The Dewey Decimal System

by Nathan Larson

  “Anne,” I reply, “you know that if you attempt to shoot me, you’ll hit us both. Okay? So why don’t we all just relax, just walk it back, swap stories, and see if we can’t work this out.”

  “Take the shot,” repeats the hero.

  “Look now.” I stay focused on Anne. “We’re all a little worked up. These are crazy times. How about we both put down our guns and just have a talk. I bet you we can all be friends. I bet we’re all in the same gang. We can look back on this and laugh. Let’s put down the guns.”

  Anne is wavering.

  “Don’t do it, Anne, take the shot.”

  “Man, do you have some kind of death wish? What is your problem?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  I sigh. “Honestly, Anne, the chances of this ending badly are very, very high, unless we put down our guns. I even volunteer to go first. Okay? Here I go.”

  Twisting the guy’s arm even further—he grunts but isn’t going to give me the satisfaction of a more amplified display of pain—I force him to crouch down with me. I place the gun on the carpet. We come back to a standing position together; I feel like we’re in some kind of modern dance class.

  “See? Your turn.”

  Anne directs her gun at my head with renewed vigor and I see her trigger finger spasm. So I push her companion at her with all the strength I can generate. They collide, and are knocked to the ground. Her gun goes off, boom! Somebody hits their head on the flimsy partition that separates the cubicles, and that comes down as well, kicking up lots of paper.

  I pull out the Sig Sauer and train it on them. They’re unhurt as far I can tell, and the guy, who has Japanese features, is looking both embarrassed and furious. He’s checking himself.

  “Jesus, did I get hit? Am I hit?”

  Anne seems stunned.

  “Everybody okay?” I say.

  “We’re federal agents,” says the Japanese-looking guy, flushed, in total disbelief, I imagine, at how wrong this scene has gone for them. “You’re in enough trouble already.”

  “Uh-huh. Let me see your IDs.”

  “We’re not giving you anything. Drop the gun,” snaps the guy.

  I’m getting annoyed. “Friend,” I say, “you aren’t in a particularly good position to tell me what or what not to do. Plus I don’t like your tone. So just do like I say and let’s see some IDs.”

  Anne, who is still holding her gun but seems to have forgotten about it, tosses me her laminate. Her nose is bleeding.

  “Goddamnit, Anne. What are you doing?”

  “I’m taking initiative, so just shut it, Mike,” she says. He shuts it.

  The laminate reads: Annette Jaspreet, FBI.

  “FBI? Really?”

  “Yeah. Federal agents, like we said,” Anne responds. She’s pulling herself together. “We’re going to stand up now, okay?”

  “By all means, just do it slowly.”

  They get up off the floor, carefully. Mike is nursing his arm. I toss them my ID. The guy scrambles for it, scrutinizes it.

  “Dewey Decimal? Is that a joke?”

  I shake my head.

  “And you work for the city. Which means we outrank you here.”

  “Sure,” I say, smiling, “that’s fine. I don’t have an ego about it. Are you going to bust me for B&E, Mike and Anne of the FBI?”

  “Explain your presence in this office,” says Mike.

  “Okay. I was assaulted last night by three men, all of whom seem to have been employed by this company. I came down here to determine its relevance to my current assignment.”

  “Which is?” Anne takes my ID, studies it.

  “Classified. A city matter.” I smile at the two of them.

  “Classified? The fuck? Can he do that?” Mike looks to Anne. “I don’t think he can do that.”

  “Just a minute,” Anne says irritably. She’s keying my info into a palm-type device.

  We wait. Touch the key. Tap the briefcase, the rosewood box within. A human hand, an Orthodox cross. I can feel my synapses firing, making connections I can’t yet articulate.

  Mike fumes. “You can’t do that. We’re FBI, we’re not freakin townies. Local stuff can’t possibly be kept classified from the Bureau …”

  I shrug. Anne shows the handheld to Mike.

  “It just says transmitting.”

  “That means it’s uploading the information, it’s slow, Jesus, give it a minute.” She dabs the sleeve of her white blouse against her nose, peers at the blood. “Oh, okay, here it is.” She’s reading something. Then she tosses back my ID.

