by Jay Deb
ON THE WAY back to the train station, at a street corner, Doerr saw three men, two black and one white, harassing a girl. The men were young, twenty-some years of age, and the girl was younger and black. She wore a white sweater over her jeans, her right hand held by the white man.
“Let me go, asshole,” she said with disdain, trying to free herself. “I don’t owe you no money.”
The man drew her closer and whispered something into her ear.
Doerr was about a hundred feet away, and other than the three men and the girl, no one else was around. He couldn’t hear what the harasser said. As Doerr rushed toward them, the two black men turned to Doerr, one of them tall, at least six foot six, and the other one short. The men stood there, pose confrontational, the third man still holding the girl’s hand.
“What’s going on?” Doerr asked.
“None of your fucking business,” replied the tall guy. “Get outta here if you don’t want trouble.”
Doerr saw the tall man pull a gun from his pocket. A gun was always to be afraid of, he’d been told during his training with the agency. Doerr glanced at the firearm. It was a worn-out 9mm Smith and Wesson that were so plentiful in Gotham City.
The third man let the girl’s hand go and stood next to the tall man. Now all three men were staring at him, ready to attack.
The girl stood there, waiting and watching.
“You can still leave,” the tall man said to Doerr.
“Go away,” another guy said.
Doerr shook his head. “Let the girl go. Then I go. I won’t hurt you.”
The tall man wielded his gun, and all three men laughed.
“I have the gun, asshole,” the man said, cocking his gun. “And I’ll kill you if you don’t leave.”
“See my head,” Doerr said.
The three men came closer, inspecting Doerr’s head from a five or six-foot distance.
“Look closer. What do you see?”
The tall man said, “There is no shit. Did you put some shit up there?” He and his two friends laughed.
Doerr saw the girl retreat slowly.
“What do you see here?” Doerr pointed his finger at his head.
“There’s nothing,” the men chorused.
“There’s a sign up there. It says don’t mess with me. Do you see it?”
The three men stared at Doerr’s head, searching for a tiny sign of some sort.
Doerr saw the girl trot away and disappear out of sight. His method worked. All the sign stuff was to distract the ruffians, letting the girl flee from the scene. Now it was time to take care of that gun, and then he’d be ready to leave and resume his life.
One man looked behind them, trying to spot the girl.
“Hey, Carla is gone,” he said.
The tall man raised his gun and pointed the barrel at Doerr’s head.
“She’s gone,” the tall man thundered. “And now I’m going to shoot you.”
Doerr kept calm; he knew if a man was saying he’d fire, then it was certain he wasn’t going to. Otherwise, he’d have just shot rather than utter threatening words.
Doerr raised his hands and said, “Please don’t shoot. Give me the gun. Go home and everything will be okay.”
The man gave him an ugly smile and glanced at his friend, who displayed a dismissive grin and said, “You don’t know who you’re messing with. Keep those arms up.”
Doerr complied and kept his hands up. “What did the girl do?”
“She owed us money,” the short black man said.
“We control this fucking area,” the tall man said. “So don’t come here. You got any money?”
“Yes.” Doerr let out a sigh of relief, hoping the cash would resolve the conflict without any bloodletting. “Lots. Check my pocket. Take whatever the girl owed and then some.”
The tall man motioned for the short man to check Doerr’s pocket while the white man looked around, making sure no one was coming their way. The short man came close to Doerr, dipped his hand in Doerr’s pocket and pulled out a bundle of dollar bills.
“Whoa!” the man said. “You a drug peddler or somethin’? How the fuck you got so much clams?”
“I’m not a drug peddler. I work for the government,” Doerr said. “Now take what the girl owed you plus some more and hand me that gun. Then we can all go home.”
The short man laughed at Doerr and then glanced at the tall man.
“You know what,” the short man said. “You talk too much.” The man swung his left hand, intending to hit Doerr in the face. But Doerr had been expecting it, so he ducked, and he wanted to jab the guy to the floor, but there was the man in front with the gun in hand. So he did nothing more.
