“The bitch ain’t happy on a good day,” Andrej was saying. “How much worse could it be?”
“I don’t want to find out. We need to deal with this clown first.”
“Just knock ’im out, then get the car.”
Jackson decided not to wait any longer. He jumped to his feet, raced to the curb, and vaulted over it. A shot rang out. The bullet ricocheted through the garage with a high whine. The drop wasn’t very deep. A car was parked right below. Jackson hit its hood much sooner than he’d expected. He didn’t manage to roll away, like they did in the movies. He just slammed sideways into the sheet metal. The car’s alarm began wailing, something he wanted to do in response to the pain that flashed through his body.
He rolled off the car and hobbled away from the flashing lights as fast as he could. Mounted to the next column he found a fire extinguisher. He yanked it from its bracket and ducked behind the concrete.
Gergi came racing down the ramp. The wailing and flashing car was like a homing beacon. Jackson counted on that. He pulled the safety pin from the handle and pointed the nozzle. The moment Gergi appeared against the flashing lights, Jackson squeezed the handle. A thick cloud of foam hit the man in his face. He screamed, let go of the gun, and rubbed his eyes. Jackson slammed the extinguisher against Gergi’s head. He dropped like a stone.
Jackson dragged himself to his studio apartment above the storefront church off Hawthorne Avenue. He felt like he’d been hit by a Mack Truck. On the way, he stopped at Hawthorne Liquors and got himself a fifth of Hennessy. Maurice, the owner, was half asleep behind the counter.
At home, he didn’t bother with a glass. He took a big gulp of cognac. The burn in his throat made him forget the pulsing bruise on his side. He had half a mind to finish that bottle.
What the fuck had happened? It still didn’t make sense. He calls Vermeulen to figure out how he was involved. The man turns out to be kinda snooty, first jerking him around with empty threats, then laying a guilt trip on him. Next thing, he’s held up by guys with guns. Did they work for Vermeulen? Nobody else knew he was gonna be at that lounge. But why would Vermeulen tell him to do the right thing and then send two goons after him?
He tried to remember who else had been in that lounge. There were four men at the bar. Nothing stuck out there. Three tables with pretty ordinary folks not doing much of anything special, just talking and drinking. And Vermeulen. He had to be the one who sicced those men on him.
After the third gulp, just before the point of no return, he put the bottle down. Gergi in the garage had mentioned a broker, and Andrej with the busted knee had called her a bitch. So there was a woman involved. There was a woman who’d come into the lounge with a man. With his back to them, he hadn’t seen what she looked like. How would she be connected? He thought about the woman at the doctor’s earlier, the one with the short blonde hair. She could have been the third party the doctor had to consult. The comfortable buzz in his head cleared with a flash. The woman in the bar and woman at the doctor’s house were the same.
He should’ve been happy with the twenty-five hundred dollars.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The call changed everything. There was a long pause when he answered, as if someone were wondering if they’d called the wrong number. He was about to push the End button when a Flemish voice he hadn’t heard in nine years said, “Is dat u, Valentin?”
He couldn’t speak. A picture of her appeared in his mind’s eye. They’d just met at a rally in Antwerp. She was willowy, with long, strawberry blonde hair, the very image of a 1970s cover girl for a hippie magazine. He’d forgotten all about the cruise missile deployment they were protesting.
“Bent dar u, Valentin?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I’m here.” He sank into his chair. There were more pictures, now streaming like a newsreel montage: the walks, the courtship, the wedding, bringing their daughter Gaby home from the hospital.
“I have some bad news,” she said.
“It’s Gaby.” He knew it. Ever since he reconciled with his daughter two years ago, he’d been haunted by the fact that he’d wasted eight years before speaking with her. “Tell me she’s alive, Marieke.” He hadn’t spoken his ex-wife’s name since the divorce.
“She’s alive.”
“What happened?”
“She was in an accident, a skiing accident. She’s in a coma.”
“Where is she?”
“A hospital in Vienna.”
“Are you with her?” he said, and knew it was a stupid question.
“Yes.”
“How long has she been this way?”
“Three days.”
And you’re only calling me now? He wanted to say. But he stopped himself. It probably took that much time for the hospital to find the next of kin. “What’s the prognosis?”
“I don’t know. The doctors say that she’s stable and that it’s only a matter of time before she wakes up. She’s got some cracked ribs, but the real problem is her head trauma. I’m worried. Part of her head is wrapped in bandages; it’s all so scary.”
“Do you know how it happened?” he said.
“What difference does that make? Our daughter is in intensive care. It doesn’t matter how she got there. It wasn’t her fault, if that’s what you’re asking.”
There was that familiar anger again. It used to drive him crazy. He’d done his share of damage to their relationship, he knew that now. But Marieke’s sudden and unpredictable outbursts of anger had been right up there when it came to why their marriage failed.
“It’s not what I was asking,” he said. “That was uncalled for.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I took the train here as soon as I got the call yesterday. Since then I’ve been in her room. The hospital was kind enough to put a cot next to her bed.”
