Every Man a Menace

by Patrick Hoffman

  “Absolutely,” said Semion.

  “But now you have all these problems.”

  Semion leaned back in his seat. He felt anger well up in his chest. “What problems do I have?” he asked.

  Mr. Hong pointed at Semion. His eyes became black and still. “You depressed,” he said. “Always depressed. You have an ugly thing inside you. Need help.”

  The music pounded steadily. Semion felt sweat on his forehead; he was thankful the lights would disguise his face reddening. The air smelled stale.

  “Anything else?” Semion finally asked.

  “Maybe you not cut out for this business,” Mr. Hong said.

  “Fine,” Semion said. “Maybe so. The answer is still no.”

  “Listen,” said Mr. Hong, changing tack. “I like you. Now I’m pleading with you as a friend, all right? If—listen to me. If you tell me no, I can’t promise you any—” He dropped his voice lower. “When my friends ask me to do something, I always try and make it happen. You understand? My friends need you. I’m asking you as a friend to do this.” His face looked affronted.

  Semion probed his teeth with his tongue. The music in the club boomed on and on, the same bass note.

  “Let me guess what you’re going to say,” he said. “Something about how maybe I can beat the case, but do I really want to risk that? Something about American news media loving stories about club owners who kill girls? Is that it? Is that what you’ve come to me with? Show me the pictures, then. Call the police. Lock me up.”

  “I’m sorry?” said Mr. Hong. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Semion looked at him. “The girl?” he said.

  Mr. Hong shook his head. He looked confused.

  Semion’s mouth became dry. He felt a new kind of fear sliding in.

  “It’s not you?” he asked. “You didn’t do this?”

  Mr. Hong reached over the table and grabbed Semion’s hand. “Semion,” he said. “It’s not me.” He squeezed the hand he held in his own. “Now tell me what is happening.”

  Semion had one short moment to decide whether to trust him. He took a deep breath. Then he told Mr. Hong what had happened with Vanya.

  The Chinese man bent his head forward and listened. Semion, every few words, would glance at his eyes to reassure himself that the man had told him the truth. When he got to the part about the blood on the bed, Mr. Hong’s eyes narrowed. At the end of the story he shook his head and said the whole thing was horrible.

  “These kind of problems don’t simply go away,” Mr. Hong said. “They become worse and worse. If you pay, they will come back and demand more. If you don’t pay, who knows what happens. I beg you, as friend, as partner—let us help you with this. We are equipped to deal with this kind of thing.” He stared at Semion in such a sympathetic way that Semion was forced to nod his head. “But if we help you with this, you take the ten times more, right?” Mr. Hong asked.

  Semion felt defeated. “Sure,” he said. “Yes.” He sighed.

  Mr. Hong reached across the table again. The men shook hands.

  Later, Semion found Isaak—looking sober and serious—in the corner of the club.

  “And?” his friend asked.

  “It wasn’t him,” said Semion.

  “I told you!”

  “I agreed to the ten times.”

  Isaak appeared to whistle, silently. “Whatever you want,” he said.

  Semion woke the next morning to the buzzing growl of his cell phone. He looked at the screen: Unknown Caller. The sun had only just risen.

  “Hello?” he said, sitting up in his bed.

  “Mr. Gurevich,” said the deep voice on the other end.

  “Yes?”

  “I own you,” said the voice.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You murdered her.”

  “I don’t—” said Semion.

  “I won’t talk to you on the phone.”

  “You called me,” said Semion.

  “Listen close. There is a fish stand located at 7900 Northwest Twenty-Seventh Avenue, in West Little River. Do you hear me? It’s called Pike’s. I need you to bring the money there in one hour. A quarter million, two fifty, all of it. There’s a table near the corner. You sit there and wait for me to call. No jokes, Mr. Gurevich. Come alone. You don’t want to make me mad. Now repeat the name of the place.”

  “Pike’s,” said Semion.

  “Where?”

  “West Little River.”

  “How much?”

  “Two fifty.”

  “Good.”

  The line went dead.

