The Dewey Decimal System (22 page)

“I was here with him two nights ago, you saw me. Get him on the phone. The name is Branko Jokanovic. I work for Yakiv’s attorney.”

She now has her hand on the phone. This is going to work. “Lawyer?” she says doubtfully, as if testing out the word.

“That’s what I said, bon-bon, so go ahead, call him, that’s a good girl. Branko Jokanovic, the name, all you gotta do is tell him I’m here and we’re done.”

Svetlana or whatever the fuck her name is hesitates a few moments longer, casts her eyes at the lobby muscle who stand oblivious, thinking about whatever those guys think about when they’re standing around. Then she picks up the receiver and taps out a sequence of numbers, her nails pornographically long.

I’m being tough on her, but plastic surgery in any amount just makes me want to puke. Call me judgmental, but it indicates a certain set of accompanying goals, fashion choices, and behaviors. It’s trashy and it means you don’t like yourself.

Tell me I’m wrong.

“Mr. Shapsko, please.” She’s speaking in Russian, which suits me fine.

We wait. And wait. She doesn’t look at me, which also suits me fine.

“Branko Jokanovic,” I repeat. She holds up a finger. I hate when people do that.

I do a head count. Maybe fourteen couples and four singles in the bar. Plus the three security guys and two teenagers in the Mao jackets. Hope I don’t have to waste civilians, that would be tragic. On the other hand, if they’re hanging here, they’re probably into some bad shit.

“Yes, this is the front desk.”

I return my attention to the receptionist. She’s an absolute vision. A deeply disturbing vision.

“I am so sorry to disturb you. I have a person calling himself Branko Jokanovic downstairs? If you wish, I will have security remove …” She pauses. “No, I’m quite sure, Branko Jokanovic. Shall I have him removed?”

I suddenly feel a rush of sympathy for this person. I’ve been assuming things. Like the fact that the plastic surgery was her choice. I know that when people assume shit about me, I don’t like it.

Clearly, Yakiv is now chewing her out; she looks at the floor. I know the kind of control mechanisms these guys deploy. If you’re a sixteen-year-old girl and you fall in with such men, it’s all over. Where this puts you when you’re on the wrong side of thirty has to be grim.

What’s wrong with me? I’m all over the place, gotta focus.

She places the receiver down carefully. Says, “Mr. Shapsko is on his way here.” Doesn’t make eye contact.

In our last moments together I want to take it all back. “Miss,” I say in Russian, “I apologize for being rude. That was uncalled for. Had a bad day at work and I took it out on you a little bit. I wish only the best for you and your family.” It comes out very formal—what can I say, my Russian is textbook.

She looks at me, head cocked. “Fine. You can wait in the bar.” In English. Icy chilly. She’s got that thick skin. Fair enough. She’ll need it.

I thank her and mosey over to the bar, my plan all along, dropping my skinny ass on a black and chrome stool. It’s like architecture and design got stuck on auto repeat in the 1990s.

I position myself as far toward the street as possible. The balcony is open. To get to me, the thugs would have to walk two abreast maximum, probably single file. All according to plan.

Bartender plops a coaster (
Stolichnaya Vodka
) in front of me. “What are we drinking this evening?” He’s a short guy with black hair, thick eyebrows.

I decide what the hell, treat myself. “We are drinking a Shirley Temple. Hold the cherry.” Nasty-ass maraschinos.

Dude blanks me.

“You know, like Sprite or 7UP with some grenadine syrup? You don’t get any kids in here?”

“For no alcohol, we have bottled water.”

No fun. “That’ll work.”

He disappears, I’m watching the elevator bank. The heavy nearest me just outside the bar is talking into his headset, he does an unsuccessfully casual turn and clocks me, starts talking again.

I look to the right. Yeah, all the muscle is chatting. They’re on standby. I swivel to my left and check the balcony, hand in pocket. Dinner is being served but they’re thin on clientele. I run my finger across the edge of my key.

As far as I can see, no security out there, save the dude down the stairs on Ninth Avenue. Mustn’t forget about him.

Bust out some Purell
^TM
, lather up. Ready as I’ll ever be. Adrenaline kicks in and this feels grand.

Yakiv comes out of the elevator, flanked by two more sides of beef.

The bartender deposits my water in front of me. Quickly, I down a pill and chase it.

