The Clause

by Brian Wiprud

  The freaky part about seeing your head naked for the first time is that there are contours you never knew were there. There were dents and dings, too, and I could only account for one or two; the rest were mysteries. Clearly my head wasn’t meant to be bald. I never knew it before but I didn’t have a very attractive scalp.

  Dressed in the official New Jersey state uniform, I looked at myself in the mirror. My own mother wouldn’t have known me. Trudy would have laughed her ass off, and I smiled imagining her reaction. Then I gulped, my eyes watering. Those scumbags had to shoot her, didn’t they? I looked away from the mirror. I couldn’t allow self-pity and regret to interfere. I had to earn that luxury by making the operation a success.

  Back in a bathroom stall, I took everything out of my pants and my belly bag. Time to do inventory and condense and lighten my load. No need for those tickets to Iceland, or for Trudy’s passport, though I tore out the picture and saved that. It was the only picture I had of her, and I wanted to remember. Needed to remember. I had about six inches in cash totaling a hundred and sixteen thousand dollars. The five Guatemalan bearer bonds stayed, folded in quarters—I hoped they were good, but it would be idiotic to toss a possible million-plus. If they were genuine there’d be eight-and-a-half percent interest when they matured, eighty-five thousand dollars. My Phil Greene passport and license were worthless and a liability. Better to have no ID than that one. From now on I had to be Mike Thomas. The credit cards: way too hot to use now. Pack of gum: still could come in handy, if nothing else to keep my breath fresh. Airline tickets to Nassau: too early to toss those. I wanted to be on that flight in the morning in the worst way. Yet I knew a train to Canada would be much safer.

  Next I had to get rid of the socket wrench box that held the sparks. Laying the gems out flat inside the tennis racket cover might work. So I placed the socket wrench box on my knees and opened it.

  The socket wrench box had toilet paper in it.

  And nothing else.

  Empty. The sparks were gone.

  The spinning planet ground to a screeching halt, my brain buzzing, ears thrumming, eyes swimming with the vision of tissue paper and nothing else.

  On the street daytime was fading, and the cooler August night on my bald head made me shiver at first. I matched a Winston and walked north and found a bar and grill where there was a spot at the bar in front of the TV. My order was coffee, a salad, and a steak. I wanted bourbon. Instead, I asked the barmaid to switch the TV to 12, the New Jersey news channel, and I stared blankly at the talking heads.

  Empty.

  When? How? Who? It was crazy. And yet it simplified my life not having the sparks on me. They’d been a curse the last two days, a magnet for trouble and near death. Now that part of my predicament was null and void. There was nothing left to leverage for cash, nothing to negotiate with. Did that mean the mission was scrubbed, that I was basically free to go? Who was I kidding.

  My brain whipped back to the haunting questions: When? How? Who? There’s a point where you’re so stunned that you can hardly try to answer questions; all you can do is repeat the questions.

  At the top of the hour and halfway through my Caesar salad, a news break came on about the JFK car bombing.

  The FBI and NYPD had decided to shape it up for the media as a drug deal gone bad between rival gangs, with one trying to double cross the other. Close enough. Eleven dead, two critically injured. Then they put up my picture, one taken from an airport security camera. It was me in zip-off shorts, blue shirt, and white hair exiting the garage after the explosion, crossing the access road. Fuzzy and distant, they put next to that picture my Phil Greene driver’s license photo. They’d Photoshopped Phil’s hair white. I snuck a look around me at the other bar patrons, the top of my naked head hot. Nobody was staring at me, even though I felt they should be with my picture on the TV. The newscasters said the police were looking for the man in the picture, who may be traveling under the name Gill or Phil or an alias and may have gotten a ride from JFK to Jersey City. Cheryl, the girls’ coach from Minnesota, must have seen my picture on the news and fingered me. Poor cops. I could only imagine how long that interview lasted.

