Point of Balance

by J. G. Jurado

  “Momir?”

  “I’m his son,” a voice said from the darkness to Kate’s left. She leaped in her seat and cursed herself for her stupidity and weakness. She could distinguish the shape of a man sitting at one of the tables, but one whose age and face she couldn’t make out. He lit a cigarette, and for a moment his gnarled and cruel features shone in the lighter flame.

  “We’ll pretend I haven’t seen you light up in a restaurant.”

  “We’re closed.”

  “Even so, it’s against the law.”

  “But I bet you won’t do anything about it,” the shadow said.

  She wondered how often Momir and his father had tried to put the frighteners on their visitors. They were more than just a restaurant owner and his son. There was something shifty and mean about both of them. If human souls were tuning forks, most would ring with the harmonious and predictable sound of mediocrity. But some souls in particular gave off a different sound, one that unsettled Kate and awoke in her the instinct of a hunter. And those two had that sound by the ton-load. She wished, not for the last time, she had fallback security to rely on.

  “I don’t care what you get up to, or not, in your business. I’ve come about one of your customers. Svetlana Nikolić.”

  The old man traded a glance with his son, then shrugged his shoulders.

  “Never heard of her.”

  “She had lunch here with somebody nine days ago. A young woman from Belgrade, slim, attractive. She wore a cotton dress.”

  Ivo pretended to cast his mind back. He looked up to the right, a sure sign he was lying.

  “No, doesn’t ring a bell, officer.”

  Kate couldn’t take it anymore. She moved up and grabbed hold of the old man’s shirt. When he saw that, Momir rushed to his father’s aid with his head down and his fists held high. That played into her hands. But he was stocky and broad shouldered. If he found a way to hit her, it would be no contest.

  She couldn’t let him get to her.

  Using the old man’s body as a counterweight, Kate put her insole against one of the heavy stools and sent it flying toward Momir. The metal edge hit him on the leg, making him stumble. He fell facedown at Kate’s feet but was far from beaten. He grabbed her by the legs and tried to force her down, while the old man fumbled about for something under the counter.

  A gun. Shit, he’s got a gun.

  She shook her leg free from Momir’s clutches. Then she lifted her boot, stamped her heel on his back, and heard the air issue from his lungs with a stifled gasp.

  “Let him go, kurva. Damned bitch.”

  Kate turned her head and found the muzzle of a revolver jammed into her chin.

  “Listen to me, Ivo. I don’t give a holy crap about you or your son. But in case you didn’t know, you get life for killing a federal agent.”

  Ivo narrowed his eyes and stared at her in disbelief. They were so close his breathing mingled with hers. The old man’s breath smelled of coffee and bitter onions.

  “She’s no federal agent, she’s a bag man for Captain Zallman. He wants more than we’ve got. But this well’s run dry.”

  “Who the hell’s Zallman?”

  “What did you say?”

  “I’m telling you I don’t know this Zallman.”

  On the floor, Momir writhed in anger.

  “Take no notice, Father. She’s lying.”

  “Look, I’m going to reach into the back pocket of my pants for my ID,” Kate said, letting go of the old man’s shirt. “Don’t pull the trigger, okay?”

  Ivo didn’t answer and Kate took that to mean her brains weren’t about to be turned into goulash. Very slowly and with just two fingers, she pulled out her ID and held it up in his face. When he saw it, Ivo looked disconcerted, pulled away his pistol and put it back under the counter.

  “I . . . I’m sorry, ma’am. We thought—”

  “Father—”

  “Shut up, damn it! U picku materinu!” Ivo shouted, and unleashed a stream of invective in their language. “And don’t move! Can you tell us why you didn’t identify yourself as a federal agent, ma’am?”

  “That’s none of your business. I’m here on a matter of national security which must be handled with the utmost discretion.”

