The Dewey Decimal System (4 page)

I get on the 495, which I then take to 678, in perfect accordance with the System, which prescribes odd-even numbered roadway sequences, taking exit 13 SW. In order to keep with the System, I make only left turns (admittedly this takes me a bit out of my way) until I reach Mowbray Drive.

So as to make it a left, I pass the street, pull a U-turn, and backtrack … finding myself parked in front of 8 Mowbray, two doors down from the Shapsko household.

Clock says 9:55 a.m.

Tempted to just sit tight and chill till after 11, so I don’t run into any unexpected right turns, but I’m concerned the wife will make the vehicle and assume her husband is home.

I remove the surgical gloves and toss them on the floor. Lower the mask. Refresh with Purell
^TM
, two times for good measure. Pop the second pill of the morning, and I’m ready.

Today I have a fully System-compatible plan, brutally simple.

Up out of the car (left), noting it’s going to be a deadly hot day, goddamn, that smell, nobody around, I proceed straight up the pavement, bypass the Shapsko’s, spin one hundred and eighty degrees (left), back to the walkway for number 12 (left), turn up the path and onto the low wooden stoop, I bang the knocker twice, identifying the missing screw that allows for the
2
in
12
to hang akimbo.

I wait. I hear movement inside. I have my Beretta pressed against my left ass cheek. My right hand is free.

The curtain in the window on my left twitches. Keep my head low, hat obscuring my face. I can hear some-one on the other side, breathing. Then: “What do you want?” A woman’s voice, presumably Iveta. That accent.

I adopt an anxious white person tone, and say in Ukrainian: “Mrs. Shapsko, I am very sorry, but your husband has been in an accident on a job site. They took him to the Armory, he sent me to get you.”

Silence from behind the door.

“I’m so sorry to be the bearer of this news but we must hurry. Your husband is injured.”

What, is my Ukrainian not convincing? I’ve been told I sound like a native; even, specifically, a native resident of Kiev as opposed to the south.

Then again, hookers will say anything.

“You are a friend of my husband from where?”

Relief fills my chest; her Ukrainian sucks worse than mine.

“I am a lawyer for Odessa Expedited, and a cousin of his coworker. Please, it’s most urgent.”

I wait. Is this a typical wifely reaction? Maybe it’s a Latvian thing. Hard-ass chicks hail from that ghetto corner of the world. I can practically hear her thinking.

Then: “You can tell my dear
husband
,” she spits this word like it’s poison, uh-oh, “he can tend his own wounds. While I tend to the care of his child, about whom he seems unconcerned, considering he has not been around more than twice these last four months. You might tell him that, lawyer.”

Recalculating. Okay, they’re estranged and I am a lawyer. So: “Mrs. Shapsko,” I move closer to the door and lower my voice a bit, “the secondary reason I am coming to you is that should his injuries prove severe, or God forbid fatal, you are legally entitled to be the partial beneficiary of any monies resulting from the suit we intend to bring against Odessa Expedited’s client. This we should discuss, the status of your relationship or any marital issues being of course not my business and irrelevant to any conversations we might have.”

Pretty proud of how that came out. I feel her
really
thinking now.

Wondering how this impacts my overall plan. I add: “But I need your consent to move forward with any litigation, as you are his emergency contact and have de facto power of attorney in this situation.”

More breathing. I try to sync my breath to hers. Shit. This has been unexpected. The spouses are separated. Might be a major problem.

There’s part of me that finds this to be good news. I squash that aspect of myself, gotta be on point. Anyways, I decide not to abort this mission, yet.

I hear the chain being slid out of its track, and the door comes open. A longish nose, a face that suggests nobility despite the sweatshirt and jeans. Deep green eyes, flickering, indicating that involuntary mental flinch many white people exhibit upon coming face-to-face with a person of color. I have a lifetime’s worth of experience with this reaction and I do not take it personally.

Iveta rallies. “The boy is sleeping, just, a …” Clearly sorry she opened the door, but I’m already coming in.

With what I hope is a reassuring but concerned expression, I step into the house, Iveta backing up.

I extend my right hand. “Charles Bartosch,” I say in English. “I apologize, I assumed you were from the Ukraine.”

