Marked Man

by Jared Paul

  “I understand. Believe me I don’t want you taking unnecessary risks. Just as long as I know that you have the big picture in mind and you’re not just running around like Uma Thurman on a bloody rampage trying to kill as many of them as you can.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Okay then.”

  The detective brought the outside chill in with her. She wrapped her coat around the back of a chair and sat down next to Jordan Ross, across from Agent Clemons. She kept her red scarf on tied around her neck.

  “God I hate the tunnel on weekends. What did I miss?”

  Agent Clemons glanced quickly at Jordan and then answered her.

  “Nothing. We were just about to go up and order.”

  “Really? You’re going to eat? I thought we were just using that as a pretense.”

  Scooting back his chair, Jordan laughed. “Wouldn’t it be suspicious to come here and not get a corned beef?”

  “Exactly. Have to learn tradecraft, detective. You’ll never make the bureau at this rate,” Agent Clemons added.

  Detective Bollier insisted she wasn’t hungry and told the two of them to go ahead while she waited back at the table. While they were in line to order they watched her picking at the Sunday Times and fidgeting nervously in the seat, unable to keep still. Concerned, Jordan nodded her way.

  “Does she look alright to you?”

  “Someone put a bullet in her locker at work. People in her own precinct are threatening her over this business. Cops she’s known for years. Would you be alright?”

  They both got corned beef sandwiches with steak fries on the side. It was a violation of Jordan’s diet regimen, as Agent Clemons did not fail to note. He replied that it was a necessary sacrifice for tradecraft’s sake. The fed paid for the meal on the company credit card. They ate while Bollier abstained, crossing her arms and curling up her lip into a sneer.

  His mouth still partially full, Agent Clemons told Bollier she was missing out.

  “You really should try this, detective. They’re fantastic.”

  “Ugh. Boys. Wherever I go I’m surrounded by boys. This is why I play for the other team.”

  “How is Shannon by the way? Are you two still uh?” The fed was about to make a signal tapping his two index fingers together but he stopped himself.

  “No comment.”

  When they were finished a waiter came around and cleared the trays away. Agent Clemons finished his iced tea and cleared his throat.

  “So that item that you brought me, detective. Would it be rude of me to ask where you got it?”

  Bollier jerked her thumb at Jordan.

  “Billy the Kid here found it at the motel. Polzin had two dozen of them under his mattress.”

  If he still had part of a sandwich in his mouth Agent Clemons might have choked on it.

  “Two dozen?!”

  He looked to Jordan for corroboration and he nodded.

  “And you just brought the one?”

  “Had to get out of there.”

  Agent Clemons lowered his voice and leaned over the table. His hands were placed flat over the front page of the sports section that prominently featured a prediction of a 21 point blowout loss for the Jets at home. He looked back and forth between Jordan and Bollier. As he related the details about the packet of white powder every now and then he paused for dramatic effect.

  “Alright... So the story with that item is I showed it to our chemists… That it is, indisputably, the purest heroin they have ever seen… I’m talking primo... I went over to another department and talked to our narcotics guy… He said that a high grade kilo like that has a street value of $200,000. Apparently you stumbled on to one of the most lucrative caches of drugs the Russians have ever brought in… they are going to be missing those packages.”

  “So that’s a good thing, right?”

  “Right, it’s just a shame you couldn’t get him to tell you where he got it.” Before Jordan could protest again that he had no choice but to shoot the prick, Agent Clemons cut him off, “I know I’m just saying.”

  “So now what?”

  Detective Bollier broke in.

  “We may have caught a break. I know the plan was to find out where Polzin’s lieutenant is, Rodzanov. One of my CIs got busted for violating his parole yesterday. He told me that Rodzanov owns a night club out in Woodhaven, and that he’s a major supplier. Jordan can go there and collect him. Find out what he knows.”

  “Think you can you handle that Batman?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “No killing this time. Just get Rodzanov and get him to tell you where the shipments are coming in.”

  A mischievous smile spread across Jordan’s face and he lifted his hands to attest to his innocence.

  “No promises.”

  …

  The restaurant was empty except for one patron. Sitting in a booth by himself, Vladimir Shirokov was cutting a salmon filet into manageable bites. Detective Morris Castillo swallowed hard and forced his feet to walk across the floor towards him. Shirokov had a heavy book next to his salad bowl and he paid no attention to the detective as he approached.

  Standing mutely he waited there for the Russian to address him.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Da. Sit.”

  Castillo wiggled his way into the seat in the booth opposite of Shirokov. The outer rim of his belly pressed against the table, which was like all booth tables too large and immobile. Castillo found he could not take a full breath in the confinement and had to settle for short unsatisfying puckers. Shirokov forked a piece of salmon and popped it into his mouth and chewed quietly, seemingly content to not fill the air with talk.

  A waiter or a man who looked like he might be a waiter was leaning against the bar with his legs crossed, watching from across the room. Castillo tried to signal him by snapping his fingers and flashing a handful of green paper.

  “Hey. Whiskey sour over here.”

  The man uncrossed his legs and strolled down the bar then disappeared through a pair of doors into the kitchen. Castillo did not see him again.

