The Bouncer

by David Gordon

  Mike sounded out the name: “Mr. and Mrs. Eulich Maghanus.”

  Donna cracked up, while the clerk looked at them in confusion.

  “Very fucking funny,” Mike muttered. “What kind of fugitive makes jokes?”

  Donna shrugged, but she was pretty sure she knew.

  38

  At first, when she found the lipstick on Gio’s collar, Carol was pissed at herself. Of course. What did she think, she would escape the cliché? Did she really believe he’d be the only gangster who didn’t have a mistress? And as a psychologist, she knew the stats, the proportion of married men who sooner or later cheated, the even higher likelihood among executives and those in roles of authority, but the fact was that Gio never did seem like the type. He still didn’t. From the beginning, he’d clearly craved a real partnership, real intimacy, and trust, not for ethical reasons—his family owned whorehouses and strip clubs, after all—but as an escape from that family and that world. Gio was thrilled to find someone he could actually talk to about his feelings—his fears, hopes, dreams, regrets—something he admitted he had never done even once before in his life—someone who wanted to really share a life, an equal, and he would often brag about how his wife, the doctor, was so much smarter than he was. Carol knew better than anyone else how laser sharp Gio’s brain really was behind those near-black Sicilian eyes, how sharp it had to be, for him to be who he was, but she understood. He adored their children, and she had no doubt about how much he loved her. Yes, their sex life had tapered off a bit in recent years, but they still fucked more than most couples—according to the married women she knew—and even at its most intense, the secret of their sexual connection, the thing that first fused them together, was based on raw emotion and a profound need for intimacy that they shared. That’s why, even as a shrink, objectively speaking, she didn’t see her husband as the type to want to bang a stripper or keep a bimbo on the side.

  But then again, maybe she was just in denial. That was certainly part of their life, too. In college, of course, he’d been very discreet, vaguely talking about the restaurant his family owned, the trucks selling ices in the summer, a humble working-class clan made good. But as soon as they got serious, he got honest, outlining his family history while also explaining earnestly that his role was to help the family past all that, to bring them into the modern world. And he’d meant it. His mother, her mother, his uncle with Alzheimer’s, his aunt in Florida, their kids’ college funds: it was all financed by the stock portfolios and real estate holding corporations that Gio had set up and that were 100 percent legit. As for the rest? She supposed she just put it out of her mind. And didn’t some part of her like it, after all, knowing/not-knowing how strong he was, a dangerous man whom people feared and respected and obeyed, but who was vulnerable with her and listened to her, when he didn’t have to listen to anybody? And anyway, what about those other rich families founded by powerful and ruthless men, like the Rockefellers and Vanderbilts and Kennedys? How many dead bodies were buried under those respectable foundations? Now who was in denial?

  But here was something she couldn’t deny. It didn’t have to mean anything, but it could mean something, or it could be nothing. Late Sunday night, coming home after the gym, trying not to wake her, he’d left his clothes in a pile by the bathroom door before getting in the shower. And in the morning, after he’d left to take the kids to school, she’d picked up his stuff and there it was, a smear of lipstick in a shade that neither she nor his mother wore.

  When they got out of the subway station in Brooklyn, Joe and Yelena found a car service and took a black town car to Juno’s address in Bed-Stuy, wanting to appear as legit as possible. It was a row house, a nice brick building with flowers in the window boxes behind the bars. They knocked, and almost immediately, the door was opened by a tall black man in his late twenties, wearing jeans and a wifebeater. With his shaved head, neat goatee, and hard muscles, he looked like an older, tougher, less nerdy version of Juno.

  “Good afternoon,” Joe said. “Is Juno here?”

  The man looked them over—a white couple, the guy in a suit and the woman in what looked like a couple of grand worth of black jeans, boots, and blouse.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Joe smiled. So did Yelena. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m Philip. This is my wife, Devorah.”

  “Hi,” Yelena said.

  “Hi,” the guy said.

  “We’re music producers,” Joe continued. “We just got in from L.A. and we want to talk to Juno about business.”