  Semion checked the time on his phone: 7:12 a.m. He walked to the kitchen and wrote: Pike’s, 7900 27 Ave, WLR.

  He called Isaak. No answer. Then he called Mr. Hong.

  “They’ve contacted me,” he said, when the man picked up.

  “And what did they say?”

  Semion told him everything.

  “He gave you an hour?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You have the money?”

  “At the club.”

  “Hold please,” said Mr. Hong. Semion heard typing. He pictured Mr. Hong peering at Google Maps.

  “Wait to leave your apartment for half an hour,” Mr. Hong said. “I’ll need time to get my men.”

  Semion stayed silent.

  “You hear me?” asked Mr. Hong. “You don’t want to arrive early.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Semion.

  “After thirty minutes, leave your apartment, drive to the club, get the money, put it in a bag, and drive to the location. We’ll be there. Don’t look for us. You won’t see us, but we’ll be there.”

  “And then?” asked Semion.

  “Give them the money. You’ll get it back.”

  Mr. Hong said he would call back in twenty minutes to confirm everything. Semion sat down in his kitchen, fully awake now. So, an end, he thought. He took a quick shower, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and went down and banged on Isaak’s door until it opened. Isaak listened and nodded as Semion filled him in. It had been twenty-two minutes since the first call.

  A few minutes later, his phone rang again. It was Mr. Hong.

  “Where are you?” the man asked.

  “I’m in Isaak’s apartment.”

  “Do you trust me?” asked Mr. Hong.

  The question made Semion feel nervous. He looked at Isaak, who was staring back at him.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Mr. Hong instructed Semion to take Isaak’s phone with him.

  “Use the Bluetooth,” he said. “Call me from it when you get to West Little River.” This way, he said, they could remain in contact throughout the exchange. Then he told Semion to make sure Isaak stayed away. “We will handle this,” he said.

  “A bump in the road,” said Isaak, when Semion had hung up again. “That’s all. Mr. Hong will fix it.”

  Mr. Hong will fix it. Mr. Hong will fix it. Mr. Hong will fix it. Semion couldn’t help repeating the phrase in his head as he drove. It was bright and sunny outside—a perfect Miami day. He turned his radio on, and then switched it off.

  Ground Zero was empty, dark, and stale smelling. After turning off the alarm and flipping on the lights, Semion hurried back to the office, unlocked the door, walked to the safe, and punched in the code. He took out the money they’d moved there the other day—twenty-five stacks, two hundred fifty thousand dollars. He counted it three times, to make sure. He’d had weekends that had cost more than this, he thought. So why get Mr. Hong involved? For the first time that morning, he felt genuine panic in his bones. Why hadn’t he taken care of this on his own?

  He rubbed his face with his hands and felt a keen desire to cry.

  He took I-95 north toward the meeting place. It would take him eleven minutes according to his phone. He checked his speed, checked his rearview mirror. Breathe, he told himself. Breathe and be centered. You’re in control.

  The address ended up being a strip mall. At one end
, in its own little island, was a McDonald’s. Beside it was a horseshoe of unhealthy palm trees. A row of depressing stores stood on the other side of the lot. Here? Semion thought. A wave of distaste billowed in his core. He rolled slowly through the lot until he saw Pike’s Fish Stand, a small restaurant at the southern end of the mall.

  He’d forgotten to call Mr. Hong, he realized. Before he shut his car off, he dug Isaak’s phone out of his pocket, synced up the Bluetooth, fit the piece in his ear, and dialed the man’s number. Mr. Hong picked up and, without waiting for Semion to speak, said that his men were in place. Semion scanned the area as best he could with his eyes, keeping his head still.

  “What will they want me to do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Hong. “Just wait for their call. Leave me on. I’ll listen to your end. Try to repeat what they say.”

  Semion shut the car off, grabbed the bag of money, and opened his door. It felt like an industrial heater was blowing at him from outside. He walked to the fish stand, carrying the bag in his right hand. There were four tables outside, all unoccupied. He figured that’s where they wanted him to sit. He headed inside first, and ordered a soda from an acne-faced Latino teenager. Then he sat down at one of the outside tables, looked at the lot, and waited.