  Next to the bread basket an untouched glass of Riesling fizzed and sparkled. Shirokov ate every bite of the fish before he drank, which he took all at once in several full throated gulps. He set the glass down, folded his hands, and addressed Castillo as if he’d just walked in.

  “So, it was good of you to drop by, detective. Did you bring what I asked for?”

  Castillo was put off but all the same he dug into the folder which he’d brought with him. Inside there were a series of documents related to the shootings at the Berganoff Motel the previous week. This included transcriptions of eye witness accounts, statements from the motel owner, crime scene photos, and an artist’s rendering of the prime suspect.

  Shirokof shuffled through the papers, perusing until he came to the composite sketch that the 84th precinct had come up with based on the various accounts of the people who had seen him jump down from the balcony and limp across the parking lot into the night. The suspect had hazel eyes with raccoon circles beneath them. His head was shaved clean and bald, and he had a flowing black beard that reached down to the center of his chest. To Shirokov’s eyes, the man’s jawline appeared tight, as if clenched in perpetual stress or at the memory of some trauma.

  After he had taken a look at everything in the folder Shirokov packed it away and set the folder aside. A cigar butt was clinging to the lip of an ash tray next to the salad bowl. Shirokov picked the butt up and lit it, blowing smoke in Castillo’s direction.

  “Why have not you caught this man yet?”

  If it had been any other man Castillo would have suggested a place where he could keep the cigar rather than nestled between his fingers.

  “I don’t know, probably he skipped out of town otherwise we would have heard something by now.”

  Shirokov puffed at the cigar and squinted through the smoke at the detective.

  “You are aware how much money this thin
g is worth that he has stolen from me.”

  “I got you back 23 out of 24 didn’t I? With as much as you’ve got coming in next week what do you even care about one kilo?”

  “It is especially because of how much is coming in why I am concerned about the one kilo. This is evidence. This is a loose thread. I do not like loose threads. You are aware of this.”

  Castillo knew he was skating on a thin layer of ice but he had grown weary of the blithe way that the Russians treated him. After all the risk he was exposed to they should have been acting grateful.

  “I’m doing what I can, I’m only one guy. You don’t have the whole NYPD on staff, not yet anyway. It’s not like I can spend 24 hours a day looking for him.”

  “Why not?”

  Sighing, the detective quickly glanced around the room as if to appeal to a crowd of invisible customers to help him explain the facts of life to a simpleton. The glassware and the white table cloths were pristine like they had never been used. The chairs were all slumped over resting their faces on the tables like drunks leaning their foreheads against a bathroom wall, eyes closed as they urinated.

  “Because I have a job. It’s a big god damn city, there’s other cases coming in all the time. I’ve got to keep up appearances.”

  “Appearances? What does this mean?”

  Castillo paused and measured his words very carefully so that they would not be construed as an insult.

  “It means that… there are people watching me. I’ve got supervisors, other people I work with. It wouldn’t look right if I was off the reservation all day chasing this one case.”

  The Russian leaned back in the booth and stubbed out the last of his cigar in the ash tray. He held a hand over his mouth, his pointed star tattoo poking out from under the sleeve of his shirt. When Shirokov opened his mouth again his tone had changed. He had been testy, aggravated before and now light and playful. Castillo felt like he was talking to several men at once. Maybe Shirokov was a schizophrenic.

  “Are you a reading man, detective?”

  “No.”

  “No, I did not imagine that you were. You do not look like the type. Anyway, you were educated. I assume that you know Leon Trotsky?”

  Castillo shrugged and wished more than anything that he had a drink in front of him.

  “Some big commie isn’t he?”

  “Was. Yes, he was one of the biggest influences in the Communist party in Russia. He was a bright man, a thoughtful man, an intellectual. Lately I have been reading his History of the Russian Revolution.” Shirokov waited a moment and Castillo made a motion to indicate he hadn’t read it. “Fascinating content, Trotsky understood the sweeping movements in history as they applied to individual Russians, the philosophies of the people as they were coming together as part of this great wave. Interesting book, only there is one problem. Trotsky’s problem was that he assumed everyone else was as smart as he was. Now I am a well-read man, a learned man, and yet he makes allusions to organizations and names of which I have never heard of. He makes no explanation and moves right along with narrative. It makes me feel ignorant. It makes me very angry. You can understand this no doubt.”

  “Yeah. Nobody likes an egghead.”

  A brilliant smile flashed across the Russian’s face. Shirokov’s mood swings could be positively dizzying.

  “Exactly, detective! Well spoken, I could not have said it better myself. Nobody likes an egghead yes. Nobody wants to carry on a conversation with a man who believes himself to be superior to you, or who withholds information that is necessary to comprehend what he is saying. Detective.”

  All at once the Saint Nicholas-like glow on Shirokovs cheeks froze and his cadence changed.

  “Detective? Do. You. Believe. You. Are. My… superior?”

  “No of course not.”

  “Then STOP withholding information. You say that you are being watched and so you cannot complete this favor for me. You will tell me who is watching you and you will tell me now.”