  “Business?” the guy asked.

  “Yeah, you know, deejaying and …” Joe searched his memory.

  “Beats,” Yelena put in with a smile.

  “Yeah, we love his beats,” Joe added.

  “All right, cool,” the guy said with a grin. “You better come in then. I’m Juno’s brother, Eric.”

  He stepped aside to let them in, and as he shut the door behind them, Joe and Yelena stepped into a comfortable living room where a very large man in a Knicks jersey and long shorts sat taking up half the couch and playing a video game with a thinner guy in jeans and a backward ball cap.

  “Hey,” Joe heard Eric call out from behind, “these two are looking for Juno. They want to buy his beats.” Then he sensed sudden movement, and seeing the expression on the men’s faces change, Joe went for his gun. He whipped around to see Eric pointing a revolver at him, while Yelena pointed her own gun at the big guy, who held a gun on Joe, while the thinner dude in the ball cap pointed his pistol at her. It was a standoff.

  “Easy,” Joe said. “Let’s not all do something stupid.”

  “Y’all already did,” Eric told him over his gun barrel. “In his whole life, no one ever walked in here and wanted to buy beats off my little brother.”

  Ball Cap spoke. “I don’t think he ever even had a paying DJ gig. He just started.”

  “So you see,” Eric said, “I know you two are full of shit. So why don’t you tell me why you’re really here.” His eyes narrowed at Joe, who returned his gaze calmly. “White dude in a suit, I’d usually say detective. But I definitely don’t get a cop vibe off of you.”

  “Nor hip-hop producer neither,” Ball Cap put in.

  Joe smiled, but his gaze never moved from Eric, who nodded his head toward Yelena. “And her … I don’t know what to think.”

  Yelena sneered, gun still on the big man, who remained impassive, a mountain on the couch. “One way to find out,” she told him.

  “All right now,” Joe said. “We’re all taking it easy, remember, Devorah?” He told Eric: “You want the truth? We were on a crew that pulled a job with your brother. Things went wrong. Now we’re looking for our partners and the law is looking for us.”

  “You saying my brother double-crossed you?”

  “Nope. I’m saying someone did.”

  Eric’s eyes shifted to the others. The kid in the hat shrugged. “Checks,” he said. The big man gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “Juno’s been missing,” Eric told them. “I got a text from him late Saturday night, just said 911. Then nothing. If I call it goes to voice mail. But Charles over there is a whiz kid like Juno.”

  The kid smiled modestly. “No one’s like Juno, but yeah, I did some digging. And Juno switched his GPS on.”

  “So you can’t call him,” Yelena said. “But you can track him.”

  “Exactly, Devorah. And we were just fixing to do that when you showed up on our stoop,” Eric said. “But what you say now fits with what we’re thinking. Whoever’s got your loot, got my brother.”

  “Eric,” Joe said, “I believe we’d very much like to come along for this ride.”

  “I’m thinking that, too, Philip. But you’re going to ride in the back, without guns.”

  Joe looked over at Yelena, who answered just with her eyes, but Joe knew what she was thinking. Even if they prevailed and got out of a shoot-out alive, they’d be no closer to Juno. He nodded.

  “All ri
ght,” Yelena said. “It’s a deal.” Then very carefully, she eased off the grip of her gun, so it hung from just a finger through the trigger guard. Joe did the same, and young Charles took them. “Thanks,” he said politely to Yelena.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Okay then,” Eric said, lowering his weapon. “Now let’s go get my baby brother before our mother finds out what’s going on.”

  Juno was not having fun hanging with Don. He supposed he was a prisoner, but it was more like being a houseguest trapped with a really boring, grouchy, and potentially violent relative, something with which he had some familiarity. Don was like a white version of his mother’s uncle, Willy, watching daytime TV, cursing and mumbling about how he was going to show them after all this time, eating junk food out of a greasy bag, and openly farting, like right in mid-conversation, before falling asleep on the couch. But Willy drank and Don was jacked on steroids. Big difference. Don was also running on his own ego, anger, and greed, a dangerous combo, Juno knew: if he’d decided a two-way split was better than five, then why not take it all? And why not chop off the loose end, meaning Juno?

