Skin Trade (28 page)

“You think it was him?”

“I don't know. There's a taxi.”

We took the cab back to the center of town. As we passed a big hotel Momo said, “Let's stop here. I want a decent drink.”

We climbed out. A row of foreign flags above the entrance whipped in the wind. Momo was shivering.

I looked at my watch. Hurry, I thought, hurry. I was already making a plan which didn't include Momo, who only wanted Zhaba for bait.

The lobby was all brocade and gilt and crystal chandeliers. Five men were checking in. Squadrons of porters surrounded them, piling fancy luggage on carts. I counted three Vuittons, an Hermès, a Gucci and a complete set of Halliburtons. Momo followed my gaze.

“Fuck a duck,” he said, applying the language skills he acquired on the job in America.

“What?”

“Let's sit over there so we can watch. Come on.”

We went into the bar and sat at a table with a view of the lobby. Momo ordered Cognac, selected a few almonds from the dish of nuts and munched them. He stared at the men in the lobby. The hotel people danced attendance. The piles of luggage disappeared into elevators. One by one, carrying expensive overcoats, the men filtered quietly into the bar and gathered at a large table in the back against the brocade wall. Momo was pop-eyed.

“What?”

He whispered, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“What?”

“What do you see?”

“I see some businessmen, a Chinese, a Jap, maybe; the one with the black mink is probably Russian. A couple of Euro guys. So what?”

Momo finished off his drink and ordered another. He was still whispering.

“They can't hear us,” I said.

“You never know.”

A pair of waiters brought the men trays of drinks and snacks. I was impatient. “What?”

Momo pulled his chair closer to mine and leaned over.

“Every year,” he said, working on his drink, “every year the big European crime bosses meet somewhere – them, their friends from Asia. It was Beaune in France one year. Don't laugh. I swear to God, it's true. One year on the beach outside Malmo. They go to some nice
hotel and they divide things up. The Russians, Japs, Italians. The French. They discuss problems. Like the G8.”

“You're fucking kidding me.”

“I'm not kidding you. They hold focus groups. They discuss what people are paying for whores, or drugs. Fix prices. Split up territories. Talk about what kinds of new stuff you can sell. Which new designer drugs are coming onto the market. Illegal workers. Body parts. Nukes. They have fucking seminars, Art. They discuss product branding. I'm surprised they're in Vienna; usually they go for some kind of resort. I heard they were going to Capri this year, or Scotland. They don't advertise exactly. The fact they're meeting in Austria means there's bigger money here than I figured. A lot bigger. It's an honor to host the meeting.”

“And no one does anything?”

“What can you do? They look like businessmen. They act like businessmen. They behave very nice.”

“You think our guy is tied in?”

“Yeah, now I'm sure he's tied in, but Zhaba's not in their league. He's low-level, some kind of asshole enforcer, pimp, muscle. Like we said, like we knew. These guys are the money.” He finished his drink and got up.

On the way out of the hotel, Momo stopped one of the assistant managers in the lobby and slipped him some cash. “Your guests, just checking in, they're staying the weekend?”

The young guy shrugged and said, “No, only two nights. Tomorrow for the opera and the Egon Schieles.”

“How did they get here with the weather?”

“I don't know. Private planes, perhaps. Private trains. After Vienna they go to Salzburg.

“How come?”

“Maybe they like Mozart.”

Momo pulled me out of the hotel.

I said, “How do they decide who gets the best room?”

“I'd fucking hate to be the travel agent,” Momo replied as we walked to my hotel. We stood in the doorway waiting for a cab to take Momo back to his cousin's place.

“Give me a match, Momo, OK?”

He reached into his pocket, dug out a pack of matches, lit my cigarette and his own, then passed the matches to me. I put them in my pocket. Momo said, “Listen, Artie, about Visno.”

“What?”

“You guessed right. Zhaba does have a base there.”

“I want to go.”

“I understand. Give me another day in Vienna and we'll go. I'll take you. Just sit on it until I set it up there with some people. It's a rough place.”

“Tell me again when you left Paris?”

Momo looked away. “This morning.”

“Tell me how you knew I made him bleed up on the border. You said you were glad I cut him.”