  Castillo tried to swallow but he found his throat dry. Like some freakish Russian magician possessing a dark art, Shirokov had sniffed out his secret. Nothing could be hidden from him. Castillo was almost certain that he could read his thoughts, see into his past and watch his memories with his waking eyes.

  “Ok. The detective you guys chased around on the bridge. The other day she brought this fed into the office.”

  “Fed? What is this fed?”

  “A federale, an FBI agent. She called him in and went around introducing him to everybody in the precinct and when they bumped into me, this FBI guy he points at me and says ‘we know all about you’ down at the office. I’ve never seen this guy before, but he acts like he’s known me my whole life, or like my face is on a bulletin board somewhere next to yours. They know something. I don’t know what, but they know. I may be compromised which is why I have to be extra careful now. If I get caught then I’m no good to you, right?”

  Shirokov’s viciousness vanished just as quickly as it had arrived. He clasped his hands together and shook them like a grieving widow making a plea to any saint or demon who would listen.

  “Agh. Detective, I thank you. I thank you for telling me the truth. Does this not feel so much better than to hide things? To obfuscate?”

  “I guess.”

  “Of course you guess. But you have no need to worry detective. Now that I have information, now that we are equals again in conversation, I can understand your perspective. It is ok.”

  “It’s really no problem?”

  “Continue to do your work as you have been. Arouse no suspicion. Allow me to worry about your detective friend and the federal agent. Ok?”

  Angling out of the booth, Shirokov got up and spread his arms to embrace Castillo, who got up slowly and stood stiff as Shirokov kissed him on both cheeks, and then gently patted each of them. His laugh was soaked through with charisma. Castillo felt childish for being so afraid only moments earlier. He would have walked on fiery coals barefoot for this strange, wonderful Russian man.

  “Come I will see you out. You worry too much detective. No Trotsky, no problem.”

  Shirokov gestured towards the front door of the restaurant and fell in behind him. When the detective’s back was turned Shirokov grabbed a fistful of Castillo’s hair and forced the tip of an ice pick through the base of his spine. He jammed the blade in all the way to the handle.

  Morris Castillo staggered, coughed once then collapsed forward through one of the tables. The white linen fell just right to cover the body from the torso up.

  Chapter Ten

  Petyr Zhadanov’s nightclub XZLENT was a trendy spot. The entrance had a felt rope, a bouncer, and a perpetually growing line of late teens and twenty-somethings braving the early spring chill with the hopes of getting in. Watching them shiver and bounce around in short dresses and heels made Jordan Ross feel very old. The guys in line seemed to be obeying a rigid dress code of blue jeans, dress shoes, and starched collar shirts with the top three buttons loose, exposing hairless chests. After two nights of watching them through his binoculars Jordan knew that he would never get in as is.

  Worst of all the bouncers swept metal detectors over everyone before they were allowed into the club. So even if he got inside, he would be unarmed and surrounded by horny adolescents and vicious Russian gangsters. Nothing about it was going to be easy.

  Jordan put a call in to Bollier and asked for some extra funds in order to get a proper outfit and a bribe for the doorman. Bollier balked at first but after Jordan described the clientele at XZLENT in some detail she agreed that he would never get in without a total overhaul.

  The look would have never worked prior to Jordan’s intensive exercise routines. Nearly all of the males lined up outside XZLENT every night were in impeccable shape, and their clothes were designed to accentuate every rippling muscle possible. Jordan had them beat on that count but making the look work required special magic. He shaved off the vast majority of his grunge r
ock star beard, clipping it down into a neat goatee. Then he bought a series of chain necklaces and hung them around a wife-beater tank top which he wore beneath his shirt. He rolled up the sleeves as far as they would go to show off his biceps.

  When the disguise was complete and he resembled a hip, young, steroids-riddled boy from Bensonhurst, Jordan stood in front of the mirror in his Morningside condo and shook his head.

  “I am going to get so shot before I even get in this place.”

  Even though he showed up relatively early Jordan had to wait in line forty-five minutes before he got up to see the gatekeeper. He stomped at the ground and nodded his head all the time just to keep moving so as not to freeze in place. The slang the kids around him used may as well have been encrypted alien communications from deep space. Doubt crept up inside him, and he started to think that he would never pull this off. Before he could lose his nerve however he found himself at the head of the line.

  The bouncer’s neck was about as wide around as Jordan’s waist. He looked over Jordan’s attire, which must have met his standards because he asked Jordan if he was on the list. Listening in from the CRV with a special device Jordan had learned that the quickest boot was given to those who did not meet the dress code.

  “Are you on the list?”

  Jordan stammered for a moment, absurdly anxious about not being allowed into the club, not because it was vital to the mission, but because it would be so embarrassing to walk away in front of so many people.

  “Uh. No, I’m not. But I know that my friend Ben is.”

  “Ben?”

  “Franklin.”

  Jordan patted his pockets and came out with a hundred dollar bill that he had folded seven times. He slipped the money into the bouncer’s enormous pork-chop of a hand and smiled as nonchalantly as he could manage. The bouncer glanced at the money, and then at Jordan.

  A tight fear settled into Jordan’s chest as he waited for the bouncer’s answer. The guy lifted a walkie-talkie from his belt and called to someone inside.