Clean Hands

by Patrick Hoffman

  They had called Ossip twice on the way over, but he hadn’t answered either call. It was 10:39 a.m. Ossip always had the shop open by 10:00.

  “What the fuck?” asked Isaac from the back of the car.

  “Go knock on the door,” said Grigory. “Wake that drunkard up.”

  Yuri stepped out of the car, and a gust of wind greeted him. Isaac got out and joined him on the sidewalk. Both men approached the front of the shop. Yuri found that the padlock, while set in its place, hadn’t been locked.

  He took the lock off and put it on the ground. Then he pushed the metal gate open, the sound of metal scraping on metal. Like a proprietor opening for business, he set it as best he could into its spot. Isaac moved toward the front door and began knocking on it.

  Yuri joined him and looked over his shoulder. It was dark in the shop. “What the fuck?” whispered Yuri.

  “Dude,” said Isaac. “This shit is bullshit.”

  Isaac tried the door and found it unlocked. He walked in slowly, like he was afraid of interrupting something. Before entering, Yuri turned and looked at Grigory, who was watching everything from the car with a frown.

  Standing near the door, Isaac was still in the front room when Yuri entered. “What are you doing?” whispered Yuri.

  “I don’t know,” said Isaac.

  Yuri stepped past him and hit the lights. The front room lit up. Hanging behind the counter on the wall was a collection of blank keys waiting to be carved. A seldom-used cash register sat on the counter. The shop was silent.

  “Yo, Ossip!” yelled Yuri. He lifted the countertop and walked toward the back. When he got to the hallway he flicked on the light.

  The workshop in back was dark, and Yuri had to feel along the wall like a blind man until he found the light switch. When he hit the lights, he saw Ossip’s body facedown on the ground. There was blood pooled and smeared on the floor. The room, Yuri realized, smelled like shit and blood. He stepped back and hit a bucket near the door and stumbled, but didn’t fall.

  “What the fuck?” said Isaac, stepping to the body, but trying to avoid the blood. “What happened?” He turned the man over and they saw a dark gash on his throat where it had been cut.

  Yuri, knowing full well what was waiting for him, walked over to the safe in the corner of the room. He found it open and empty. “Fuck,” he said. This can’t be happening, he thought.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Isaac.

  “No, no—”

  “What?”

  “Idiot, people saw us come in,” said Yuri.

  They both walked toward the front of the shop, and then stepped outside. Yuri stopped near the front door to make sure nobody else walked in. He watched Isaac walk over to the car and lean down to speak with Grigory.

  Yuri looked down the street. There were people everywhere. A woman pushed a laundry cart right past him. Cars drove past in steady waves. Down the block, a child in a stroller cried.

  “He doesn’t want to come in,” said Isaac, walking back to the storefront. Yuri bent his head and looked at Grigory, who was still in the car with his phone to his ear. “He’s calling,” said Isaac.

  “The cops?” asked Yuri.

  “Uncle,” said Isaac.

  Yuri looked at his hands; he hadn’t touched anything but he wanted to make sure he didn’t have any blood on him. He looked down and saw some junk mail scattered on the ground. That mail was sent to Ossip, and it will never be opened. He closed his eyes and breathed like he was crying, but no tears came out. This is our fault, he thought. This is all our fault.

  “You know who did this, right?” Yuri asked his brother.

  “Who?”

  “Your fucking friend, that psychopath that was here. What’s his name, fucking Dima?”

  “Dima?” said Isaac. “Ossip’s his uncle. He’s not going to kill his uncle. For what?”

  “For money,” hissed Yuri. He looked back toward the car and Grigory beckoned him with his fingers. When Yuri walked that way, a group of black guys at a bodega watched him but didn’t say anything.

  He bent down by the window. “He said to call the police,” said Grigory.

  “Fuck,” said Yuri. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. I’m going to wait right here in the car.” He pointed toward the bodega. Yuri looked that way and saw a camera directed toward the front of the locksmith shop. Grigory then pointed at Ossip’s door. Yuri looked that way and saw a domed camera he’d never noticed before. “That one doesn’t work.”

