The Wrecking Crew

by Taylor Zajonc

  “Pretty remote location for such a flashy crew,” observed Jonah, apparently satisfied by her answer. But Hassan was more than a little concerned with the flippant threat to their lives. “Anything I should know?”

  “They have style,” said Dalmar, his eyes widening as he smiled. “I think style is very important for a gangster.”

  “It was probably a test,” admitted Marissa. “They wanted to see if you had the cajones to come to the radioactive exclusion zone.”

  Jonah just squinted and nodded, waiting for the boss to turn his attention to them. He didn’t have to wait long—the boss reached in through the open window and flipped the radio off. All fell silent, except for the crunching footsteps as the as he sauntered up to Jonah.

  “American cowboy Jonah Blackwell!” said the gangster, speaking broken English through a gregarious, sinister grin. Up close, the man’s sunken, deep eyes and twin scars across his left cheek made for uncomfortable viewing. Even in the darkness, his nicotine-stained fingertips and missing pinky on the left hand were obvious.

  “I would seriously consider bowing,” hissed Marissa. Jonah snuck a glance at her before giving the boss an obligatory half-bow, just enough to acknowledge his approach. The doctor suspected the sloppy form would have been interpreted as deeply disrespectful if not coming from an outsider.

  “Yeah,” said Jonah as he rose from the shallow bow. “I’m your American cowboy.”

  “Marissa say many things about you,” said the gangster, tapping Jonah directly in the center of his chest with an outstretched finger. “Some of what she say … not so good.”

  “We’re getting into business, not into bed,” said Jonah, ignoring Marissa’s annoyed sigh. “So if she told you anything outside of my abilities as a captain, let’s put those aside here and now.”

  The boss frowned at his personal translator, a young man in a slim black suit and thick glasses who went back and forth with him for a moment until he tilted back his head and issued a long, guffawing laugh.

  “She say you an asshole,” said the boss. “Say we get along very well.”

  Jonah smirked in reply.

  “And who this kokujin?” asked the gangster, pointing at Dalmar. Behind him, his dozen men had formed a half-circle around Jonah and the other three, leaning against their cars with their arms crossed or uneasily shifting from foot to foot as they stood.

  Dalmar started to speak but Jonah interrupted before the Somali man could launch into his usual dread-pirate, world-famous-terrorist self-introduction. It’d be best for all involved if the hulking man stayed dead for the time being, at least on paper.

  “Oh, he’s just our shipboard events coordinator,” said Jonah, pointing at Dalmar. “Shuffleboard, pool parties, bingo, that kind of thing.”

  “I make an excellent raspberry daiquiri,” said Dalmar through gritted teeth, only halfway playing along as his eyes shot daggers at Jonah.

  The mob boss just nodded and pointed at Hassan.

  “Doctor Hassan Nassiri,” the doctor stammered. “Ship’s surgeon.”

  Nodding, the mob boss muttered something in Japanese. “He wants to know why you have so many ailments that you require a full-time doctor,” said the slim translator.

  “We get our share of stubbed toes and paper cuts,” said Jonah. “So how about we hear about the job? You didn’t bring us all the way out here for introductions and pleasantries.”

  The gangster just nodded and gestured to the translator to continue while he leaned against the hood of his car.

  “Sorry I couldn’t tell you more before you made the trip, I didn’t even have all the details myself,” said Marissa. “Apparently they want you as their new cruise line service. Not a lot of foreigners know this, but there’s a longstanding community of Koreans in Japan, some of whom have become quite wealthy. They’re also well-represented in gangland; the yakuza do a fair bit of business with them. When the armistice was signed in 1954, there were many families trapped in North Korea. Even after more than sixty years, those family ties remain strong, even stronger now that illegal Chinese cellphone have found their way into the border towns. Families are reconnecting, and there are many who want out at any cost. Japanese Koreans are willing to pay top dollar to make it happen.”

  “You’re talking about human smuggling …” breathed Hassan.

