The Nervous System (31 page)

“Decimal, I don't want to hear a goddamn word about this guy again, ever. Sticks in my craw, you know. Two strikes against him. This union thing, and goddamn personal injury suits. You want to know what made this country bad to do business in? Unions and goddamn personal injury suits. Ask any-fuckin-body. Two big factors. Guy has to go, Decimal.”

I nod, replace the materials, rip the gloves off, bin them. “Done.”

Rosenblatt does a drumroll on his desk with finger and pen, tappity-tap. He's rather fidgety today. Is he nervous?

“Fantastic. What else we got?”

He glances at an open leather binder. “Staten Island Ferry thing … can you believe? Fucking Coast Guard, leaving this clusterfuck in my lap. Huh. Midtown Militia. Clean that up? That's a group effort, a posse thing. Lemme see. LaGuardia deal … nope. Transit Authority? What Transit Authority? Fuckin clowns. Oh. How are you for meds?”

“Could use a refill.” I say it before I think it, but it's true.

Daniel grins and folds his hands in front of him. How I loathe this man.

“Now. Don't want to waste my valuable time doing the math. We are using the medication as prescribed, right?”

“That's right.”

“Not snacking between meals. Nothing like that.”

“Nope.”

He takes a blank sheet with his office's letterhead, makes a show of unscrewing his pen cap, which he indicates. “Titanium.” Wiggles his eyebrows.

“Uh-huh.”

He puts a scrawl in the middle of the page, hands it to me.

“You know the protocol. Talk to Andrews—”

“Third floor. I know. It's been six months with this.”

Rosenblatt grins again, which is a horrifying sight. He scratches his skull with the aforementioned titanium pen. “Thing is, with you, information retention is not a strong suit. Sometimes I have to repeat myself. This is why we write things down, Decimal. And hence the pills, right?”

He waits, but I blank him, casually apply a little more Purell
^TM
. He shifts in his chair.

“So, Dewey, what are we doing?”

“Quieting this Shapsko citizen.”

“Correct, but I told you I didn't want to hear another word about that guy. Now get the fuck out of my office, you're killing the plants with your bad energy. Keep those hands clean.”

_______________

There's a map of the city tattooed on the back of my eyelids. It's two-dimensional, in color, and resembles the MTA's official rendering of the subway, veinlike lines of green, blue, red, yellow, and orange demarcate their respective routes.

This map is always at my disposal.

If you could see this map, the System I speak of would be very clear. It's all there, laid out, alive. Its rules and functions specific, pure (yes, like Purell
^TM
), and precise.

When I'm exhausted or overwhelmed, or in that slippery state between sleep and consciousness, my attention is diverted north. I'm a pinball, seeking the center of gravity. North, along a green artery numbered 5, a particular station.

In these moments I'm quite sure that all things/events stem from this location, this place with such a goddamn lovely name. Or perhaps all things/events are headed there, rushing through the green vessel to converge, to come together, at Gun Hill Road.

_______________

Nobody owns me but I'm a man of honor, so the late afternoon finds me swallowing a pill across the street from 142 Second Avenue, otherwise known as the Ukrainian Social Hall.

Needless to say, I've cleaned my hands between every cigarette, of which there have been exactly ten.

Minimal foot or vehicle traffic. An electric van with a CDC logo passes by, the occupants in space suits clocking me through mirrored headgear, police lightbar on the roof flashing silent blue and red.

Makes me wonder what the fuck I don't know.

Been here for an hour and a half. To be honest, I'm shocked to find the place still in operation. Suppose it's due to the inordinate amount of Ukrainians in the construction industry, those who stayed behind for the Great Reconstruction.

What a joke.

An orgy of kickbacks, fraud, graft, and a leveling of whatever workers' rights had survived to that date. An avalanche of cash to be had, should you be on the right side of the mountain. Very few were. Very few had stuck around.

A handmade poster on the glass door of the Social Hall proclaims,
Buffet: 11 a.m. to 4 p.m., all you can eat $10,
in Ukrainian Cyrillic.

There's been a sparse but steady trickle of people in and out.

Yet to clock Shapsko so he must still be inside. There's no rear exit.

I've heard good things about the food here, but don't do buffets. Bacteria. The thought of it makes me grab another handful of P and rub the bad away.