  “What do I say?” asked Yuri.

  Isaac joined them at the car.

  “Say that you came to get a copy of your house keys,” said Grigory, “that Ossip was a dear family friend, that you found the place as you found it, unlocked, dark, that you found him.”

  “Throat cut?” asked Yuri.

  “Throat cut,” said Grigory, covering his eyes with his hands. “Make the call.”

  Yuri stepped back toward the front door and dialed 911. He told the operator that he’d found his friend murdered. Yuri answered all of the dispatcher’s questions with urgency, throwing in a curse word here, and a please hurry there.

  As he spoke, he looked out at Neptune Avenue and marveled that people were running errands as though everything was normal. The sky was still blue, traffic kept moving, the world went on. He looked at Isaac and saw his little brother leaning against the back passengerside door, staring at him with a flat expression.

  Grigory, meanwhile, still seated in the driver’s seat, was back on the phone, animatedly spreading word of what had happened.

  When he finished the call, Yuri walked back to the car, and got in. “This is fucked,” he said in English. Grigory nodded. Isaac got in the back and they sat in silence for a moment until Yuri finally said, “Dima.”

  Grigory looked at him. “Why Dima?”

  “He was here when we made a withdrawal,” said Yuri. “Moishe had the money in a bag, but he saw it, he noticed.”

  “What about Moishe?” asked Grigory.

  “Never,” said Yuri. “He’s in Jamaica. He left two days ago. It’s not him.” After fussing with his phone, he held it up. “See”—on the phone was a picture of Moishe sitting on the beach, wearing sunglasses, and giving a peace sign—“he’s with Raya and Raya’s wife and her sister. They left two days ago,” he repeated.

  Grigory’s eyes went from the phone to the street in front of him. “All days are bad days,” he said. “This day’s the worst.”

  The first sirens could be heard coming from the 60th Precinct.

  “Don’t mention the safe,” said Grigory, turning to Yuri.

  “What do you think we are?”

  Grigory then told them what to say to the cops. He told them to give the statements they discussed, to be cooperative, and not to ask for a lawyer. “Stick to the story: you came, you found, that’s it.”

  After the police secured the scene, the men were separated and told to stand in different doorways along Neptune Avenue. More people had gathered now. Word had already spread in the neighborhood.

  One by one, the three men gave statements to the same uniformed female officer. She took notes on a small pad and watched them like she was looking for a crack in their foundation, but there was none. From there, they were ferried to the precinct. They were placed in their own small interview rooms along the same hallway.

  As Yuri was led to his room, he spotted Grigory. The man sat with straight posture, his large hands placed on the table as if he’d just finished a piano recital.

  Yuri’s interview room was filthy; a balled-up Kleenex lay on the floor—maybe someone had been crying. The walls were smeared and dirty. Eventually, Yuri could hear the low tones of Grigory’s voice coming from the next room.

  Finally, a homicide detective wearing a loose suit, a black guy named Robinson, entered the room. He didn’t treat Yuri like a suspect, but upon hearing his name he made a show of saying, “Rabinowitz,” while raising his eyebrows, pursing his li
ps, and nodding his head like he knew who Yuri’s uncle was.

  The detective asked all the necessary questions, but he didn’t press any issues. When he finished the interview, he shook Yuri’s hand and seemed to take note of its clamminess. He gave Yuri a card and said to be in touch if he heard anything.

  A different cop drove them back to Grigory’s car on Neptune Avenue. Grigory sat up front and the two brothers rode in back.

  Isaac was the only one who spoke. He kept repeating, “I can’t believe they killed Ossip.”

  “All right, gentleman,” said the cop when he pulled next to the car. “Stay safe.”

  “Is he trying to be funny?” asked Isaac.

  Grigory shushed him, and they got out. All three men watched the cruiser drive off, then together they turned and looked at Ossip’s shop. A ribbon of yellow police tape hung across the front doorway. No cops were visible, but two empty squad cars and a city van remained in front of the building.

