The Dewey Decimal System (9 page)

He extends his hand. I accept it. Greasy. Oh for some sweet Purell
^TM
.

“Mr. Decimal, just finishing up dinner. Please, come.”

We enter what appears to be a high-ceilinged conference room. Full wall of windows to my right, looking toward the water and the anemic lights of New Jersey. A glass table, smoke colored.

At the head of the table is a MacBook Pro from the last year of its production, a large Styrofoam cup with a straw, and a small box of chicken debris. But that’s not what I notice first.

On the far wall is a massive, I’m talking something like twelve-by-fifteen feet, medieval tapestry I know very well. If it’s not the original, I have to take my hat off to the artist who rendered such an amazing reproduction.

It’s a work called
The Unicorn Is in Captivity and No Longer Dead
. It was made somewhere in the area of 1495–1505.

Yakiv follows my gaze. “Yes, real thing. Thought best to hang on to it rather than see it stolen or damaged. Never know.”

When I was a kid, it hung at a place called the Cloisters up in Fort Washington. A memory: we went there on some school trip. Chicks dig unicorns, at least they did in the 1980s.

If I have the story right, John Rockefeller bought this piece and its six companion tapestries in 1922 from some nobility in France … Later on, the series was moved to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I can only nod. “Just hope you didn’t get any chicken on it.”

Yakiv laughs in a relaxed way, and removes the napkin. Once again I feel the profound need for Purell
^TM
.

“No, not this time. I usually try to eat better but … busy day.”

In his native language, Yakiv tells Stepan and Armani to remove the garbage, and themselves. He asks about the ID. Authentic, says Stepan.

As the flunkies proceed cleaning up, I say in Ukrainian: “I see that you’re also a fan of the Harlem Renaissance period.” He registers mild surprise. I continue: “I’m nearly fluent so if you’re more comfortable we can speak your language.”

Yakiv raises his eyebrows.

“I had forgotten,” he says in English. “But I think of this English as my native tongue now.”

“Fine,” I say.

“No, I am a collector, I … inherit many things. I like many kinds of art. But Mr. Decimal, I do wonder …” He pauses as the big boys exit without a backward glance. “Sit,” he says, sitting himself at the head of the table, indicating a chair next to him. Aeron office chairs.

Yakiv clasps his hands and looks out the window for a bit. I desperately want to disinfect. Consider asking if he has Purell
^TM
. Decide against it.

The man cuts a decent profile; he’s got a strong jaw, is going gray, and at one point wore earrings.

Then: “Tell me what I’m missing. With respect to your methods.”

“How do you mean … ?”

“Well,” he laughs, and spreads his hands, “first you approach me cold, on the street, and present bogus Homeland Security ID …”

“I work for Homeland Security, the ID is not bogus.” I know it’s futile; I have the sense that I’m being completely outclassed here.

“Please, Mr. Decimal. Less than half minute on the phone with Washington, I determine this is not true. Homeland Security only exists like theory now.”

Grasping at straws, I try: “That’s of course protocol. If I’m in the field, it’s standard procedure to deny any knowledge—”

Yakiv waggles his hand dismissively. “Come on. Not worth our time to be like this.”

I shrug. “You’ve been misinformed.”

“No, I have not,” says Yakiv. “But there’s frustration I do have; I have yet to figure out who you actually are, and for whom you operate. It’s a frustration.”

“Your sources are probably—”

“My sources, impeccable. They occupy very highest level of government both in this country and elsewhere. How is it that you speak Ukrainian?”

The truth is? I don’t remember. My theory is I had several languages downloaded into my brain at the NIH. But I say, “Took a night course. It’s a hobby kind of thing.”

Yakiv blinks at me. “That’s your answer?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have Ukrainian girlfriend or wife?”

“No.”

“Who takes Ukrainian-language class?”

“Guys like me.”

“Okay then: why do you assault my wife and child in my home, for no clear reason?”

My turn to blink. “Poor planning.”

“Can you elaborate on this?”

