Through fucking around, I’m headed north on the 1 train to the Maritime.
In case it all goes to shit, I booked another room back at the Millennium, just adjacent to ours, under the named Donny Smith.
I made damn sure I stuck the briefcase in there, the mummified hand of mystery very much on my mind. And Iveta. Told her to sit tight, lock the door. Just in case.
Made sure I had: key, pills, box cutter, plastic baggie, PurellTM, and a little Maglite. Thought about taking the briefcase with me, decided against it. See, I can demonstrate a little trust every now and then too.
Monday, just past “rush hour” … so there’s two other individuals in the subway car with me, and they’re TA cops. I try not to make eye contact. My guns weigh heavy on me, and I’m relieved as always to get the hell out of their company when I disembark at 14th Street.
It was a cinch to get a new suit and I’m happy about that. Through a broken window at Century 21, straight to the men’s department … I gave myself a max time limit of ten minutes, tough to shop by flashlight but it is what it is. I finally settled on a pinstripe Paul Smith job that I could never have afforded in pre–2/14 conditions. I figure I’m worth it.
My shoes are still holding up.
Collected some extra underwear, socks, a couple shirts, bingo, it’s the new me.
On impulse, I grabbed a lovely Marc Jacobs dress for Iveta. I didn’t analyze this action, I just did it. She took it, and said it was lovely.
So I come up out of the underground with a heart full of thick fucking hate, which is going to be essential to my task ahead.
This is great; usually I don’t have a vibe one way or the other, and this makes me unfocused.
Yakiv is a goddamn animal. No, in fact it’s an affront to animals the world over to call him an animal. There’s no descriptor strong enough for this person. The laundry list of atrocities I got from Iveta challenges human comprehension. There is not a vile action that my pal Yakiv hasn’t engaged in, short of cannibalism. And even there, though … an occasion related to me when he made a Russian mafioso boss, at gunpoint, eat his own daughter’s heart, after she died during a brutal gang rape in which Yakiv participated, which said Russki mobster was forced to witness.
In Serbia he slaughtered entire towns. Everyone dead. But not before they’d been systematically raped (women, men, children) and made to carry out the duty of digging their own graves. It was a highly structured operation, meticulous.
So no more fucking around, Decimal.
What he did to Iveta I hope to never hear about again, and I will never repeat it. Never.
All this propels me west on 14th Street. One block to Ninth Avenue, two blocks to the hotel. I’m so amped, I almost don’t notice the goddamn Stench. Almost.
Dig me now. My approach is System-based and sound in its logic.
I cross over Ninth Avenue, and between 15th and 16th I have a look at the doors to the old Chelsea Market. Locked, but somebody has created an improvised entryway leading into that mediocre Italian place by knocking out all the glass in one of the doors. So it’s accessible.
I ditched the turban of gauze in favor of my hat, and if you don’t look too closely at my face, which is alarmingly re-organized despite Iveta’s makeup treatment, I pass for a freakin class act.
Very pleased with the suit, I’m going to have to remember this Paul Smith fellow for future reference. My key sits well in the deep pants pocket.
Got my vest on, and guns good to go.
First I walk around front and observe that there is a single man stationed at the stairs leading to the restaurant balcony. Just happens that I glance up Ninth Avenue on the west side of the street, and I stop cold.
Hold the phone.
A Lincoln Navigator, black, tinted windows … but surely …
Surely there can’t be just the one Navigator in town? After all, this spot is VIP central. If there’s Navis anywhere, they’d be concentrated here. I can tell myself this, but I slip closer, just outside of the lights of the Maritime.
The Navigator is seemingly unoccupied. Move closer still. Close enough to savvy the red, white, and blue plates that tell me … what? Branko’s here? I’ve still got the tail? This adds up to … ?
I can’t do the math. But it gives me a new idea, a new angle. Might clear out some cobwebs. Proceed. It’s on.
Back around the side entrance of the Maritime, I take the stairs two at a time, past the footmen, projecting I belong, visualizing it, owning it.
Nobody says a word despite that fact that I’m a black dude, which is generally grounds enough to get kicked out of anywhere white people want to actually relax. Into the lobby, which is a little more on the muted side tonight, less pumping party action going down on a Monday evening. Couples get intimate across complex-looking frozen drinks.
I note several black-suited hulkers with that telltale coiled gray cord coming out of their collars and into their earpieces. Three guys, positioned near the entrance to the elevator banks, at the neon blue–lit bar, and next to the side stairwell leading to 16th Street.
I picture the pattern I would employ to take them all out, an easy 360-degree swing to the left, boom, boom, boom.