  He wanted, suddenly, more than anything else, to sleep. He watched an SUV drive toward him, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. The SUV drove past and continued out of the lot.

  “I don’t see anything,” he said, trying not to move his lips as he spoke.

  “Just wait,” said Mr. Hong. “They want to see that you’re alone.”

  Semion waited. He watched a seagull fly over the parking lot, watched a man struggle to light a cigarette. The boy in the fish stand was staring at a television, his mouth hung slightly open. Semion’s phone shook in his pocket. He pulled it out. Unknown Caller. Sweat pushed out from every pore.

  “Yes?” said Semion.

  “The money is in your hand?” asked the deep voice.

  “Yes,” said Semion. And then, for Mr. Hong’s benefit, he added, “The money’s in my hand.”

  “Good,” said the voice.

  Semion’s mouth went dry. He sipped from his soda. He wasn’t a gangster, he realized. This wasn’t his role. He was a middleman. “Hello?” he said.

  “Wait,” said the deep voice.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

  The seconds ticked by. Semion watched an overweight woman emerge from one of the neighboring stores. He continued to watch as she made her way to her car, fastened her seat belt, and pulled away from her spot.

  “When the truck comes, walk to the passenger window and hand over the money,” said the deep voice.

  Semion, confused, watched the woman’s car as it exited the lot. He scanned the rest of the area. There was a truck rolling toward him now. It had been parked since he’d gotten there, he realized. It accelerated and pulled right in front of the fish stand, so that the passenger-side door was facing him. It was a new white pickup truck, raised up high in the American fashion. Semion rose from his seat and stared at it. The windows were tinted, but he could see the shape of two bodies inside.

  “Give him the money,” said the deep voice.

  “Okay,” said Semion. “No problem.”

  He walked toward the truck. The window slid down, and Semion ducked his head to look in. He was surprised to see two men wearing beige stockings over their faces. They looked like street robbers. They were big, fat, and appeared to be white. They wore faded T-shirts and had blurred tattoos on their arms. The one in the passenger seat raised his hand and pointed a gun at Semion’s head.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking the bag with his other hand. Once he’d brought it inside the truck he lowered the gun, and Semion stepped back. The truck moved forward, stopped for a moment, and then pulled away.

  “I gave him the money,” Semion said, staring after it.

  “Good,” said the deep voice. The line went dead. Semion lowered his phone, still watching the truck.

  “They took it,” he said, when it had pulled out of sight.

  “Good,” said Mr. Hong. “We’ll call you.” Then his line went dead, too.

  Two hours later, back in his apartment, Semion felt his phone ring.

  “We got them,” said Mr. Hong, when he picked up.

  “Who?”

  “The people who set you up,” said Mr. Hong. “Meet us at your club. I’ll show you.” He sounded almost jovial.

  Semion found them at the back entrance. There was a large black Suburban parked near the door; he parked next to it, and got out. It was 11:42 a.m. Nobody was around.

  The passenger door of the SUV opened, and Mr. Hong stepped out with a plastic smile on his face.

  “I told you,” he said to Semion.

  Four other Chinese men emerged from the car. Semion had never seen them before. He felt a fresh wave of fear. They smiled at Semion, gave little nods. They were dressed casually, in button-up shirts and pants. Semion’s eyes went back to Mr. Hong.

  “So,” the man said, pointing his thumb toward the back of the vehicle. “We have something for you.”

  He said something in Chinese. One of the men stepped toward the car’s back door. It struck Semion then that he didn’t know what he’d been expecting to see. Had he thought the bag of money would be sitting there? The two men from the pickup truck? The moment unfolded slowly. In the seconds that passed between Mr. Hong speaking and his partner opening the door, Semion managed a quick self-inventory: body hot, back aching, armpits wet, mouth dry. He breathed in, then exhaled. Control, he told himself.

  The man opened the door. On the floor of the car, silver duct tape over her mouth, was Vanya. Next to her was the canvas bag, presumably with Semion’s money in it.

