by Jacob Ganani
Theirs was not a business association in which disputes were settled through the courts. The world of organized crime had its own laws - laws that determined that justice sided with the strong. The strongest party was the accuser, the judge and the executioner. It was Sexta who’d decided their agreement would never expire, setting a one-sided contract that imprisoned him as long as Sexta had need of him. His debt, however, could not be denied - a completely legal debt, even though it came into being through illegal gambling. Any arbitrator in the crime world would order him to pay his debt immediately before even hearing his arguments. Only arbitration was not an option now. He must negotiate a new deal on his own terms!
He rose from a sofa that had seen better days, went to the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. He needed another dose of caffeine to keep him sharp. How long did he have until someone came knocking? Forty-eight hours? Maybe seventy-two? And when the time was up, they’d find him. Two soldiers, maybe three, a delegation with a message. A delegation sent to explain that they were through playing games. They’d present their demands and require an immediate response. Negotiation would not be an option. If he didn’t agree to their demands, his entire debt would be called in for immediate repayment. He knew how things would go down. He’d be given two or three days to repay everything, plus an exorbitant amount of interest. And if he didn’t comply? It wasn’t hard to guess...
The electric kettle emitted a thick cloud of steam and shut off. He poured some water into a coffee cup and his eyes met the thick layers of dust accumulating on the shelves, the yellowish grease stains on the kitchen cabinet doors, and the cracks in the countertop filled with veins of black grout - a reflection of his miserable existence. He stirred the coffee carefully and steadily, taking his time. They could all go fuck themselves… this was his time. His turn had come! Their agreement was no longer valid. He’d require significantly higher compensation in return for the profits he’d brought them. If they wouldn’t agree, they’d get nothing. He’d be firm and intimidating. A timid approach wouldn’t serve his purpose.
Their upcoming encounter would border on violence and may even result in actual physical harm. He must anticipate this. They’d be expecting a gun, since guns and cops go hand in hand. But they’d only be expecting one gun...
He headed toward the bookshelves that lined one wall of his living room. There were dozens of old books, most of them worn and crumbling, inherited from his parents who had long since departed. He’d planned to get rid of them long ago, but never found the strength to sever himself from these last tokens of early childhood, the happiest time of his life. It seemed as if an eternity has passed since those times.
He removed three volumes of a now obsolete encyclopedia and pulled out his secret .38 caliber automatic with two loaded clips. The unregistered gun could never be traced back to him. He held it, feeling its extraordinarily balanced weight in his hand, and it made him feel good. The blue steel, so precisely designed, wasn’t just an inanimate object, but an entity with its own personality and history, a secret history that, if ever revealed, would cause quite a stir in certain circles. He sat down at the table and skillfully disarmed the gun, carefully checking that all its parts were still spotless since the thorough cleaning he had given them after Pini Levy’s murder. He greased them lightly, reassembled the gun and loaded it. He attached a holster to his inner left calf, just above his shoe, and placed the gun inside, drawing it quickly several times to ensure it didn’t snag. Satisfied, he positioned the holster and pulled his pants leg over it. Now, his gun was concealed and would remain so until needed.
He turned on the TV and flipped through several channels. The usual stale news programs pushed out their tiresome reports. He switched it off in disgust.
The clock indicated it was several minutes past eight. It was Thursday, game night. Except that, tonight, he wasn’t invited. He told himself to look at the glass half full. On Thursday, they’d be too busy to pay him a visit. A slight consolation.
He changed from a pale shirt into a dark one. With time on his hands, he figured it’d be wise to gather some intel on the other side. He decided to do some undercover investigation at the club, which could prove useful in the future. He opened a drawer and pulled out his camera and then paused to check if he’d forgotten anything. Nothing came to mind.
He sat down to finish his coffee.
A few minutes later, he picked up his car keys from the table and stepped out to the elevator that led to his apartment’s underground parking lot.