“I’ll come right away. We can take turns keeping her company.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said. “When can you get here?”
“I have to make a few calls before I can take off. I’ll probably arrive early the day after tomorrow. Sooner if there’s a morning flight.”
“I’m glad you are coming. You’ve got my number now. Call me when you come in. I’ll text you the hospital address.”
She hung up. His body was pinned to the chair by the weight of words said and left unsaid, of missed opportunities to make amends, of love slowly being buried under layers of the irrelevant detritus of everyday life; and worse still, by the weight of the knowledge that he hadn’t done anything to stop it. Tears flowed down his face.
Well past midnight, he roused himself. Self-pity is just another form of selfishness, he thought. It had gotten him to that spot in the first place. And longing for a different past was a waste of time. Instead, he could make the present and the future better by being there for Marieke and Gaby when they needed him. He opened his laptop and searched for the first available ticket to Vienna. Five minutes later he booked a flight, leaving at five fifty that evening. The price was ludicrous.
There was no question of sleeping, so he started a load of laundry, got his suitcase from the storage locker in the basement, and sorted what he needed to bring.
At six in the morning, he dialed Suarez’s home number.
“This’d better be good, Vermeulen,” Suarez said.
“Sorry for the early call, but I’ve had some bad news. My daughter was in an accident and is in a coma.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know you had a daughter.”
“She lives in Düsseldorf, but the accident was in Austria and she’s in a hospital there. I’m going to Vienna to be with her. So I need some time off.”
“Oh.”
“I think I still have three personal days and all of my sick days. So that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“But you aren’t sick.”
“If you’d read the human resources manual, you’d know that I can use those days to care for a sick relative.”
“A week, probably more. It all depends on when she comes out of her coma and what care is needed then.”
“What about your investigation? Are you done with it?”
The investigation. The shock of hearing Marieke’s voice and her devastating news had pushed all other thoughts away. Odinga, Abasi, Luca, the woman, and Dr. Rosenbaum—none of them mattered at the moment.
“Not quite. I received more information at the prison in Pennsylvania that is pertinent. I might have a chance to speak with Dufaux while I’m in Vienna. The rest will have to wait.”
“Well, I didn’t think it was worth your time anyway. What about Sunderland? Will he follow through on his threat to hold up UN visitors?”
“I’ll call him before I leave. I’ll tell him I’m making sure that Vienna doesn’t issue any more fake invitations.”
“Call me if it’s going to be more than a week. Safe travels. I hope your daughter will be okay.”
The call to Sunderland rolled over to voicemail, which was what he’d intended. He left a brief message explaining that he’d be going to Austria to get to the bottom of the fake invitation letters and put a stop to the scam. It had to be enough.
In the middle of folding laundry, the phone rang. It was too early for Sunderland. He checked the display. The number was unfamiliar. He didn’t want to answer, but his finger tapped the button anyway.
“Vermeulen here.”
“Yeah, Mr. Do-The-Right-Thing. You almost got me killed last night.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jackson! Vermeulen had forgotten all about him, too.
“Hey, Jackson. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, barely. They tried to kill me and dump me in the mudflats.”
“Who?”
“Two guys. They musta followed me from the lounge.”
“I was worried about you. The woman, she called herself ‘The Broker,’ said her associates were coming after you.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
“By the time she told me, you were long gone.”
“I got a phone. And you got the number.”
“Where did they get you?”
“Tried to corner me in the garage off Edison. But they hadn’t met someone like Earle Jackson before. The first one didn’t even get to me. I decked him before he saw me. The second one was trickier. He had a gun. Had to jump down to the next level. Got me a bruise the size of Delaware. But I showed him, too. Good thing they got fire extinguishers.”
So Jackson got away. Vermeulen couldn’t figure out what that meant. It was irrelevant.
“Listen, Jackson, I just got some bad news about my daughter. I’m leaving tonight to see her.”
“What? You leaving me alone here? You were the one who got me into this. You can’t just leave town. Where you going, anyway?”
“I’m going to Vienna. My daughter is in a coma.”
“Sorry, man, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m in hot water because of you.”
“What? You better get your facts straight. First you stole money from a dying man, then you tried to blackmail Dr. Rosenbaum, and now you want to blame me?”
“Yeah, but they never woulda found out about me if you hadn’t told me to come to that bar. The woman followed you, not me.”
“I’m sorry,” Vermeulen said, “but I have to go to Vienna. It’s my daughter.”
“What am I going to do about that woman and her muscle?”
“Lay low. They don’t know where you live. As long as you stay away from the doctor and his office, you should be okay. Maybe you could leave town. I also think you should send the money, or what’s left of it, to Abasi’s family. There’s got to be an address in his passport.”
“If I send the money back, I got nothing to leave town with.”
“I don’t know how much you took, but I’m sure you can do both,” Vermeulen said.
“Come on, man. I know you want to bust the doctor and that woman working for him. Okay, I made a mistake. I tried to get in on the action. That was wrong. We gotta work together on this.”