  Grigory looked at his phone and told the brothers their uncle wanted to see them.

  “Dude, this day is whack,” said Isaac. “Start to finish.”

  Yuri shook his head, thought about saying that it hadn’t even begun, but decided to stay silent. They all got into Grigory’s car.

  To avoid being followed, Grigory took Ocean Parkway all the way out to Sheepshead Bay and then zigzagged his way back to Brighton Beach. Slumping in the front seat, Yuri stared out the window and thought about all the times he’d spent with Ossip. He’d known the man his entire life. He’d always been there, cutting keys, acting as a bank, drinking, carrying on. He was a good man. Blood or not, he was part of their family.

  Yuri also thought about Isaac, who’d looked like a teenager back there at the locksmith shop. As they drove down Avenue U and passed by all the Chinese stores, he felt a genuine affection for him. Yuri told himself he had to start acting better. He had to stop being so hard on his brother. He had to learn to control his anger. He had to be a better brother. It was time to start taking responsibility. It was time to grow up.

  Yuri turned in his seat and looked at his brother. Isaac’s eyes were red from crying. “I love you,” Yuri said, holding his hand out.

  Isaac grabbed his brother’s hand and kissed it. “I love you too,” he said in Russian. They all rode in silence for a moment; then Isaac reached forward and grabbed Grigory’s massive shoulders. “We love you, too, Big Angel,” he said.

  Grigory’s eyes became damp and he wiped them with his hand. All three of them bumped along, shaking their heads, looking at the trees in front of them.

  When they got back to Leo Katzir’s office, they found it closed. The secretary had been sent home for the day, and the front door had been locked. They had to wait for the lawyer to open it. When he did, he shook his head at Yuri like an angry grandmother. “Did I tell you?” he asked.

  “Yes, you did.”

  In the back room they found their uncle on the phone, ending a call. “Sit down, boys,” he said, pointing at the couch. He turned to Grigory. “Close that door.”

  Yuri and Isaac sat on the couch. As their uncle set a chair in front of them, Yuri tried to find some kind of self possession. He shifted in his seat, wiped at his jaw, and made a pained face. This is the bottom, thought Yuri. This is rock bottom.

  Uncle Yakov, his eyes looking particularly blue, studied the two brothers. After a moment, he leaned forward, grabbed Isaac’s knee, and gave it a little shake.

  “Boys, when we were young, back there”—he spoke quietly—“we had to do things because there was no other way to survive. We had to eat, and if you have to eat, and there is no job for Jews, then you make your own employment.”

  He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other. “We’ve been talking,” he said, looking at the lawyer, who sat at his desk, hands folded in front of him, shaking his head. “It’s different now. Yes, the world needs things. Things need to be shipped from here to there. Goods need to be sold. Orders need fulfillment.”

  He stopped speaking for a moment, looked first at Isaac and then shifted his gaze to Yuri. “Your father was a good man. He never joined me in what we do, and I never held it against him. As you know, we remained very close. I loved that man. He’s not here to watch over you.”

  His eyes went back and forth between the two brothers. “Here is what I propose,” he finally said. “I’m going to pay the money back myself. We need to clean this up.”

  He turned and looked at the lawyer, and the lawyer nodded. “And you boys are going to leave New York.”

  “You can go wherever you want. Go to California. I tell you the world is whatever you want it to be. But you can’t be here right now. You don’t have to live this life.” He sat there like he was trying to figure out what else to say, then looked at Grigory. “It’s unhealthy.”

  Yuri closed his eyes. He didn’t feel any great relief, but he wasn’t going to argue. “Yeah, I mean, I think we can do that.” He turned and looked at his brother. “Right?” he asked.

  Isaac said, “California,” and nodded his head, like it was just one more fun thing they could do.

  Yuri couldn’t help staring at him.

  It was settled: the Rabinowitz brothers would move to California.

  That same afternoon, Michael D’Angelo received a text message from Elizabeth Carlyle: Call your men off Chris C.

  He typed his response: Really?? and hit send.

