by Lee Stone
He swallowed his pride and held his hand up to apologize to the kid, righted the scooter, and began walking away. He moved slowly and awkwardly, like a timid old man. He hoped the kid would take pity on him and that the moment would be forgotten. That way, he could stay invisible. But if the situation became anything else, if the kid chose to make it anything else, then Lim would act swiftly and ruthlessly. He shuffled off along Street 63, turning into the first alleyway he passed and disappearing from sight. The kid followed him.
‘Hey, old man.’
Lim sensed him approaching, but he did not turn around.
‘You scratched my bike,’ the punk said. ‘That will cost you.’
Lim’s right hand reached into his pocket, his fingers finding what he was looking for. He never carried a knife on the streets in the capital. There were too many police checks, and Ta Penh’s influence was not as strong here as it was in Kep. His fingers grasped the glass tube in his pocket and his thumbnail worked underneath the plastic stopper and pushed it out of the neck. He had been stopped by the police twice while carrying the liquid, and both times he had successfully passed it off as medication. He slipped the vial out of his pocket as he turned.
The kid wore a biker jacket and a black bandana. Maybe he was in a gang. Maybe he just wanted to look like he was in a gang. Either way, Lim saw nothing that frightened him. Not even the knife in the kid’s hand. At that age, Lim had been purging these streets. He had owned them. He had earned the right not to be afraid.
‘I’ll take whatever you’ve got in your wallet,’ the kid told him. ‘And we’ll call it quits.’
Lim said nothing. Felt nothing. He just waited until the kid was close enough. Street 63 was noisy. That would help with the screaming. When the kid leaned in, Lim threw the contents of the tube into his face. Most of it hit before the punk had time to close his eyes. He screamed and clawed at his face, which was already blistering. The shoulders of his jacket began to burn and discolor where some acid fell, and globular strands of flesh began to peel away from his cheek when he grabbed at it with his fingers.
Lim heard the knife fall from his hand and stooped to pick it up. He grabbed the kid’s hair and pulled his head back the same way a butcher pulls back a pig’s head for slaughter. Careful to avoid getting any of the acid on himself, he drew the blade from ear to ear. The screaming turned to choking and gurgling and then to silence. When Lim let go of his hair, the kid sank to the floor. He pushed the body against the wall with his foot so it was out of view from the street, and then he turned back down the alley, emerging on Street 158 moments later.
It was unlikely the SIM card would be linked to the crime, but unlikely is not the same thing as impossible, and so Lim threw it into the gutter as he walked just in case. If the police analyzed any calls made from it, it would lead them to Ta Penh.
He found another shop half a mile away and began the process again. When he reassembled his phone, he dialed and kept walking as the call connected. It was harder for people to eavesdrop if he was on the move. A cultured voice answered on the third ring.
‘Jimmy Penh.’
‘Jimmy?’ the old man said. ‘It’s Uncle Lim. Something has gone wrong.’
19
Leisler and his team emptied the garbage truck at the usual place in the Bronx and paid the usual guy to look the other way while they did it. Then for the second time that day they headed back over the East River, across the city and along Amsterdam until the street began to wear out and the coffee shops fell away, replaced by run down supermarkets and lawyers offering quick-fix divorces. They parked up in a yard behind a rundown storage place near Old Broadway and spilled out of the cab. An oil drum was already smoldering, and the men threw their green city overalls into the flames. Leister tossed new ones - shrink-wrapped in clear plastic - onto the seats for the next journey. The gloves and the masks went in too. After that, they were four regular guys.
They walked across the parking lot in jeans and jackets and t-shirts. Frank pulled keys from his pocket and bleeped open a black supercharged Range Rover.
‘Ride with me,’ Leisler told Tyrone. ‘You did a good job today.’
Tyrone shrugged. ‘I just did what you told me.’
‘That’s all you need to do,’ Leisler said. ‘You keep doing what I tell you and Jimmy Penh will buy you some wheels of your own soon.’
