The Dewey Decimal System (25 page)

P
ut the key in the door. It turns easily. The air in here is stale, but the place is spotless. Window shades drawn tight. It’s a two-bedroom job. I feel nothing for it.

I do a quick check of the apartment, gun drawn but held low. Single mattress on the floor of the larger bedroom. Check the bathroom, suitcase in hand. Close the door.

Drop an object in a ziplock bag. Stand on the toilet, gently remove the screen to the vent. Carefully set the object down within. Replace the metal screen. Hop down. Exit bathroom.

“Is this safe neighborhood?” calls Iveta.

Back in the main area. I shrug and make a so-so gesture. “Depends on your definition of safe.”

Iveta drops her bag. “What is this place?” Opens the refrigerator, which is empty, clean-ish, and not plugged in.

“Used to live here.”

“When?”

“Awhile back.”

“Live alone?”

“No.”

Iveta stares at me for a bit. Nods, leaves it at that.

I consider my plan. I consider the wisdom of leaving her alone here. That aspect of the whole thing is deeply flawed. But I decide it’s the best I can do.

May God protect her.

Iveta reading my mind. “So, Mr. Decimal. What happens now?” she says. Like that.

Me, I’m standing there with the briefcase, pig-sweating in the Kevlar vest.

It’s not her mouth, her expression. Something about her posture. Says we could call a time out. Maybe, just perhaps, discover comfort, quiet, a spot to rest, if only for a finite period. Within each other.

But no. To my eternal dismay, I hear myself: “Now what happens is I go straighten this out. You stay put. Sleep if you have to, but double-lock the door and keep your gun in sight. Don’t open the blinds.”

Iveta is saying something but I miss it as I close the door behind me.

O
ut of the building and past the playground, eating a pill as I go. I’m holding my breath, holding the briefcase under my arm, and pulling on the surgical gloves.

Don’t see the tail convoy, but I bet they’re around. Gotta pull them away from Iveta. Into the Prius. Deep breath.

I gun it out of the parking lot. Thinking: follow me. Follow me, please.

Hakim Stanley rides in the back, silent. As fast as I drive, I doubt if I’ll ditch him.

Heading east on Gun Hill, gliding on through the flashing yellow lights. Think maybe I was tripping. About that Nissan. Maybe I was reading too much into things, frazzled as I am. And there’s plenty of Navis. I’m shook up. Iveta, she throws me. Hate to be seen like this, thrashing around, flailing like a newborn.

I’m thinking such stuff, but that’s until I near Van Cortlandt Park. Then I clock familiar headlights. Back a ways but it’s definitely the blue Nissan. Followed up shortly by lights that, judging by their height and spacing, are likely to be the Navigator.

Okay then.

I hit 87 going southeast. The Nissan and Navigator still with me. I accelerate. Granted, it’s a Prius. But I floor the fucker.

The Nissan does likewise. The Navi falls back.

We streak by the crust of the old Yankee Stadium to the left, I think about that Down syndrome kid. Push it away. Stanley rides with me though, nothing I can do. Try to catch his eye in the rearview, he won’t look at me. He mouths,
You.

The Prius is just barely in control. I’m all over the road. These cars, man, they must be fucking joking with these cars.

So shit. Let’s see how my friend or friends dig on Harlem. I make like I’m headed straight, but at the last possible moment I aim at the exit ramp on the right, missing a concrete divider by inches. Down the hill and up again, a hard right onto the 138th Street Bridge. I can smell rubber, even on top of the Stench.

The Nissan is up my ass the whole way. Effortless. It’s for sure got more torque, more power. I try to get a look at the driver but I have to concentrate on not sailing off the road. Bear left now, I’m leaning into it like I’m on a bike. Coming down the off-ramp that will terminate in 135th Street, I see the opportunity I had hoped for.

I prepare to brake, the Prius listing left and right. As we hit the bottom of the ramp, I stamp on the brakes, go into a semicontrolled spin, pinwheeling to the right. Hear the Nissan braking as well, I slide to a stop at an angle, blocking both lanes of traffic.