He blew out some smoke and looked to see if his cab had arrived. “I told you. I hear things.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure.” His cab arrived. He opened the door. “See you tomorrow,” he said.

I went to bed and tried to sleep, but I kept thinking about Lily. I put on the light and got out a cigarette. I found the matches Momo had given me. On the cover was the logo of the Black and Blue Club.

The Strauss waltz played through the airplane's loudspeaker. Outside a squadron of snowplows came towards us in formation, seeming to move to the music, lights blinking through the fog that had draped itself over the airport like a soft, sodden blanket. We sat on the runway and waited.

It was the next morning. While Momo was still asleep at his cousin's, I was already at the airport. They boarded us, then we sat waiting for the fog to lift. For two hours we sat. Then the seat-belt lights went on, and we taxied down the runway. I thought I heard ice cracking under the wheels.

It was the only flight that made it out that morning before the snow started again. After we left, they shut the airport.

Even after take-off, the Strauss waltzes played incessantly, one after the other, the Skaters' Waltz, the Blue Danube, other tunes I couldn't name.

Momo wanted Zhaba, too. He had been at the Black and Blue Club, like me. But he would do it legit. I couldn't wait.

There was a map spread over my lap. Vienna, Serbia, Bosnia. It was so close; I could have driven to Visno in less than a day. It was a cramped, crowded, vicious part of the world.

“A Waltz in the Sky” was the airline's motto and they played Strauss waltzes the whole trip. As the plane shuddered into the black clouds, a thunderstorm came up. I clutched my plastic cup of orange juice, trying not to watch the liquid slosh side to side, the motion making me want to puke. Thunder crashed somewhere close by, a flash of lightning split the low clouds. The flight attendants, petrified, sat down, hanging on to the edge of their seats.

The flight was only an hour. I tried reading. Next to me was a Canadian guy from the UN who was completely calm. He was small and compact, short gray hair, yellow turtle-neck, jeans, polished loafers. He ignored the weather and worked steadily on some document on his tray table, looking up to smile reassuringly a few times. He ate a sandwich he made from cheese and bread he carried in a cool-pack.

“Name's Albert Lucas,” he said. “You can call me Al,” he added with a chuckle, then picked up his sandwich. “Don't worry, it's often bad on this run. I've seen much worse. Nothing to worry about. Have a sandwich. This cheese is terrific. A very nice Reblochon. Try some. You'll feel better. Cornichons? Chocolate?
Linzertorte?”

The stink of ripe cheese made my stomach lurch and the Strauss waltzes played, but I was glad for Al's company. There was more Midwest than Canadian in
his accent; he'd been to college in Buffalo and lived in Chicago. We chatted the rest of the way. I told him I was a travel agent looking to do business in this part of the world, let him know I could be interested in some contact with the locals, even some kind of R&R. You never knew who had the information you wanted, and something Al said made me figure him for a guy who liked women. He was full of information. He knew his way around Bosnia where he was based, part of SFOR. “The Stability Forces,” he grinned.

A lovely country, Bosnia, he said mournfully, but broken. Broken countryside. Busted economy. Did I need a lift someplace? He was headed up north towards Tuzla. I told him as it happened I wanted a good look up there – the mountains, the old vineyards. Told him I knew someone back home from a place named Visno.

He made a face. “Nothing in Visno,” he said. But he'd give me a lift anyplace. Sure, he said. I can give you a lift wherever you want.

For the rest of the trip, I talked to Al. The waltzes played until the plane bounced onto the tarmac in Sarajevo. Al put on his orange sheepskin coat, bundled up his papers and his lap-top, put the remains of his lunch in the cooler. I followed him off the plane. His loafers had pennies in them.

In the terminal, I checked my pockets. All I had with me was my passport, the maps, a return ticket to Vienna, the last of Tolya's cash and Momo's business cards that I'd swiped. Figuring I'd be back that night, I hadn't checked out of the hotel in Vienna. I wore the blue fleece shirt and my heavy jacket. I had some gloves.

Americans don't need a visa for Bosnia. We're the good guys, more or less. The other thing I didn't have was a weapon. I could have picked one up in Vienna, but I couldn't risk it at the airport.