  “All right, Mr. Decimal. Friends in high places. You have the get-out-of-jail-free card. Congratulations.”

  I hand Anne her ID.

  “Thanks.”

  Mike is dumbfounded. “This man accosted me.”

  “I apologize for that, my mellow. I really do. I assumed you were from the same crew I dealt with last night.”

  Anne is considering something. “Look, do you mind if ask you a few questions? Just informally?”

  “Why are you deferring to this guy?” says Mike, and Anne silences him with a look.

  I clear my throat. “I’m not compelled to answer your questions. But perhaps we can help each other out on a couple fronts. Are you open to that?”

  The two exchange glances.

  Hoofing it across town, making all the necessary pre– eleven a.m. lefts.

  The two feds admitted they were both kind of new. This I could have told them. The FBI being extremely shorthanded and operating, this year, without a budget, there are a lot of fresh faces.

  They made me “promise” I wasn’t an assassin or anything like that. Gosh golly wow! I assured the kids I was certainly nothing of the kind. They seemed satisfied with that. Mouseketeer time. Amazing.

  Regardless: they didn’t seem overly pleased with their current assignment, for many reasons.

  I finally dragged it all out of them. “You don’t have to actually say it. Just say nothing if I’ve got it right.” That kind of psychology.

  The job had been handed down from Interpol. In essence, seeking two war criminals. Thus far, the Bureau has succeeded only in getting a line on one of the two, that they are aware of. Through “local sources” suspicion was thrown here. So the scouts set out to observe the contracting firm Do Rite, and in particular determine if its owner, one Brian Petrovic, is in fact Serbian war criminal Branko Jokanovic. If so, they are to take him into custody and prepare him for extradition to the international court in The Hague, Netherlands. Ditto number two, should they ever get a line on said person.

  All this, they were just jawing, telling me this stuff right there on the street. Flushed and excited about all the cloak-and-dagger, secret-agent shit.

  Fuck’s sake, I could be anybody. Really, is this our best and brightest? If so, my friends, we might as well just stick a fork in it, cause we’re pretty well done. I should be working for the Chinese. Something to chew on.

  Wondering if there isn’t another reason they’d be so quick to feed me this information.

  I’m moving. If my memory serves, I’m headed to West 26th Street, just off of Sixth Avenue. The sky is bruise colored, clouds herding together, making the heat no less oppressive. I hobble forth, fingering the key in my pocket.

  Brian Petrovic, a Serbian national (according to his papers, which had been determined by FBI experts to be of “dubious origin”), aged fifty-eight, who immigrated in 1995 (though all these facts are in dispute), lived with a relative in the Philadelphia area until 2002, at which point he moved to New York and incorporated Do Rite. The firm’s projects had at first been restricted to the Williamsburg/Greenpoint areas of Brooklyn, as the housing boom out there went into overdrive. Later, Do Rite was involved with the construction of the New Museum for Contemporary Art in Manhattan, as well as numerous residential high-rises. Currently, their biggest job is the Freedom Tower, at which they deal primarily with issues of insulation and construction of the necessary metal s
tuds.

  My FBI friends had numerous issues with their job, as mentioned, the first of which being that the subject is so goddamn boring. They have a running wiretap in his office, yielding nothing so far. They tossed his home and workplace twice, finding little of interest. A Bureau linguist is in the process of translating all of the man’s work-related and personal documents, and after two months has come up with nothing to indicate he isn’t exactly who he claims to be.

  His movements are maddeningly predictable. They would not give me a specific address, but said he only ever moves between his home in Greenpoint to the office, then back again. Exceptions to this being his unflagging attendance of church services. Again, they would not tell me where. Clever clever.

  But that’s everything I needed to hear.

  Gave the two all of my information, such as it was, and the DA’s number. They seemed a spouting fount of intel, would have been a shame to not mine them for all they were worth.

  I then split quick. But not too quick. Didn’t want to look like I had a destination in mind.

