Every Man a Menace

by Patrick Hoffman

  They spoke with their eyes for a second, but then Isaak seemed to lose faith. “Semion has lost his shit,” he said.

  Semion, thought Moisey. Fuck Semion. He stared up at Isaak, wondered for a moment whether he was capable of orchestrating this whole thing. Anything was possible. “How long has he been with this girl?” he asked.

  “Not long. Less than a month.”

  “So, if not us—” He studied Isaak’s face for signs, didn’t see any. “If not us, if not Hong, then …”

  “An opportunist.”

  “A well-timed opportunist.”

  “Shit,” said Isaak.

  “A typhoon and an earthquake in the same week,” said Moisey. Nana’s story about Cambodian tree spirits passed through his mind. Maybe they really had been cursed. “Shit in hell,” he said.

  They called Mr. Hong’s driver and told them they had to see the man—that an emergency had come up. Mr. Hong arrived at Moisey’s motel an hour later.

  He came in alone. The scent of expensive cologne followed him in. Isaak told him what they knew, and Mr. Hong, looking either furious or scared, sat on a chair shaking his head. Neither of them asked whether he had anything to do with it. What was he going to say, after all?

  It was Mr. Hong who broke the silence. “Women here in Miami, they can be very manipulative,” he said.

  “So what do we do?” Isaak asked.

  Mr. Hong dropped his voice to a whisper. “Friends, you don’t want the Burmese to know how vulnerable you are. Please help me do my job. Get this new deal done, and we help you with everything else.”

  He was pleading with them, Moisey realized.

  “Find your friend,” Mr. Hong went on. “Mr. Semion. Tell him I’m looking for him. Tell him to come to the club tomorrow night. I will make him an offer. I’ll tell him the Burmese insist. I tell him we help him with all this bad stuff. Maybe all this trouble ends up being good thing for us.” He pointed at Moisey. “Maybe it makes Semion become more gentle.”

  He rose from his chair, brushing imaginary crumbs from the front of his pants, and shook hands with both of them. “We get through all this bad time together,” he said. “Ten times more, you make ten time more profit. Not so horrible. Money make all the problems go away. It make us smile.” Then he left.

  “You know what would make Semion smile?” Isaak asked, when they were alone again.

  Moisey shook his head.

  “Molly,” he said. “Molly, Molly, Molly.” He motioned like a man sipping tea. “That would turn him into a regular fucking puppy dog. Him and Mr. Hong will be giving each other massages. Fucking hugging. Saying, I love you. I love you.”

  Moisey spent his time alone after that. The only occasion for leaving the motel was when he went to eat twice a day, and then he’d just drive down the road to a restaurant near the airport. Semion would never think of going to a place like that.

  American waitresses served him french fries and hamburgers. He drank Diet Coke out of large red plastic cups. He watched sports on the television. He daydreamed about fucking the Latino busboys.

  One waitress, a plump woman in her fifties, asked him if he was Italian.

  “I’m from Israel,” he said.

  “I’m Jewish!” she replied, smiling.

  “I know. I can tell, because your name is Hannah,” he said, pointing at her nametag. Do you want to fuck? he wanted to ask, but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned out of his seat and stared at her backside when she went to get him more Coke.

  He felt like a refugee. At least in Thailand he knew where he stood. Here, what was he? A man who waited in a room. A fearful, quiet, tired man.

  Late that night, after he’d spoken to the waitress, he got a call from Isaak.

  “It happened.”

  “What?”

  “They met.”

  The muffled sound of dance music came through the phone.

  “And?”

  “Semion left.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Didn’t. Come here, Misha.” Isaak, for no known reason, used to call him that.

  “Where?”

  “To the club.”

  “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

  “I’ll tell you something,” said Isaak. “No bullshit, everything’s going to turn out fine. I know this because—well, because I know it.” Questionable logic, thought Moisey.

  “Don’t argue with me,” Isaak went on. “I’m smarter than Semion. Smarter than Mr. Hong. Smarter than these Burmese bastards. You know it, right?”

  “Sure,” said Moisey, but he didn’t feel at all reassured. “Call me tomorrow.”

