by Brian Wiprud
I’m not an expert on Balkan history, but the word on the street was that these guys were the nasties left over from the Serb wars. A lot of them were no more than kids at the time, but they survived through not caring about anything except money, except taking. I mean nothing. Kill their mother, kill their sister, kill them, throw them in prison—they just don’t care. To escape capture, they will jump from buildings, gouge eyes, set children on fire—anything to keep out on the street and make money. To them, being a badass is essential to survival and their sense of purpose. If they die? They all have come so close so many times and seen so many atrocities that they don’t fear death. They expect it. Death comes when it comes, and they figure you might as well die robbing rather than being robbed. And no matter what anybody does to them—interrogate, torture, set their hair on fire—the only answer they’ll give is “Fock you!”
So the pile of jewelry in front of me was Trudy’s death sentence.
It was also even money that it would be mine, too.
The Serbs were on the street that very second, breaking the fingers of anybody they thought might know who took their stuff. Any hoods they found, even if the crook wasn’t the guy who did it, they’d castrate the poor schmuck, rip his tongue out, and let him bleed to death hanging from one foot just on the off-chance it was the guy who ripped them off. I knew enough people that I had to operate on the assumption that they were out there narrowing down a list that I was on.
Trudy’s and my phones were in the sacks. I found them and turned them off. There was no knowing whether the Kurac had the ability to get AT&T or Verizon or whatever to triangulate and ping our phones. I had to assume that the Kurac’s friends in the Russian mob had telephone company people or cops on their payroll that could push the buttons to ping our phones.
I filled my glass with Old Crow and held the amber liquid to the lamp. Be nice if I could have just given it all back. The local Cubans, the Italians to the south, they would let me do that if I groveled and paid a penalty. Russian mob not so much, could go either way, but would be worth a try.
The Serbs? Giving the sparks back would only make them laugh harder as they made me watch them feed my legs into a wood chipper.
My mission was pretty clear. I had to stay alive and take out the shitbags—if nothing else, for Trudy. If they killed me, her death would mean nothing. I couldn’t let that happen.
My plan for that night was to hook a motorcycle battery to a charger, finish the Old Crow, roll out a sleeping bag, and finish as much grieving as possible. By morning, there would be no more crying, no more drinking, no more night’s sleep. If I didn’t keep moving and stay at least a step or two in front of those Serb freaks, I was a dead man.
At best I had a couple days.
Five
DCSNet 6000 Warrant Database
Transcript Cell Phone Track and Trace
Peerless IP Network / Redhook Translation
Target: Dragan Spikic
Date: Sunday, August 8, 2010
Time: 142–147 EDT
SPIKIC: TALK TO ME, VUGOVIC.
VUGOVIC: ONE THIEF WAS SHOT.
SPIKIC: AND?
VUGOVIC: WE DON’T HAVE THEM YET.
SPIKIC: YET?
VUGOVIC: WE WILL GET THEM.
SPIKIC: I KNOW YOU WILL. THERE’S [UNINTELLIGIBLE]. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?
VUGOVIC: BURGLARS. THEY CAME IN ACROSS BALCONIES.
VUGOVIC: WHO ELSE KNEW THE GEMS WERE THERE OTHER THAN US? PERHAPS THEY ARE INVOLVED.
SPIKIC: TITO RAYKOVIC.
VUGOVIC: PERHAPS HIS WIFE. IT COULD BE A COINCIDENCE.
SPIKIC: COINCIDENCE? ARE YOU FAMILIAR WITH THE STORY OF THE COBBLER WHOSE SHOP WAS HELD UP THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS DAUGHTER’S WEDDING?
VUGOVIC: TELL ME.
SPIKIC: THE COBBLER HAD THE DOWRY WITH HIM READY FOR THE NEXT DAY. SO WHEN THE BANDITS SHOWED UP AND PUT A GUN TO HIS HEAD, WHAT DO YOU THINK HE SAID?
VUGOVIC: WHAT?
SPIKIC: HE SAID, “IF YOU TAKE MY MONEY I WILL SHOOT MY SON-IN-LAW IN THE FACE AND HAVE HIS MOTHER RAPED BY FERAL RAMS.”
VUGOVIC: WHY DID HE SAY THAT?
SPIKIC: TO MAKE THE BRIGANDS LEAVE, WHICH THEY DID, WITHOUT THE MONEY. YOU SEE, WHO ELSE BUT HIS IN-LAWS WOULD KNOW THE AMOUNT OF THE DOWRY AND WHERE TO GET IT? EVEN A SIMPLE SERB COBBLER KNEW THERE ARE NO SUCH THINGS AS COINCIDENCE. YOU ARE NOT NATIVE TO OUR HOMETOWN. THEY HAVE A SPECIAL WISDOM. HAVE YOU CHECKED THE HOSPITALS?
