There was no shucking and jiving to be done with the DA, not this time. He was buying none of it. So I came clean.
Sort of.
Now I slouch low in a car parked a few doors down from Odessa Expedited. I’m very aware of my ankle bracelet, the chip in my arm. I consider my options. All of which are pretty grim.
I was abducted, I told Rosenblatt. Shapsko’s men, most likely, though I never did find out. Taken to Brooklyn. I escaped, but just barely.
Rosenblatt was not impressed.
The upshot: as far as the DA is concerned, I’m on very strict probation. Either I go to work and take care of this job, or I will be kicked to the curb. No more firstclass status and, most significantly, no more medication. I will be put out in the cold. Twisting in the wind. Persona non grata. And further, I will be considered hostile to city affairs, which will be taken into consideration if I encounter any authorities.
I honestly don’t know how long I could make it under such circumstances. No matter which way I approach this thing, by far the simplest solution would be to do Yakiv.
So be it.
Rosenblatt has been monitoring radio communications within Yakiv’s organization, and has reason to believe Yakiv is at his office, here on West 26th Street.
This was my last chance. I would, according to the DA, find a red Volt, key, and a bottle of my medication under the driver’s seat, near Odessa Expedited’s address.
He stressed yet again: last chance for a slow dance. The train is leaving the station. He then gave me his private line, an honor I have not previously been granted.
Once the job is done I am to contact him, pronto, via his mobile phone. Any military personnel will be available to facilitate this with their equipment.
Committed the number to memory. Easy: 999-999-9999.
Fucking hell, man. Getting boxed in.
I pop a blue beauty and scan the buildings across from Odessa, and think I see what I want to see. The stairwell at number 247, windows facing out, across the street.
Exiting the Volt, I walk quickly to the building, try the door, which swings right open, mount the stairs, and take them up to the second landing. Simple as that.
Hungry-looking rats scatter. I crouch, which is uncomfortable but manageable. Solid view of the entrance to Odessa. With half an eye out the window, I check both weapons. This should be pretty straightforward.
I tap several times on one of the many panes in the checkerboard window, and presently it cracks. I’m able to poke my pistol through the discreet opening.
Screwing the silencer on the Sig. Might as well do the guy with the weapon he gave me. If indeed it is traceable back to Branko (Brian?), maybe we get the double bonus of painting it like some sort of funky turf thing. Who cares, really; most of all I like the idea of dropping him with the bullet intended for his wife.
I touch my ankle bracelet. Yakiv has to know I’m in the neighborhood. Like right on top of him. If I get the chance I will have to pull this off fast.
I touch my key. Nothing to do now but wait.
Don’t have to wait long. Approximately twenty minutes have passed, and without preamble, a couple big guys, interchangeable with the types I’ve encountered in the last couple days, come out the door, followed by Yakiv himself, who is laughing with the cut-and-paste pair of thugos that take up the rear.
When he’s all the way out, he pauses. I lift the gun. He’s sweeping the block with his eyes, his mouth a wide grin. I have a clean shot. I start to apply pressure to the trigger finger.
Yakiv makes a rolling movement with his arms, a disco move that says, Get on with it. Wrap it up. I’m positive it’s directed at me.
His boys hang back, exchange looks.
He’s wide open, I’ve got him pinned, there’s no way I’ll miss him when I pull the trigger.
Except that I don’t.
Yakiv walks into the middle of the street, looking this way and that. I withdraw the weapon. He’s raking the buildings with his eyes. For a second I’m sure he’s spotted me and I scoot back like a crab.
He holds his arms up, Christlike. At this point I know I’m not going to shoot the man.
Yakiv lifts his palms, shrugs, turns on his heel, and rejoins his buddies. Within ten seconds they’re piling into a black Chevy van, and within another eight seconds they’re gone.
I couldn’t do it.
Putting aside any of the issues the DA might have with the man, his motivation to send me after him, whatever that might be, because after all I’m not particularly concerned about the finer points of city politics, putting all this aside: I don’t doubt for a second that Yakiv would enjoy laying me out. Arrogant prick.
So what keeps me from carrying through? Do the job, chill out the DA. Put things right with Brian/Branko, return the hand, choke down some pills, and get back to my literary womb.
I can’t do it. For fuck’s sake, why?
Because this gig, it stinks. Something’s not right, something’s off. At the center of this tangle is an unknown quantity. The linchpin.
Iveta, around whom all this chaos orbits.
It strikes me now, this is what I’ve been doing all along. Chasing my own ass, trying to determine how Iveta fits in. Has she been off my mind? Not for a half minute.
I pull myself up off the floor, bounce down the stairs, and leg it toward the car, holstering my gun. Pulling out the PurellTM.
That pulp cliché, the oldest of the old, the most tired of all tired phrases comes to me. But I dig the truth at its core.
When in doubt, look for the girl. Cherchez la femme.
Cherchez la femme.