  Semion stared. Their eyes locked for a moment. Competing emotions fought in his chest.

  “We got her for you,” said Mr. Hong. “You can do whatever you’d like.”

  Semion felt a wave of revulsion. He looked at Mr. Hong. The man’s smile faded. He raised his eyebrows and nodded toward the door of the club.

  “What about the men in the truck?” asked Semion.

  “They tried to put up a fight,” said Mr. Hong.

  Semion looked back at Vanya. She blinked her eyes three times, and instantly he understood what she was trying to express: I love you. She could explain, he knew. There had to be an explanation. He stepped forward and pulled the tape from her mouth.

  “Fuck you,” she said. “What, did you think you were going to save me?” She took a breath, prepared for more. “Did you think I loved you?” she asked, staring into his eyes. “Fucking worm.” The bloody bed came into Semion’s mind. Her accent was gone; she spoke like an American. She was an American. There was nothing Brazilian about her. He understood, only then, that she hated him. The star-shaped scar on her forehead felt like a reminder of all the ugliness in the world.

  “You can’t hurt me,” she said. “You’re too much of a coward.” The words were sharp, but there was a pleading quality to the way she spoke. “You don’t exist,” she said. “You’re nothing.”

  Semion forced himself to smile. It was a fake smile, an ugly rictus. His stomach filled with shame. He badly wanted to be done with this business. He wanted to hide in his bed.

  “Let her go,” he said.

  Mr. Hong put his hand on Semion’s shoulder. “We can take care of her,” he said. “Nobody will ever find her.”

  “No,” said Semion. “Let her go.” He felt like the parking lot was spinning.

  “It’s not the way we do things,” Mr. Hong said. “Loose ends.”

  “I’m telling you to let her go,” Semion said. “If you want us working with you, you’ll do it.”

  Without waiting for Mr. Hong’s reply, he leaned into the SUV to pull the tape from Vanya’s arms. His head was near her hair. Involuntarily, he smelled her familiar scent.

  “Turn around,” he said. Sh
e shifted in her seat, and Semion dug his fingers beneath the silver tape. She scooted away from him when he’d removed it, and rubbed her wrists against each other. She looked like a different person. Her face looked transformed.

  “Can I go?” she asked, looking at Mr. Hong.

  Mr. Hong—looking tired—held his palm toward Semion.

  “Go,” said Semion.

  She pushed herself out of the SUV and ran across the parking lot. She didn’t look back.

  Mr. Hong appeared to be embarrassed. Semion wanted to say something, but speaking seemed too difficult. He busied himself by scratching at his jaw like something was stuck on it, and squinting at the club like there was work waiting for him there.

  “Take your money,” Mr. Hong said.

  Semion fell into a depression after that. His days and nights were filled with a panicked feeling. Two days after freeing Vanya, unable to face seeing him in person, he called Isaak on the phone.

  “I’ve had a change of heart,” he said. “The deal is off.” He couldn’t allow them to continue to do business with Mr. Hong and his men, he said.

  Isaak didn’t argue. All he said was, “Whatever you want.”

  Semion’s eyes filled with tears. The gratitude he felt toward his friend was immeasurable. They would make it through this.

  He drank screwdrivers and watched TV. He ordered takeout and ate it joylessly. In an effort to curb his anxiety, he masturbated. He considered committing suicide, imagined the gun in his hand, the grip, the weight. He stood on his balcony and looked at the sea. He thought about what he’d tell Mr. Hong. I’m sorry. It’s time to part ways. Business is business.

  At night he dreamed about a jungle. In the dream he watched a skinny Asian man trap a turtle. The man kept poking at the thing with a stick. After a minute, the turtle snapped at the stick, and the man trapped its head and cut it off. Then he hung the thing upside down from a tree and let it bleed out. Semion kept asking him what he was doing, but the man wouldn’t answer. Semion watched as the man removed the shell, cutting off the bottom plate to reveal the pink insides. He cut off the legs and neck; he removed the skin and yellow fat. He put all the good meat into a pot and set it down on the ground. Semion woke up covered in sweat.