The Vaults

by Toby Ball

  “In the Vaults,” Van Vossen said peevishly, “you organized by whim.”

  Puskis felt his temper rising. “By whim? The system of organization in the Vaults is a complex, organic system. It is the closest reflection of the very nature of crime.”

  Van Vossen gave a disgusted laugh. “Is that what it is, Mr. Puskis? Are you sure that you don’t force events into categories that bear only certain of the essential characteristics? Are crimes really that similar?”

  Puskis’s reflexive answer was yes, but he stifled it. The question was not adequately answered with a single word. Yet, if he was unable to answer the question affirmatively, what had been the point of the Vaults or his three decades of work therein?

  “How well did you know Abramowitz?” Van Vossen asked, seeming to change tack.

  “He was my mentor.”

  “Did you know him before his decline?”

  “Well, I didn’t have anything to compare it to, but I imagine that he was already, um, troubled, by the time I worked with him.”

  “Do you know why he went insane?”

  Puskis didn’t respond. He had pondered the question for almost twenty years. He had no idea.

  “He went insane because he was looking for a pattern. He was looking for a pattern or a theory or some kind of organizing principle to explain the crime and evil that passed through his hands every day and every week and every year. He tried to find a design, you see, and it drove him insane because in the end there was no design. He looked for God in the deeds of man, and he discovered that all there was were the independent acts of thousands of people. No pattern, no design, no sense. So, as I said, I am having a difficult time organizing my book.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  The signing gala was being held at the former armory, which had been converted to a cavernous ballroom. Red Henry leaned against the temporary bar and watched the workers as they made preparations for the evening. Already, giant American and Polish flags alternated along the walls. Tables were appointed in red and white, and red, white, and blue. Caterers scurried back and forth, carrying crates of glasses, putting out place settings, and carting food to the kitchen. Henry glowered at the lot of them and was rewarded with their nervousness and, in some cases, fear.

  A polka band was setting up on the stage at the far end of the room, the musicians tuning their instruments and playing brief phrases that Henry vaguely recognized. The music added to the cacophony of clanking dishes and slamming doors and chatter in a half dozen languages. Henry took a long draft off a pint of beer. He was getting drunk and comfortably aggressive.

  He heard the maintenance door slam and footsteps approach. He turned to find Peja striding reluctantly toward him. Henry scratched his head with his free hand, knowing he was about to get some news he didn’t want to hear. He could tell by Peja’s eyes.

  “Out with it,” he growled by way of greeting.

  Peja avoided his eyes. “Okay, sir. The Poles, well, the Poles aren’t coming.”

  Henry stared at a spot twenty feet behind Peja, focusing on maintaining his temper. “The Poles aren’t coming?” he said, carefully enunciating each word.

  “My understanding is that they’re backing out of the deal. They don’t want to sign the contract.”

  Henry considered this for a moment, finished his beer, and threw the empty glass down hard on the floor, where it shattered into tiny shards. Peja flinched, then gathered himself.

  “Is this just your understanding or is this a fact?”

  “It’s a fact, sir. I heard it from Rinus himself.”

  Henry spoke with chilling calm. “Why, in your opinion, have they changed their minds at this late date?”

  “I checked into that. The officers who had surveillance at the Poles’ hotel said that the woman from the strike at Bernal’s had been to the hotel. Presumably she met with Rinus.”

  “ ‘Presumably she met with Rinus,’ ” Henry mocked. “We’re talking about the woman Carla Hallestrom?”

  “I’m fairly sure it’s her.”

  “They just let her walk in? That goddamn labor chippie waltzes right into a hotel where a very important group of businessmen is staying on the afternoon of a crucial deal and they just let her walk in?” Henry’s voice was rising in volume, and the workers cast worried glances in his direction.

  “I addressed that very point with them, and they said that they had not been given any directive for that situation.”

  “Can’t they fucking think, for Christ’s sake?”