“Poor planning, poor execution. You had proved uncooperative, so I took a different approach—”

Yakiv smacks his hands down on the table, hard, but doesn’t modulate his voice a bit. “Please don’t be insulting. Listen to me: I know you aren’t working for federal government, or foreign government as far as I can tell. You might be insane, but I know you’re not this lone operator. By the way: thanks for not damaging my car. I like this car.”

I don’t respond. I think that’s best for the moment.

“For one: you were evacuated from my former home via military helicopter. You were treated at military facility, and allowed to simply walk away when it pleases you. The operation you have was extremely expensive one, and any medical files on you, if they exist, have been destroyed. This is difficult, to make an organization on your own, Mr. Decimal.”

Yakiv opens his computer.

“Now, we pulled prints off Nissan that you ditched day before yesterday, plus mask and gloves in my car.”

I’m wracking my brain; was I really that fucking stupid? Apparently.

“I know you’re careful. All we got was single partial thumbprint off of ignition wire housing in Nissan. And some partials off driver’s door handle in this Prius. Nobody’s perfect. So from this, we are able to trace you …”

My stomach is churning. This is suddenly a nightmare. I don’t want to know. Yakiv turns the screen toward me. I’m fondling my key.

There, on the screen, I’m looking at a younger, even more haunted-looking version of myself with a bald head and multiple facial lacerations.

The Mac’s resolution is painfully high-def.

“To National Institutes of Health. Where you were known as John Doe. This is annoying.
Mr. Decimal
, of course this is an alias, or some kind of joke about your current residence …” He pauses, perhaps expecting me to chime in. I don’t. “At any rate. According to their files you were initially admitted to Walter Reed several years back, you have symptoms of this Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, having been in active branch of the military, stationed at unknown location. They don’t specify which branch, but having checked with all of them, your records could not be located.

“Main symptoms being ‘extensive memory loss, disturbed sleep, paranoid episodes’ … blah blah blah. You were classified ‘nonfunctional’ and transferred to NIH for participate in some sort of trial study cofunded by feds, plus private insurance like BlueCross/BlueShield, and drug company Pfizer. The nature or result of the study, this is not outlined. There is only one reference to this study that could be located. And no record of release, or any subsequent actions for you.”

He slaps the laptop closed.

“This kind of information blackout, again, is very difficult to achieve. And expensive. Especially military records. So.”

I drum my fingers on the table and smile apologetically. Thinking: things to be thankful for. The bruisers at NIH shot me up with a host of experimental drugs, one or two of which wound up being the heretoforementioned Superflu inoculation, which never made it to the general public. Hence my continued presence here on God’s green earth.

Things to be thankful for. Or perhaps that was the worst of all possible tortures the good doctors could conceivably subject me to. Depends on how you look at it.

But Yakiv continues, “And yet, here you are. This city laminate appears to be authentic, Class 1, like mine, essentially allows us freedom, this movement anywhere.”

“Yup. I’m a first-class citizen.”

“So by elimination, I move forward, assume you work for this city in some capacity. Am I right?”

I examine my fingernails.

“That’s okay. I don’t need confirmation from you. I think I have this much figured out. Work for the city, or you are making work for one of my competitors. Which I very much doubt, as we have their organizations under close observation.”

Suddenly and inappropriately, I feel very much alone. And with respect to my loyalties, where do they lie?

I might not like Rosenblatt personally, but he has certainly taken care of me when things have gone awry. On the other hand, his motivation for that is self-serving, so he doesn’t get in trouble, and these precarious situations only ever come about at his behest.

And he keeps me stocked, in the medication department.

How did I meet DA Rosenblatt? I simply don’t remember.

“Mr. Decimal. In what context did you learn Ukrainian?”

See above. I don’t remember. “I told you, continuing education. Call me a dabbler.”

“A what?”

“A dabbler. You know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that. I just yearn to learn. Know what I’m saying?”

Yakiv looks at me. Taps his fingers on the glass. Rotates his chair 180 degrees, facing the priceless unicorn.

“I am wondering what my,” he pauses to cough, “what my beloved wife had to say for herself. Or what she may have told you, related to me or activities of my business.”

“What makes you think she told me anything at all?”

“Because I know my wife.”

“I don’t do marital stuff. I don’t get involved. That’s a black hole, man.”