The Nissan has come to rest about ten feet up the hill, directly facing me. I try not to dilly-dally, I get my ass down, I’m out of the car with the Sig, go low around the door, lean across the hood, get a good look despite the headlights directly in my face, and shoot out the front two tires on the Nissan,
pop, pop
.

Duck back behind the car. Give it a second, then peek over the hood. Headlights at the top of the hill, and the Navigator bounces around the corner.

The doors on the Nissan come open on both sides, I estimate two guys exit the car, hard to see much beyond the glare of its headlights.

The Lincoln comes to stop at a discreet distance. I duck back down. Love to get a do-over on this.

“FBI!” calls one of the dudes, crouching behind the Nissan’s door. “Drop the weapon and lay down on the ground, let’s not have this get any worse than it already is!”

Some action-movie shit. Drop my weapon? Not likely. I don’t bother responding.

I hear a gang of shoes slapping down the off-ramp. I peek again, there’s a flock of suits, four additional men, armed like Mexican drug runners. Apparently they’re not shy cause bullets commence pinging off my hood, not sure who’s firing but I try to lower myself, and crab it to the left, so I’m in front of the tire.

Positive hailstorm of bullets. Jesus. I don’t have a next move. Somebody’s yelling something and the volley tapers and stops.

I look under the car. The tires facing out on the Prius are all “shhh,” perforated, history.

Bullhorn crackle.
“Gonna ask you again to put down your weapon and lay on the ground. You have thirty seconds to comply or we move in on you.”

Christ, I really have no options. Reckon: I should just rock it and go out in a blaze of glory, a big fat gun in each hand. But the impulse to live trumps everything. I’m afraid this is true.

“All right,” I find myself saying. “Okay. Look, I’m going to place my weapons on the hood of the car and then stand up with my hands on my head, okay? No shooting me, okay? I’m cooperating.”

There’s a pause, I guess they’re conferring.

Bullhorn feedback and click.
“Okay, let’s do it just like that. If you come up with anything resembling a weapon, we’ll be forced to open fire. Do everything slow. Go ahead.”

Is this really how I want to do this thing? No. But sometimes you have to know your limits. And I hope I’m right about that.

So, I set the Sig Sauer on the Toyota’s hood, followed by the Beretta. Placing my hands on top of my head, I gradually stand. My bad leg is asleep.

Guys running, coming around the side of the Prius, I’m thrown on the hood. My hat rolls off. Damnit. If my cheekbone wasn’t broken before, it is now.

Handcuffs close over my wrists, not for the first time this week. They’re pulling my stuff out of my pants and jacket and tossing it on the hood … my ID, my Homeland badge, the locker keycard, my pills. All my gear.

“Is this the piece of dogshit who got Anne?” says one guy.

“Yeah, it’s him. Lemme,” responds another. Mike, was it? Japanese dude. Or whatever.

Sure it’s Mike, because he says, “Hey, bitch.”

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” I say.

“Step aside for a second.”

“Hey, gentlemen—”

A crisp punch to my kidneys shuts me up. Back facing the hood of the car now. Another punch lands. Then another. Another. I’m getting pummeled here.

I turn my face to the right and puke. Again. A string of bile. I don’t count the number of hits he gets in, but the guy honestly lets me have it. I start to drift.

“All right, hold it! Agent Shimosato!”

The beating stops. I’m pulled up by my hair.

“That,” says Agent Mike in my ear, “was for Anne, you bastard fuck.”

“Oh man, did you have a thing with Anne?” I manage to say. “Make no mistake, sugar, she kicked
my
ass into next week, not the other way around.”

“Agent Shimosato!”

In my ear: “We’re not done. Believe that.”

Then I’m manhandled around the car. Up the incline to the Navigator.

“Grab his stuff,” somebody says.

I just see blue suits and guns, the door to the Navigator is opened and I’m tossed in the backseat.

“So. Hello,” says the man opposite me.

I look up, bleary, and am met by thick glasses and a tracksuit. Brian, Brian Petrovic. Unsurprisingly.

