Known to Evil (17 page)

"I didn't do anything, but there it was," I said. "That's the kind of weight I have on my mind sometimes."

Without a word Katrina approached me, planted a wet kiss on my cheek, and then caressed my neck with her left hand.

I watched her walk away, thinking that I had missed an entire life somehow and wondering was it my fault or just fate.

30

W
hen I was nine years old my father started taking me to firing ranges. We practiced with pistols and rifles on legal ranges, semiautomatics and explosives down on secret Appalachian retreats in the summer. We hunted bear and deer with bow and rifle and I learned how to set traps for beasts and men.

"There's a war coming, boys," he'd tell me and my younger brother, Nikita. "It's being fought right now in South America, Southeast Asia, and Africa. Most Americans don't think that the battle will ever make it to these shores, but they're wrong. Keeping the struggle away from our cities and our borders is like trying to make sure your kids never get sick--if you spend all your time isolating them, then later, when they grow up and go out in the world, the infections'll kill 'em."

I felt about my father the way a spider feels about the dark corner where she is drawn to build her web: he was fundamental and gave me no choice.

By the time I was twelve my father was gone for good. At the age of thirty-seven Nikita was sent to prison for an armored- car robbery and multiple murders in Michigan. At that time we hadn't spoken to each other for over a decade.

I was sitting at my desk, considering what weapons I had to bring to Shandley's in order to assure my own sons' survival.

Tolstoy, my self-named father, was right about the war. When I look at the newspapers today I wonder why the pundits don't acknowledge that we're in the middle of World War III. I'm sure that some future historians will say so.

My father was a brilliant man, but what good was it to spend a life questioning false happiness and peace?

I don't know.

I can't know.

All I could do was strap a slender dagger to my left ankle and practice using the release on the wrist holster that held my custom-made four-shot .38.

I didn't sleep that night. There was too much chatter in my head. Twill was giving his innocent brother criminal advice in one corner while Angelique was sobbing behind the closet door. Gordo was somewhere making plans that would prepare me for a big fight--a fight I was bound to lose. Ron Sharkey was knocking on the ceiling below, asking for twenty bucks for his fix. And I was that spider, suspended in her dark corner--waiting.

WHEN THE SUN CAME up, at 6:37, I donned a blue suit that had finally made it home from the cleaner's. Then I walked down to my office, hoping not to see Aura swabbing George Toller's molars with her tongue.

I made it to my desk without heartbreak.

There was a job to do and a life to live and even though that was more than I could handle, there was nothing I could accomplish at 8:39 that morning.

So I logged on and started reading about the world war my father predicted.

It was mid-November 2008. There were pirates taking ships with impunity in African waters, terrorists punching holes in Indian security, China sinking toward depression because Americans were afraid to buy cheap goods for Christmas, and the richest nation in the history of the world talking about how to keep to a budget.

The buzzer of my front door sounded a few minutes shy of nine o'clock. I saw Aura on the screen of the four monitors in my desk drawer, her African and European heritage from the front, back, and both sides. The dress suit she wore was off-white working overtime to complement her ecru skin. Her big eyes looked up into the camera she knew was there.

She pressed the button again but I could see no benefit in answering.

She had the keys to my door, the combination to my inner locks, but she wouldn't use them.

I closed the drawer and picked up the office phone.

After seventeen rings he answered.

"Who the fuck is this?" Luke Nye bellowed into my ear.

"I wake you up, Luke?"

"Oh, hey, LT. What's up, man?"

The pool hustler wasn't intimidated. We just had an understanding like fellow soldiers from the same regiment fighting the good fight on foreign soil. Day or night, we were on call, and there was no use making any kind of big deal out of it.

That's the career criminal way of life--you're always behind enemy lines, you're always at war. And even though I was trying my best to go straight, I couldn't erase years of training.

"A guy named Gustav who works out of a pool hall down on Houston--"

"Shandley's," Luke said before I could get the word out. "Pretends like he's a Russian gangster but he's from Rumania. Got some Russians workin' for him, though. They say he's got the biggest dick in the tristate area. I don't know for a fact, I'm just sayin'."