  “They pride themselves on their discipline, as you know, sir. They held off and monitored the situation, as they put it.”

  Henry knew that he had insisted upon this unstinting discipline. “So this Carla meets with Rinus and he decides—what?—he’s not going to move his factory here after all?”

  “That’s not exactly what he said. He said he wanted to look at some options before committing to us.”

  “It’s the same goddamn thing. If he leaves here without signing the contract, he won’t return.” Henry sighed. “What did she say to them? Did she threaten them? Bribe them? Did she whore herself for their compliance?”

  Peja shrugged. “Rinus was not forthcoming.”

  “Bring me a beer,” Henry yelled to nobody in particular. He wanted to go over to that hotel and grab Rinus by his fucking collar and drag him down here to sign the fucking contract and drink this shitty Polish beer and fulfill his goddamn responsibility. But experience had shown Henry that waiting would be more effective. Let them sleep on whatever it was that the little commie bitch had told them. He would speak to them in the morning, bring the entirety of his overpowering personality to bear on the Poles, and they would see sense. His powers of persuasion were rarely resisted.

  He still had this evening to get through. He gave Peja a wolf’s grin.

  “Don’t tell anyone that this deal has gone south. This is still a celebration. The story is the Poles have come down with food poisoning. Understand? This goes on as usual.”

  Peja smiled. “You’ll go and talk to them?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “You’ll use all your charm?” Peja said, and winked, feeling cocky again.

  A young Mexican arrived with a beer that Henry took without comment. He took half of it down and refocused on Peja.

  “There’s going to be a lot of goddamn charm for everyone,” Henry said, then drank the other half. He beckoned Peja closer so that they would not be overheard. “I need you to do something. I will not be crossed by any pissant union communist subversives. I want you to get in touch with Martens at the ASU. All resources are to be focused on finding Dotel and the girl. By morning, they need to be dead. Tell Martens his career is in the balance.”

  Peja nodded, happy that someone else was now in the crosshairs.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  When her abductor came in, Nora was reading a copy of Othello she had found in the bookcase in her room. She’d seen the play years ago and could picture the performance as she read. She glanced up, no longer startled by his abrupt entrances.

  Something about him had changed. The nature of the change was not entirely clear, nor what it signified, but it was there nonetheless. Was it a slight slump in his posture? A subtle line of stress in his usually placid features? And what accounted for it? The sexual tension that she had carefully fostered between them? Or something else? Was it a prelude to action? Was he gathering himself to do something to her? This thought scared her and also gave her hope. This was another crack in the dike, another possibility where there had once been none. She needed to figure out how to exploit it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

  The setting sun had turned the sky a dark purple, spotted with magenta cirrus clouds. Poole kept to side streets and alleys as he made his way back toward the Hollows. His left hand was immobilized in a bandage. As he walked, he periodically felt in his right pocket for the reassuring grip of Enrique’s pistol. He’d never shot anyone. Showing a gu
n was usually enough to discourage; a shot over the shoulder was always more than enough. People were in no hurry to die.

  This, however, was a different situation. Previously, a gun had given him control over a situation, given him confidence. Now he was scared and knew that he would shoot to kill if confronted by the ASU. Preferring to avoid them at all costs, he kept to the shadows as he made his way toward St. Mark’s, where he hoped to find Casper Prosnicki.

  Carla had been reluctant to let him leave.

  “We’ve hurt him,” she said. “The Poles won’t be signing. Henry will be mad as a hornet.”

  How had she accomplished that? She knew how to talk to them, she said. She knew what they would fear most in America, and she’d played to those fears. Organized crime. She’d told them that soon after they opened the plant, they would start to experience vandalism and theft. They would get a visit from one of Henry’s hatchet men—she’d described Smith, specifically—and the payments for police protection would start. Labor. She told them that she, personally, would organize the workers they brought over. If the workers initially resisted being organized, she had the muscle to intimidate them into compliance.

