Marked Man II - 02 (12 page)

“Ok I wasn’t going to clean.”

There was almost a full pint of bourbon on the counter. Bollier eyed it with a curious mix of loathing and insatiable lust. She looked away.

“So. Can you tell me what happened between you and Kyle?”

Jordan shrugged and made a move for the bourbon. When he offered her some she waved it away with her hand, but she kept watching it.

“Kyle’s an asshole.”

“Ok. Could you be more specific?”

“Kyle’s an asshole who’s going to get us both killed. We can’t trust him.”

Sighing, Bollier leaned back in her chair.

“Kyle is alright. I’ll stake my life on that. If there’s a problem it’s someone else. Shirokov has to have a mole in the FBI.

“Not mole. Moles. Plural. Many moles. A clusterfucking burrow of moles.”

For a few moments Bollier didn’t say anything and then she succumbed and reached for the bourbon. Jordan Ross looked antsier than she had seen him. For many months she had marveled at his ability to stay sharp, stay sane, considering what had been done to him. But now, huddled in this tight spider hole on the east side he looked different. Perhaps the ninja kid had gotten to him.

Because she couldn’t think of anything about the FBI to say that wouldn’t scare the living hell out of her, Bollier changed the subject.

“So I’ve been asking around about your ninja pizza assassin.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because he was probably 15 years old and it demeans whatever else he was.”

“Are you really defending him?”

“Kid was a soldier. Not a killer. Soldiers get a pass.”

“Some other day you’re going to have to explain the difference to me. Anyway, I’ve been asking around. A detective out of the 26th precinct is assigned to the case.”

“And?”

“And that’s all I know. I’d say you’re in the clear as long as you didn’t leave anything incriminating behind.”

Jordan shook his head and said that he didn’t, and that he was sure, before Bollier even had the chance to second guess him. Behind Jordan’s chair a big spider wolf crept across the carpet. Bollier thought about telling him but decided that in that place one spider more or less wouldn’t make any difference. She felt a powerful urge to get outside into the fresh air and light up a cigarette to pollute it.

“So you’re not going to call him?”

“Who?”

“Kyle. Agent Clemons.”

“What is this the dating game? No.”

“You don’t feel bad for hitting him?

“If I knew it wouldn’t wake his ass up I would have hit him three times harder.”

Bollier shifted her weight.

“So what now?”

“I’m going to find my sister.”

“Ok and how do you plan on doing that without Kyle’s info? You’ve got no intelligence, Corporal.”

Jordan Ross stood up and snapped the elastic waistband of his shorts. He had been sweating and they were two shades of blue darker. The move seemed to jar something in his sternum, and he grunted.

“That’s alright. I’ve perfected this sure-fire method of gaining intelligence. And the best part is it requires no assistance from the FBI.”

“What? Tell me.”

“I grab a Russian and if he doesn’t tell me what I want I beat him until he does.”

Bollier shook her head.

“Alright. I’m not going to play monkey in the middle. You two are grown boys, you can work it out between yourselves.”

“This isn’t some stupid spat, detective. I realize that he’s your friend, but right now if you had any sense you would back away from him like a bug bomb.”

“A bug bomb?”

Jordan gestured at the air, his nose curled up painfully.

“It’s this stuff. Weird metaphor. I hate this stuff it’s everywhere.”

“I know. Look, I trust Clemons. And I’m going to be careful. I’ll be in touch if I find out more about your detective, or about your sister. Are you going to be alright?”

Cocking his head, the former army Corporal regarded Bollier with a suspicious eye.

“You’re the one I worry about.”

“What do you mean?”

Jordan gulped.

“All due respect detective, have you checked the mirror lately?”

“Thanks. I have to go.”

He tried to say that he was sorry but Bollier blew him off. She passed three more wolf spiders going downstairs on her way out.

…

When Shirokov was returned to his cell he found Winston huddled over the toilet. He was hugging the sides of the bowl and had his head buried deep inside. The guard shoved Shirokov in then left after locking him in.

“Weenston. Are you sick?”

From inside the porcelain bowl his cellmate’s voice echoed up.

“Guard gone?”

“He is, yes.”

“Oh good.”

Winston got up and faced Shirokov, looking perfectly healthy and cheerful, for a prisoner. He explained that he was pretending to throw up so that the guard would not see the Pruno he was making in the toilet.

“What is this? Pruno?”

“Prison wine. We’ll split some when it’s ready. Bout four, five days. Shit. If you live that long. I see they beat ya good.”

Shirokov laid out on his bunk like it was a feather bed in a giant oyster made of cream pie. Winston had never seen anyone so happy in a bed in the joint. Even though he looked cheerful he moved slow, and bruises from the guards’ batons were evident all over him.