Yakiv spins back around, slow. “Then what do you do? That’s the, uh, crux of the question here. What do you do, Mr. Decimal? What is your line of work?”

“I’m a librarian.”

“Well, you’ve chosen perfect place to live. You know, I try to keep my organization as, what is it, civil as possible.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, absolutely. I don’t care what impressions you may have about me or my business, but let me give you example. Let’s take this situation here. You, attempting to, I don’t know what, abduct me? Interrogate me? Harm me some way? Then bringing a firearm into my former home, with my wife and young child present, making threats, terrifying them …”

“If I might, and I’m not debating any of this, when you sum it all up it was in fact your wife who shot me, not the other way around. With her own firearm.”

“She was well within rights to do so and you know this. Were you in her place you would have done same thing, or worse, no? My wife, you should be aware, was in Latvian NAF, also involved with NATO activities in Kosovo, 1999.”

Don’t know what the NAF is, I’m embarrassed to admit, but like I said the woman had a steady arm.

Yakiv continues: “So she has assimilated, this is okay, but is hardly, what do you say, your average American housewife. But listen to me now. Wishing as I do to understand your motive and employer, or employers, I could, just for example, torture you.”

“Yes, I can imagine that we’re headed down that road.”

Yakiv holds up a hand. “But listen to me. I tell you now, this is not how I conduct affairs. Torture, this is for old Soviet Union, and also now for you Americans. Am I wrong?”

“Are we discussing politics now? Listen, I don’t go in for torture. But that’s only because it gets you bad information, not because I give a shit. Everybody knows that, it’s a short-sighted practice.”

“I agree with you, 100 percent. So we’re what, pragmatic. We talk things through.”

“Yup, that’s what we’re doing.”

“And I indulge you in the sense that whoever you are and whoever you are making work for, I don’t particularly mind. Because you have independent nature, would this be fair to say?”

“Fair to say. What’s your point?”

“I’m willing to overlook this … unwillingness to give identity of your employers. That’s fine. So all that is past, and all is forgiven. Let’s begin again with … what, a clean slate is what you say.”

“Sure. What is your point, Mr. Shapsko?”

Again he shifts his gaze out the window. A helicopter is moving low across the water, spotlights on. There’s always a helicopter.

“Are you a married man?”

This gives me a jolt. Unbidden, I see a woman’s mouth, teeth exposed, as she laughs at something, then turns away.

“No … I was.”

“So you know how it is, with marriage. Life. Things go wrong, things happen, little shifts, little slides, and suddenly, everything is being fucked. Just the way it works. Do you agree?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Sometimes things can be fixed, sometimes not so simple.”

I nod. Disturbed by the image of the teeth, imperfect teeth, human teeth, deeply familiar teeth. Laughing, turning away.

“In my case I am at an impasse with my wife Iveta.”

As a bonus, I see another set of teeth, much smaller and less evenly spaced. One molar is loose; I’ve tied some dental floss around it and I give it jerk, out comes the tooth, out of a child’s mouth.

If these are implants, what cruelty.

“Kids …” I don’t know if I’ve said it aloud.

Yakiv is still looking out the window. He gives a little shrug. “Kids, they came with the whole package. Not mine, um, biologically. Legally, yes. I’m not concerned with these boys. The eldest, he is living with Iveta’s sister now, in London. Who, incidentally, is literally prostitute. The sister, I mean.”

“Huh. How shocking. And I’m sure you know nothing about that kind of business.”

Yakiv belches silently into his fist. I smell chicken grease, and that’s nasty. “Don’t know what you mean. I run a construction firm. Anyway. Haven’t heard from this boy in a very long time. As for youngest kid, well …” He looks at me again. Lifts and drops a shoulder. “So, in simple terms, conflict with my wife has been reaching point where there is no acceptable solution.”

“There’s always divorce, man.” Listen to Dewey Decimal, the marriage counselor.

He shakes his head. “Regrettably, Iveta won’t allow this. Besides, it wouldn’t solve this big problem.”

“Shame when it gets ugly.”

Yakiv laughs at that. “Ugly puts it mildly. Which leads me to this: whatever these mysterious people pay you, I pay you twice over.”