  Rinus had looked at her, she said, with relief in his eyes. Something about Henry bothered the Poles. They weren’t coming to America to be pushed around, Rinus said. The pressure Henry was putting on them to sign the contract had given them pause. Carla’s visit merely reinforced their misgivings and gave them a reason to back out.

  “So there’s no need to find the boy,” Carla pleaded, knowing that this was no longer about subverting the mayor. It had become something else.

  Poole was wary when he got to St. Mark’s Square, keeping to the shadows and watching for a full five minutes without seeing anything that concerned him. He finally broke from cover, moving swiftly—not running, but almost. He took the steps three at a time and came to the door. Locked. How could a door this decrepit be locked? He pushed again, harder this time, and it gave a little. Not locked. Barricaded.

  He took a step back, got low, and exploded into the door with his full weight. Somehow the impact registered in his damaged hand, and he shook it in a vain attempt to ease the pain. He’d moved the door enough to slip through. Movement came from the darkness, barely audible noises, a subtle shifting in the air.

  “It’s Poole,” he said in a stage whisper. “I was here the other day. You brought me upstairs to see the Brother.”

  Hearing no response, Poole pulled his flashlight from his pocket and shone the light on his face. A stirring came from in front of him, by the stairs.

  A prepubescent voice said, “You come to see Casper?”

  “That’s right. Is he here?”

  The boy didn’t reply, and Poole heard footsteps running up the stairs, though whether in retreat or to fetch Casper, he wasn’t sure.

  At least three sets of footsteps returned, and when they reached the landing above the ground floor, Poole could tell that one of them was carrying a lantern. The footsteps stopped before entering the lobby. The boy carrying the lantern must have been second in line because an elongated shadow was cast onto the illuminated patch of floor. A boy spoke, the movement of the shadow telling Poole that it was the boy in front.

  “Who’re you?” The voice was in that funny place between boy and teen. It was not, however, scared.

  “What’s that?”

  “Who’re you? Name?”

  “Ethan Poole. Call me Ethan. Are you Casper Prosnicki?”

  There was murmuring on the staircase, the shadow contorting with the boy’s movements. The boy spoke again. “What you want?”

  “What do I want?” Poole wasn’t sure whether he was not hearing clearly or whether it was the boy’s speech.

  The boy grunted in the affirmative.

  “Casper, your mother asked me to find you. I’m here because of your mother.” No answer. “Her name is Lena.”

  “You lie,” the boy said.

  “Casper, listen. Why are you using those bombs?”

  Again there was a consultation on the stairs. The shadow shrank as the boy squatted.

  “It’s not me.”

  “Casper, I know it’s you. I’m not here to punish you or take you in. I just need to know why. I need to know why you’re using the bombs. I need to know why your mother asked me to find you. I need to know why they killed your mother, Casper. You know they killed her, don’t you?”

  There was another silence, and this time Poole let it hang there in the darkness.

  Finally the boy spoke. “The man came. The man with red hair on his face. He came and told us who killed our mums and dads. He told us.” Then the boy said the names with great ferocity: “Red Henry, Ian Block, Roderigo Bernal, Altabelli. We know their names.”

  It was Whiskers. Poole had known him before Whiskers had finally been sent away. He cringed at the thought of Whiskers around children. What had he been doing?

  “Did he want you to hurt those men?”

  The boy made that affirmative grunt again. “He brings the bombs. He showed us how to make them work.”

  “He brought you the stuff for the bombs and showed you how to make them and told you who to use them on?”

  Whiskers was using children to get his revenge on Red Henry and the whole cabal. Poole took off his hat, rubbed his bandaged left hand through his hair, and replaced the hat at the angle he liked.

  “Are the rest of the bombs at the warehouse?”

  “Nah.”

  “They’re not?”

  “The man came by today and took them. He came today.”