  “More or less,” said Marissa. “Our friends here need a new route and reliable handlers. I told them I didn’t know any reliable handlers, but you were the next best thing.”

  “What happened to the last travel agency?” asked Dalmar.

  “Last route was overland, through China. North Korean border guards caught on. They say their men were executed on the spot; the escaping families were placed in prison camps. If they’re not already dead, they wish they were.”

  “Mole in the yakuza?” asked Jonah.

  “I doubt it,” said Marissa. “More likely they were just unlucky. But they’re not willing to risk a Chinese route for the foreseeable future, not until we know for certain.”

  “So what are we going to be moving? Girls?” asked Jonah. Behind the flippant tone, Hassan could detect the real motives. Jonah wasn’t going to accept some bullshit cover for sex trafficking.

  “Fuck you for asking,” said Marissa, her eyes flashing with anger. “I’m not going to pretend they do this out of the goodness of their hearts—or that they don’t have interests in the red-light districts, for that matter. But they’re not in the business of turning out North Korean girls—and neither am I, that is for goddamned certain.”

  “Good,” said Jonah, glaring right back at her. “But you know I had to ask.”

  Marissa reached over and pulled a map out of the breast pocket of the slim translator’s suite jacket before slapping it into Jonah’s chest. “Rendezvous is past the Siberian seamount of the Sea of Japan, near the North Korean port of Rason. Can you accommodate ten families?”

  “It’ll be tight quarters, three to a bunk or more,” said Jonah, sticking the map in his back pocket. “But we can do it. I have to ask this—why not a ship? Why the Scorpion?”

  “The port is completely frozen over. It’s unprecedented. Can’t get a ship in without an icebreaker. Need something that can punch up through the ice—you think the Scorpion can handle it?”

  “Sure,” said Jonah, but Hassan suspected the American hadn’t necessarily considered the logistics of such an operation.

  “They’re offering five thousand dollars a head,” said Marissa. “A hundred and fifty large for less than a week’s work. They think there is enough volume to do the run monthly, switch it up to a hidden cove when the ice melts. If things work out, maybe even twice a month.”

  “A hundred and fifty? That will barely cover Hassan’s skin creams,” joked Jonah as he reached over to pinch Hassan’s cheek. The doctor swatted his hand away. “Just look at this lustrous olive tone. Ten thousand a head, minimum.”

  “Done,” interjected the boss’s translator, leaving Hassan to wonder if Jonah should have asked for more—but he knew they could use the money, it’d be enough to refuel and reprovision the Scorpion from her long trip across the ocean. If a few runs went well, there might even be enough money left over to start a new life on a distant, non-extradition island nation.

  “Great!” said Jonah, rubbing his palms together. “Let’s see the cash.”

  Pushing Marissa aside, the boss’s translator laughed as he stepped up to Jonah and shook his head.

  “Yeah, so here’s the thing …” began Marissa. “They appreciate my referral, but say you have zero reputation in Japan. They want to pay you upon receipt.”

  It was Jonah’s turn to laugh. “Not happening,” he said. “We don’t work on spec.”

  “We insist,” said the translator, hissing through clenched teeth. “A show of good faith.”

  “Half up front,” interjected Dalmar, resting a hand on the butt of his pistol. “Or no deal.”

  In a flash, the glasses-wearing tra
nslator whipped around and grabbed Hassan from behind, throwing him into a vicious reverse chokehold, a small, razor-sharp silver knife pressed deep against his carotid artery. The doctor barely had time to yelp as Marissa scurried away behind the Cadillac, her bulky radiation suit relegating her swift escape to an awkward waddle. With a sudden clattering of metal, every yakuza gangster had produced an armory of previously unseen weapon, a dozen pistols held at eye level with total commitment. Hassan had no doubt they would not hesitate to pull triggers, though the knife at his throat remained his more immediate concern. The only unarmed man was the boss himself, who stared steely death at Jonah, Hassan and the pirate Dalmar Abdi.