My shit is dumped on the floor of the Navigator, briefcase, guns, and all. The door is slammed shut.

It’s quiet for a bit. Then, “Won’t make the same mistake twice,” says Brian. Smiles. Picks up my guns.

I’m on my side, but through the smoke-tinted glass I idly register two federales high-fiving each other. Whooping. Touchdown, like.

Brian doesn’t register this. Clears his throat. “So, so,” says the man, “Let’s have a look.” He picks up the briefcase. “Combination.”

I don’t say anything. I’m in a lot of pain.

He smiles and looks at me sideways. “Come now. Combination?”

I drag myself up into a sitting position, gritting my teeth. “Six-six-six,” I tell him, cause what am I going to be, clever now?

He chuckles at that. Twiddles the lock, opens the case. “So. Did you perhaps get my note?”

“I did.”

“And your thoughts on this …”

“I’m not feeling like the deal is particularly favorable to me.”

The man is quiet for a bit, nods. “When we last met, there was I think some confusion.” He peeps the night-vision goggles, frowns, sets them aside.

“Oh yeah? What was that?”

Brian takes a box of bullets out of the case, places them next to him. He folds his hands and leans forward. “So. Multiple things, really. The first being you stole my property. This has caused me a lot of problems. You can never comprehend how important this object is to my people. And to me personally, as a broker.”

“I’m listening.”

“So. So, you see, I had an individual, a buyer for that particular piece and he was very unhappy to hear that it has disappeared. I have to delay my trip abroad till this is settled.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Brian looks at me. “You have endangered me. This man, this buyer. He is very unhappy. I want to keep myself from bigger problems, so I want my property back.”

“I can understand. It sounds stressful.”

Brian has Yakiv’s file open. He’s squinting at it, turns on the overhead lights in the back. He flips through the file, frowning, flips back to the front. Slowly, a grin works its way across his face. He holds up the file, taps it. “So. Another issue I am dealing with, as matter of fact, concerns this man.”

Huh. I wait for it.

“I’m told you have abducted him. No? Something crazy. So, so, you walk into his place, just take him, shoot your way out. Cowboy. This is true?”

I shrug.

“Well, so, if it’s true, you might know where he is located.”

My brain is working hard. I don’t respond.

“Mr. Decimal? Do you know who this man is? What he’s done?”

“I have some idea.”

Brian clears his throat. “Just for perspective … he entered U.S. in 2000 with his wife and two children. He is wanted by many, many different entities in several countries for his crimes.”

I nod. “Yes, that’s all in the files there, I’m aware of that.”

Brian smiles. “But. So. I am thinking, you’re still confused.”

“How you reckon that?”

“This day we met, at this church.”

“Yes?”

“The name you called me.”

“I was addressing you by what I understand to be your given name.”

Brian shakes his head. “This man,” he says, indicating the file, “
this
man is our Branko Jokanovic.”

Hang on a minute. I’m trying to pull this all together. “So who the fuck does that make you?” I ask, and it’s deeply lame. I’m out of sorts here.

Brian coughs. Or laughs, can’t tell which. “So, so, I’m just a procurer. Brian Petrovic. Middleman. Working with various government agencies. Working with your FBI on international matters. So, but, I have, on the side, this … extra work. Mostly deals with art and things such as this. So, this is where I am making my living, and the people I deal with here, they are not so … forgiving. I am fortunate to have these agents here, willing to make some extra time to join with me on these projects. Extra time for extra pay, of course.”

“Sounds, uh, like a sweet setup … but I still … What about this Yakiv?”

“We put word out via government channels and the general criminal circle that I was Branko, this was good because it makes real Branko relax, and perhaps makes him, a, what do you say, a softer target.” He smiles at me, a sad smile. “But official work with Interpol and FBI, this is sort of like public service. To find men and women like Branko Jokanovic. Like the woman you’ve just secured at this apartment in the Bronx.”

I’m listening. I’m listening hard.

See, I don’t give a fuck about Yakiv/Branko, whoever. I did what I did under the correct assumption that he was a mass-murdering war criminal. The name thing doesn’t make a difference.