  Nothing like your picture and name on TV to make you break a sweat. I needed those Britany-Swindol sparks to get me out of this and lure Spikic to the surface. The FBI wouldn’t let me slip unless I turned them over, and even then it would be a tight squeeze to avoid capture. Unless they thought I was dead.

  Eleven dead: that’s the five Chinese, plus the two in the stairwell, plus four out of six Kurac. The math: two Serbs survived. I hardly had to guess if one of them was Vugovic. That bastard had probably survived a jillion tight spots, and would grimly cling to a life of depraved indifference far beyond when—by all rights—he should have been cinders in a corner of hell. He was that type, one of the bad ones that never die, an agent of Satan that has his middle finger before the nose of God. Divine justice? Fucket. Not for Vugovic.

  There’s a movie where a gunslinger comes to a western town about to be brutalized by approaching outlaws. The gunslinger agrees to help the gutless townspeople organize to fight off the invaders. Only the gunslinger ends up taking advantage of the situation to brutalize and plunder the town himself, because in a former life they had betrayed him when he was their sheriff. He even makes them paint the town red and post a new sign declaring the town’s name as Hell. Then the outlaws come anyway and brutalize the town and the gutless people who live there. Of course the gunslinger kills and torments the outlaws, but not before the town is burned to the ground. Off rides the gunslinger from the charred ruins of the town, vanishing into a heat shimmer.

  Empty.

  Could have been anybody. Maybe someone just nosing around the airport stairwell. Who does that? What were the odds? Slimmer than slim. I played the slim odds and lost. Likely it was an amateur, who will just as likely get caught as soon as he shows one of the hot sparks to a jeweler. I tried to imagine what would have happened in that stairwell had China Boss not shot Doc. Doc would have opened the box and it would have been empty and China Boss may have shot me for trying to rip him off. So in a weird way it was good that the exchange turned sour. Bad for Doc, of course. The whole time she really didn’t seem to realize what a dangerous spot she was putting herself in. Guess all she could see were dollar signs. Or maybe blinded by yuanfen.

  The barmaid was shaking a martini on the other side of the bar; then she opened the shaker and poured the contents into a stemmed glass. I could smell the vodka.

  I pushed the remainder of my salad away and sipped my coffee.

  Vodka.

  Gunny.

  Gunny, the maintenance guy at the bottom of the JFK stairwell, smelled like vodka. When I put the sparks in the fire hose cubby there was an almost empty pint of vodka. I assumed it was garbage someone stuffed in there, but it was probably Gunny’s stash. Something told me Gunny’s burning concern for his truck may have had something to do with the sparks being under the seat.

  Half my steak stayed on the bar, and the rest I didn’t taste. I asked the barmaid to call me a cab.

  Tito’s watch said it was going on nine.

  Unless they thought I was dead.

  Forty-three

  DCSNet 6000 Warrant Database

  Transcript Landline Track and Trace

  Havana Social Club Jukebox

  Peerless IP Network

  Target: Roberto Guarrez

  Date: Monday, August 9, 2010

  Time: 2104–2114 EDT

  GUARREZ: CLOSE THE DOOR, MIGUEL. WELL, THIS IS A SURPRISE. A DANGEROUS ONE. YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE COME.

  UNDERWOOD: EVERYTHING I DO NOW IS DANGEROUS.

  GUARREZ: THAT HAS BECOME OBVIOUS TO THE CHINESE AND THE KURAC. YOU HAVE CHOSEN A GOOD DISGUISE. THEY SAY THERE’S NO BETTER MIRROR THAN THE FACE OF AN OLD FRIEND. I HOPE NOT. YOU DON’T LOOK
WELL.

  UNDERWOOD: WOULD YOU EXPECT ME TO LOOK WELL?

  GUARREZ: HOW IS TRUDY?

  UNDERWOOD: BETTER BUT NOT GREAT. IT’S TIME FOR US TO GET OUT OF HERE.