***
The hand on his shoulder as he leaned down to open the car door was the last thing he expected. Just a second ago, he could have sworn there was no other living soul around, but the hand was as real as the person it belonged to. He began to turn around and managed to catch a glimpse of a quick blurry movement as something rock-hard smashed against his thigh, hurling him to the ground with sickening force. It felt as though he’d been hit by a sledgehammer. As he wriggled in agonizing pain, still not fully aware of the situation, the dark object glinted in the air and struck again at the back of his other leg, paralyzing it for a moment. He shrieked, suffering pain he had never experienced before, and then two strong hands grabbed him and turned him on his back, thrusting a rag into his mouth to muzzle his cries. Gasping in a desperate attempt to breathe, only one thought crossed his mind - his legs had been crushed...
Among the array of bright colored sparks that flashed across his eyes, he saw, as if in a carnival mirror, the distorted face of Isaac Sexta. The familiar face remained frozen, even when the dark baseball bat was hoisted for the third time, landing with a thud on his left hand. He screamed with all his strength, but the cry was heard only in his own head. Through tear-flooded eyes, he could hazily see Isaac leaning the bat on the car door and kneeling down toward his face.
Isaac’s right hand was clutching his police-issue Jericho, which he had pulled out of his side holster without him even realizing it.
“You fucking son of a bitch, you got some kind of nerve, huh?” Surprisingly, his voice came in clear as day.
He just stared at him in agony.
“Listen carefully, shithead, you got a debt to pay. No more credit. You’re gonna pay right now!”
He shook his head in an attempt to speak, but all that was heard was the groan of a wounded animal.
“Okay, you bastard, I’ll take out the rag, but if you scream, you’re dead. Got it?”
He nodded that he understood. His injuries were merging into one level of a now suddenly bearable pain. He looked up at Isaac. The little shit was going to regret this.
His apprehended gun now passed into Isaac’s left hand while the right hand pulled out the rag. Isaac leaned in until he could smell his breath and asked, “Well?”
“Give me a couple... of days and I’ll pay back... every… everything.” The stammered words mingled with groans of pain while the face above him smirked.
“Not gonna happen. You ran out of credit, you son of a bitch, so listen up good: you got until tomorrow night to pay it all plus interest, another ten percent. You pay – we’re settled. You don’t pay – we’ll settle!”
From his position on the concrete floor, he nodded his head in understanding.
Isaac expertly removed the magazine from the Jericho and tossed it under the car. He then threw the unloaded gun onto the policeman’s body. His face stretched in a wolfish grin as he picked up the bat and hoisted it again.
They’d be expecting only one gun. His uninjured right hand inched its way slowly through the shadows toward his leg and gripped the .38. He released the safety with his thumb.
He’d wait another moment. He could afford it.
“You fucking dog!” Isaac spat in his face.
Warm saliva dribbled down his face, and he fought back the nausea rising in his throat. The bat reached its zenith in the air.
Time to die, you loser! His right hand emerged from the edge of his trousers and stuck the gun into I
saac’s gut. In a fraction of a second, Isaac’s eyes widened in utter surprise as a lightning-quick realization took hold of him. His hand froze in the air, his body momentarily paralyzed, as the barrel of the gun was thrust more firmly and a determined finger squeezed the trigger steadily four times. The sound of the shots was muffled against Isaac’s body. For a long moment, Isaac remained standing while a red stain began to spread across his shirt. The hand holding the bat dropped slowly and the bat rolled away on the concrete floor with a muted wooden sound. Isaac’s body began to collapse, his eyes open. He was dead before his body hit the ground.
He struggled to push Isaac’s heavy body off of him and attempted to gather himself through the pain. The sensation had returned to his legs and to his left hand. He wiped his face with his sleeve and lifted himself up, leaning against the car, his body slumping forward, inhaling and exhaling deeply. He felt his body for signs of fractures, but couldn’t locate any. The blows had been calculated, measured, intended only to cause extreme pain - excruciating, terrifying, but causing no permanent damage.
