Brooklyn Noir (39 page)

Mike had a Fiat. He, like me, was freelancing, building a name for himself. He had dark hair, a rangy build, and although his parents were American, he’d been raised in Brisbane and had an Australian accent. We’d become friends.

It was a quiet week when we made our decision. The Hungarians had just elected a democratic government and the transition had been fairly smooth. There were rumblings of trouble between Romanians and ethnic Hungarians in Transylvania, and between ethnic Albanians and Serbs in Pristina, but not enough for us to warrant a trip to either place just yet.

“Man cannot live by beer alone, mate,” Mike said one night, slightly drunk in a Pest bar. Food in Budapest was good but mostly limited to what the Hungarians could grow—peppers, cherries, tomatoes, meat, bread. “I feel like avocados. Can’t remember the last time I had an avocado. Let’s go to Vienna.”

The next day we set off.

Trouble met us on the way home. Dark had fallen and we’d just crossed the Austrian border when the Fiat choked a couple a times and died. Mike pulled over, popped the hood, took off his seatbelt, and reached into the glove compartment for a flashlight to check it out.

There’s not a day that I don’t think about what happened next. It was timing that Satan would have been proud of. The nano-second after Mike unbuckled, a Mercedes hit us from behind. It was a heavy car, going fast. I later found out the driver was drunk. The Fiat shunted forward and the impact popped Mike through the windshield, just like that. If he’d had his seat belt on, like me, he’d still be alive.

“Christ,” Paul said, sucking deep on a new cigarette when I’d finished.

“Yeah,” I said. “Watching someone die, it messes with your head. Between Mike and Ana, I guess I went to pieces.”

He studied me, eyes narrowed through smoke. “I guess you did.”

This woman had dark hair cut in a bob, dyed ruby red, and glowing olive skin. She was wearing tan pants tucked into knee-length boots and reading a library book in Cyrillic. Someone who’d got on the wrong train asked her for directions and she replied, smiling, in a softly accented voice. I sat across from her from Atlantic Avenue. I caught her eye at Avenue J and smiled. She looked away. I’d been considered good-looking once, but personal grooming wasn’t high on my agenda anymore. It was months since I’d had a haircut and I’d become a haphazard shaver.

She got off at Brighton Beach, walked north, and turned left on Coney Island Avenue, clutching her suede coat closely to her even though the evening was mild. She went into a restaurant, ordered two chicken kebabs and a can of Sprite. Food seemed like a good idea for me too, so I had some, although I didn’t notice what I ate. She sat silently at her table and didn’t look my way, not once. Then she went to the bathroom, where I guess she must’ve made a phone call or something, because a few minutes later, a guy joined her. She said something to him and he glanced my way and frowned. I could see his pecs flexing under his thin white shirt.

I avoid trouble these days. I called for the check.

“So why don’t you start freelancing some articles or something?” Paul asked over our customary breakfast beer at the end of our shift. “You know, get back in the saddle.”

“There’s nothing to write about.”

“That’s defeatist crap.”

“All right, I can’t be bothered.” That wasn’t quite true. Once, just after I got back and was desperate for cash to make the deposit on my new rental apartment, I had dashed off a travel article about the grand old cafés of Budapest. It didn’t require any research, it bored me to write it, but the airline magazine paid promptly and the money was sweet.

Money. For a minute the thought pleased me.

“It’d be better than this crappy shift,” Paul said.

“Nah,” I said. “It’s not my thing,” I looked at our glasses, both of which were empty. “Besides, I like the company on this crappy shift. Fancy another?”

“Gotta go, Amanda’s having an ultrasound this morning. For some reason she wants me there.” Paul stood up, throwing some money on the bar. “You should get some sleep. You look like death.”

“Sure.” I signaled the bartender for another beer.

The gangster placed his passport, open at the correct page, in front of the immigration officer at John F. Kennedy Airport. The name on the passport wasn’t the one his parents had given him, but he thought the photo nicely captured his likeness. “Good afternoon,” he said in only slightly accented English.

The officer nodded as he checked the paperwork. “How long will you be staying in New York, sir?”