  GUARREZ: SO YOU SOLD THE SPARKS TO THE CHINESE?

  UNDERWOOD: DIDN’T HAVE A CHANCE. THEY TRIED TO DOUBLE CROSS ME JUST WHEN VUGOVIC AND HIS BOYS SHOWED UP, GUNS BLAZING, AND THE WHOLE THING WENT INTO A TAILSPIN. I DID MANAGE TO UNLOAD A FEW PIECES HERE AND THERE INDIVIDUALLY TO HELP PAY EXPENSES ALONG THE WAY, AT STUPID LOW PRICES. BUT WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO? ABOUT HALF OF THE BRITANY-SWINDOL SPARKS ARE LEFT.

  GUARREZ: I HOPE YOU ARE NOT THINKING THAT I WILL BUY THE REMAINDER. GILL, THOSE SPARKS ARE TOO HOT TO HANDLE NOW. I WOULD ALSO HAVE TO GIVE YOU NEXT TO NOTHING.

  UNDERWOOD: I KNOW. THAT’S WHY I NEED TO TAKE THEM AND GET OUT.

  GUARREZ: WHICH IS WHAT YOU COULD HAVE DONE TWO DAYS AGO.

  UNDERWOOD: POSSIBLY. EXCEPT HERE I KNOW PEOPLE. ON THE OUTSIDE I’LL HAVE TO UNLOAD THEM SLOWLY, STONE BY STONE, WHICH MEANS HOLDING ONTO THE EVIDENCE, MAYBE FOR YEARS. THAT’S BAD PROCEDURE.

  GUARREZ: I HOPE YOU ARE NOT THINKING ABOUT TRYING TO FLY OUT OF HERE. EVEN AS YOU ARE.

  UNDERWOOD: I NEED A PLAIN JANE, RELIABLE, LATE-MODEL TOYOTA MAYBE, WITH TINTED WINDOWS EVEN BETTER.

  GUARREZ: YOU WANT THIS FROM ME?

  UNDERWOOD: YOU OWN A COUPLE CAR DEALERSHIPS. I WAS HOPING YOU COULD MAKE A CALL.

  GUARREZ: WHY SHOULD I DO THIS?

  UNDERWOOD: I CAN PAY YOU, OR BARTER. I STILL HAVE SOME MILITARY-GRADE INCENDIARIES ALONG WITH THE EXPLOSIVES I USED AT THE AIRPORT. I HAD A CACHE OF THE STUFF BURIED UPSTATE. HARD TO COME BY. I WON’T BE NEEDING THEM. WOULD RATHER NOT DRIVE TO MEXICO WITH A TRUNK FULL OF EXPLOSIVES AND TOO DANGEROUS TO LEAVE LYING AROUND.

  GUARREZ: I HAVE NO NEED OF EXPLOSIVES, AND DO NOT KNOW ANYONE WHO DOES. BUT I WILL ARRANGE THE CAR. FOR TRUDY’S SAKE.

  UNDERWOOD: IS THAT YOUR WAY OF SAYING YOU’RE A ROMANTIC?

  GUARREZ: TELL ME WHAT COMPANY YOU KEEP, AND I WILL TELL YOU WHO YOU ARE. THAT’S MY WAY OF SAYING I HOPE YOU SEND ME THAT BLANK POSTCARD. WHEN DO YOU WANT THIS CAR?

  UNDERWOOD: LET ME SEE, IT’S NOW … AFTER NINE. HOW ABOUT ONE A.M.?

  GUARREZ: [LAUGHS] THEY SAY THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A SIMPLE FAVOR. I BELIEVE THEY ARE RIGHT.

  UNDERWOOD: CAN THEY PARK IT IN A HANDICAP SPACE IN THE BOTTOM-LEVEL GARAGE AT THE EXCELSIOR? AND HANG FUZZY DICE FROM THE MIRROR SO I’LL KNOW WHICH CAR?