  Got no idea as to the schedule at the Cathedral of Saint Sava, or if it’s still in operation at all, but I’m pretty damn sure it’s the only Serbian Orthodox facility in New York City. This being a Sunday, I reckon they’ll be open for business.

  I check the clock on the old Con Edison building, which is still going strong, good old American engineering: coming up on ten a.m.

  Saint Sava is very impressive, a proper cathedral in the English Gothic style, out of context in a rather industrial/commercial neighborhood. I know little of its history, except that it was initially an Episcopalian church and designed by the guy who built the Trinity Church downtown.

  I guess that’s more than most New Yorkers would know. Like I said, I read a lot.

  Up the stairs, the heavy doors are braced open slightly. I nudge them back, register that a service is in progress, and slip inside.

  A gorgeous place, really. Even for a heathen like me. I feel that calm, that sense of space. I slide into the furthest pew back. Yeah, it’s a beautiful room. A series of teardrop-shaped stained-glass windows make up a sunflower-like form high above the altar. Guy in black is droning on. I smell frankincense. Almost masks the allpervasive plastic odor. Almost.

  Now where the fuck do you get frankincense in this town? Guess there’s a black market for everything.

  There’s maybe ten people scattered about the place. That strikes me as pretty strong attendance, given the population. I have no way of knowing if “Brian Petrovic” is present, but I can eliminate the old ladies, of which there are four.

  Here. I zoom in on a pair of neckless dudes—black suits, hair closely cropped … A row in front of them I notice the back of another man’s head, similar haircut, slouching forward now as everybody moves to a kneel. I do likewise, keeping my eye on the guy, ignoring the twinge in my knee.

  He looks pretty engaged. There’s some chanty stuff which I don’t follow, a call-and-response deal.

  People sit down again. Can’t get a good look at the guy. One of the neckless fellows seems antsy. He’s glancing around the place, leans over and says something to the other, who elbows him. Yeah: pretty sure those are the muscle. Which makes the guy in front of them a very likely candidate.

  I take this opportunity to check for my key and pop a pill; note that it’s my second-to-last. Gotta get this whole scene sorted out quick, run kill Yakiv, and head back to the DA for a refill. Can’t forget. Scrub up with some PurellTM. I don’t like having to sit on public seating, especially if it’s wood. Absorbs the bacteria.

  Yakity-yak, the man in black. Is Serbia even a place anymore? I’m fading, drifting off … jerk myself back to the moment. Think I fell asleep. I have to stay present.

  Soon enough the preacher seems to be wrapping it up. We do some sort of group prayer, heads up, heads down, and then it’s over. The priest disappears and folks are getting up to leave.

  I stay seated, with my head slightly bowed like I’m still super into it. A couple of impossibly old ladies move past, slow as glaciers. Wait, here comes my mark, followed closely by the two big guys.

  Looks older, more frail than I’d anticipated, late fifties, gray-white hair closely cropped, wearing a bananayellow Puma tracksuit and loafers. Glasses, behind which are sad eyes.

  One of the big guys double-takes me. The fuck? But they lumber on.

  I let them pass on by, count to five, then pull myself from the pew.

  Outside it’s begun raining. The trio has paused in the entryway and one of the heavies is fumbling with an umbrella. The older man snatches it out of his hands and pops it open.

  I close the distance a bit, the old man walking ahead, the fellows a few paces behind.

  Wait until I’ve exited the church.

  At the top of the stairs, what the hell. I say: “Branko Jokanovic.”

  A strange thing happens. The old guy keeps walking, so I have a split second in which I assume I’ve been mistaken. But the heavies turn and make a lunge for me. I step back to avoid them and trip on one of the stairs, go tumbling into another older lady as she exits the church. All four of us wind up in a pile. Lady commences shrieking.

  I roll sideways off the woman, and the men are at once shushing her, and assisting her to her feet like gentlemen.

  I could do any number of things. The older man hasn’t even turned, he’s heading toward a parked Navigator. Hold up. A Navi. I must have walked right past it. Dumb-ass. Smoke-tinted windows? Check.