The two men hurried across the parking lot as Frank and the driver eased the Range Rover out into the afternoon traffic. The rain was coming down even harder than it had done in Washington Heights, and the uneven dirt surface was filling with deep pothole lakes. Leisler’s ride was a dusky orange Lamborghini Gallardo; an evil-looking vehicle with dye straight lines and black wheels and lights. As they got closer, Leisler threw the keys to Tyrone.
‘You drive,’ he called through the rain.
Inside, the car smelled of new leather. The stitching on the seats matched the body paint, and when Tyrone hit the ignition, the thing growled and purred underneath him. The rain still beat down on the windscreen but when he opened the throttle, it seemed to shake the raindrops from its body like a wild stallion.
‘It’s difficult to kill a kid,’ Leisler told him as they drove. ‘But you did good. You passed the test. You’re on the team. You’re on my team, you understand?’
Tyrone nodded. As they headed out onto Amsterdam, he opened up the Lamborghini as much as he dared.
‘Remember what I’m saying,’ Leisler said, raising his voice above the throttle. ‘Frank and the others, they work for Jimmy. But not you. You work for me, okay? You’re my guy.’
‘Sure.’
Leisler smiled. He liked the kid. He didn’t think too much. Thinkers always made more work.
‘Look at that,’ he said, as they passed a blackened shop front. It had been firebombed and completely gutted. The windows were smashed, and the galvanized shutters had twisted and melted in the heat.
‘What happened?’ Tyrone asked.
‘Cell phone shop,’ Leisler said. ‘Last week, it was doing a good trade. This week, it’s gone.’
Tyrone cruised slowly past, trying to read the melted advertisements curling from the inside of the windows.
‘That’s the nature of things,’ Leisler told him. ‘One minute life is good, and the next minute everything changes. Right now Jimmy Penh is top of the pile, but it ain’t going to be that way forever.’
He took a sly glance sideways to see if the kid understood what he was saying. If he did, he hid it well.
After a minute Leisler said, ‘Everything changes. Even Jimmy Penh will fall from grace, eventually. And when he does, someone will have to take his place.’
‘Like you?’ Tyrone asked, glancing sideways himself.
The penny drops, Leisler thought.
‘Who knows,’ he said. ‘But if it was me, someone like you would have to have to take my place.
‘What about Frank?’
Leisler shook his head.
‘He’s too close to Jimmy. If Jimmy goes, Frank will go too. That’s just the way of things. That’s why I need an apprentice. Understand?’
‘Sure I understand,’ Tyrone said again. ‘But nothing will happen to Jimmy any time soon, right?’
Jake Leisler stared straight forward along Amsterdam and let his head move from side to side, as if he was weighing the question up for the first time.
‘That’s the weird thing about change,’ he told Tyrone. ‘You never know when it’s coming.’
Tyrone parked on the curb outside The Elbow, a narrow-fronted place that seemed to stretch back half a mile. Inside it was elegant, with pristine leather booths studded to white brick walls. The lighting was subtle, washing the room from beneath lilac shades. Girls were everywhere, and the few clothes they wore looked tasteful and expensive. They smelled divine, and they smiled at Tyrone as he came in from the street.
Leisler knew more than Tyrone. He knew that the music was Gershwin. Rhapsody in Blue. He knew Gershwin had com
posed it just a few blocks away on the corner of Amsterdam and One Hundred and Tenth Street. He also knew that his boss had designed things that way. Jimmy Penh was well educated and good with detail. That was why fresh mint and citrus and strawberries splashed color along the bar. It was why they always wore gloves and masks and why they always double bagged their victims. In everything, Jimmy Penh demanded perfection. And if anything wasn’t just the way Jimmy liked it, Leisler was there to make sure it got fixed.
‘Jimmy chose the décor himself,’ Leisler said. ‘He studied in Paris a few years back and used to drink in a bar like this. He designed this place from photographs he took when he was there.’
Tyrone looked up from a list of cocktails he didn’t recognize, his eyes scanning the room.
‘You all right, Kid?’ Leisler asked as they settled into a pair of blood red velvet sofas. Tyrone nodded.