  GUARREZ: MIGUEL, ARE YOU TAKING THIS DOWN? HE WANTS HIS CAR AT THE BOTTOM LEVEL OF THE EXCELSIOR’S GARAGE. AND HE MUST HAVE FUZZY DICE. ANYTHING ELSE, GILL? A MAP TO THE TREASURE OF THE INCAS, PERHAPS?

  UNDERWOOD: NOTHING ELSE EXCEPT THANK YOU. JUST A CAR AT THE BOTTOM-LEVEL GARAGE AT THE EXCELSIOR. NEEDS TO BE THAT LEVEL BECAUSE THAT’S THE WAY WE’RE COMING IN TO GET THE CAR.

  GUARREZ: FROM THE CLIFFSIDE?

  UNDERWOOD: WE HAVE IT ALL WORKED OUT. RATHER NOT COME IN THE FRONT DOOR. I REALLY APPRECIATE THIS, ROBERTO.

  GUARREZ: IF I SAID ‘YOU’RE WELCOME’ I’D BE A LIAR. IF I SEE YOUR FACE AGAIN I’LL TURN YOU IN TO THE FBI. DOING THEM FAVORS HAS THE POSSIBILITY OF PAYING OFF.

  UNDERWOOD: I WOULD EXPECT NOTHING LESS. WHAT WAS IT YOU ONCE TOLD ME, ONE OF YOUR CUBAN SAYINGS? SOMETHING ABOUT NOT OWING MONEY TO A RICH MAN, OR OWING FAVORS TO A POOR ONE?

  GUARREZ: [LAUGHS] GO.

  [UNINTELLIGIBLE]

  [BACKGROUND NOISE]

  GUARREZ: YOU HEAR THAT, FBI? YES, YOU IN THE JUKEBOX. I HAVE GIVEN YOU GILL UNDERWOOD AND THE BRITANY-SWINDOL SPARKS LIKE A BOY GIVES A GIRL A FLOWER. IT IS UP TO YOU TO PLUCK THE PETALS. I GAVE YOU VUGOVIC AND THE KURAC, TOO. I AM AN HONEST BUSINESSMAN BUT THESE PEOPLE COME TO ME AS A COMMUNITY LEADER. I DO NOT KNOW WHY THE FBI SEEMS TO THINK OTHERWISE BY PUTTING LITTLE MICROPHONES IN THIS MACHINE, BUT I HOPE IT DEMONSTRATES I SPEAK THE TRUTH. WE ARE RECORDING THESE CONVERSATIONS AS WELL. SO GO IN PEACE, AND LET THIS SIMPLE CUBAN IMMIGRANT CONTINUE TO LIVE THE AMERICAN DREAM. LET’S GO, MIGUEL.

  *END*

  Forty-four

  I walked down to Boulevard East from the Havana Social Club and stood at the parapet. Manhattan glistened on the water. Wakes from ferries and barges drew dark, sparkling streaks on the Hudson’s surface. Fishing for the pack of Winstons in my belly bag, I came up with the large pack of gum, the one with Mr. Zim’s gum mixed in with the Wrigley’s. Looked like I probably wouldn’t have to take that way out. I smiled. There was comfort in that deadly gum; I had ready access to that hard edge where worries and heartache begin and end. That gum was the brink that I approached, a horizon of failure that I’d managed to avoid, of the struggle I was determined to win for Trudy.

  There were footsteps behind me.

  I turned.

  Miguel stepped aside, and Roberto came alongside me at the parapet, lighting a cigar.

  “Let’s hope our fish swallows the bait.”

  “Did your people have any trouble with Gunny?”

  Roberto squinted at the end of his cigar, then scanned Manhattan’s mountain of light. “We have the gems.”

  I put my gum away and found the Winstons. “Our bargain still stands?”

  Roberto grinned, eyeing me sidelong. The Clause clearly states that it’s everybody for themselves, that honor among thieves is optional.