Yakiv heads for the front desk, but one of the men touches his shoulder and indicates me. I wave. Howdy-do. His face goes through several stages, initially amusement, then momentary befuddlement, then straight-up anger.

He’s coming toward me. And, hail Lucifer, he must’ve told his men to relax, because he’s beelining my direction on his lonesome. The heavy in front of the bar steps aside as Yakiv passes. He’s adjusting his face into an approximation of cool. But the man is pissed.

“This name,” he’s saying. “Why do you use this name, you think that is fucking funny?” Gets right up in my face. I put up my hands, placating. I feel a collective tensing of muscle throughout the room.

“Woah, Yakiv, cool it down. Yeah, it was a joke, just trying to keep you frisky. Don’t want to get soft, right? Hey, is Branko here? I ask cause I did notice his car just out front …”

“Not fucking funny. And not funny to remove leg bracelet. I think this is not working out. Huh?” Yakiv gestures to his guys.

“You’re wrong there, friend. I did the job.”

“Bullshit,” he says, face going red again.

Okay, I need to make my move soon. “Iveta. Done. I have photographs …” I reach into my jacket, the room rushes forward, but not before I’ve spun Yakiv around, established a headlock, and jammed the Sig Sauer in his ear.

“Back the fuck up!” I tell the collective hunks in Russian.

Brief chaos. People duck under tables, the bar clears out fast. Gives me a moment to get a really solid hold on Shapsko. The man saying, “Oh, this is a really big problem for you. Really big.”

The muscle looks to Yakiv. Their weapons are out. Something of a rush, having seven or eight guns pointed at you. Their problem: the narrow opening to the bar, a low wall really, creates a bottleneck effect.

Yakiv sounds almost bored, speaks Russian: “Hang on a moment, men, let’s see how this unfolds.”

“Yeah, hang on a moment, fellows,” I say, also in my schoolbook Russian. “Come closer, I shoot your boss. Or maybe I’ll just cripple the man so he can remember which one of you blew it for him.”

I’m thinking about the guy at the bottom of the balcony stairs. I don’t see the dude, which I take to mean they want him to remain there. Wise.

Everybody’s jawing into their earpieces.

We start backing up, out onto the balcony.

“Yakiv,” I whisper into his ear, “I know what you are. I know what you’ve done. See? You’re not going to make it tonight, this is it for you.”

We continue backing up. If the guy comes up the stairs I might be fucked, so I start to move faster before anybody on a ’com figures that out as well.

Yakiv is actually grinning. “It’s sad to me that you’ve been so easily made like a puppet. You’re in the middle of something you don’t understand. You have the story completely confused. Iveta, she will eat you alive.”

“Just hush-a-bye. You’re not doing yourself any good.”

Still backing up. I see two of the guys inside make a run for the side entrance. Ah, they’re going to go around the side of the building. Smart stuff.

We are about to round the stairs where we will probably be met by more security. I put pressure on Yakiv’s carotid artery, cutting off his air and blood flow. I do it hard. I give it about twenty seconds, his people just straining to do something, anything, it’s enough to make the man woozy. I then step backward.

Sure enough, there’s the heavy at the head of the stairs, as expected. I feel confident I can take the gun away from Yakiv’s head long enough to put a cap into this guy, whose mouth is one big SpaghettiO.

Do it, just as he’s raising his gun,
boom,
a touch to the right of his nose. His face explodes, the sap falls backward, and I return the gun to Yakiv’s temple. At the gunshot, his men inside the hotel start yelling shit, but they don’t have a good move if they want to avoid clipping their boss.

Reckon it’s time to cut out, while I’m enjoying a slight leg-up. I pull Yakiv down the stairs, and once we clear the line of sight with his men, I can hear them scrambling in our direction.

Halfway down the block, two of Yakiv’s guys come around the corner, the smarter of the two immediately ducking back behind the building, the dumber half raising a pistol and jogging our way like a moron.

I take careful aim from behind Yakiv’s shoulder and fire, first shot going wide, shit, fire again and he clutches his thigh and goes down midskip, skids to a stop on the pavement. Shoot him once more so he doesn’t continue to be a problem, then turn around to face the larger grouping of men who are taking up position along the balcony’s edge. They’re dying to open up, I can’t blame them, but they’re just not getting a decent look at me.