VUGOVIC: WE HAVE OUR FINGERS TO THEIR TEMPLES, AND ARE INVESTIGATING UNSCRUPULOUS DOCTORS.
SPIKIC: WHAT ABOUT THE CUBANS? THAT’S THEIR VILLAGE. WAKE THE CORPORATION.
VUGOVIC: THEY WON’T TALK TO US UNTIL TOMORROW.
SPIKIC: WHY?
VUGOVIC: ROBERTO LIKES HIS SLEEP.
SPIKIC: AND THEY CALL THEMSELVES CROOKS. PATHETIC, LAZY SPICS. FIRST THING IN THE MORNING I WANT THEM ON THIS.
VUGOVIC: WE’LL MEET THEM AS SOON AS WE CAN GET THE SPICS OUT OF BED. WHAT IS THEIR INCENTIVE?
SPIKIC: PEACE, MUTUAL RESPECT, WE’RE NOT GIVING THEM A DIME. WE KNOW THE RUSSIANS IN PATERSON AND TRENTON. HAVE THEM PUT IN THE GOOD WORD FOR US. ANY OTHER INFORMERS?
VUGOVIC: THIS IS NOT OUR TURF.
SPIKIC: THAT SOUNDS LIKE A WEASEL IN YOUR ASS, AN EXCUSE.
VUGOVIC: IT’S A REASON. WE WOULD SHAKE THE TREE FOR APPLES, BUT THERE ARE NO BRANCHES.
SPIKIC: I’M TOLD THEY RODE AWAY ON BICYCLES?
VUGOVIC: YES. THEY WENT DOWN THE HILL. WE FOLLOWED AND FOUND BLOOD, BUT COULD NOT TRACE WHERE THEY WENT.
SPIKIC: GET THE RUSSIAN PHONE PEOPLE TO TRACE ANY CALLS THEY MIGHT MAKE TO ROBERTO. THESE BURGLARS MUST WORK FOR HIM. THEY ARE OPERATING ON HIS TURF. THEY WILL LIKELY CALL THE CORPORATION FOR HELP. THEY WILL SEEK HELP FOR THE INJURED ONE.
VUGOVIC: IT WAS A WOMAN.
SPIKIC: A WOMAN?
VUGOVIC: YES, IT WAS A WOMAN AND A MAN, AND IT WAS THE WOMAN THAT BOBO SHOT.
SPIKIC: IS BOBO THE HOMOSEXUAL WHO USES THAT SWISS PISTOL? GIVE BOBO A BOWLEGGED BOY WHORE, GOOD WORK. THE WOMAN THEY WILL SEEK HELP FOR. AMERICAN CROOKS ARE NOT PROFESSIONAL. THEY DON’T KNOW HOW THESE THINGS SHOULD WORK, SHE SHOULD HAVE BEEN ELIMINATED AS A LIABILITY. BUT THEY DON’T DO THAT HERE. LIKE THE SPICS THEY ARE WEAK AND SYMPATHETIC, BOATS THAT FOUNDER WITH TOO MUCH GRAIN. I AM SURE OF IT.
VUGOVIC: THE POLICE HAVE BEEN A HEADACHE. THEY ARRESTED BOBO FOR CARRYING AN UNLICENSED HANDGUN. WE HAVE BAILED HIM OUT. THE POLICE OF COURSE ARE INCOMPETENT AND DID NOT SEE THE BLOOD. WE HAVE TOLD THEM WE ARE A SECURITY AGENCY TO PROTECT THE ASSETS OF OUR CLIENTS SO THE COMPANY WE HAVE INSTALLED HERE AS A COVER IS WORKING WELL.
SPIKIC: WHAT OF TITO?
VUGOVIC: HE IS UPSET. I THINK HE IS MORE WORRIED THAT THE LITTLE GLASS WENT MISSING FROM HIS CARE THAN ABOUT HIS WIFE’S MISSING JUNK. PERHAPS HE HAS ALREADY SURMISED THAT YOU MAY SUSPECT HIM.
SPIKIC: SEND ME HIS WIFE—THAT WHORE, IDI. I WILL RAPE HER AND FIND OUT WHAT SHE KNOWS. EITHER SHE WILL KNOW HE DID IT OR SHE WILL DIVULGE TO ME HER DEVIOUS PLOT TO ROB US.
VUGOVIC: SHE HAS A DOG.
SPIKIC: BRING THE DOG TOO.
VUGOVIC: WHEN?
SPIKIC: WHEN DO YOU THINK? NOW, BEFORE THEIR STUPID BURGLARS CAN GET FAR.
VUGOVIC: WHAT DO I TELL TITO?
