his hand toward their uncle’s table, allowing them to pass. His breath, Yuri noticed, smelled like cough drops.

  Their uncle Yakov Rabinowitz sat facing them. Seventy-one years old, skinny, bald, Jewish—he didn’t look like a gangster at all. He had a benevolent face and dressed in casual and comfortable clothes appropriate for his age. The other three men seated at the table, all roughly the same age as him, were dressed slightly more formally in jackets and ties.

  “You boys look like Saturday Night Fever,” said their uncle. His eyes then shifted to Grigory. “Grab chairs.” He looked back at his nephews; his eyes went up and down their outfits. “We’re Jews, we don’t ride motorcycles,” he said. “What is all this?”

  The brothers walked around the table, shaking hands and patting the older men on their backs. “Uncle,” said Yuri, glancing at the other men, “we have to tell you something.”

  “They want to hear what you’ve been doing with yourselves,” said their uncle. The other men at the table nodded and shifted in their seats as if someone was squeezing past them. The two brothers sat.

  There was a bottle of vodka in the middle of the table. It was almost unheard of for their uncle to drink during the day. Yuri figured it must be one of the other men’s birthdays. He looked around but couldn’t tell which one.

  “We’ve been given some documents,” said Yuri, turning back to his uncle. “Corporate stuff. Secret material. It’s been sold to us. We think the law firm would pay us to return it.”

  Their uncle looked like he’d just heard a bad joke. “What document? Why would they pay for it?”

  It was Isaac’s turn to speak up. His eyes, as he did so, had a humorous glow that captivated his audience. “Uncle, we looked it up online. This is a very big case.” He smiled at one of the men to his right. “There are newspaper stories. Lots of money. The Southern District, a civil case. Big banks suing each other. We wanted to bring it to you. See if you think Katzir should look at it. If Katzir says it’s worth money then, well, we proceed.”

  Yuri heard the sound of clanking dishes coming from the kitchen. He felt suddenly foolish. “Uncle,” he said, “this is something we thought we should ask your permission before doing. That’s why we came here with it—”

  I
saac cut in: “And of course we will give you a piece of what we make with this deal.”

  Their uncle smiled, looked at his friends. “These boys—don’t let their clothes fool you. They are good boys!”

  After swapping out her low heels for a pair of black running shoes, Elizabeth Carlyle set out on foot for lunch. There was a place on East Thirty-Fifth and Lexington that served salade niçoise in the style she preferred—composed and drizzled, not dressed and tossed. The walk would do her good. She could breathe deeply and stretch her legs. The restaurant was just far enough away to guarantee no chance encounters with any colleagues. The last thing she needed was more talk.

  As she walked, she began to imagine newspaper stories related to the missing documents. The New York Times would cover it. She wrote the headline in her mind: “Rise and Fall of a Great Lawyer.” The Wall Street Journal would be all over it: “Calcott Brought Down by Own Law Firm.”

  The stock market would react. Pensions would be lost. There would be whispers in Chappaqua, where she lived. Gossip at the country clubs. Pointing, talking, muttering.

  She pulled out her phone and checked for missed calls. There were none. After slipping her phone back into her pocket she watched two young women—wearing heavy makeup and dressed like they were going clubbing—walk right toward her. They were deep in conversation. “I would lie to protect her,” said one of the girls. “But that doesn’t make me a liar.”

  The two girls made Elizabeth think of her own two daughters, both of whom lived in California now. Elizabeth had hoped they would return to the East Coast after college. Neither did. With each passing year, the chance of them moving back became less likely. But Elizabeth didn’t want to think about that. Instead, she repeated the phrase, But that doesn’t make me a liar, and turned it into a joke: It makes me a lawyer.

  Right then a young man in a suit walked past. Her mind returned to Chris Cowley. Hadn’t someone recommended him? Who? The hiring committee had settled on him without much debate. Why? What had been so special about him? The other candidates had been perfectly capable.