  His phone lit up. Yes, really. Another message followed: We fired him.

  D’Angelo was in a meeting at the time. He sat there for a moment, and then texted Paul Malone, whose team had been hired to watch Chris. He told him the job was over, to call off his men. He thanked Paul and told him to send his bill.

  When the meeting ended, D’Angelo walked straight to his office, sat down at his desk, and opened the video of Chris Cowley’s pickpocketing. He watched it in real speed, then slowed it down and watched it again. By this point, it seemed unquestionable that the attorney and the pickpocket had acted in tandem. It was right there on video: they looked at each other before the bump. In D’Angelo’s mind it was a settled fact. He backed it up and watched again.

  The pickpocket was skilled—he had to give him that. It didn’t matter anymore. He closed the video player, then opened up his email and began responding to a message about his son’s school.

  D’Angelo finished work early and decided that instead of catching his normal cab, he’d walk to Penn Station. The walk didn’t bring any relief. Midtown felt ugly; his bad mood seemed to be shared by everyone around him. A contagious, citywide bad mood had descended. Florida, thought D’Angelo. The place for me is Florida.

  As he made his way across Bryant Square Park, he thought of Valencia Walker. Perhaps she could offer some closure. He stopped walking, took out his cell phone, and scrolled through his contacts until he found her number. While the phone rang, he moved toward the tables and chairs on the west side of the park.

  “Michael, I was just thinking about you,” Valencia said when she answered. Her voice was warm. Calling her had been the right decision, he knew it instantly. His mood was already improving.

  After exchanging a few friendly greetings, D’Angelo came to the point. “You heard they fired Cowley?”

  “I did,” said Valencia.

  “So what do you think?”

  “Termination is never good,” said Valencia, her voice still carrying that soothing tone. “It leaves a bad feeling.”

  “I mean bigger picture.”

  “Big picture,” said Valencia. “The case is a mess. I think your firm’s client is about to be in a lot of trouble. The thing needs to go away.”

  “Calcott?” asked D’Angelo. He was confused.

  “Calcott.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “But don’t tell Liz that,” said Valencia, cutting him off. “You know she hates to hear bad news.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “I’m saying that based on a vibe in the air, no
t anything concrete.”

  D’Angelo’s eyebrows turned in on each other; his head moved back an inch. He felt at a loss for words. It sounded so abstract coming from her. She didn’t sound like an ex-intelligence officer, she sounded like a hippie. “Very New Age,” he finally managed to say.

  “I’ve been meditating,” said Valencia. “Now tell me what you think.”

  “I think Cowley was in on losing that phone.”

  “Of course, he was,” said Valencia. “He lost it.”

  “No, I mean, I think he lost it intentionally.”

  “Liz told me that,” she said. “Seems plausible.”

  “You know we had men on him since it went down?”

  “She told me that too,” said Valencia. “Did they ever get anything?”

  “Honestly, not really.”

  “I heard he lost them last night,” she said.

  “Yeah,” said D’Angelo. “A real Jason Bourne.”

  “Last straw.”

  “That’s it,” said D’Angelo. “Hey listen, there was one thing that still bugged me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The pickpocket.”

  “Oh God,” said Valencia. “You don’t know how long we worked on that. I called in a favor”—here her voice dropped down to a conspiratorial whisper—“from Fort Meade, mind you. Had them run the video through their facial recognition systems. Nada. For all we know, the dude might have been wearing one of those silicone masks.”

  D’Angelo found himself nodding while he listened.

  “Also—well shit—I won’t say his name ’cause you know him, too, but I had someone pull all the StingRay data from the Grand Central and the Bleecker Street stops. There were something like twenty-five numbers that seemed to hit the time frame right. I had my team track all—I’m saying all—those numbers back to their owners.

  “Long story short, there were no good hits. We found four Asian fellas, but we looked into them and none was our target. I had my NYPD guy pull every sheet on every pickpocket in Grand Central and Penn Station for the last three years.” She paused for a moment, then said, “The guy did a very clean job.”