  “I’m sorry to have pulled the gun. We’ve had some run-ins with the local cops, which are nobody’s business, either. As we say in my country, sto vise znas, vise patis. ‘The more you know, the more you suffer.’ ”

  Kate nodded. She’d heard rumors that some rogue Baltimore cops had set up a protection racket, which basically consisted in shaking down lowlife criminals. Ivo and his son were surely dealing drugs or fencing stolen goods, for which the restaurant was a front. But she couldn’t have cared less about that. As soon as she found out what she needed to know, she would leave the pair of them to sort things out as best they could.

  “So why then would I come asking about Svetlana Nikolić?”

  “I don’t know. We thought it was a trick. There’s been a lot of questions about that girl recently.”

  Kate leaned forward, mouth open and heart pounding.

  “Who’s been asking?”

  “People.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “The wrong kind. People who scare even us, ma’am. And you’d better believe my son and I have come across the biggest collection of sons of bitches to have walked this earth, svartno. Really.”

  “When did they come and what did they want to know?”

  “Yesterday evening. There were two of them, and one put his arm on the counter, right where you are. He rolled up his sleeve and showed me a tattoo of a black hand surrounded by barbed wire. He asked me if I knew what that meant, and I said yes.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Crna ruka. Black Hand, the death squads that killed thousands in Kosovo. Bloodthirsty, crazy guys. I’m a tough old man, not a coward, but believe me, I was real scared to see that tattoo.”

  Ivo turned back to the bar, grabbed a bottle of rakia with trembling hands and poured himself a stiff drink. Kate patiently waited for him to finish it before she carried on.

  “What did they want?”

  “They asked about Svetlana’s boyfriend.”

  “Was that who she ate with a few days back?”

  “His name is Vlatko, he waits tables in a bar in Mount Vernon. I don’t know what they want him for, but God help him.”

  “The guy’s a friend of yours?”

  “No, but we spoke a little. He dropped by now and again for my podvarak. He said I make it just like his mother.”

  “Did he come alone, or with the girl?”

  “Sometimes alone, sometimes with the girl.”

  “Did they meet here?”

  “No, from what I heard they met before, in the old country. They’d been childhood friends, or some such. The last time they came, he was very angry. They spoke in whispers, their heads close to each other. She cried and ran out halfway through the second course. I never saw them again. That’s it.”

  “I see. And how can I reach Vlatko?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Kate gave an exasperated sigh.

  “Listen, Ivo. You’re lying, and we both know it. I could threaten you with sending over a bunch of men in black, but I won’t, because I don’t think you’re the kind to give in to threats, right?”

  The old man didn’t answer. He confined himself to pouring another shot.

  “I think you like that boy and that’s good. Because he’s got very bad people on his trail, and I’m Vlatko’s only chance to keep breathing.”

  Ivo sighed in turn, but it was a sigh of resignation. He went to the till and opened it with a resounding cling, and lifted up the front compartment. He ruffled a handful of papers until he found a corner torn off a page of th
e Baltimore Sun. He held it out to Kate.

  “He gave me this number in case I ever needed a waiter. I don’t even know if it works.”

  24

  I put the paper bag and its deadly contents under the seat, started the car and headed north again. And here my plan had a big hole in it, which I wouldn’t be able to plug unaided.

  I looked at the phone and held it in front of me while I drove.

  “Where?” I asked it.

  There was no reply. The blank screen merely showed my own reflection. One block, two blocks. The Eleventh Street Bridge was drawing near.

  “Listen, White, I’m playing by your rules and I’ll win my place in tomorrow’s op. I can do it. But I can’t do it alone. So tell me, where?”

  The Lexus’s wheels exchanged the smooth hum of the highway for fitful juddering as they rolled over the bridge’s expansion joints. A worker in orange overalls stepped out and held up a sign saying STOP. Men were at work on the bridge, and I heard jackhammers ripping into the concrete.

  The cell phone was deathly quiet.