Mr. Shapsko was a cinch to locate. His file was short but comprehensive.

Just after my tête-à-tête with the good D.A., I commandeered an “abandoned” vehicle on White Street, a rather nice if scuffed-up Nissan Leaf. Jacking these batteryoperated vehicles is an absolute snap, if you know what you're doing.

I then wiped down the interior, scoured my hands, and proceeded to the workplace indicated in Shapsko's file, a contracting company called Odessa Expedited, Inc., at 572 West 26th Street.

I smoked four cigarettes, disinfected, and observed Mr. Shapsko exiting the building, about 12:45 p.m.

I made him easily, although the photo in his file must not have been too recent; he looked to be about fifteen to twenty pounds lighter and had that sunken and drawn look to his face that is common to all post–Valentine's Occurrence New Yorkers, myself included.

Shapsko was accompanied by two white men of similar build, similar haircut, similarly clothed. The trio piled into a '09–'10 Toyota Prius, and at that point I groaned, anticipating a bitch of a tail: these cars were legion, they had been sold en masse at half the sticker price at some point, for reasons unknown to or forgotten by me.

The Prius backed up (illegally) to Eleventh Avenue and headed south. Even as I put the Nissan in gear, two things occurred to me: 1) must clean my dirty hands; and 2) no need to be concerned about losing my target.

New York City had all but emptied over the last year.

Or so it seemed. In actuality, it's at about 10 percent of the population as recorded in early 2011. That's about 800,000 people, counting all boroughs. Nobody knows for sure, impossible to know. Hard to get used to though.

Even prior to the Valentine's Occurrence (which was really a series of coordinated occurrences, plural; I find it irritating and inaccurate to refer to that day as a single event, but when a name sticks it sticks), folks were leaving in droves, especially after the third major economic crash and the free fall of the dollar.

We were ready for the first big crash, more or less ready for the second, but certainly not the third, which was effectively a death knell for the dollar, euro, pound, rupee, and yen.

And then, the Valentine's Occurrence(s). A.k.a. 2/14.

Traffic, at any rate, was light.

Shapsko exits the Ukrainian Hall shortly after 4 p.m., accompanied by five men this time, including the two with whom he had initially come downtown. The group stands near the entrance, engaged in conversation.

At a certain point the whole crew bursts out laughing, and four of the men begin moving in the opposite direction of the Prius. Shapsko waves them off and heads toward his vehicle with another man.

I have a decision or two to make at this point: brace him here with his friend being an unknown quantity, or continue my tail job.

Fuck it; I extinguish cigarette number eleven, wring my hands with the good stuff, and, checking for cars (yeah right, but habits die hard), cross Second Avenue at an angle.

They're both at the Toyota. Shapsko has his keys out.

“Yakiv Shapsko.” I pull out my bogus Homeland Security badge. The name on it is Donny Smith.

I'm doing my white people voice, the voice of authority.

Shapsko half turns. He looks amused. His companion moves toward me but Shapsko places his hand on the man's chest.

Hold the badge near the man's face but I already feel like I don't have any control over this situation. Shapsko radiates smart, competent. I would've pegged him as a yahoo.

“Mr. Shapsko, I represent the department of Homeland Security …” His friend starts jabbering in Ukrainian but I continue. “And request that you accompany me for questioning.”

“Regarding?” Shapsko has this expression like something's funny, which I find annoying. He still rests his bare hand on his companion's chest. The man's denim shirt is dark and can't possibly be clean.

“Regarding matters of national security. That's all I'm authorized to tell you.”

The Ukrainian then gives a disarmingly genuine smile. The hair is different, and his nose looks reconstructed, but I feel like I might have met the guy before.

“Am I under arrest?” His English is solid, colored by that proto-Slavic accent.

“Sir, I'm merely asking you to answer some questions, if you'll just accompany me …” I like to keep it as professional as possible, but use broad strokes.

“Am I under arrest?” he repeats, as if to a child.

It's a reasonable question, to which I say: “No, but that can be arranged if you'd prefer to go that route.”

Jingles his keys. “I do. Have no arrest warrant, I won't go anywhere with you.” Almost apologetic like.

His pal is inching toward me. A couple other guys have come out of the hall and are watching the exchange.