‘Sure I’m all right.’
‘You ever kill anyone before?’
Tyrone glanced around the place nervously.
‘It’s all right,’ Leisler said calmly. ‘This is Jimmy’s place. You can say what you like in here.’
Despite the reassurance, Tyrone kept his voice low.
‘Sure I killed people before,’ he said. ‘A couple of times.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
Tyrone sat back in his chair and blew out.
‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Matter of fact, I did not.’
It was an honest answer, and Leisler appreciated that. He had pulled Tyrone onto the team for three reasons. First, he was young enough to learn. Second, he already had quite a reputation on the street. People were afraid of him. Which was helpful. Third, he hadn’t seen the inside of a jail cell in the two years Leisler had known him. The last fact made him smart, or lucky, or both.
‘I don’t enjoy it,’ Tyrone said, ‘because I worry about getting caught.’
‘We were careful,’ Leisler said. ‘You saw that.’
His eyes followed a girl as she strode past, the calm air rippling all around her and fragrant vanilla following in her wake.
‘Sure. But what if someone fucks up?’ Tyrone said. ‘I don’t want to get locked up, man. I hear cons don’t like child killers so much.’
Smart guy Leisler thought. Already two steps ahead.
‘You won’t get caught,’ Leisler said. ‘If you get caught, you’ll bring trouble to Jimmy Penh. And if you bring trouble to Jimmy, prison will be the least of your worries.’
‘Listen,’ he told Tyrone, ‘Do the job right, and it’ll never be a problem.’
The girls arrived, circling like moons in Leisler’s orbit. He held court, and they hung on his every word. He was handsome in a rugged way. He had a strong jawline and dark brooding eyes which people found attractive or terrifying, depending upon the occasion. They were deep and black and empty. Eventually he let two of the courtesans lead him off into the back of the club. When he was gone, and sensing there was no further business to be done, the other girls slowly melted away.
Frank moved from the bar to the sofa that Leisler had left in a not-so-subtle statement about where he and Tyrone stood in the pecking order. Tyrone had heard him wheezing as they climbed the stairs to Michelle Ma Belle’s apartment earlier. He was past his prime and beginning to creak in the way that big guys inevitably do with time. Change is coming, he thought.
‘Don’t you like the girls, Frank?’ he asked. Baiting.
‘Fucking junkies,’ Frank said.
Tyrone found Frank’s disdain amusing since he was working for the biggest dealer in New York.
‘Junkies?’
‘Khmer. Jimmy keeps an eye on the girls in the club. If he likes them, he sends Leisler over with a wrap of Jimmy’s finest. I swear those girls can smell it on his clothes.’
‘And if Jimmy doesn’t like them?’ Tyrone asked.
Frank gave a dark smile.
‘Well, then Leisler shows up wearing his rubber gloves and a sanitation mask.’
‘No shit?’
Frank sank back into the red sofa and spread his palms.
‘Just stay away from the girls,’ he said. ‘That’s my advice. You’re playing Russian roulette. If you pick one that Jimmy’s sweet on, you’re in trouble. Pick one he doesn’t like, you’ll get your heart broke that way too.’
Tyrone looked back at the two girls dancing with Leisler. They were beyond pretty. They were beautiful.
‘What about him?’ Tyrone asked.
‘Leisler’s fine,’ Frank said. ‘He ain’t got a heart to break.’
Tyrone heard the sound of heels behind him and felt soft fingers work the back of his neck. When she cooed about the knots in his muscles, he could feel her breath on his skin. She was close. She let one hand wander over his shoulder and down across his chest, her fingernails digging through his shirt. He could feel the warmth of her naked skin on his back.
‘Is that your car?’ she whispered, stealing a glance at the Lamborghini parked outside.
He felt her teeth brush against the edge of his ear as she asked the question.
‘Not yet,’ Tyrone smiled.
She swung a long shapely leg and pivoted like she was mounting a horse. She landed deftly in his lap as gracefully as a feather falling to the floor. He saw her for the first time. She was older than him, but not by much. She had beautiful green eyes and long dark hair, like an Egyptian princess.