  I bit the inside of my cheeks, thinking things through. The engine was ticking over, with 345 horsepower chomping at the bit, and the steering wheel shook in my hands with a restless rumble.

  Finally, the message landed.

  LAZ PARKING NEXT THE MAYFLOWER, SPACE 347. YOU HAVE TEN MINUTES, OR YOU MISS HIM.

  Five miles in rush hour. That’s not possible.

  The workman in the orange overalls finally stood aside and I put my foot down.

  I don’t know how I did it. I avoided three intersections normally jammed with traffic. I went through two red lights and grazed a messenger’s bike with my rear bumper when I turned a corner. The guy landed on the hood of a parked car. My heart stopped for a second, but I did not slow down.

  I can’t, buddy, I’m sorry.

  In my rearview mirror, I saw him get back on his feet, holding up a buckled bike wheel in his hand. Judging by the lively way he used his other hand to give me the finger, I guessed he hadn’t broken anything.

  Eight minutes and nine seconds after receiving White’s text, I drove into the LAZ lot next to the Mayflower. No attendant came to meet me, so I figured it was unmanned. A machine made me pick up a ticket before it raised the barrier.

  I went past rows of cars, looking for space 347. It was on the second floor, although I had to work out the number from the two adjacent spots. The one I was looking for was covered by the tail end of a huge and very badly parked maroon Porsche Cayenne.

  I had no doubts that outlandish object was Hockstetter’s. It was sadly like him to drive a $150,000 SUV but park it in a commercial lot rather than the hotel one to save nickels and dimes. Once I saw him stiff a waitress out of a two-buck tip in the Johns Hopkins canteen, for crying out loud.

  That was his car, but he was nowhere to be found. The garage was full, but at that time of day all the owners would be busy at their desks. There wasn’t a living soul in sight.

  I didn’t understand why White had given me that location, but it was perfect. I just had to find an escape route afterward. I parked on the floor above and sat on the backseat, where I had left a sports bag. I stripped off double quick and changed out of my suit into a sweat suit, tennis shoes and ski mask I had bought before I crossed the river. I put the ski mask on my head like a cap, with the bottom rolled up, and went back to the driver’s seat.

  I groped around underneath and pulled out the paper bag.

  It seemed to weigh much more than before. Gingerly I put my hand inside it, as if it were full of scorpions. I withdrew the contents very slowly.

  There it was. A Glock nine-millimeter. At least that’s what it said on the side. Personally, I don’t know one end of a gun from the other, just that you point the hole the way you want the bullet to go. That big lump of metal smelled of oil and something else besides, something filthy and wicked.

  I wrapped my hand around the handle but didn’t dare put my finger on the trigger. Guns are reputed to endow the owner with bravery and a false sense of security. To make you feel more powerful and invincible when you hold them.

  I was just shitting myself even more.

  I struggled with folds of cloth, attempting to put the gun down the back of my pants. The elastic waistband stretched a lot and I was scared of dropping the gun on the floor. I pulled on the drawstrings at the front and felt the cold steel dig a little deeper into my skin, but at least the pistol held steady.

  I got out of the car.

  I left the door ajar and the keys in the ignition. If all went well, I wouldn’t have a second to lose after I rushed back. Nor could I risk dropping them. As they were part of a personalized electronic locking system, the cops would track me down within hours.

  I glanced at the cameras in the corners. I could do nothing about them. I could console myself with the thought that the place was poorly lit. I wished I had remembered to take off the Lexus’s license plates before leaving the hospital, but it was too late now. When the cops went over the recordings they would be onto me; that was obvious. I could only hope they wouldn’t have time before the operation.

  I walked down the ramp that led from the top floor to minimize the risk of meeting somebody on the stairs. As I went along, the soles of my brand-new shoes made a squeaky sound on the concrete.

  HE’S COMING DOWN.

  GET READY.

  The text made me jump. I was wondering where in hell I could lie in wait for him without his seeing me. I had expected to have a few seconds more, but it was not to be.