  “I will honor our arrangement, but for my own reasons, and for the mission.”

  “Which reasons?” I lit a smoke.

  “Nobody comes to my town and kills one of my men and escapes. I don’t care if the victim was a rat. It’s bad for morale. My people have to know that our justice may not be immediate but it comes. Unlike the clumsy Russians, the hot-headed Italians, and these psychotic Kurac, we know how to use time to our advantage, to work with the unfolding events to our purpose. Imagine: when you first came to me after stealing the gems, I could easily have taken them from you. I did not. Why?”

  “You let me take all the heat and sort things out so you could waltz in at the end and get the gems anyway.” I laughed. “That’s beautiful.”

  Roberto tipped an ash over the parapet, the sparks flittering down into the darkness. “It was a long shot betting on you, Gill. True, I only get half the gems this way, but I get them clean. Had I taken all the gems from you ten of my men would be dead battling the Kurac and the Chinese, maybe more, maybe a car dealership firebombed, and the Feds and local and state police would be all over me.”

  “Brilliant. But you knew I’d go after Spikic. That was the point.”

  Roberto just smiled to himself. “You knew the mission when you saw it. I’m sorry about Trudy, Gill.”

  His eyes told me he knew she was dead.

  I looked away. “That … that wasn’t part of the mission, was it? Shooting her?”

  “Not my mission.”

  I cleared my throat. “Well, I’m happy to have Vugovic out of the picture.”

  “You had better hope the FBI hold him tight, my friend. The car is ready. It has red fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror and is parked two blocks up on Boulevard East, right-hand side. Miguel?”

  Miguel stepped forward and handed me a car key.

  “I better get going, Roberto.”

  “Mind a little advice?”

  I took a deep breath and he continued.

  “Watch your back. And I don’t just mean for Kurac.”

  I studied his dark eyes, and he mine.

  I nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

  I walked north along the parapet and found the car. It was a Toyota, dark green, with almost two hundred thousand on the odometer, half tank of gas. I got in and felt dizzy, my hands trembling, but I drove and the attack passed.

  Forty-five

  Benito’s was empty except for busboys and the bartender in a red vest. Tito was at the dark-wood
bar. It didn’t look like he was too far gone, which was both surprising and good. He stood when he saw me.

  “Again?”

  “Tito, relax.”

  “You are going to get us both killed!” he hissed, eyes on his surroundings.

  “Your wife come home?”

  Tito sank onto his barstool, “She is with that Kurac pig.” His face burned crimson with rage.

  “I have a proposition.”

  The bartender approached. I said, “Coffee.”

  Tito said nothing.

  “Tito, what if I told you that you could even the score with that guy?”

  “I should find them both and kill them, that’s what I should do!”

  “Shhh! Look, Tito, let’s be smart about this. There’s another way. But you’ve got to get a hold of yourself. You’ve got to go to the Plaza Hotel and tell this guy … what’s his name?”

  “Dragan Spikic,” he spat.

  “Go to Spikic and tell him that I’ll give him the Britany-Swindol stuff back for two hundred thousand dollars. The condition is he has to come tonight at one in the morning to the Excelsior upper garage’s handicap spot. And he has to bring your wife—Idi, right?”

  Tito looked confused. “What is this to me? Why are you tormenting me?”

  “Focus, Tito, focus. In this handicap spot will be a car with red fuzzy dice on the rearview mirror and instructions on where to drive to meet me. He has to bring Idi so I know he won’t try anything—if he did she might get harmed if there was any rough stuff or double-crosses.”

  “You’re mad! Crazy! He is Kurac, he doesn’t care about Idi.”

  “He doesn’t know I know that. But he’s got to have her come with him or it’s no deal.”

  “Why do I care about this?”

  I leaned in. “You want them dead?”

  His jaw muscles flexed but he couldn’t get the words out.

  “Of course you do. This way that will happen, and you won’t take the blame.”