The tall man walked forward angrily and hit Doerr’s forehead with the gun’s butt. Doerr felt warm blood trickling down his face, pain spreading through his head like a coiling snake. His forehead became painful, but physical pain never meant anything to Doerr. It had been a long time since someone had hit him.
The tall man clenched his teeth. “Now get the hell out of here, you old moron.” The man raised his hand, about to hit Doerr again.
Doerr turned his body and positioned his shoulder. As the man swung his arm, Doerr grabbed the moving hand and then gave it a twist. It was a risky move; the man could have fired his gun, and Doerr might have been killed. But the fact was that the gang members in New York, or anywhere in the world for that matter, didn’t really know how to fire a gun and hit the opponent. Most of the time just by showing a gun, they could get whatever they wanted. Once they saw a firearm, most citizens gave up their money and jewelry or whatever the thugs demanded. The gun might not be able to fire, or it might not be loaded or it might not even be a real gun. The citizens never had the time to think, and the thugs almost always won without ever firing a bullet.
Doerr twisted the tall man’s arm even more, and the gun fell to Doerr’s feet, and the man was now on the ground, reeling from the pain. Doerr had trained for this type of situation. Satisfied that his method worked, Doerr bent down to pick up the gun.
“Stop,” the short man said.
Doerr was about to grab the gun lying on the ground. He stopped and took a sidelong glance and saw a gun in the short man’s hand. Doerr stood up. The tall man was still lying on the floor and looked to be in great pain.
The white man said to the short man, “Just shoot him. Be done. Shoot him, man!”
“I’m not sure, dude,” the short man said. “He said he worked for the government.”
“So what? See what he has done to him,” the white man said and pointed at the tall man lying on the ground.
The short man hesitated.
For Doerr, this was the time. He stooped, picked up the gun from the ground, and shot at the short man’s arm. The man’s gun flew. Grimacing, the man grabbed the wounded hand with the other and sat down on the ground.
Doerr picked up the second gun and demanded, “Give me my cash back.”
The white man ran away.
“Give him his fucking money back,” screamed the tall man, clutching his knees.
The short man threw the bundle of dollars at Doerr’s feet.
Doerr picked up his money and the duffel bag, pointed the gun at the short man’s injured arm and said, “Get that checked out and learn to respect women.”
Doerr put the two guns in his duffel and started walking away.
After two blocks, he tossed the guns into a dumpster.
DOERR GOT OFF a J line train at Delancey Street-Essex Street station. It was almost four p.m. If all that drama with the three thugs hadn’t happened, he should have been on the boat by now. As he walked toward East River Park, he felt hungry, so he purchased a large candy bar from a store on the way.
A few minutes later, he could see the waterline of the East River. He paced faster, and his mind was crowded with the memories of his late wife. He saw a man walking ahead of him, a laptop bag hanging from his shoulder. He remembered how his late wife use
d to bring home her laptop every night. He’d asked her why she had to carry that heavy laptop computer every day to and from work. She had said she might need to login anytime to fix the critical issues with the banking software that was up twenty-four seven and was used by her bank’s customers and employees in forty-eight different countries.
“If the software is down for ten minutes, we lose ten million dollars,” she’d said.
Now, the sun was going down, an orange hue visible at the horizon.
Soon, Doerr talked to Mike, a young man about twenty years old, who gave him the key and showed him the boat. It was a small boat behind which a much larger cargo ship was passing down the river, heading for the ocean.
On the outer side of the boat, a snake picture was painted in black with the snake’s open mouth pointing down as if to scare away the sea animals.
Doerr stepped onto the boat and put down the duffel bag on the floor, and a ubiquitous sadness gripped his mind. He felt he was taking his last journey with Gayle.
Doerr inserted the key into the ignition and cranked it on. He checked the fuel level – full.
He glanced at the tiny hole in the boat’s hull. Water was getting in slowly. The Brooklyn man had been right – it was manageable. He saw a bucket lying on the boat’s floor that could be used to bail out the water.