She accepts my handshake, cool rough hands, glancing past me at the street, takes a step forward to try to steer me backward, saying: “No, it’s just that …”

I bend her hand back, hard and fast, twist her arm up; she doesn’t scream but takes a noisy gulp of air, good girl. Kick the door closed behind me, turn her around, and, forcing her into a kneeling position, I place the Beretta square on the nape of her neck. Her hair is up in a blue bandanna, and it’s a lovely neck. I note a mediumlarge mole an inch below her hairline.

“Shhh. It’s okay, it’s okay,” I tell her.

I’m momentarily dizzy at the reality of being near this woman, but this is the kind of thought hiccup that gets a man killed in such situations, so I promptly backburner my emotional/empathetic self, nix that shit.

She says a couple things in what I assume is Latvian, a language I don’t understand, then in English: “God-DAMNIT, what you want? I’m motherFUCKING stupid. I could tell you weren’t Ukraine, this accent is bullshit.”

“I’ve been told different. In fairness, now, I was going for second or third generation.”

“Motherfucking thugs. You, Yakiv, all fucking garbage, criminals, why come here? You’re not Ukraine, no black guys are coming from Ukraine.”

“Yeah, I imagine not.”

“My cousin, he comes in here five minutes—if he finds you here you have big problem.”

I don’t buy that classic for a second.

“Mrs. Shapsko, I don’t believe you. I think you’re on your own here. Am I right?”

She starts trembling, which I don’t like because even though the safety is on, I don’t want her to go jerking around and perhaps cause an accident.

Accidents happen. I’m living proof.

Me saying: “Where’s your kid, lady?”

Iveta lets out a long, low moan. “Noooo, no, the boy is not here. Please. He’s at friend’s house. Please.”

I push her neck a tad with the gun. “I’m not here to hurt anyone, see? Now you just said your boy was sleeping, so don’t try to tell me different. Where is he?”

“No. No.” Iveta digs in. Presses her neck against the gun. “You’re here for me, I know this, I knew this would come, Yakiv has sent you to kill me, motherfucking coward, because he can’t do it for himself. I see what is happening. I won’t fight. I won’t fight. Please.”

Damn. Brave girl.

“I am not going to hurt anyone, all right? I swear to you. Okay, no children. But I need you to do something for me. First, please be still. Hush now.”

Iveta is breathing rapidly through her nose and tears have appeared in her eyes. “No. Fuck you. Killer.”

This tweaks me. For the second time in twenty-four hours I feel like a situation is sliding out of my control; I’m not accustomed to this sensation.

Feels bad.

“Not here to hurt anyone, Iveta, I’m not a killer but I’ll repeat: do what I ask, and we don’t involve the kid. Okay by you?” She’s quiet. I’m studying that mole. Can’t help it, say: “You should get that there mole looked at.”

“What?”

“The mole. On your neck. It’s, like, discolored. Go to a dermatologist.” I feel stupid, she’d have a tough time finding a dermatologist. “Just some advice.”

“Are you fucking crazy? You break into this house …”

“I didn’t break in, let’s walk it back. You let me in.”

“Liar. Killer. I do nothing for you. Nothing.”

“Yes you will, hon. Or we bring out the child. Final offer. Sorry about all this.”

She deflates. I adjust my grip on her.

“I’m a very serious man. All I want is to talk now. You talk to me, and I leave.”

“What do you want?” She’s barely audible.

We’re at the foot of the stairs in the foyer. I drag her toward the dumpy living room, she knee-walks the rest of the way. Get her seated in a sky-blue La-Z-Boy.

This is a lot harder facing her. Those emerald peepers laser-beam raw spleen.

“Is your telephone still working? Your landline?”

“No. I have this radio. Like a, um … police radio.”

I nod. “What’s going on with you and Yakiv? I want the whole deal.”

“What’s going on? But you must know if he sends you here …”

“The guy did not send me. Okay? Help me out, what’s your situation, the status of your relationship.”

“This is private …”

“Not right now it’s not, and if you don’t start dancing with me I’m going upstairs.”

“Okay! Okay. This is torture just to speak of, so you are torturing me just now.”

“No I’m not. You’ll know it if we get down to some torture, which I would be very sad to see happen. But it’s always an option, please speed up your narrative here.”

Iveta adjusts her bandanna. I sit on a coffee table, the gun still pointed in her direction.