I hope you’ll do a lot of debt collecting wherever it is you’re going to, you loser, he thought.
He almost gave in to his urge to spit on the body, but held himself back at the last moment. Even Isaac Sexta deserved some form of dignity in death. He glanced at his watch and was surprised to find that only a few minutes had passed since he left his apartment. Around him, everything remained still. Unbelievable! They sent only one person to deal with him? They should take a lesson from cops, who were always sent out to the field with a partner. Fortunately, their mistake was his gain.
What should he do? First of all, lock the steel door leading from the underground parking. The last thing he needed was a witness in the form of a nosey neighbor. He limped toward the door and bolted it shut. He then opened the trunk of his car. He winced through his pain, mustering all his strength as he dragged Isaac’s heavy body from the ground into the car. He bent the legs tightly to get the trunk closed. On the ground was a small bloodstain. He brought out a rag and a bottle of heavy-duty cleaning fluid from the car and began to clean it thoroughly. The caustic fluid cleared the stain completely.
His pain began to subside. He’d probably suffer from several black and blue bruises for another week or so, but, luckily, they’d all be hidden under his clothes. No damage to his face - except for the spit - and that would be washed away.
The time for negotiations had passed. The death of Isaac Sexta launched a different game. A game where you pay in blood.
Within an hour, the Palace would begin to wonder where Isaac had gone. A search team would be sent out. How long did he have until the alarm was raised?
He’d return to his apartment and construct an alibi. A shot of vodka, maybe two, wouldn’t hurt either; the alcohol would numb the pain and improve his morale. In the upcoming hours, he must take the initiative. Tonight, when time passed and Isaac didn’t report back, their uncertainty would grow, turning into real concern, causing Ezra Sexta to press the distress button.
He’d won the first round, but the match was far from over.
CHAPTER 27
Cantor glanced at the clock and was surprised to discover it was already 9:00pm. He hadn’t noticed the time pass. He’d spent more than six hours listening to tapes and watching surveillance videos, and still had nothing. Rubbing his burning eyes, he decided to check if there were any updates regarding the vehicles found at the forest murder scene. It was clear to him that this was a shot in the dark, something that probably had nothing to do with his own investigation. But, at the moment, he could think of no other leads. Haddad had left an hour earlier, giving him a look that Cantor had come to recognize as doubt intermingled with pity. He’d suggested that Cantor go home and rest - tomorrow was another day - but he insisted on carrying on. His frustration was taking over once again. He urgently needed a breakthrough.
He called the team at CID and asked if they’d identified the murder victim yet. They had. The victim was a criminal named Pinchas Levy, also known as Pini. Did he want them to send over the file? He did. His next call was to Forensics to check whether the vehicles at the scene had been identified. To his surprise, this task had also been completed. The teams were working quickly, and he suspected that CID had a hand in this. Was he interested in receiving photos of the cars? Cantor, with a new burst of adrenaline, asked to see all material related to these vehicles. “I have seventeen photos… sending them all over to you now,” said the officer on duty. It turned out that CID had broadened their search area, which might be a bad sign. He thanked the man and went to make another cup of coffee.
When he returned to his desk, a new message flashed across his screen. Cantor knew he was hoping to get lucky on an almost impossible gamble.
He reviewed the photos of five vehicles and then, incredulously, came to several photos of the sixth vehicle - a white Fiat Ducato van with a large carpet-cleaning logo on its side. Suddenly, he knew with absolute certainty that the assassin who had come to kill him was Pinchas Levy. He clicked on the vehicle details and read the attached document. It had been reported stolen. The report was filed by A&B Carpet Cleaners the day after his car was rigged. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs. According to the timetable that had transpired, Pini Levy stole the van at night, rigged his car several hours later, and was murdered the next day after arriving in the van for his last ever meeting. Cantor found it strange that a professional assassin would use the same vehicle at two separate crime scenes, but now he had a name and a car. The next step was to find out who hired him.