“Right now, the only thing on my mind is my daughter. I’ll be in touch once I know she’s okay. Until then, remember, do the right thing.”
Vermeulen ended the call.
* * *
Goddamn it, Vermeulen hung up on him. Jackson was angry. Leaving town just when the heat had been turned up. Sure, the man had sounded genuine about his daughter and the accident. So that was probably true. Still, they could’ve made a plan or something.
All these years, nobody had ever been after him. Not that he was scared. Hell, he’d shown those clowns in the parking garage. But the idea that somebody wanted him dead, wanted to throw his body into the mudflats, spooked him. He’d always thought that only happened to the brothers who didn’t plan right.
What had gone wrong?
Jackson mulled over each step he’d taken since Abasi died in his arms. Nah. He’d been smart. He’d been cautious. Maybe he shouldn’t have called Vermeulen. But he needed to know how he fit into the picture. And the meeting? He should have cased the lounge for a while. Maybe he’d have recognized the blonde woman. Yeah, he should’ve done that. But otherwise, he’d been doing okay.
All that thinking brought him back to Vermeulen. It was his fault. He’d drawn that woman to them. And now he was skipping town.
Well, as Satchel Paige said, don’t look back, somebody might be gaining on you. He needed a new plan, one that kept his ass out of trouble. Those two hoods were going to be after him. He’d played them, and they were guaranteed to be pissed off. Even without the Broker, they’d be wanting payback. For all he knew, they were pounding the pavement calling in whatever chits they had to find out who the black dude was that made them look like pussies. Good thing Vermeulen had picked that fancy bar to meet. Nobody there had ever laid eyes on him. So he was clear there.
Where he wasn’t clear was the burner phone he’d used to call the doctor. Jackson wasn’t up on the technology, but he figured that, somehow, that phone could be traced back to the bodega where he bought it. Did that place have a camera? He didn’t remember, but he wouldn’t be surprised. These days, especially the little places had those systems, what with all the hold-ups going down. So, worst case, they’d have him on video buying the phone.
Even that didn’t amount to much. All they’d have was a picture of a black man wearing run-of-the-mill clothes. It’d be a vague picture of his face. Just like Abasi’s passport picture. It could be any one of a hundred thousand black men in Newark.
He poured a shot of cognac into a water glass. This time, he sipped. Tried to appreciate the liquor.
Thinking of Abasi’s passport brought up a whole different train of thought. He could skip town for a while. He could probably pass for Abasi and go to Kenya. Nobody’d even know he’d gone abroad. He pulled the passport from his pocket and paged through the booklet. The last page listed a residence. Kibera, Nairobi. No number or anything. Maybe they didn’t have house numbers in Kenya.
The e-ticket receipt showed that Abasi was scheduled to fly back to Kenya in a day. Do the right thing. Man, that line had really got under his skin. He could give some of the money to Abasi’s family.
Jackson stopped himself. Was he going soft in the head? He wasn’t gonna run away. He was gonna stay right here in Newark and bust that doctor. The Broker and her hoods probably were thinking he’d be hiding. They’d be wrong. Attack was the best defense.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Camille Delano sipped the vodka in her usual slow fashion. It didn’t produce the desired effect. The liquor burned her throat instead of warming her. Drinking booze wasn’t a good idea when you were upset. And she was upset.
First, her men managed to lose that black guy and get beaten up in the process. And then Vermeulen disappeared without a trace. The watcher posted outside his apartment reported him getting into a cab. He followed him to JFK and lost him
there. Bad news all around.
She knew Jackson would disappear. Newark was a large city. If he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. Her crew, made up of Bulgarian and Romanian freelancers who’d come over after the collapse of the Soviet Union, harbored that casual racism still common in Eastern Europe. Which made them the worst possible candidates for tapping into Newark’s black criminal networks. She had the number from the phone he used to call the doctor. It was a long shot. If Jackson had any sense at all, it’d be a burner with no personal information attached to the number. For what it was worth, she’d asked one of her crew who had a relative at one of the cellphone carriers to check into it. The good news was that Jackson was a crook. He wasn’t going to the police.
Vermeulen was an entirely different story. She took his card, which the doctor had given her, from her purse. United Nations Office of Internal Oversight Services. What an odd name. It had an Orwellian ring to it.
The UN connection had puzzled her. Yes, her business involved smuggling foreigners into the U.S., and human trafficking was high on the UN’s agenda. Every year, some agency or other published a report on it, everybody wrung their hands, and then they went back to writing the next report to be published a year later. What they didn’t do was investigate.
She pushed the vodka aside and signaled the waiter.
“I’d like a coffee, please. And a slice of chocolate cake.”
That’s why it didn’t make sense that some UN investigator would show up at Rosenbaum’s door. But then, Vermeulen as much as told her that the visa scam was the tip-off. Immigration officers must have noticed that some of the people using the letters didn’t look like UN conference attendees. It was one of the downsides of recruiting only the poorest. But they were the ones who were most easily tempted by the money.
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