The Dewey Decimal System (15 page)

A gorgeous place, really. Even for a heathen like me. I feel that calm, that sense of space. I slide into the furthest pew back. Yeah, it’s a beautiful room. A series of teardrop-shaped stained-glass windows make up a sunflower-like form high above the altar. Guy in black is droning on. I smell frankincense. Almost masks the allpervasive plastic odor. Almost.

Now where the fuck do you get frankincense in this town? Guess there’s a black market for everything.

There’s maybe ten people scattered about the place. That strikes me as pretty strong attendance, given the population. I have no way of knowing if “Brian Petrovic” is present, but I can eliminate the old ladies, of which there are four.

Here. I zoom in on a pair of neckless dudes—black suits, hair closely cropped … A row in front of them I notice the back of another man’s head, similar haircut, slouching forward now as everybody moves to a kneel. I do likewise, keeping my eye on the guy, ignoring the twinge in my knee.

He looks pretty engaged. There’s some chanty stuff which I don’t follow, a call-and-response deal.

People sit down again. Can’t get a good look at the guy. One of the neckless fellows seems antsy. He’s glancing around the place, leans over and says something to the other, who elbows him. Yeah: pretty sure those are the muscle. Which makes the guy in front of them a very likely candidate.

I take this opportunity to check for my key and pop a pill; note that it’s my second-to-last. Gotta get this whole scene sorted out quick, run kill Yakiv, and head back to the DA for a refill. Can’t forget. Scrub up with some Purell
^TM
. I don’t like having to sit on public seating, especially if it’s wood. Absorbs the bacteria.

Yakity-yak, the man in black. Is Serbia even a place anymore? I’m fading, drifting off … jerk myself back to the moment. Think I fell asleep. I have to stay present.

Soon enough the preacher seems to be wrapping it up. We do some sort of group prayer, heads up, heads down, and then it’s over. The priest disappears and folks are getting up to leave.

I stay seated, with my head slightly bowed like I’m still super into it. A couple of impossibly old ladies move past, slow as glaciers. Wait, here comes my mark, followed closely by the two big guys.

Looks older, more frail than I’d anticipated, late fifties, gray-white hair closely cropped, wearing a bananayellow Puma tracksuit and loafers. Glasses, behind which are sad eyes.

One of the big guys double-takes me. The fuck? But they lumber on.

I let them pass on by, count to five, then pull myself from the pew.

Outside it’s begun raining. The trio has paused in the entryway and one of the heavies is fumbling with an umbrella. The older man snatches it out of his hands and pops it open.

I close the distance a bit, the old man walking ahead, the fellows a few paces behind.

Wait until I’ve exited the church.

At the top of the stairs, what the hell. I say: “Branko Jokanovic.”

A strange thing happens. The old guy keeps walking, so I have a split second in which I assume I’ve been mistaken. But the heavies turn and make a lunge for me. I step back to avoid them and trip on one of the stairs, go tumbling into another older lady as she exits the church. All four of us wind up in a pile. Lady commences shrieking.

I roll sideways off the woman, and the men are at once shushing her, and assisting her to her feet like gentlemen.

I could do any number of things. The older man hasn’t even turned, he’s heading toward a parked Navigator. Hold up. A Navi. I must have walked right past it. Dumb-ass. Smoke-tinted windows? Check.

But now the guys have the lady standing, dusting her off, they’re apologizing profusely, she gives me a hateful glance and begins to move off down the stairs. The men turn their attention back to me.

I go into a fighting position and get ready for whatever’s next. The guys look like they’re about to rush me, when there’s a single-syllable command barked at them. My brain doesn’t decode it for some reason. But they freeze.

The old man is standing with the Navigator’s door open. He speaks in Serbian, quieter this time, something like, “No, no, bring him over to the car …” And then in English, “Not here. Come.” Indicates the vehicle.

The boys grab me, an arm each, and I’m pretty much carried down the stairs. Catch a look at the plates. Uhhuh, you got it. Diplomatic.