  “I love you,” said Isaak. “Love you, love you, love you.”

  The next day, unable to spend another moment in the motel, Moisey got in his rental car and headed north, toward Fort Lauderdale. Halfway there, his phone lit up. Isaak, sober now, sounding depressed, told him that Semion had become convinced Mr. Hong was behind everything.

  “Maybe he is,” said Moisey.

  “No, no, no. Not Hong. Trust me, this is amateur shit. They called him—didn’t I tell you that? They called Semion and asked for two hundred fifty thousand dollars. They think we’re fucking club owners. I told Semion, ‘I’ll fucking pawn a watch for you, man.’ It’s bullshit. I said, ‘We’ll pay, no problem. Fix it; it’s done.’ I could fucking kill him.”

  “I have to call you back,” Moisey said. He didn’t want to listen anymore.

  He drove past a harbor filled with white sailboats, surrounded by green trees and black water. The reality I know is the one I see, he thought. I’m in a car, on a freeway. I can see blue sky. I can feel the steering wheel in my hand. The only thing I can control is the present moment, and right now, in this present moment, I am not in trouble. Fucking hell. Breathe.

  A memory from when they were fifteen, or sixteen: Isaak, standing in the doorway of his house, berating him. None of my friends like you. They all say you don’t know how to have fun. You never have anything nice to say. You’re not helpful. You piss everyone off, and nobody wants to hang out with you. Moisey had walked all the way home, thinking: I’m fucked. My parents are fucked. The world is fucked.

  He didn’t hear anything over the next few days. Apparently, he’d been taken out of the loop. He continued his television watching, his morning calisthenics, his beer drinking, his drives around Miami. Occasionally a foreign kind of optimism made advances on his mood. Maybe Semion would come around. They could deal with his little bribery problem. They’d get through it. And then, when it was done, he could make an exit plan. Start a new life. Move back to Israel, turn himself into an actor. His face—rough with years of hard living—looked authentically criminal. He could get the parts. He could write a memoir. Write a thriller. Screenplays. He could bartend. A simple life. A chef, if not an actor. Thai food. A falafel house in Vancouver.

  His phone rang.

  “I need you to come to my apartment,” Isaak said.

  “I can’t do that,” Moisey said. “What if I run into Semion?”

  “You won’t. Take a taxi. Come now. The doorman knows you’re coming.”

  Numbly, he took a taxi to Isaak’s. He imagined meeting Semion in the lobby. Hello, friend! Just passing through town. The driver listened to talk radio, but Moisey caught only every third word: Agenda … spending … downward spiral. The muscles in his shoulders felt like steel ribbons.

  They pulled into a roundabout in front of a large white tower. Moisey had never seen the building before; he sat staring up at it for a moment, and then paid the driver with cash. Inside, a tired-looking young Cuban man in a khaki suit sat behind the front desk. He called up to Isaak’s apartment and announced his guest.

  “Take the elevator to twenty-eight,” the man said, when he’d hung up the phone. “Mr. Raskin is number twenty-eight fourteen.”

  The fear in Moisey’s stomach increased with each passing floor. He had no idea what was waiting for him. Perhaps his partners would greet him with
champagne. We did it! We’re done! Ten times more money! Ten times more fun! Maybe they’d go out to one of their clubs and celebrate.

  The building was silent. He walked down a clean, carpeted hallway and rang the bell on Isaak’s door.

  Isaak’s clothes, when the door swung open, registered in Moisey’s mind as an expensive beige and pastel blur. He tried to read his friend’s face, but it was blank—weary around the eyes, maybe, but free of any other emotions. Moisey stepped into the living room—brightly lit by the sun—and felt immediate disappointment upon seeing Mr. Hong and three other Chinese men sitting there.

  “Misha,” whispered Isaak. “Sit down. Would you like a drink?”

  He did want a drink, but he shook his head. He noticed himself sniffing repeatedly—something he did when he was nervous—and tried to stop. He looked at the four Chinese men, one by one, and then at his friend.