Approach the desk. An “attractive” blonde surgically altered to the extent that she joins that subspecies of humans that no longer look like anything, except that they’ve had a lot of plastic surgery, and therefore all look strangely like the same person.
“Can I be of service?”
Russian accent, “bee-stung” lips looking painfully swollen to the point of bursting. Skin over skull pulled tight, tight, tight. Poor thing, she was once a beautiful little baby. Her visage is distracting in exactly the opposite way Iveta distracts.
“Yes, Branko Jokanovic here to see Yakiv Shapsko.”
She frowns, which stretches things even tighter. Only her mouth moves. It’s disturbing. “We have no such person here. Perhaps you are mistaken?”
Boring. I lower my voice. “Listen, cupcake, I truly shudder at the thought of the punishment Yakiv would dole out on your silicone if he knew you were holding up our meeting.”
She looks taken aback … I imagine. I’m extrapolating because her face doesn’t move, can’t move.
“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 PurellTM, 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.”
“Gosh, Shapsko, sounds like an irresistibly great deal, to which I say no.” I’m playing the flashlight around on the floor near the register … there. A trapdoor.
See, I think I went out with this girl once who worked here. White girl. Name? That’s a blank. But I am aware, somehow, that these people had a basement. Or so I seem to recall. Relieved this is not a false memory, would’ve made things more difficult.
“Yakiv, open that thing and climb on down.”
He doesn’t move. Keeping the gun on him, I lean over and pull the metal ring. The door swings free.
“Yakiv, let’s go, my man.”
Again he doesn’t move. I flip the pistol around and come at him. He thinks I’m moving in to strike him in the head, he covers up, and I club him in the groin with the butt of my gun.
Yakiv doubles up and falls to a kneeling position. I step around him and, using my good leg, roll him into the hole. He goes bouncing down the stairs and not a second too soon, as I hear the group of thugs come stumbling into the hallway, apparently blind. I duck down into the basement staircase; when I’m partway down I turn and close the hatch gently behind me.
I shift the flashlight toward the Ukrainian. There’s about two inches of black water on the basement floor. The man is struggling with a large shard of green glass that has all but pierced his hand. Rats mill about nearby. Tough break for a proud man. He does this silently, working at the fragment, his face sweaty but concentrated. What stoicism. The problem my man contends with is that the chunk is slippery with blood and he can’t pull the thing out, it’s too slick. He tries it with the tail of his shirt, this fails as well.
Damn, I’m gonna need a twelve-pack of PurellTM after this foul scene.
I fetch the silencer from my jacket pocket. Roll up my pant cuffs and descend the last few steps. I go down on my haunches near him, my good knee popping. Say, “It’s probably a bad idea to pull that thing out. You should know this.”
Screwing on the silencer.
“Basic tenet of dealing with shrapnel. You pull the thing out, think phew, then uh-oh, you’re bleeding to death. On an empty street, in some shitty building in some shitty town thousands of miles from home. Or in a fancy-pants wine cellar, wherever.”
Yakiv is not meeting my eye. He’s holding the glass shard, but he stops pulling at it. Not the most glamorous exit scenario for Mr. Shapsko … but then what would be?
“Roll over on your stomach. Let’s end this thing, Yakiv.”
He looks at me. Almost tenderly. “She’s not who she says she is, my friend.”
I start pushing him sideways with my foot.
“And neither am I,” he adds.
“Oh, I’m well aware of what you are.”
I kick him over. He goes facedown, lifts his head out of the filthy water, spits.
“You know me by the wrong name.”
I place my foot in the small of his back. “Cryptic. I’m intrigued. Take a couple deep breaths, Yakiv, and dig on life, you’re about to shuck thy mortal coil, as they say.”
“Fucking joke is on you. The name you use, coming in tonight … shows you know nothing. And the woman you call Iveta. This woman, she cuts your throat. You are not even on her level.” He sounds like he’s smiling, but I’m looking at the back of his head so I’ll never be sure. “You tell her I win. She never got close to me, not once. I win.”
I blink. Something in what the man says … No.
Feel like I should lay out something clever, something about none of us being who we say we are, something big and cosmic, but I can’t formulate it in a satisfying way.
So I just shoot him. Put a bullet in his neck. He starts trying to get up. Points for stick-with-it-ness. I step on him harder and plant another one behind his ear.
This time he goes limp.
I step off the man. Never what you think it’s going to be. Always an anticlimax. That’s the nature of murder, righteous or not.
And plus, I did kind of like the guy. Shame.
It’s cold down here. As I pull away the light to guide myself up and out, I hear the raindrop pitter-patter of rats moving in.
Haste. I have another quick errand to run before I head south again.