  “Remove your hands from your firearms,” ordered the Japanese translator, twisting the knife against Hassan’s neck. “We learned you have sold tattoos cut from the bodies of dead yakuza. Many wanted to skin you on sight … or if a deal could not be reached. Do not test our patience.”

  “Jonah!” exclaimed Marissa as she peeked from behind the parked car. “Stop fucking around, make the deal already!”

  “I think we can live with those terms,” said Jonah with an apologetic grin, letting his hand slip from the handle of his nickel-plated Colt 1911. “Let’s not complicate this further.”

  The boss nodded and cocked his head towards the back seats of the nearest car.

  “Good,” said the young translator, releasing Hassan. “We will pay half of your fee up front as your pirate requested. But you had better deliver. The world is too small to steal from yakuza.”

  The doctor gulped and rubbed the corner of his neck where the knife had left a bright red divot. The mob boss reached through his open window and removed a black duffel bag, opened the zipper and threw it at Jonah’s feet. It was loosely loaded with bricks of American cash, several blocks of which spilled out before him. Jonah reached down, packed the money away and slung the duffel around his neck.

  Everyone turned as flashing red and yellow lights shone from the approaching highway, the police approaching from the distance. Marissa gingerly emerged from behind the trunk and spoke in rapid, low tones with the yakuza boss and his translator, ending the exchange with a hurried handshake.

  “Sirens are generally our cue to leave,” said Jonah, already starting to back away into the darkness of the night, Dalmar and Hassan at this side. “Anything else we should discuss?”

  “Yeah,” said Marissa, walking a few steps across the small courtyard to join him as they turned to walk back towards the docks. “My cabin accommodations—because I’m coming with you. Our friends can talk their way past the police so long as they don’t have to explain an American woman. Besides, I have to make sure you don’t fuck up my twenty-five percent any further.”

  Jonah scowled. “Fifteen,” he said. “And that’s dependent on you staying out of the way of my crew.”

  “Deal. Don’t worry—this will be a milk run.”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Great thanks to literary agent extraordinaire Carrie Pestritto for cheerleading this novel all the way to publication. Thanks also to Blank Slate editors Donna Essner for seeing the potential in the story and Kristina Blank Makansi for bringing out the best in every sentence. I’ve been profoundly lucky to work with such a marvelous team.

  I am so grateful to Oki Radic for sitting me down and telling me in no uncertain terms that I must write this novel, as well as all her subsequent feedback. I’d also like to recognize Jonathan Wu for shepherding this story from the earliest drafts—I owe you both so much.

  Thanks to first readers John Griffith and Jeremy Mohler for their incredible feedback and support, and to Caleb Gaw and Thierry Sagnier for their amazing help at critical times. Thanks also to my parents, Guy and Susan Zajonc—without your support, none of this would have been possible.

  I am so blessed to have Milton Polk, Kelly Polk and Micah Eldred in my corner. And a special thanks to Richard Bernard, for helping me see not only the potential in this work, but also myself.

  Writers’ groups Arlington Creative Non-Fiction Writers of Virginia and The People’s Ink of Portland, Oregon have been phenomenal support networks, and I’ve been honored to be a member of both.

  Most of all, many thanks my incredible wife Andrea. I could never have wished for a more encouraging, insightful and supportive partner as I squirreled myself away in my office with my strange characters and faraway lands. You are amazing and the inspiration for everything I do.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  As a maritime historian and shipwreck expert, Taylor’s real-life adventures parallel those of his fictional counterparts. His fascination with exploration began when he joined a Russian expedition to the deepest archaeological site on the planet, descending nearly three miles into the abyss of the Bermuda Triangle aboard a Soviet-era submersible. Now a recognized expert in his field, his research has contributed to some of the most incredible shipwreck finds in history, including a 110-ton trove of sunken World War II silver.

  Taylor lives in rainy Portland, Oregon with his wife and their 11-year-old collie mix, Potter. The Wrecking Crew is his first novel.