"What about him?"

"He runs the pool hall as a kind of office. Asian kids come there to sharpen up their skills, but the real action is a few blocks east, where he's got a warehouse filled with foreign ladies just waiting to please."

"Pimp?"

"Sex-slaver. Brings 'em in from all over the world promising freedom, a hundred thousand dollars, and papers if they make a million on their backs--or thereabouts. Some of them make it but he has a lending policy for clothes and drugs; charges interest. Most of the ladies work until he sells them to less reputable thugs."

"Dangerous?"

"Smart. He knows that there's no more cowboys. He tries to keep it steady and nonviolent as long as no one messes with his product. But he's willing to go as far as necessary to protect his offshore accounts. . . . You got a problem with Gutsy?"

"You could say that."

There was a short silence on the line. I could hear faint, indefinable music in the background.

"You don't need Hush or anything like that," Luke said at last. "I mean, Gutsy knows a player when he sees one."

"Thanks, Luke. I'll pay you when I see you."

"Soon?"

"Day or two."

I TOOK A TAXI down to Shandley's. It was on Houston, a few blocks east of Elizabeth, on the north side of the street.

It was a clean place with a few youngsters shooting pool, trying their best to look cool without the benefit of cigarettes dangling from their lips. Most were Asian, none were black. I wondered what that meant.

It was a long, shallow, and dark space with sixteen tables, two deep.

At the back of the room was a set of double doors guarded by the big guy that I'd wailed on the night before. I didn't recognize his face but the bruised cheekbone, swollen nose, and bandages on his left wrist were definite clues.

The tough guy bristled when I approached. He made a forward move with his shoulder and I held up a finger.

"I'm not here to fight," I said.

"I need to search you before you can go in."

"Touch me and I'll touch you back," I said.

He didn't quite understand the phrase but he got the meaning.

"Tell Gustav I'm out here alone and if he's not scared or nuthin' maybe we could talk."

The sentry went through the right door, closing it behind him.

I stood there feeling like I was wasting time. There was a lot to be done, but your kids come first. That was a lesson I got in the negative space of my father's abandonment.

The door opened and the big guy waved me toward him.

Approaching, I stopped at the threshold and gestured for him to precede me.

It was a medium-sized, windowless room filled with the smoke of foreign cigarettes. There were five men in attendance. Four bullets, I figured, was more than enough for that crowd. After all, one of them was already wounded, and I had a knife, too.

My other assailant was sitting next to a red-faced guy who looked big even sitting down. This, I was sure, must be Gustav. Behind them stood two slender guys in nice suits. They might have been brothers but one was ugly with bad skin and exaggerated features, while the other could have been a matinee idol.

"Have a seat," Gustav said.

Eyeing the banged-up guy next to me, I said, "No thanks."

"If you don't want to visit why are you here?"

"I was going to see my girl last night and these guys jumped me," I said by way of explanation.

"Vassily lost two teeth," Gustav said, patting the shoulder of the man sitting next to him. "And Bruno had to have thirty-six, what you call them, stitches, on his arm. It is me who should be mad at you."

"I can't help it if you got pussies workin' for you."

The one called Vassily tried to rise but Gustav put a hand on his shoulder again.

"What is your name?" the big boss asked me.

It's funny how a simple thought put into words, or even just an intonation, will affect you sometimes.

My response to his question was unexpected fear. It wasn't that I minded telling him some name, or that he might somehow catch me in the lie. It was the weight of all the moments that led me into this closed room with rough men who hated me for reasons that were older than America. I was afraid of being killed by them. And also of killing them.

These men are not your enemies,
my father whispered into my right ear.

Thou shalt not kill,
my mother said in my left.

"John Tooms," I stated with certainty. "And I don't want to think that I got to be lookin' over my shoulder because these guys are too stupid to go after the right mark. I mean, if you and me got trouble we settle it right here, right now."