  So while Don was being decent enough, giving him the bedroom in the crappy “corporate” suite he’d rented, with his own cable TV and regular meals ordered up from nearby takeouts, Juno also understood why big bad Don was sleeping on the couch between him and the door, why he had the key cards, and why he had unplugged the phone as well as seized Juno’s cell. Juno’s one move had been switching on his GPS and shooting his brother that SOS text, but his brother was seriously digitally challenged, and Juno didn’t know if he’d be able to follow that trail of bread crumbs. So he sat and waited for Don to set up the switch and meanwhile did his time. This was white-collar jail, but it was still jail. And it wouldn’t kill Don to order some salad once in a while, or even a juice, but whatever. All Juno cared about now was getting back to Brooklyn alive.

  Clarence had never been so happy to get a call as he was when Don rang. He’d spent the last twenty-four-plus hours with Adrian and Heather, and the tension was about to break him. On the surface everything was fine—Heather used the building’s gym, Adrian read, they did some shopping and walked the High Line—but it was exactly that smooth surface, like a silk scarf pulled so tight it was choking, that made him conscious, with each passing minute, that the clock was ticking, and if they didn’t get their hands on the vial, and on the thieves who stole it, they would take it out on Clarence and do to him what they did to that poor, dumb son-of-a-bitch Norris.

  So when his phone went off Monday morning and it was Don, calling from a blocked number to set up an exchange—the vial for the cash, the whole million, that afternoon at the top of the steps in the center of Prospect Park—Clarence was utterly relieved and happily reported the news to Adrian, who was doing a crossword, and Heather, who was painting her nails and answering the clues he read out. But Clarence’s relief turned back into tension when Adrian, with a smile, told him their plan. Instead of showing up alone and with a bag of cash as promised, Clarence would be going armed with a bag full of newspapers and charged with killing Don and Juno and coming back with the vial.

  “I understand you want to eliminate these guys,” Clarence said, while Adrian was busy shredding the newspaper, including the completed crossword, and stuffing it into a duffel bag. “And believe me it will be a pleasure to kill the fuckers after the trouble they caused me, but he set up a face-off. How can I be sure to get the drop on him?”

  Adrian laughed and gave him that creepy cold-eyed smile. “You didn’t think I’d trust you to go alone, did you? I will arrange for a couple of my friends to join you. You know the saying, strangers you haven’t met, or something like that.”

  “I think it’s the other way,” Clarence said. “A stranger is a friend you haven’t met yet.”

  “Exactly. Unless you try to fuck me again, and then they kill you.”

  Heather laughed, then Adrian chuckled, and then finally Clarence grinned awkwardly and tried to laugh, too.

  “Quit scaring him,” she said. “You know what, honey? I’ll go myself. That way Clarence will feel safer.”

  Adrian frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I’m going stir-crazy here. We can’t allow your face to be seen in public too much, pretty as it is. And it’s best not to involve the others yet. And anyway, I love Prospect Park.”

  39

  When Agents Zamora and Powell got back to her office, she sat and began checking her e-mail while he stood over her desk. He cleared his throat.

  “Have a seat, Mike,” he said, imitating and exaggerating her slight New York accent. “Want a cup of coffee?” He moved some files from a chair and sat, switching back to his own flat midwestern voice: “Why, thank you, Donna, I’d love some.”

  “What’s the fucking point?” Donna asked then, looking up from her screen.

  “Fucking point of what?”

  “People who sit around on their asses drinking coffee in an office together usually work together. But if you’re going to go on pretending to be a CIA liaison helping with an FBI investigation, while not even telling me who or what we’re chasing, then what, I ask, is the fucking point?”

  “Like you’ve been totally forthcoming?”

  “Hey, I’m an open book. Or an open file at least. I will let you read anything you want. Can you do the same?”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “So?”

  “All right. But I could really use that coffee first.”