He peered at the sky – it was getting darker; the moon was visible and stars were showing up too.
“Release the anchor,” Doerr said to Mike, who had been standing near the pillar.
“It’ll get dark very soon, Mr. Doerr. Are you sure you want to go out there now?” Mike pointed to the ocean. “People get disoriented at night.”
“I have to go. It’s a special day, Mike.” Today was Gayle’s birthday, and Doerr thought it’d be the apt day to bury her ashes in the ocean that she’d asked to be the final resting place for her.
Mike released the anchor, and Doerr steered the boat toward the deep water.
An hour later, when he could no longer see the light of the shoreline, he stopped the boat’s engine and emptied the ashes from the urn into the water. He looked at the moon and wondered if Gayle had seen a similar white light, like they say, right after that explosion before she’d died. He stood there for a few minutes, and then he headed back to shore.
Chapter 9 Turin
As time passed, the Turin hotel seemed like another prison, maybe even worse. In the Nevada jail, Janco could talk to other inmates, give them advice, and share feelings. Here in the hotel, he could see only Gibbs’s grumpy face and the face of another man who had brought food a few times, and Janco didn’t even know his name.
He remembered Jeremy – the nineteen-year-old black man who’d grown up in a bad neighborhood. Jeremy had been convinced by three gang members to accompany them to a bank, lured by the promise of a hundred dollars, which he’d planned to use to buy a pair of Nike basketball shoes. Inside the bank, the gang members pulled out guns and told the customers to lie down on the floor, and everyone complied except one elderly man. Soon, he was lying on the ground too, but only after being shot in the head by one of the gang members. Jeremy had never seen someone go down like that. Terrified, he scampered away like a deer running for its life. Minutes later, he was panting, glad that he’d escaped, only to be picked up by the police the next day. The prosecutor argued – if you’re part of a robbery and a murder happens, then you’re a murderer too, state law, even though all Jeremy did was watch someone die and then run at the first sight of blood. The judge sentenced Jeremy to twelve years in prison, could’ve been life. After five years, Jeremy had been eligible for parole, but he refused to apply for parole, saying he wanted to serve out the entire sentence.
Maybe Jeremy got used to life in the big house, Janco thought.
Now, for Janco it was just the opposite; he craved to flee this hotel-jail. But how?
His daily routine had not changed. He had been eating the food brought by Gibbs in grocery bags.
One day, when Janco complained about the stale food, Gibbs gave him some money to order pizza from a nearby pizza place. Gibbs gave him the number.
Janco ordered a large cheese pizza the same night and kept the pizza box under his bed; he didn’t throw it away. Whenever Gibbs came to Janco’s room, Janco placed the same pizza box near the door, implying he’d spent money ordering a pizza, and then he asked Gibbs for more money. In two and a half weeks, Janco accumulated two hundred and sixty euros.
One day Janco finished his breakfast and waited for Gibbs’s ten a.m. visit. There was a knock on the door, and Janco opened it. Gibbs stood there with his usual sullen face and a bag of groceries.
A minute later, Gibbs was sitting on a chair in front of the bed, facing Janco. The TV was on, with a soccer game being shown, volume muted.
“We’re going to be here for a while,” Gibbs said.
“But you said the Iranians would call,” Janco said. “And I’ve talked to no one.”
“Don’t worry; someone from Iran will speak to you soon.”
“It’s been a month,” Janco murmured to himself. He wanted to know what was going on but didn’t have the courage to confront Gibbs for an answer. Gibbs had brought him out of the jail, and now he was Janco’s only contact with the rest of the world.
Janco had been told Gibbs was hired by the Iranians to bring him here so Janco could talk to the Iranians and help them with building the big bomb. But so far no one from Iran had spoken to him. If the Iranians really hired Gibbs to do this and were paying all expenses, then why had they not talked to him?
By now Janco was sure that the Iranian story was just a story, and the reality was something else.
What’s Gibbs up to? Janco thought. Will he kill me? If yes, he’d have done it already.
The uncertainty was eating Janco’s head.