  “Over the years,” began Isaak, “Semion has proven to be a difficult partner. You know this. He’s become stubborn. Intractable. His Russianness—it’s real, you know, he’s thoroughly fucking Russian. He’s really fucked everything up for us.”

  “Did you pay them?” asked Moisey, trying to steer the conversation in another direction.

  A look of annoyance flashed across his friend’s face. He waved his hand—a stupid question. “Yes, they’ve been dealt with,” he said. “But we have other problems now. I mean, fuck, Misha, you’ve brought bad luck with you like a fucking bedouin. Semion has decided he’s going to discontinue our relationship with—” He gestured at Mr. Hong. “With them. He’s done, he says. He’s all decided. It’s over.”

  Moisey felt his eyes squint. He didn’t understand why they were having this conversation in front of Mr. Hong.

  “Listen to me, Misha,” said Isaak, speaking gently. “There are certain things you can’t do. We had a deal. Semion made a deal. He promised, if Mr. Hong helped him with his little fucking problem—a problem, I remind you, he brought on himself. And Mr. Hong helped, all right? He took care of it.” He dropped his voice and switched to Hebrew: “They fucking killed them, you know that?” He went on in English: “You can’t promise things in this world and then change your mind on some whim. You know? Bad for business. It puts us all in danger. Throws the world into chaos.”

  Moisey felt lightheaded. “So give him time,” he said in Hebrew.

  “We’ve run out of time.”

  “What are you talking about?” Moisey asked, switching back to English.

  “Certain lines cannot be crossed,” said Isaak.

  “So we’ll convince him,” Moisey said, aware of the desperation coloring his voice. He sniffed again. “You’ll go and convince him. We’ll go together.”

  “Not the issue.”

  “Then what?”

  “Semion needs to go,” Isaak said.

  “Killed?” Moisey asked, in Hebrew again.

  Isaak nodded. The Chinese men were staring at them. One of them, the driver from the other day, chewed on his gum as though milking it for lost flavor.

  “You can’t let them do this,” Moisey said in Hebrew. “You’re talking like a fucking monster.”

  “No more Hebrew, man,” Isaak said. “Please, it’s rude.”

  “So what? You’re going to let them go and kill him?”

  “Not them.”

  “You?” Moisey asked.

  “No.” Isaak shook his head.

  Moisey imagined locking himself in the bathroom, sending a text message to Semion: Run, right now. Run for your life. These men have lost their fucking minds. But he didn’t even have the man’s phone number. And then reality clicked together.

  “Me?” he asked.

  “It’s the only way,” said Isaak.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “If you don’t do it, Mr. Hong has to clean up everything. You understand me? Everything.”

  Moisey wanted to slap his friend’s face. Choke him. Beat him senseless. The man’s flat affect was unbearable. He looked at Mr. Hong, who stared back at him. He could feel the other men staring, too. He could feel everyone in the room breathing in and out.

  “No, no, no, fucking no, no, no, no,” he said.

  “We’re not asking.”

  “You’ve lost your fucking mind,” said Moisey, switching back to Hebrew. “You need to tell these men to leave, and we need to find new partners. You need to do it right now. This has become fucking crazy. You understand? It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. It’s business. Mistakes happen every day, but these men are going to wait. Every time we screw up one little tiny thing, they are going to move in and take another fucking piece. You understand?”

  “No, Misha,” Isaak said. “If you don’t take care of this—today, right now—these men are going to kill me. Okay?” Isaak’s eyes filled with tears, but Moisey knew from past experience that his friend could do this at will.

  “What do you think we’re sitting in here for?” he went on. “You think I invited them up so we could all have a nice little meeting together? Misha, stupid, they have guns. They are going to use them.”

  “You lying piece of shit,” said Moisey in English. He turned to Mr. Hong. “Why me? Why don’t you go and fucking kill him?”

  Mr. Hong regarded him with apparent sympathy.

  “We have two options,” said Isaak, gesturing for Moisey’s attention. “We can say no to these men and get killed right now. Have our bodies dumped in the middle of the fucking ocean. Or you can do this, take care of our problem, help me show them that you are loyal, that I am loyal, that we can both be trusted. That we can all continue doing work together. I’m fucking begging you, man. You want me to get on my knees? You do it and we move you here; you take Semion’s place. My second in command. We reorganize, send someone out to replace you. Continue living, breathing. You fucked up, all right? Not that bad, but you fucked up. Semion, on the other hand, has declared war.”