  She got the coffee and came back to see him casually flipping through a file, one she knew had nothing but transcripts of old tip-line recordings, but, still, he couldn’t help himself, a compulsive snoop.

  “What?” he said to her dirty look. “You said help myself.”

  “Not quite.” She took her seat. “But whatever. It’s your turn.”

  He sipped his coffee. “Yuck. It’s better at your house.” He put it down on the closed file. “Okay,” he said. “Here goes. The item that was stolen from the lab was a highly effective bio-agent capable of transmitting a lethal virus over a wide range, whether through the air or through the exhalations of the infected.”

  “Jesus …” Donna’s mind immediately bypassed years of training and instantly turned to her own daughter. Their daughter. Did his? “And we made this?” she asked him. “The good guys? Who? CIA? Some other pals of yours?”

  “The lab was actually trying to dilute it, testing micro-doses in different solutions so that it could be used to target an individual or a group, instead of just unleashing mass destruction, which you know very well we’d never do.”

  “Except that you are, through incompetence maybe, but still. And why the hell wasn’t something that nasty in a government facility?”

  “That was a government facility. The security firm was a CIA front. The technology they used to alarm the place isn’t even commercially available. The perfume company is legit, but we are the shadow partners and we designed the safe and the locking mechanism for the lab. Look”—he held his empty palms out—“it’s not like it was my idea. I just found all this out after the break-in. But the thinking, as I understand it, was hide in plain sight, a regular old lab that no one would care about or notice.”

  “Plus,” she added, “it was a black op, no doubt.”

  “Yes. A major fuckup. But the point now is to get it back before they can use it.”

  “And who is ‘they’?”

  “Terrorists. ISIS or someone else.”

  “I’m no profiler, but Clarence Deyer doesn’t strike me as the jihad type.”

  “No. I’d say he’s definitely nonideological. He’s just the hired help. And the front man. The end user is a very different breed.”

  “Who?” Donna asked.

  “Him.” Mike pointed at the leftmost photo of the watch list on her wall, a disturbingly handsome blue-eyed man with buzzed hair and the scruffy cheekbones of a model. “Adrian Kaan. Number one most w
anted, and here in New York right now.”

  “Oh.” Mechanically, she sipped her cold bitter coffee, then threw it into the trash. “How can you be so sure?”

  “We can’t, but the evidence points that way. Chatter on ISIS and terrorist-connected forums has been all about him, how he was seen in New York.”

  “Forums! It’s like kids blabbing about a pop star.”

  “He is a pop star to them. A terrorist the old whitebeards don’t even approve of. He went through their training camps, then broke off and went rogue. He isn’t even Muslim. He’s just fucking evil. Anyway, the young jihadists think he’s cool. And then this was issued, from a server in Indonesia that he’s used before.”

  Mike pulled something up on his tablet and handed it to her.

  Hello America!

  When will you learn you can’t outsource pain? Globalization isn’t just cheap T-shirts. It’s war. And now the war you sent us is coming home to you.

  Donna sighed. “I would definitely call this ideological.”

  “If total nihilistic destruction counts as an ideology.” He sipped his cold coffee, frowned, and threw it into the trash with hers. “But there’s one thing I still can’t figure.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What the hell do the Chinese have to do with it?”

  40

  When Juno said that all he wanted was to get back to Brooklyn alive, he did not mean an armed exchange in the park with himself as the go-between, but he guessed that’s what they meant about watching what you wished for. It had been a long time since he’d hung out here, but as Don, casually holding a pistol to Juno’s back, marched them through the park and up the hill, climbing the concrete steps to the paved plaza that overlooked the park from the top, he flashed on all the times he’d been here as a kid, playing ball, or riding bikes, or having cookouts. He saw the bikers and softball players now, the picnickers and sunbathers scattered over the meadow, a happy Australian shepherd leaping for a ball, and swore, if he survived, to swing by and rejoin them soon. Get out and enjoy the fresh air the way his mom said, instead of sitting inside and gaming or hacking all the time. Of course, he knew he would do no such thing.