“Why do the men act like so? Treating each other this way?”

“It ain’t like that in Russia?”

“Men fight like that in Russian prison, guards kill them, fast, quickly. No more fighting. This is better, this way every man must get along.”

“I guess that’s one way to stop it. Well shit’s different here. Everybody fights. You got to learn the way of things. Brothers like me, we fight with the Aryans or the Puerto Ricans. The Puerto Ricans fight with the Mexicans. The Mexicans fight the other Mexicans mostly. You met the Aryan Brotherhood, the Nazis, they fight with everybody.”

“Who do Russians fight with?”

Laughing, Winston shrugged his shoulders to admit that he did not know.

“Ain’t get too many of yall here. Except one dude came in the other day.”

Suddenly alert, Shirokov raised his neck up even though it hurt something rough.

“Who? Who came in other day?”

“Some Russian dude. Sound like you anyway. Name of Anton. You know an Anton?’

A shudder of anticipation charged through Shirokov’s body. The hairs on his neck and the back of his knuckles stood rigidly at attention.

“What does he look like? Describe him please.”

“Shit. See him for yourself. Dinner time in five minutes. Now you got to listen real careful. You can’t do like you did the other day. There’s an order to these things. You got to eat with your own people, with the Aryan Brothers you been beefing with.”

“But they are not my people. They call me a Jew.”

“They more your people than I am. Now they won’t let you eat with ‘em, but once them white boys are done you can sit down and have your fill.”

“Why can’t I eat where I please? Why can’t I eat with your people?”

“Because we’ll kill you if you do. And so would the Mexicans, and everybody else. You got no choice but to eat at a white table, AFTER the non-Jew white guys get done. It’s just the way it is. In here you my soul mate, out there it’s a different world. Alright?”

Shirokov could not understand such a thing but he said alright all the same. The racial dynamics in prison were something out of Kafka, absurd and compulsively violet, completely unreasoning. None of the inner world of Sing Sing made any sense to him. Russian prison may have been hell, but at least it was a hell that he knew intimately. True fear was only possible when dealing with the unknown.

The cells opened for lunch and the inmates shuffled down into the cafeteria. Shirokov waited in line and received his ration of sliced ham, peas, mashed potatoes and vanilla pudding.

“Still no prunes?”

For the second time the cook went spitting mad.

“You again! Asking for prunes in my line. Tomorrow we’ll have your prunes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah and lobster and fuckin caviar and champagne too. Fuck out of my line!”

Shirokov walked away. He carried his tray over to the left side of the cafeteria. Busy eating, the neo Nazis watched him walk but did not stir themselves. Shirokov picked a spot between two olive skinned men. They looked like they might be Greek, something Mediterranean, and obviously not good enough to join the true whites at their tables.

Slowly, Shirokov was beginning to understand. When he was confronted by the Aryans the first time he had been about to sit at their table. But now that he was in what they deemed his appropriate place, they ignored him altogether.

He stood there holding his tray, rocking on the balls of his feet. Shirokov hated waiting on anyone for any reason, and the humiliation was creeping into his features. He was about to dump his food and go without eating when he saw Anton Askokov approaching. Askokov was doughier than the last time he’d seen him, and the orange uniform did not suit his complexion well. When he came over to take his place on the wall to wait like the others, he panted.

“
Oh
putain de merde
! It’s you,
avtorityet
.”

Askokov bent the knee, put his tray down, and tried to kiss the star tattoo on the back Shirokov’s hand. He pushed him away.

“Not now Anton. Not here. Stand up.”

Embarrassed, Askokov said okay okay and picked up his tray. He got up and took his place on the wall, in between Shirokov and one of the Greeks. The Aryans watched disinterested for a minute and then returned back to their ham and peas.

“I cannot believe this! What luck,
avtorityet
!”

Shirokov studied his underling’s pudgy face.

“Yes, how very fortunate that we should be reunited. Tell me, Anton. How did you come to be sent here?

“I was at Ryker’s Island six months since my sentence. What happened to army man?”

“The army man’s time will come. You were saying, my friend.”

The sentence that Askokov referred to was fourteen years for vehicular manslaughter. Acting on Shirokov’s orders he had gotten drunk and plowed an SUV into the Jordan Ross family’s station wagon going eighty miles an hour. Considering what had transpired, it was remarkable that Askokov had only been sentenced fourteen years. Just as it was remarkable that he should end up here. Shirokov felt his hairs tingling again.

“... then four days ago I wake up and they tell me I am being transferred. And here I am. And here you are! What luck! What are the chances?”