  “Is what he’s saying true?” asked Moisey, directing his question to Mr. Hong.

  “Everything he says is true,” Mr. Hong said.

  You’re both lying, thought Moisey. It’s ludicrous. That phone call I made doesn’t matter. Semion changing his mind doesn’t matter. None of it matters. He looked at Isaak. It’s you, he thought. It’s all you. Mr. Hong’s posture, the way he held himself, none of it looked like a man making commands. No, this was clearly Isaak’s plan.

  Moisey put his head down. He almost had to laugh. There could have never been any other outcome, ever since Isaak had called out to him as a boy. Beggar, which way to the beach? All the way here, to this fucking apartment. Fine, he thought. Fuck it.

  “Give me the gun,” he said. “And give me a drink. Whiskey, ice. Give me the gun and let’s get this fucking thing over with.”

  Mr. Hong said something to one of his men, who leaned forward and opened a small gym bag that sat at his feet. Moisey hadn’t even noticed it. The man dug something out and brought it to Moisey: a neatly tied bundle, like something from a damn picnic. It was heavier than it looked. Moisey set it on his lap and unwrapped it. Inside was a Glock 23 and a suppressor. He lifted the gun, pulled the slide, found a bullet chambered, popped the clip, and confirmed that it was fully loaded. His heart punched away in his chest like a scared rabbit. Fourteen bullets. He could kill them all right now.

  His mind pushed the idea out like bitter poison. He was a coward. No, instead, he would go up there, knock on Semion’s door, and tell him he had to leave, right then, that Isaak and Mr. Hong had ordered it. No time to pack, go right now, run for your fucking life. And then he’d leave, too.

  Isaak brought him the whiskey. The tumbler—heavy, wet on the outside—was filled nearly to the top with ice and gold liquor. It spilled onto Moisey’s hand when he took it. He looked at Isaak, nodded, then held the glass up to the other men and drank. Two of the Chinese men began speaking quietly to each other. Each of us in our own private hell, thought Moisey. Isaak and Mr. Hong looked equally wan
.

  He looked up from his drink and realized that everyone was waiting for him. The glass was half empty now. He sipped again. Mr. Hong took his phone out and began checking messages. Three-quarters gone. He wished he had more. I’ll tell him to run.

  “There are cameras in the hallway,” said Isaak. “You have to get into his place before you pull the thing. After that, we’ll come up. Get his body out. In five days I’ll buy him a plane ticket from his computer, on his credit card. I have a man who will fly under his name, using his passport. They look like fucking brothers. He’ll go to Brazil. He’ll send e-mails to me from Semion’s account, say, Man, fuck you’re missing a great time here. Come meet me. He’ll use his credit cards, and then he’ll disappear. I’ll report him missing after that. A simple missing-person report. They won’t even begin to look. Nobody will miss him.”

  You planned everything out, you sick fucking bastard, thought Moisey. He sipped the last of his drink, swirled the ice in hopes of making more liquid appear, and then set the glass down on the table. I’ll tell him he has thirty seconds to leave. He screwed the suppressor on to the gun. His stomach was warm from the whiskey.

  “After some amount of time,” continued Isaak, “as his business partner, I’ll be able to collect some of his assets. The house, the car, I don’t know. It’s all probate shit. I’ll have to check with my lawyer. We’ll split it, of course, you and me.”

  Moisey nodded.

  “Hold on,” his friend said. He left the room and returned a minute later with two large suitcases. “Carry these. It will make you appear more appropriate.”

  Moisey stared at the bags. Absurd, absolutely absurd. He stood on rubbery knees, sniffed, and walked toward Isaak. They were fancy roller cases, the kind that could move on four wheels in any direction.

  “Maybe two is too many?” he said. “I need a free hand, you know?”

  “Yeah, right, sure,” said Isaak. “Take one, roll it, let him see it. We’ll bring the other up. We need something to carry him out.”