“Just one week.”

“Is this your first visit to America?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have friends or relatives here?”

“Some business acquaintances.”

“So this is a business trip?”

The gangster smiled. “I hope also to have a little enjoyment in your great city.”

He looked like any other guy, he thought, as he checked his reflection in the automatic doors. Any American guy. He wore Levi’s, Adidas running shoes, and a t-shirt that said
“Just Do It.”
His thick black hair and goatee beard were neatly trimmed. A tiny gold earring in his left ear was a new addition and the lobe was still slightly swollen. He put his hand to touch it, and remembering the piercer’s advice, stopped. He didn’t want an infection.

There was a line for taxis. He waited patiently, feeling exhilarated despite jetlag. He was in New York! For him, the greatest city in the world.

It wasn’t until the yellow cab was speeding toward Manhattan that he unfolded the magazine article that was the reason for his visit. A story about Budapest café society, and, at the bottom, a biographical line that said the author lived in New York City. The gangster believed strongly in fate. Why else would he have chanced upon the year-old copy of an airline magazine while on holiday in the Costa del Sol? He’d gone into an English pub to escape the heat of midday, and seeing a picture of his hometown, had idly turned the pages while waiting for his Guinness to be pulled.

And it was there that he had found him: the shit-fuck guy

“Got you,”
the gangster had whispered softly as the bar-man slapped the beer down on the bar and demanded an extortionate amount. For once, the gangster, who was careful with money, having been raised in a household where there wasn’t much, was happy to pay.
“Got you,”
he said again, and raised the drink in a toast to the goddess of fortune.

He checked into an anonymous hotel near Times Square and went out in search of a payphone. Times Square was a dazzling disappointment; he’d expected a smorgasbord of vice, not toy stores and “family” restaurants. He located a phone and called his contact, making a note to ask him, once business had been conducted, what a
family restaurant
was and how it differed from a regular one.

“Glock 9mm, as ordered,” his contact said, sliding the bag across the park bench. “Plus ammo. Price as agreed. U.S. dollars, no fucking kopecs or whatever it is you people use.”

“We use dollars, same as you,” the gangster murmured, handing him the money. He decided this guy probably wasn’t the one to ask about restaurants. He didn’t seem that friendly.

“And here’s the address. Tracked him through the DMV. Everything was like you said. It was a good guess.”

The gangster shrugged. “It’s what I would have done,” he said. “If I was little bit lazy.” He took the piece of paper and looked at the address. The words meant nothing to him.

“It’s Brighton Beach,” his contact said. “Plenty of Russians out there. You’ll feel right at home.”

“I’m Hungarian,” the gangster replied.

A woman passed on rollerblades wearing tight little white shorts. The gangster could see dimples of cellulite in her butt as she pushed herself forward. Her mouth was set in a grim line.

“She looks like the devil is after her,” he remarked sadly.

“Nobody in this town’s having any fucking fun,” his contact said.

He caught a taxi to the apartment, which was on the ground floor of a tired street so close to the sea that he could smell salty air. He let himself in. He didn’t plan to kill the shit-fuck guy right away, he wanted to have a little fun first. He was thinking about trashing the place, sending a message, like they did in the movies. Not usually his style, but he felt like being a little expressive for once. This was a special case, after all.

The apartment was a single room. There was no furniture to speak of, just a folded-out futon with a gray sheet screwed up on top of it. A small, old-fashioned television sat unsteadily on a wooden crate. A single poster was tacked to the wall. The gangster recognized it as the original election poster for the Hungarian Democratic Forum. It featured the back of a large, thick-necked Russian military officer. The copy read, in Russian,
“Comrades, it’s over!”
The gangster smiled as he remembered simpler days. How happy they had been to get rid of the fucking Russians.

He stepped on tiptoe through the crap on the floor—fast food cartons, empty beer bottles, dirty laundry, newspapers, odd shoes, even a tube of toothpaste. Stacks of crusty dishes filled the sink. The refrigerator door stood ajar and rusty brown liquid leaked onto the linoleum. The smell in the room was stale and thick—a hopeless, exhausted musk of despair. The gangster shuddered in disgust and wiped his hands on his neatly-pressed jeans. It was a waste of time to trash the place, the shit-fuck guy wouldn’t even notice.