This isn't working out. What am I doing? I'm pretty shitty at this direct approach.

“Sir, I need you to understand that I'm characterizing your behavior as uncooperative …”

But he's in the car and keying the ignition, his friend scuttling away. Yakiv looks at me from the driver's seat and shrugs. The Toyota pulls off and is up the street before I can organize my thoughts.

I clean the hands. Shit. Now he knows I'm coming. Should have played it NYPD/old-school style, run up on him and hit him. Or hid out in his backseat. Well, had it not been a Prius.

I'm telling you, I'm not particularly smooth. Out of habit I touch the key in my front pocket.

Ah well. Let's do it the easy way.

_______________

Ditch the Nissan right there on Second Avenue.

Then it's the 6 train uptown to the R at 51st Street, as per the System. Fortunately, the closure of the 23rd, 28th, and 33rd Street stations allow me to do this and remain faithful to System dogma.

Let me explain. Late afternoons, the rules flip: necessary to take number trains and, if need be, transfer then to the lettered ones. It's always good to take the subway versus drive, if you have a choice. It's an eco thing, a hangover tenet from the fossil fuel days.

R train service terminates at Forest Hills, so I figure I'll hoof it to Kew Gardens. Not too familiar with that part of Queens but I will tell you it's nicer than you might think. Or was.

High-rise apartment complexes, a single light on the seventh floor of one building, absolute dead silence.

Ghost-town stuff.

I pop a pill; starting to get a headache … realize I'm absolutely starving. Check and make sure my key hasn't slipped out of my pocket … nope, still there.

Even in the best of times I imagine one would've had difficulty finding a shop open, but I luck out and come across a BP station that, despite the
NO GAS, ATTENDANT IS ARMED
sign, looks friendly enough.

I trade the terrified Pakistani/Indian/subcontinental Asian man an unopened pack of Lucky Strikes for a log of beef-and-cheese jerky, all he has in the way of foodstuffs. He has at least fifteen large boxes of the jerky. That's good gear to have on hand.

I keep on my way, wondering who buys anything anymore.

I have Shapsko's address down as 12 Mowbray Drive, a very nice mid–twentieth century house, a proper house technically in New York City, which always blows my mind … It's modest but charming, the lawn and foliage have grown wild in a not unattractive kind of way. There's a noisy generator in the yard, as well as a dirt bike and a tricycle.

The house's position makes surveillance a bit difficult: I'm forced to loiter across the street in front of an apartment complex, feeling conspicuous. No sign of the Prius, but lights are on in the upper floor.

Before I have time to establish an appropriate spot from which to observe quietly, the porch lights come on. I step backward, quick, into the entryway of the apartment house, stumbling on a loose tile. The entryway, Allah be praised, is unlit.

Iveta Shapsko (née Balodis), aged thirty-nine, Latvian national, height five foot six inches, weight 127 pounds, brown hair, green eyes. I make her easily from across the street, hair pulled back with a stray lock falling across her face, taking the mail out of the box next to the entryway. A small dark-haired boy appears in the doorway, probably Dmitry, the five-year-old, Iveta saying something, pushes him back inside with her, turns and slams the door. The brass knocker bangs twice and the
2
in the
12
is swinging free.

And I am hit in the chest by shock waves from across the road—communicated in whole to me is Iveta Shapsko's long-standing anger and frustration.

Not knowing how I know this or the source of these feelings but realizing I care, all of this playing out like a set piece, a scene I've seen before, from which nothing good can come … My presence here is malevolent, my intentions murky, and the fear of that yawning void from which I access this knowledge propels me out of the vestibule, walking fast and then running, a marble-size obstruction in my throat, sprinting down this tree-lined street in Queens, again into warm rain, but as I bring the back of my hand to my cheek, I think no, not rain, not rain at all.

_______________

Because there's a dark thing implanted in the frontal lobe of my brain, ever-present, a cruel sequence of images, profoundly monstrous. It's this: a figure materializes, fades in from black, in a concrete playground attached to a low-income housing project, moving into a metal elevator, moving into a hallway, moving through a door into a silent apartment, into a bedroom, a form beneath a worn sheet. And then the shots, two of them, impossibly loud, and I wake, the reverberation of the shots, and the lunge for the receding shapes. And cut.