SPIKIC: MUST I EXPLAIN EVERYTHING TO YOU? I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU TELL HIM. SAY I WILL FUCK HER ASS LIKE A DONKEY IF YOU WANT.
VUGOVIC: AS YOU SAY. I WILL BRING HER WITHIN THE HOUR.
SPIKIC: VUGO, GET THAT GLASS, DO YOU HEAR ME? THE JEWS HAVE ARRANGED THE MONEY.
VUGOVIC: I’LL GET IT. WHATEVER IT TAKES.
SPIKIC: GOOD BOY. NOW GO BE A STIFF DICK AND FIND THOSE BURGLARS.
VUGOVIC: FAREWELL.
SPIKIC: GOOD HUNTING.
*END*
Six
I woke up thinking about a movie I once saw. In a hospital.
It was a Western, and railroad barons had sent out goons to murder a farmer and his family rather than pay for the farmer’s land. The assassins sported long coats worn by a local outlaw gang so that they could lay blame for the murders that way. The youngest son of the farmer was left unharmed so he could witness those long coats. The outlaw gang didn’t like being blamed for the murder, and began to investigate who did do it. Out of nowhere came a loner with a harmonica and a vendetta against the head railroad goon. When the loner was a child, the same goons had left him alive as a witness. In a sort of mysterious way, this loner helps guide the outlaws to confront the goons, in turn making an opportunity for the loner to settle his score and escape.
Some instant coffee in a hot pot from the cabinet got me going. I tried smoking another Winston, but a stale cigarette just wasn’t doing it for me.
I inspected the back of the SUV with a black light and found light blood smears. The black light I kept around to check out certain kinds of gems, but I knew black lights could also make blood and semen glow. Even though the Serbs saw us escape on bikes, they didn’t see the black SUV, which are common enough. Still, the vehicle was a link to me. Technically, it belonged to Trudy, it was in her name. The Serbs would get our names soon enough, probably through intimidation or torture in combination with a process of elimination. Somebody would talk, somebody would give them a list of local crooks, and in no time they’d be on my doorstep. While I was at the barn they’d be out looking for our vehicles and searching our apartments.
I used Trudy’s cell phone to ring Roberto.
“’Allo?”
“Tomás, this is Gill. I need to see Roberto.”
“He still sleep.”
“It’s important.”
“Yes, we hear.”
“Is it safe to see Roberto?”
One Mississippi, two Mississippi …
“You are one of our locals. Roberto has respect for friendship and loyalty.”
“Can I meet him at Sabor, outside, eight thirty?”
“He will be there. Be careful. They are looking very hard for you all night.”
“Serbs, right?”
“El Kurac.”
“Gracias, Tomás.”
In a plastic container I found a pair of black cargo pants, the ones with lots of zippered and hook-and-loop pockets. There was also a heavy denim canvas shirt with large pockets. I put them both on, along with a pair of running shoes. The eight thousand dollars went in the pockets of the cargo pants.
A first-aid kit had large sterile pads and gauze, and I used those to wipe up blood smears from the back of the SUV. While I did that I noticed a brassy glint in the corner, almost shoved under the corner of the carpeting. It was a slug, a bullet, but no casing, sticky with blood. I blinked. This must have fallen out of Trudy’s clothes when I tore open her shirt. Maybe it hit the metal buckle on her knapsack as it went through her and stopped. The slug had traveled some distance before it hit her so was slowed some anyway. Odd: it wasn’t badly deformed. In fact, it appeared to be a special application bullet, the type used to penetrate metal and glass, not just slaughter. A chill ran up my spine. Of course. The Clause at work. The bullet gave me all the more reason to survive.
I tucked the bullet in my pocket and gathered up the bloody bandages and put them in a pile next to the sleeping bag laid out on the workbench, along with several bottles of over-the-counter painkillers and anti-inflammatories. I set Trudy’s cell phone next to the pills and left it on.
Most people don’t realize how intrusive cell phones can be. The FBI can virtually listen in on any call and read any text message—not just in real time, but after the fact, because all calls are stored for a short time. Certain phones, even when off, can be turned on and made into listening devices. Then there’s pinging. Providers like Verizon can send signals to a cell phone from different towers and time the delay to triangulate and locate the phone.
Federal and to some degree local officials are the only ones who are supposed to be able to have access to these systems. Supposed. I wasn’t betting my life on supposed.
In my situation, I could have looked at cell phones as a liability. Instead, I intended to use them as a tool. I left that phone on because I wanted to see if the Corporation would take her number and ping it, or pass it along to the Kurac. I wanted them to find the garage and the bandages to think Trudy was alive. Why? I could use that, too. They wouldn’t understand my motivations or be able to accurately predict my moves. They would waste a lot of time wondering where she was and how I would take care of her.