The big boys deposit my sack of bones in the backseat. Hands grope my pockets, under my jacket, get a grip on my guns, shit, my briefcase is being pulled away, they’re going to just grab it—

“Wait a moment,” says the main man, in Serbian. “Let him hang on to his belongings.” Big guys start to protest, to which Branko adds, “Shut up. Sometimes a subtler approach is needed. Catch more flies with honey. Gentlemen, please.”

They unhand me, leave me sitting upright. I brush myself off, looking for stains. Think I’m clean.

“Slide over,” says the old dude, in English.

I do and he gets in next to me, keeping his gaze straight ahead.

The big boys haul themselves in up front. There’s a brief conversation, and the driver takes his hand off the ignition key.

We sit in silence for the moment, the rain knocking at the windshield. The man reaches in front of him, a gold and black tissue dispenser. He pulls out three or four Kleenex. Hands them to me. “Your ear. It is bleeding.”

God do I hate to take those tissues, but I do it, and I press them to my ear. “Yeah, thanks.”

“So. You’re welcome,” says the old man. “I do not want to get off on the wrong foot. So. You can see, I give you the courtesy of retaining to your personal items. Be aware that my men have weapons too, and would cause you very much harm should you attempt anything impolite.”

I nod. “Right. I understand. Appreciate the gesture.”

There’s another period of silence. The man closes his eyes. Just when I’m positive he’s asleep, he speaks.

“Whom were you addressing when you called this name.”

“I was addressing you.”

“Ah. So, so. Well, you must have me mistaken for someone else. I am Brian Petrovic.”

He extends his hand. I shake it and say: “Uh-huh. In that case, it’s odd, how your men responded. Don’t you think?”

He puts his tongue in his cheek as if trying to dislodge some food. The guys up front are sitting stiffly, face forward.

“Can I pose a question?” Nobody responds, so I soldier on. “How long have you guys been on my tail?”

Nothing.

Brian takes a deep breath and removes his glasses. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “Still,” he says, ignoring my question. “You are in error, concerning my name. So.”

“All right. But you are the owner of the contracting firm Do Rite?”

“That’s correct.”

There’s another period of quiet. Then, “Goran and the others,” says the man, “I am guessing you saw them.”

“Yup.”

“So, so.” He licks his lips. “I get an idea now of who you are, sir.”

“Right. And I have a sense as to who you are, as well.”

“As I just said, my name is Brian Petrovic. And you are the Negro with the interesting name, Dewer …”

“Dewey. Dewey Decimal.”

“Yes, I see.” He looks out the window. “So. Is it offensive, this word
Negro
?”

“That depends. In general I would say more obsolete than offensive. But it usually winds up sounding offensive, yeah.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“That’s good. Brian, why did you send armed thugs up to my house?”

“Thugs, well, I don’t think—”

“Well, the fact is, I came home to three guys with guns waiting to jump me.”

“Do. Not. Interrupt. Me. I was explaining,” says the older man, slowly.

Another pause. I’m wondering if this guy had a stroke or something.

Again he licks his lips. “So, so. I am looking for a woman.”

“Aren’t we all.”

“You know what I mean. This woman was in your company when she disappeared. So. I am thinking you must have some idea where she goes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man looks me straight in the face. “Oh, I think you do. Hmm?”

I blank him.

“Mr. Decimal. I have treated you with dignity, let you keep your things. Can you perhaps consider to return the kindness?”

I say nothing. My briefcase is wedged between my feet.

He peers out the window again. “This is so very tiresome. I would like a coffee.”

He taps the driver on the shoulder, tells him something. The power locks come down with a soft thump, and the engine starts humming.

“Hey,” I say, hand on the door.

We jet away from the curb.

“Come with me to Brooklyn,” says Brian. “It’s the place for the best coffee.”

W
ith the bridges out save the Queensboro, you have basically one choice when it comes to getting out to Brooklyn. That’s the Battery Tunnel.