I meant every word I was saying. I had a license for a concealed weapon, and the men in that room were all criminals. They were after my son. I had to hold back from attacking them right then and there.

Hubris.

Gustav smiled.

"Calm down, Mr. Tooms," he said. "You are not our enemy. It was mistake. My men made mistake. Two mistakes, by the look of their faces. You like girls, Mr. Tooms?"

I said nothing, pretending not to understand the question.

"Joe," Gustav said to the matinee idol. "Bring out Diamond."

Joe opened a door behind him. I moved my thumb in such a way that the pistol could be in my hand in no time.

For the next few seconds my shoulder listed imperceptibly to the right. Gustav would be the first to die, or maybe Joe. Bruno would probably be last. I'd get shot, at least, but that didn't have to be fatal.

When Joe came back into the room he was accompanied by a white teenaged girl. Completely naked, she had all the so-called charms of a woman, but I could see the vestiges of adolescence in her face.

"This is Diamond. You could take her in back room or she could go with you somewhere," Gustav said. "She just has to be back by two. I give this to you for apology."

Diamond, without being asked, turned around slowly so that I could further appreciate her beauty. The only blemish was an angry bruise on her left buttock.

"No thanks," I said.

"You want boy?" the boss asked.

"No," I said, forcing a smile to my lips. "No. I got my own girl. All I need to know is that you're gonna leave me alone when I'm over at her house."

"I have no business with you, Mr. Tooms."

"Because the next time I see any'a your men near me I'll do more than loosen some teeth."

31

I
walked eight blocks north, wandered a little to the west, and stopped at a rare phone booth I knew of on St. Marks Place. There I dialed a number that I shouldn't have known.

"Hello?" he said on the second ring.

"What's this shit about Russian gangsters, Twill?"

"Pops?"

"Answer me."

"Where'd you get this number?"

Twill had gotten a friend of his to buy a pay-as-you-go cell phone with a Utah area code nine months before. That was his
secret
line. The only problem with the secret was that Bug Bateman had built me a shadow Internet ID that could read any e-mail that the boy sent or received--all without his knowledge. One of those e-mails had passed on the secret number.

"I'm a detective, boy," I said. "It's my job to know things. Now tell me about this Gustav dude."

"Uh . . ."

I had to smile. It was a rare event indeed to catch my son so unawares that he was speechless.

"You got it, Pops," he said then. "Bulldog fell for this girl named Tatyana, and she was tied to this dude. She's Russian--kinda. But you got it wrong about Gustav--he's a Rumanian.

"Tatyana says that she did everything Gustav said but he got kind of a thing for her and wouldn't let go. So D tried to run with her but they got in too deep and called me."

"I thought we agreed that you'd come to me if there was serious trouble," I said.

"That was if
I
got in trouble, Pops. This was D's mess. You know Dimitri, Dad. If I called you he might'a done somethin' stupid."

"Where are you?"

"Up in the Bronx."

"At that gambling house?" I dealt out another secret so that Twill would worry.

"You know about that, too?"

"I need to see you, Twill. And your mother needs to see Dimitri. She's used to you runnin' around like you do, but she never saw D do anything like this."

"D's upstate with Tatyana. I got a friend up there put 'em up. I'll call him but he probably won't even get the message till tonight."

"Then you," I said.

"I'll meet you at Takahashi's at four, Pops. I swear."

AMERICANS BELIEVE IN STRAIGHT lines. They think that all you have to do is get out there and get the job done, one step after the other. If you don't do that then you're either lazy or incompetent. American men especially, and more and more women all the time, seem to think that life is like a mission. That's how they approach sports and war and sex--even love. That's what they think about when somebody's credit goes bad or there's an accident on the road: somebody veered off the straight and narrow.

Years of orphanages and foster homes, uneducated teachers and corrupt officials, from crossing guards to the presidents of entire nations, have shown me that Einstein was right: the connection between A and B is questionable at best, and there's no such thing as a straight line.