At Sarajevo Airport, Al went through the diplomatic line, I waited with the Bosnians and the tourists. On the other side, plywood was stuck up everywhere, half the lights were out, there were workmen drinking coffee and smoking and passengers yelling because the flights were all delayed. Most of the passengers were UN or military; they were bigger and better dressed than the locals, and they strode through the terminal like an occupying army.

Al Lucas hurried outside where sleet was falling on long lines of gleaming white vehicles. I followed. This army used big SUVs; the Nissans, Mercedes, Toyotas cruised in and out of the terminal, picking up, depositing people, all of them gabbing in Dutch, French, English, German, all busy trying to patch up the world. TV crews scrambled into vans, lugging silver metal boxes that gleamed with importance. On the other side of the road was a makeshift taxi-stand. Local drivers leaned against their cars, smoking and reading newspapers. The economy was bust here; everyone drove a cab.

“You coming?” It was Al.

A white Nissan, big as a tank, was parked in a temporary lot a few yards from the front of the terminal and Al got the keys out of his pocket.

I don't know what made me hesitate, but I looked around. Was it Zhaba I felt? Was he close by? Was he on my tail? Bundled in his orange sheepskin jacket, Al was waiting.

“Coming?”

“Sure,” I said. “Sure.”

Pulling away from the airport, Al snapped open a box of CDs and stuck one in the player. It was a great sound system, a Bose, and, Santana playing, we pulled onto the highway. Al didn't talk much on the way; he listened to the music; he ate from a jumbo-size bag of peanut M&Ms. He didn't seem interested in my going to Visno; he accepted my story.

Visno is up on the border between Bosnia and Serbia. A few years ago, it was all the same country. Then Yugoslavia was broken up like a bad jigsaw puzzle with the picture missing. More criminal fallout. The waves of crime that began when the Soviet Union broke up seemed to drench Europe. I thought of old war maps where the unstoppable enemy was always represented by a spreading red stain. It was about fifty miles to Visno. There was slush on the road and the big tires made a noise in it like someone sucking up the bottom of a drink through a straw.

Through the window, the broken suburbs sped by. This was my last stop. All I could do was hunt Zhaba one last time; on his own turf, he might feel safe coming out in the open. I didn't show Al his picture. I figured it wasn't exactly UN territory.

One more time. Last time, I promised myself, wiping sweat off my forehead, rolling down the window an inch, lighting a cigarette, accepting some of Al's M&Ms because he wanted me to, the nuts sticking in my teeth as we climbed into the hills. There was snow on the fields.

After a while Al said, “Hungry?” and I shook my head, so he kept driving. He put on the
Buena Vista Social Club.
The warm, lilting music reminded me of New Year's Eve. Outside, it was bleak. A light sleet fell and melting ice dripped off the bare trees.

The signal on my phone came and went as we climbed further toward Visno. Halfway, we got stuck behind a US Army convoy doing twenty-five miles an hour. One of the GIs looked out of the back of the truck, waved, gave us a V-sign; he was a nice-looking kid with headphones on. I waved back. Al was bitching now.

“Goddamn convoys,” he said. “I spend my whole damn time stuck behind the military. You want to stop for something? Take a leak? Get a drink?”

His phone beeped and he answered it. He didn't say much, just listened and grunted some. Then he glanced at me.

“I need to make a stop anyhow, OK, Artie? You don't mind? It would take an hour or so and we could go on after. Or if I have to stay longer, I could fix you up with a taxi, take you to do your thing, bring you back. I mean I'll see you get back to Sarajevo, OK?” He added, “And I could show you something I bet you don't see at home.”

I nodded. I felt disengaged, detached, removed from myself, the scene around me, the place I was going. At the next exit, Al pulled off the road. There was a brand-new gas station where he filled up, then he drove another mile. Overhead was a ramshackle sign that read only market. The letters of the first word, made out of crudely painted wood, had fallen off.

“Where are we?”

Al pulled his vehicle up, parked, and turned off the ignition. “We helped set up these markets so there was a safe place where the Serbs and the Bosnians could trade. Arizona Market, Virginia Market, this place. They'd rather kill each other, but we don't let them, so meanwhile they do business. We figure if we can get them to be interested in money, they might stop fighting. There's a café; we could get lunch.”