  Hockstetter’s Porsche was next to a pillar that partially blocked the car’s right side. It was painted crimson, rust-stained and covered in metal pipes. The space between it and the wall lay in shadow, making it a great place to hide. But in that case the car would be in my way. To attack Hockstetter I would have to traipse around the beast and he would hear me coming, which would give him time to get in the car or run off.

  On the other side was a black Lincoln Navigator and very little space to hide in. The stairs were down at the end of the floor, on the side of the pillar, so I would have to choose one spot or the other.

  In the distance I could hear a ping, telling me the elevator had arrived.

  I ruled out the pillar. Too risky. I kneeled behind the Lincoln and realized too late that the ghastly fluorescent light behind me cast a shadow on the floor.

  I set my teeth and prayed Hockstetter would not notice. I could hear his steps approaching. He dragged one of his feet and the sound of his soles on the concrete got louder and louder. I wanted to sneak a look but knew that would give me away, for sure. My heart beat faster and I panted. I lowered my ski mask to cover my face. The wool trapped my hot breath and burned my skin.

  His footsteps rang out loud and clear, until they stopped dead. He was next to his car.

  Now, Dave. Up and at him.

  I went to stand up but couldn’t do it.

  My feet refused to move. I was rooted to the spot. Thus far I had done nothing irreparable, but this was too big for me. I had come to the point of no return.

  I tried again, as I heard him fiddle with the keys at the trunk. But I couldn’t do it. I was mortified.

  He turned off the car alarm with a beep and the door locks clicked open. He was going to get away. I was about to miss him, and with that the chance to save my daughter.

  Help me, Rachel. Help me.

  And so she did. She sent me a memory.

  I remembered that dinner.

  While I was making the macaroni, I told myself, over and over again, that I had to talk to Julia. To give her comfort and affection. When I was my daughter’s age, I got next to none of that, so I always made a point of kissing and hugging Julia as much as I could. I particularly liked lifting her up and carrying her all over the house while she hung on to my chest with her arms and l
egs like Velcro straps.

  “Stowaway on board!”

  The journey always ended up with the intruder thrown overboard and onto a soft landing—bed or sofa—by the swift expedient of squeezing the soft flesh on her tummy with both thumbs at once. She would have an attack of the giggles, loosen her grip and fall. That moment of weightlessness, eyes wide open, smiling from ear to ear; that was happiness.

  But after Rachel died, there was no horseplay or tickling, simply whispers laced with sadness. My wife had not left behind a gap; she had rent a yawning hole in our lives, and it was an especially hard one to fill. Julia didn’t quite get it yet. She had come to her mother’s funeral and kept hold of her grandmother’s hand the whole while. But when the reception was over, when the distant relatives had departed, when the neighbors were done snooping under the guise of offering food and condolences, when we were alone at last, Julia asked:

  “Will Mommy be home for dinner?”

  I left the dishes and went up to my little girl. A week had gone by since Rachel had passed away, and Julia hadn’t asked after her mother once. Now she was squatting on the living room floor, with a handful of dolls perfectly lined up in front of her.

  “Julia, sweetie, Mommy can’t be with us anymore.”

  She didn’t look up from the dolls.

  “Because she’s dead,” she said, using the word for the very first time. A drop of cold sweat rolled down my spine.

  “Yes, baby,” I forced myself to say.

  “You’re a very good doctor. Mommy told me so, she said you’re one of the best. Can’t you make her live again?”

  “No, Julia. I would love to. If there was the slightest way I could help her, I’d do it, but I can’t. Death cannot be undone.”

  She was quiet for a bit. She rearranged a couple of dolls and sank her head into her shoulders.

  “And will I die?”

  I had the entire range of aphorisms possible for such a question on the tip of my tongue, begging to be spoken out loud. Easy answers to complex questions. God only takes away good people. Mommy’s in a better place. Everything will be fine.