I’m concerned with the fellow to my right, hanging tough around the corner. I can’t use Yakiv as a shield in two different directions simultaneously.

The Ukrainian has recovered from the Vulcan neck-grip and is doing his best to drag his feet and generally make it difficult for me to move.

“Brilliant plan,” he says. “You must be very proud.”

“Tell them to stand down,” I say.

Yakiv just smiles.

“I said, tell them to chill and back up.”

The man says nothing of the kind. And of course he’s playing his cards right, I expect that if I shoot him I’d find myself in a downpour of bullets. The only power I wield at the moment is conditional on Yakiv being alive.

I sigh. Okay, we’ll just take it as it comes.

Set out across Ninth Avenue, backward, angling south. This seems to be working. One step at a time. Yakiv takes this moment to put his elbow in my gut, a good effort but I have the vest on.

Which is apparently what he was trying to determine. “Listen,” he calls in Russian to his boys, “he’s wearing a Kevlar vest. Go for a headshot. If you feel like you can take it, take it. I trust all of you like brothers.”

Well played by Yakiv. Shit. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

The guy on the street who has been waiting for just such an opportunity must be digging himself tonight, because he pops out and squeezes one off.

I duck behind Yakiv, hell yeah I do, I’m no hero, and feel that hot bullet whizz right past my right ear. An excellent shot at this distance.

Yakiv decides he doesn’t like this action. That one came as close to him as it did to me. “Okay, hold it! Just hold your fire. Just hold it.”

The frisky dude has for the moment forgotten that he’s wide open, distracted perhaps by his commitment to take the next opportunity to cap me. It’s unfortunate.

Yakiv starts to say something but I’m focused on lining up my own shot. I take it and get it in one. The guy turns sideways, I can’t see his expression from here, and collapses. Some would frown on this kind of thing, but I line up another one, and for the second time I shoot a man who is already down.

Now things are considerably easier. Yakiv knows it.

“I never took you for suicidal type. This is certainly going to end poorly for you.” Et cetera. Trying to psych me out but I’m past all that. He blathers on.

As we get across the street, his boys are positively jumping up and down with frustration. Half of them run inside, probably with the intention of coming around the side like their dead or dying buddies.

That’s okay. I’m in the zone. I can taste it, this will work.

Dragging the Ukrainian across 16th Street now. Half a block to go, less. Yakiv is feeling my good fortune. He’s trying to keep his voice relaxed and snarky but it’s not coming together for him. His tone is increasingly desperate.

“Decimal, think about this, how does this end in a good way for you? You kill me, so what? You will never know things that are essential for you to stay alive. Only I can provide you this information. Okay? You only kill yourself.”

I’m done talking to this man. We’re like three meters from the busted-out glass door we’re headed toward.

His boys arrive on the other side of the street. They’re out of ideas, impotent, useless, and they’re probably catching on to that themselves. They hang back as I step awkwardly over the door frame and into the dark of the dilapidated restaurant, hauling Yakiv’s unwilling carcass with me.

Once we’re through the doorway I step back a bit, pointing the pistol at the base of his spine. I poke him.

“Move, quick, let’s go. Put your hands on top of your head. Lace your fingers.”

He does as he’s told. I steer him out into the main corridor that runs the length of the old Chelsea Market and terminates at Tenth Avenue. A simple maze thick with glass rooms that were once shops, bakeries, groceries, general fanciness.

All I have is the small Maglite, it’ll have to do … I train it on the ground a couple feet in front of us as we proceed. I nudge him past the newsstand, deeper into the dark of the place. I note running water up ahead, either a leak or the fountain is somehow still functioning. Lots of broken glass litters the walkway, crunches underfoot. This place saw some pretty heavy looting.

I stop him at the old Chelsea Wine Vault on the right, the door is already busted out and we’re hit with the stench of spilled, spoiled wine that has been baking in this heat for a good month and a half. It’s pretty overwhelming, but I say: “In here, let’s go.”

He’s clearly trying to come up with an angle, so indeed would I in his shoes, but the guy cooperates. “Decimal,” he says as I scoot him toward the back of the shop. Broken bottles everywhere, I’m careful where I step. Dude presses on: “It’s no use, this whole thing. My team will find you. Walk away right now, and I give my word as a man that no harm will come to you.”