“Yakiv is a dead man to me. A rapist and murderer. I know he will kill me, or send someone like you.”

What the fuck is with this hostility? “I’ve gathered you’re not getting along.”

She laughs. Minus the amusement. “Not your fucking business. But yes, you could say that. You could say that. I cannot sleep. Every small noise. I’m so afraid for the boy, that he might … hurt the boy.”

“Why would he want to do that?”

Iveta assesses me. She shakes her head. She’s got snot and tear residue on her lip and cheeks but she’s no longer crying.

I want to take a pill, I desperately want to disinfect my hands. Nervously I touch my key, but just for a second.

There’s a box of Kleenex on the coffee table, and I hand her several. She takes them but doesn’t clean herself. This is making me nervous.

“But
why
are you here?” A tear slides down one side of her face.

“You haven’t answered my question. If you answer my questions, I might possibly consider answering yours. Why would Yakiv want to harm you, or his own kid?”

“The boy, from another man, another piece of shit.”

“Detail noted, but let’s stick to my question.”

Iveta bobs her head, wipes off the snot with a tissue. “Perhaps you think he is good man. An honorable man. Perhaps you think he will hold up bargain you have together.”

“As I’ve said, I have not been sent by Yakiv, and neither do I know the dude.”

She looks at me, taking in my suit, my shoes, my skin. “What are you, black? I can’t tell.”

Sigh.

After two African American presidents and a Chinese woman on the moon, can we not yet say we’ve evolved a “postracial” consciousness? Even as those once-termed “minorities” make up the majority of the population in this country?

Of course not, though this bullshit “postracial” term was popular several years ago. Can you imagine? What a freaking joke.

Well, am I black? Say, “That’s off-topic, but I am of mixed racial heritage, and yes, my father was from Trinidad. My mother was of Filipino/Saint Lucian extraction. All this giving a … darker tinge to my pigment. Is that helpful?”

I don’t know if I’m lying or not, cause I don’t recall exactly. But it sounds accurate, and it flows smoothly out of my mouth.

“It is helpful, actually, I tell you why,” says Iveta, balling up the Kleenex. “Yakiv hates blacks, South Americans, Chinese … he hates all these people, and most of all the black. The only job he might give to black guy, MAYBE, is hired killer, and since you haven’t killed me yet and ask all these questions, I’m thinking maybe you don’t know my husband. As you say. Giving you money would be very very painful for Yakiv.”

I laugh. “That’s amusing.”

“No, it is not funny. He is like a crazy man about this. I know from this that you cannot possibly be a friend of Yakiv. Impossible. Impossible. Maybe he hired you, but only maybe.”

“Been telling you I do not know the man.”

“Okay, so then … you don’t know he is killer. Rapist. Has no …” She indicates her forehead, blanking on the word.

“Conscience?”

“That’s it. No. He is beyond bad. See. Hates black …”

“Yeah, we touched on that.”

“Hates women. Hates communist. Hates, hates, hates. Please, I don’t understand who you
are
.”

Communist? Another word that went out of circulation awhile back, when those governments that had formerly fallen into this category rose to dominant-empire status. What do they call them now? Like China? Benign postcapitalist military dictatorships. There’s probably a more elegant term available but I’m not privy to it.

But who am I?

“I’m nobody,” I say. “I’m a bad fucking dream. Interested in getting a hold of your husband. And that’s all. Do you understand?”

She nods, eyes wide.

Think I’ll kick it to her from another angle. “If he has committed crimes, as you say—”

“Many murders, many rapes …”

“Yeah, so if that’s a fact, I would like to see him treated as a criminal. I promise you. I work for the government.”

Iveta drops her eyes. “Is this the truth?”

“Yes, it is,” I say, and I’m not quite lying. Technically.

“Then please, if you can take away this gun, it’s very frightening for me.”

I give this consideration, thinking if I set the thing down somewhere near me and make the mistake of glancing sideways—

Iveta is on me in a heartbeat, she’s got a pen or something, going right for my eyes.

I catch her hand and we fall sideways. With her free elbow, she attempts to break the bridge of my nose; my head is slightly averted so she strikes my cheekbone.

Reflexively, I crack her upside the head with my gun. She rolls off me, I didn’t knock her out, holding her hand to her temple, blood beginning to flow between her fingers. Head wounds bleed a lot.