His mood had now improved and a new energy filled his body, overcoming his fatigue.
His phone beeped a reminder. It was time to update Azar on his progress. The van had been discovered at the best possible time. If he could tie Pini Levy to the Sexta organization, he’d make significant progress in his investigation. Or maybe he could connect him to the traitor somehow? Unfortunately, he knew that these were not the only possibilities.
He called Haddad and received his blessing to tell Azar the sequence of events concerning Pini Levy. This indicated that Haddad had definitely shared with Azar the inquiry he had held for him.
CHAPTER 28
The police surveillance van was parked in a new location near Sexta’s Palace. It was the second of three vans that were used in rotation by the surveillance team. Occasionally, changing vehicles was necessary in order to avoid detection by the organization’s constant monitoring for police presence around the Palace.
The split screen in the surveillance unit again showed Sexta's office and the corridor leading to it. Eddie, the sergeant on duty, focused on Ezra Sexta's face as he stared intently at the screen of his computer. He couldn’t see what was on the screen due to the position of the camera, which was located on the opposite side of the room. For the last half hour, all Sexta had done was to stare at that screen. Eddie wondered if he was watching a movie while they were wasting public funds on idle surveillance.
Apart from staring at the screen, Eddie watched Sexta dial a number three times within those thirty minutes, but receive no answer. Eddie had a bug in the office phone line and made a note to check the numbers that Sexta dialed.
Suddenly, Sexta’s phone rang and Eddie turned up the volume to listen to the call.
“Mr. Ezra?”
“Yes, Moshe, go ahead.”
“Isaac isn’t back yet. It’s almost ten.”
“Any word from him, Moshe?”
Ezra's voice was quiet, but Eddie, who had accumulated dozens of hours listening to his voice, noticed an uncharacteristic tenseness.
“No, Mr. Ezra, we haven’t spoken today.”
“Okay, just make sure to open on time, okay?”
“No problem, Mr. Ezra,” Moish answered hesitantly.
“Moshe, is there a problem?”
“No, Mr. Ezra, there's no problem. It’s just that Isaac always opens up on Thursdays...”
“
But can you handle things without him?” asked Ezra.
“Of course, Mr. Ezra, no problem, I’ll open at ten.”
“Okay, Moshe.” He replaced the receiver.
The hands of the clock crept forward. At 10:10pm, the camera picked up Ezra dialing again and disconnecting after several unanswered rings. Eddie thought he recognized a look of concern on Sexta's face. He noted this on the pad in front of him.
Another minute passed and Ezra dialed again. This time, someone answered. Ezra asked,
“Mordechai?”
“Yeah, it's me, boss.” The man on the line recognized his voice immediately.
“Is Isaac with you, maybe?” Ezra asked in a restrained tone, as if just casually wondering with no real reason.
The man on the line cleared his throat as he searched for the correct words, “No, boss, he’s not here and he hasn’t been in touch, either. I've been waiting for him by the coffee shop on Basel St. since seven-thirty. I’ve called a few times, but he didn’t answer -”
“Where exactly are you, Mordechai?”
“I'm near the Basel Café, where he told me to wait for him. He said he'd meet me here at eight...”
“Did he tell you where he was going?”
“He didn’t say, just said he had a small matter to take care of, but didn’t say where or what.”
“Mordechai, do you have a car with you?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m in my car.”
“Okay, come back to the office right now, and go straight up to Johnny.”
“Sure boss, on my way.”
Eddie hurriedly jotted down: “Isaac Sexta - disappeared?”
Suddenly, the cell phone on Sexta’s desk rang. Eddie’s monitor indicated that the incoming call was redirected from his office phone. Eddie turned on the recording switch and watched Sexta look at the phone for a few seconds, as if deliberating whether to answer it.