‘Take me for a ride later?’
Tyrone said that he might, and then he let her dance for him right there, mostly to annoy Frank.
‘Do you think Jimmy will like her?’ Tyrone asked Frank as she slipped back into the darkness afterwards.
Frank said nothing.
‘Enjoy your dance?’ Leisler asked when he returned soon after.
Tyrone supped the last of his beer. ‘Sure.’
Outside, the raw sound of a Lamborghini engine. Tyrone’s head whipped around to the window. He had fallen in love with the Gallardo’s skittishness as he had driven it along the slick, wet tarmac on Amsterdam. If somebody was stealing Leisler’s car, Tyrone would have been happy to drag them from the wheel with his bare hands, and cut off their right foot so they never drove anything again. He was sure Leisler would approve.
But the Gallardo was still parked on the curb. Another Lamborghini had pulled up behind it. It was Jimmy Penh’s car, and it was like the arrival of royalty. The girl behind the bar began fixing a complicated looking drink. The rain had turned to hail and a young man bustled out into the street with an umbrella. He opened it next to the Aventador and waited for the boss to step out. Inside, girls applied fresh gloss like cabin crew twenty minutes from landing. The barmaid, having placed the drink on a silver tray on the bar, tucked a wayward strand of hair nervously behind her ear. Frank adjusted his tie. Only Leisler stayed exactly as he had been before.
Unless you are there at the start, it is always hard to know whether a man gains his reputation because of his fierce charisma, or whether success creates an aura around him later. Whichever it was, the air in The Elbow crackled with anticipation. Tyrone watched through the rain-streaked window as the driver’s door opened and the most powerful man in New York’s underworld stepped out.
He wore stone black skinny jeans with dark lace-up shoes and a classic white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had an expensive-looking watch on his wrist, and above it Tyrone could see the muscles in his arm working under his paper thin skin. He had a shock of jet black hair and he wore mirrored sunglasses, even in the rain. The wind was blowing the sleet and hail sideways and his white shirt was soaked by the time he reached the door. As he stepped inside, he was already unbuttoning his shirt. Icy wind blew in with him, but he seemed impervious to the cold. Two of the dancers greeted him. One of them had a warm towel, and the other had a freshly laundered shirt. They stripped him and dried him and buttoned him up. He thanked them before they melted away.
As he began to roll the sleeves of his new shirt, he looked over to the b
ar. Tyrone realized he hadn’t caught his breath since Jimmy Penh had walked in.
‘You’re Tyrone,’ Jimmy said. It was a statement rather than a question, but Tyrone nodded anyway. His mouth had gone dry and his words came out hoarsely.
‘I am,’ he managed.
‘How did he do?’ Jimmy said, without taking his eyes off the youngster.
‘Textbook,’ Leisler said. ‘He did good.’
Jimmy held Tyrone’s gaze for a few more seconds.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s the only way.’
He walked past Tyrone and vaulted the bar. He was like a cat, nimble and fast. He ducked down out of sight for a minute, and when he came back, he was holding a baseball bat.
He walked past Tyrone and further into the Elbow.
‘Jake,’ he said to Leisler. ‘We have a problem.’
As everyone watched, Jimmy swung the bat and landed it on Leisler’s right knee three times, to hammer home the message.
‘We have a serious…’
Whack.
‘Fucking…’
Whack.
‘Problem.’
Whack.
‘Follow me.’
Leisler had fallen to the floor during the attack, and as he got back to his feet Tyrone saw something in his eyes which he recognized. A flash of anger, and calculation too. Leisler would not fight Jimmy Penh in his own club. Not when the odds were so heavily stacked against him. He would wait. He would plan. And he would topple Jimmy Penh, just like Tyrone would one day topple Frank. That secret desire only flashed in Leisler’s eyes for a split second, but it was long enough for Tyrone to recognize it. Then it passed, and Leisler slowly got to his feet and dutifully followed Jimmy Penh into the back of the club. The bar stayed quiet when they went, the ugliness of it still hanging in the air.