  But now the guys have the lady standing, dusting her off, they’re apologizing profusely, she gives me a hateful glance and begins to move off down the stairs. The men turn their attention back to me.

  I go into a fighting position and get ready for whatever’s next. The guys look like they’re about to rush me, when there’s a single-syllable command barked at them. My brain doesn’t decode it for some reason. But they freeze.

  The old man is standing with the Navigator’s door open. He speaks in Serbian, quieter this time, something like, “No, no, bring him over to the car …” And then in English, “Not here. Come.” Indicates the vehicle.

  The boys grab me, an arm each, and I’m pretty much carried down the stairs. Catch a look at the plates. Uhhuh, you got it. Diplomatic.

  The big boys deposit my sack of bones in the backseat. Hands grope my pockets, under my jacket, get a grip on my guns, shit, my briefcase is being pulled away, they’re going to just grab it—

  “Wait a moment,” says the main man, in Serbian. “Let him hang on to his belongings.” Big guys start to protest, to which Branko adds, “Shut up. Sometimes a subtler approach is needed. Catch more flies with honey. Gentlemen, please.”

  They unhand me, leave me sitting upright. I brush myself off, looking for stains. Think I’m clean.

  “Slide over,” says the old dude, in English.

  I do and he gets in next to me, keeping his gaze straight ahead.

  The big boys haul themselves in up front. There’s a brief conversation, and the driver takes his hand off the ignition key.

  We sit in silence for the moment, the rain knocking at the windshield. The man reaches in front of him, a gold and black tissue dispenser. He pulls out three or four Kleenex. Hands them to me. “Your ear. It is bleeding.”

  God do I hate to take those tissues, but I do it, and I press them to my ear. “Yeah, thanks.”

  “So. You’re welcome,” says the old man. “I do not want to get off on the wrong foot. So. You can see, I give you the courtesy of retaining to your personal items. Be aware that my men have weapons too, and would cause you very much harm should you attempt anything impolite.”

  I nod. “Right. I understand. Appreciate the gesture.”

  There’s another period of silence. The man closes his eyes. Just when I’m positive he’s asleep, he speaks.

  “Whom were you addressing when you called this name.”

  “I was addressing you.”

  “Ah. So,
so. Well, you must have me mistaken for someone else. I am Brian Petrovic.”

  He extends his hand. I shake it and say: “Uh-huh. In that case, it’s odd, how your men responded. Don’t you think?”

  He puts his tongue in his cheek as if trying to dislodge some food. The guys up front are sitting stiffly, face forward.

  “Can I pose a question?” Nobody responds, so I soldier on. “How long have you guys been on my tail?”

  Nothing.

  Brian takes a deep breath and removes his glasses. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “Still,” he says, ignoring my question. “You are in error, concerning my name. So.”

  “All right. But you are the owner of the contracting firm Do Rite?”

  “That’s correct.”

  There’s another period of quiet. Then, “Goran and the others,” says the man, “I am guessing you saw them.”

  “Yup.”

  “So, so.” He licks his lips. “I get an idea now of who you are, sir.”

  “Right. And I have a sense as to who you are, as well.”

  “As I just said, my name is Brian Petrovic. And you are the Negro with the interesting name, Dewer …”

  “Dewey. Dewey Decimal.”

  “Yes, I see.” He looks out the window. “So. Is it offensive, this word Negro?”

  “That depends. In general I would say more obsolete than offensive. But it usually winds up sounding offensive, yeah.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “That’s good. Brian, why did you send armed thugs up to my house?”

  “Thugs, well, I don’t think—”

  “Well, the fact is, I came home to three guys with guns waiting to jump me.”

  “Do. Not. Interrupt. Me. I was explaining,” says the older man, slowly.

  Another pause. I’m wondering if this guy had a stroke or something.

  Again he licks his lips. “So, so. I am looking for a woman.”

  “Aren’t we all.”

  “You know what I mean. This woman was in your company when she disappeared. So. I am thinking you must have some idea where she goes.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The man looks me straight in the face. “Oh, I think you do. Hmm?”