“Are you happy here?” Gibbs asked.
“Yes, I am,” Janco said like a trained dog. He knew that was the answer Gibbs was expecting.
“But you don’t seem happy.”
“It’s all because of the tension.” Janco swallowed. “Not knowing where I’m going next.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll be moving soon.”
Taking a deep breath, Janco asked, “Where to?”
“I wish I knew.” Gibbs sighed. “Unfortunately the answer has to come from Tehran.”
Tehran? Janco thought. Really?
“We just have to wait it out, my friend,” Gibbs continued and Janco pretended to believe every word. “There is one more stop. Then we go to the final place.” Gibbs gave him a faint smile.
Since leaving the prison, it was the first time Janco saw Gibbs smile.
“Where will our next stop be? Here in Italy or–”
Gibbs shook his head. “I told you I don’t know. Someone else makes that decision. Okay? But you will know soon.”
Janco was thinking about his getaway. He had two hundred and sixty euros but not much else.
“Look.” Gibbs stood up. “I’m going to take a break for a couple of days and won’t come here. Here are a hundred euros.” Gibbs handed the money to Janco. “Should be enough for a few days, right?” Gibbs continued speaking without waiting for an answer. “Like I said before. Don’t go out. Don’t talk to anyone. And never hang out in the lobby. That’s the worst you can do to yourself. If you need food, just call the pizza place. Have them deliver right to your door. Just like you’ve been doing.”
“Got it.” Janco nodded like a fourth-grade student.
“I got you a lot of food today.” Gibbs pointed to the grocery bag lying on the floor. “Put the frozen stuff in the freezer. I got those Pepperidge Farm cookies that you requested. Okay?” Gibbs turned to leave.
Janco stood up, ready to see Gibbs off. “Do you think I can take a walk in the hallway once in a while?”
“No, no. Never do that. Remember, the Feds can never come inside this room. But they can come there.” Gibbs pointed at the door.
“Okay. I’ll not step
outside.”
“Take care.” Gibbs shook Janco’s hand. “Stay inside.”
Janco nodded and smiled wryly. Gibbs opened the door and left.
Janco walked to the grocery bag Gibbs had left for him. Janco took out the bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies and opened it, took one cookie, put it in his mouth and sat down on the bed.
He chewed and savored the sweetness of every molecule in that cookie. He put another one inside his mouth and looked at the clock – 7:15 p.m. He counted the cookies left in the bag – ten. He decided to eat two more, and that would be his dinner.
He had eaten potato chips or a Snickers bar for dinner on many days to save that pocket money, and some days he’d just gone hungry, which gave him a nagging stomach pain.
Janco stood up, opened a drawer and lifted the Bible. Underneath, there was a bunch of euro bills, his savings. With the money Gibbs had just given him, Janco now had three hundred and sixty euros in total.
Janco drank some water and then stood in front of the TV for a few minutes. From the table, he picked up the English-to-Italian book and lay down on the bed. He’d memorized a few sentences already.
Good morning – buongiorno.
Good night – buonanotte.
How are you? – Come sono yo?
How much does it cost? – Quanto costa?
Can I have a burger? – Posso avere un hamburger?
How was your day? – Com'è stata la tua giornata?
Today he decided to memorize five more sentences, hoping this newly acquired knowledge would soon be useful.
The following day, Janco woke up at six a.m.
He had picked up the early rising habit in the prison. During his professor days, it had been just the opposite. Back then, he used to wake up at eight a.m. or later and reach work at ten a.m., sometimes at noon.
Janco went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, did the usual chores, and then made some coffee. At seven a.m. he opened his door and picked up the Olive Press Newspaper, written all in English. Gibbs had arranged for the newspaper to be delivered every morning.
Janco fiddled through the newspaper for an hour or so, focusing mostly on the page where American news was printed. At nine a.m. he was resolute to head for the lobby, disobeying Gibbs for the first time. Janco came out of his room and walked down the hallway leading toward the elevator. He knew he was on the third floor of the three-level hotel.