“You are foreign correspondent?” Lana asked skeptically.

I tried to look mysteriously modest. “Yeah, just got back into town a few days ago, from Bosnia.”

“I don’t trust journalists.”

“Well, you shouldn’t trust me, that’s for sure.” I grinned wolfishly. Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps the lovable-roué routine had worked better when I had a decent haircut and wore a suit. I went to straighten my tie and remembered I wasn’t wearing one. “Another drink?” We were sitting in a restaurant a block or two from the beach. The food was Uzbeki, which is to Russians what Mexican is to Americans—cheerfully ethnic, but not too threatening. Arresting pictures of downtown Baku were showing on the television set. The pictures focused on a large building of Soviet design and a wide empty street. The visual tedium was relieved every few minutes by a passing Lada.

“Ever been to Baku?” I put my hand on her knee. It was plump and warm.

“No.”

She glanced at me and looked away, staring, so it seemed, at the stuffed animal heads mounted on the wood-paneled walls.

“How long have you lived in the States?”

“Thirteen years.”

“Like it?”

“It’s okay.”

“Got family?”

“Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“Just trying to get to know you.”

“What’re you doing out here if you’re big-time foreign correspondent? Why aren’t you at Stork Club or something?”

“I’m not sure the Stork Club is still in business. Anyway, I prefer Brighton Beach. It’s got character.” I swallowed some vodka, trying to pinpoint the place where the evening had gone south. She had seemed friendly enough when I’d picked her up in a bar an hour or so ago.

“Character,” she snorted.

“Is that so wrong?”

“You’re liar,” she said. “You think I live in the fucking Soviet Union for fifteen years and not learn how to tell?”

“Hey, that’s a bit steep,” I protested, holding up my hands.

“I met too many men like you.” She grabbed her handbag and stood up, spilling the last of her wine. “Fucking Americans. They think every Russian girl is slut. Tell her big story to sleep with her, then gone.”

I followed her out of the restaurant.

“Hey,” I said, plucking at her sleeve. “I like you. I’m not spinning you a line, honest. I really am a journalist. Don’t you want to come back and talk about this?”

She shook my hand off.

“Come on. Don’t be like that. Let’s grab a coffee and start over. We won’t—”

She cut me off, saying something in Russian.

I shook my head. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“She’s telling you to get lost. Even you don’t need any Russian to understand that.”

I recognized the voice. I turned. Istvan Laszlo was standing about ten feet away. Lana glanced at him and then took off. I didn’t blame her.

“Mr. McIlvaney.”

“Mike McIlvaney is dead,” I said evenly.

The gangster smiled. “I’m sure you’ve told people that, but the truth is, Richard Churcher is dead, Mr. McIlvaney. And you took his name because you thought if you did that, I would never find you.”

“I didn’t know you were looking.”

“Maybe not me specifically, but you knew someone would, sometime.” He passed me the article I had written to make my apartment down payment. “A small miracle. Richard Churcher wrote a magazine article about Budapest years after he died in a freak car smash. It’s enough to make you believe in God.”

I said nothing.

“So I read the story and I have an idea. I have been looking for Mike McIlvaney for many years and I can’t find him. He’s vanished off the earth. But Richard Churcher has risen from the grave. Then I call a guy in America and he explains all about the Social Security number. I found out that Churcher was an American citizen. He was born here. Not too difficult to put it all in place. You get a Social Security number with his name and you live as him. You looked a little alike. And you grow your hair and a beard and think maybe nobody will notice. Maybe nobody would have…” He moved closer and lowered his voice. “Except for this.” He folded the article up and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Too bad for you I like to travel.”

“It’s not a crime to change your name. What do you want?” My voice shook. I could see the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans, under a blue jacket, and my life that I’d previously thought of as sub-standard suddenly seemed shining and rare, a precious, precious thing.

“I want to walk,” the gangster said. “Let’s go to the beach.”