  Jesus Christ. Whiskers had come by to retrieve his bombs, which meant that he had either given up on the kids or was in some kind of hurry. To do what? The obvious answer raised a number of troubling questions—first among them, should Poole do anything about it? Let actions take their course and it could be a great favor to Carla.

  He was still digesting this information when he heard the scrape of footsteps on the granite steps outside.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

  Frings headed straight to the bar. He’d timed his arrival pretty well, he thought. The armory was humming with the City’s elite and beautiful. He’d managed to arrive during the interval between the first wave of the punctual and the second wave of the fashionably late. In an hour the place would be teeming. Now it was merely crowded.

  He got a scotch on the rocks and worked his way to some breathing room at the edge of the crowd. His relative anonymity without Nora was almost nostalgic. With Nora, Frings would have been making small talk with wives and friends and hangers-on while Nora went through her act of harmless flirtation with the men and girl-to-girl intimacy with the women. He was grateful for the lack of attention at the moment, though it made him think of Nora and how crucial his upcoming confrontation with Red Henry would be.

  Tannen, with the News, appeared out of the crowd with two pints of beer. A small man in an oversize suit, he’d carefully trimmed his mustache so that it was merely a line tracing his upper lip.

  “Howdy, Frank,” he said, proffering one of the beers.

  Frings placed his empty whiskey glass on a ledge and accepted the beer, nodding in thanks.

  “Congrats on finding the bombers,” Tannen said. “You scooped us on that one.”

  The Gazette scooped the News on just about everything, Frings thought. That was the price the News paid for being the unofficial official newspaper of Red Henry. Lots of access, little news.

  “Good fortune,” Frings said.

  “Don’t be so modest, Frank. We make our good fortune, you know that as well as I do. And you, Frank, make the best fortune of anybody. I always tell people, ‘I don’t know how he does it.’ But you do it, Frank. Again and again you do it. What’s the secret?”

  Frings scanned the crowd as Tannen talked, hoping that he would take the hint and leave. “There’s no secret. You just plug away and sometimes something turns up.”

  Tannen laughed. “That’s
right. Plug away. Something turns up. From what I hear, sometimes you don’t even have to plug away before something turns up. Sometimes you walk into your office and someone has sent you a letter and promises to let you in on all the secrets. How does one make that kind of luck, Frank? Surely it just doesn’t happen.”

  Frings returned his attention to Tannen. “Sometimes, people make decisions based on what they’ve seen of you. Sometimes, if you work hard to establish a reputation, people trust you and want you to tell their story. Is that what you’re asking me?”

  “I see,” Tannen said, and Frings suddenly realized the extent of the little man’s intoxication. “But that couldn’t happen with me, I suppose. That couldn’t happen with Erroll Tannen at the News because I’ve got the mayor’s cock in my hand and I’m giving it the back-and-forth. Nobody’s going to trust that kind of story to me.”

  Frings shrugged. “You do things your way, I do things mine. I’m not making any judgments.”

  “Like hell you’re not,” Tannen said loudly, attracting some attention now. “People are getting pretty sick of this self-righteous crap you’re throwing around, Frank. Your time in the limelight is nearing its end.”

  “Thanks for the beer,” Frings said, and took a step to walk past Tannen.

  Tannen moved sideways to block his way. “Not yet, Frank. I’ve got more to say.”

  A crowd had gathered around them, and Frings, realizing he had to tread carefully, leaned forward so that his mouth was close enough to Tannen’s ear that he did not have to yell to be heard over the din in the big room.

  “If you want to talk about this, Erroll, I would be happy to. But not here.” Frings straightened up and began to walk toward the middle of the room where couples briskly polkaed.

  “That’s right, Frank. Walk away. What’re you afraid of, Frank? Why don’t you want to talk?”

  The crowd parted to let Frings through. He felt their eyes upon him, and it was like being there with Nora, though instead of the adoration she received, he was the object of confusion and even distaste.