Idi’s sparks I wrapped in paper towels and stuffed into a couple Band-Aid boxes. The Britany-Swindol treasure I wrapped individually in toilet paper and put into a large plastic socket wrench set box. All that I placed on the bench next to my burglar tools: a pair of binoculars, some climbing rope and hardware, my spring steel kit, and compact bolt cutters.
I fished our passports out of the knapsacks. We never did an operation without those handy. You never knew when you might need to blow town and country. When I saw my passport, part of me was scared and wanted to run. That option was more complicated than it sounds. With that much merchandise in my luggage the scanners would detect it. Of course, I could have stashed it and come back, but I needed a lot of cash to run. A lot of those sparks needed to be liquidated so I had the ability to get out.
I had a mission and I had the home-field advantage. Wherever I landed on unfamiliar turf, the Kurac would have the advantage hunting me down. Dealing with them on my home turf gave me an edge.
Trudy wouldn’t have wanted to lose, especially when she forfeited her life. That raised the stakes. Winning against the Kurac would be for Trudy, and killing the person who had her shot was my mission.
Maybe then I could live with myself for having to let her die.
I used an X-Acto to cut the photo out of her passport. Her butchered passport I then burned in an empty paint can. My passport with her photo went into a zippered pocket next to a wad of bills.
In the corner of the garage was a white sheet. Under it was my motor bike. Nothing fancy, just an old Honda Nighthawk 750. I cleaned off the spark plugs, checked the ignition, filled the gas tank, sprayed out the carburetor with Gunk. The charger on the workbench said the battery was full.
The Honda was cranky, and spewed smoke when I finally got it to kick over. It still had plates but the registration had lapsed, and it wasn’t insured. That was the least of my problems. On the back of the bike was a saddle bag. I unhitched it and loaded it with the sparks and burglary tools.
Fitting a shielded black helmet on my head, I goosed the sputtering Honda out of the garage and closed the doors. I took a last look at the barn—many a glass of Old Crow had been quietly toasted there after an operation, the sparks spread out on the workbench before me.
I turned left at River Road. The sun shone, the birds tweeted, and a canopy of dark green locusts jostled above in a river breeze. It could have been a really nice day. Like the time I took Trudy on our fourth date. She was on the back, her chin on my shoulder, her arms clasped tight around my waist. We went on a picnic up the Palisades, at Bear Mountain, and tried to make love in the tall grass by a stream, just like in a movie, except we got covered in ticks. Believe it or not we had a big laugh over that. The memory was so strong, it was almost impossible to believe that her vibrant little body had been shredded by the grinders. That Trudy’s mind was gone, never to tease or laugh or plot or scheme again. You just never know when what you have will be taken away. All of it.
I stopped at a deli for a fresh pack of Winstons. It wasn’t like I really cared about my health anymore. It was possibly the last pack of cigarettes I’d ever get to smoke anyway. At an ATM I drained my checking account—there wasn’t much there
anyway, almost a thousand, just a balance I keep in there to cover my bills, and I’d just paid rent. I put that cash with the eight thousand four hundred and twenty dollars I nabbed from Tito.
A winding drive along the top or the bottom of the two-hundred-foot-tall Palisades was a quick tour of the Gold Coast’s first four towns, which had only a couple miles of Hudson River frontage. While there was an ethnic mix in those towns atop the cliff, there was a large portion of Hispanics, and Cubans formed the cultural backbone, in small part through their mob called the Corporation. It was run originally by a patriot who was in the Bay of Pigs invasion and was rumored to still have ties with the CIA. While the Corporation operated gambling operations and cathouses, it also owned a piece of just about any business that mattered in West New York, as well as concessions at the airports. But as Roberto would say: “Yes, but it’s either me or the banks, so what’s the difference?”
Roberto had made strong pacts with the Italians to the south and the Russians to the north. He knew how to play rough, but also knew it didn’t pay to fight turf wars. There was enough for everybody so long as nobody got greedy.
Sabor wasn’t open that early on a Sunday, but it didn’t mean that staff wasn’t there prepping for brunch, or that the owners wouldn’t accommodate Roberto if he wanted them to be open, if only for him.
Roberto’s vintage baby-blue Lincoln Continental was in the parking lot next to the three-story brick restaurant, an Italianate iron balcony on the second floor, a patio facing River Road on the ground floor.
Helmet under my arm, I approached the bodyguard, Ramón, standing next to the patio. “Hola!”
Ramón adjusted his jacket, a cream suit draped over a black shirt and snakeskin loafers. “You stepped in it this time, amigo.”
He waved me past to the patio, where Roberto sat at a café table in a striped bathrobe. Thick white hair and mustache framed piercing black eyes and a large cigar. His huge hands were on either side of an espresso. Behind him was the main dining room, and he was framed by open French doors with flowing gauzy curtains. A samba played softy from within.