I don’t like the idea of an enclosed space, especially when said space is a structurally compromised underground tube, with ungodly amounts of water pressure from the East River tirelessly attempting to crush it. Don’t like it at all.

As we zip down the West Side Highway, virtually free of traffic, I am treated to a nice view of the Freedom Tower construction site, where work apparently continues apace even on a Sunday, and even in the rain.

This might be a kick for some, but it’s strictly tourist stuff for those of us who have grown weary with what has been nothing more than a construction site for seemingly eons. Believe it or not, there are those pilgrims who still journey down here and weep for strangers, mourn America’s ravaged virginity.

What a colossal waste of time and tears.

I note with amusement that the Navigator’s GPS system, in a mode that indicates places of interest apparently, demarcates this area to our left as
GRND 0
. Must be an old car.

Battery Park City flashes by, and without fair warning we’re in the tunnel, yellow lights coloring us jaundiced and sickly. I grip the door handle and turn my face away from “Brian” or whoever this man is. Don’t want to be perceived as a pussy. I clench my eyes tight, give my key a quick check.

Think about the System: yes, it works, it protects: odd-even motorway designations, even when I’m not in the driver’s seat, a good omen. West Side Highway, a.k.a. 9A … and I know this death hole will deposit us onto 278, a.k.a. the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

Of course, upon its construction, this strip of underwater roadway was known as 478, thought to be the mouth of a new road for which its planners had big ideas, never to see fruition. I only know this because I read too much. I would think the System can overlook this bit of trivia and still consider me in compliance. I don’t know why this tunnel disturbs me so completely, when I’m perfectly content to ride the subway.

It’s all moot when I hear the rat-a-tat of raindrops on the windshield once more. I take a long, deep breath. Wasn’t so bad. Luckily, nobody’s a talker here in this car. I sneak a pill.

We take the ramp and merge onto 278 eastbound, unhindered by traffic, blast past the once-genteel neighborhoods of Carroll Gardens, Cobble Hill, and Brooklyn Heights, dipping under the Promenade, to our left and across the water are sweeping views of lower Manhattan … If you ignore the disemboweled bridges and absence of traffic, it could be 2011 again.

Up and around the bend, I get a really good look at the wreckage of the Brooklyn Bridge. A couple cranes stand unattended. Never seen it from this angle, only the Manhattan side; there’s bits left standing, but you can see how the explosives must have been spaced in order to achieve this kind of damage. Not for the first time do I admire, just from a logistical standpoint, the exhaustive thought that went into 2/14.

Past the industrial-turned-fancy-residential area known as Dumbo, and a look at the remains of the Manhattan Bridge—again, I haven’t seen things from this angle. The scope, the scale, it’s pretty astounding.

Past the Navy Yard, which had been in mid-rethink, now abandoned for more immediate concerns. Northeast over Flushing Avenue, up a ways and to our left the shipwreck that is the Williamsburg Bridge, completing the trinity of dead bridges, through the once-teeming neighborhood of Williamsburg, all hipsterdom up and gone, only the Dominican workers remain and even then only sporadically. The Hasidic community still holds it down, impenetrable as ever, and not quick to walk away from their sprawling cache of real estate, however worthless it might be now.

We exit at Meeker Avenue, turning on to Humboldt, which becomes McGuinness Boulevard, proceed to Huron Street, take a left, and come to a stop at an unmarked storefront near the corner of Manhattan Avenue. Unlike the more upmarket neighborhoods in Brooklyn, the bulk of the buildings around here sport metal awnings, shingled sidings, and the occasional glimpse of vinyl. It’s a nice enough area, I’m just saying it’s not known for its architecture.

Haven’t been out here in ages and am surprised to see babushka ladies toddling along with loaves of bread and salami poking out of their bags, generally as many people on the street as one might see in Manhattan. A few shops even look like they might be in operation. Guess the Poles work for cheap. Good for them.