The Nightworkers

by Brian Selfon

  A dead echoing moment, as if after a gunshot. Henry to self: Did that—did he—am I?

  There’s no answer, but there’s a hot pain on his cheek that feels like a scratch. And he’s still on the floor.

  “Hey.”

  From the hall, a new voice. Henry pushes up, stands, and turns, and here’s Kerasha, slipping past him. She walks to Uncle Shecky, takes the ledger from his hands, carries it to his desk, and sets it down. Then she turns back to Henry. “You okay?”

  Henry touches his cheek, checks his hand. “Yeah.” No blood.

  She turns to her uncle. “You?”

  Uncle Shecky doesn’t answer. Seems more stunned than anyone, and his silence stretches on until Kerasha says, “Someone’s on the porch.”

  * * *

  A race down the stairs, Henry with a clear lead.

  “It’s just Vasya,” Shecky calls out from behind. Sounding a little winded.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “He’s coming over. We have a meeting.”

  “Red Dog is killing tonight,” Henry says, shouting back over his shoulder from the bottom of the staircase. “We could be next.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Henry stops and turns. “I can think of two hundred and fifty thousand reasons.”

  Uncle Shecky catches up, breathing hard. “And how will he get his money back,” he says, bending over, putting his hands on his knees, “if he kills us.”

  “So let me explain that to him,” Henry says. “He’s my client, and it was my runner. This is on me.” He lowers his voice, puts his hands together as if pleading. “This is how you trained me. You have to let me do this.”

  When Uncle Shecky shakes his head no, Henry turns from him anyway. Goes to the door.

  Memories from his own training. Put your left foot just before the jamb—Uncle Shecky taught him this. Henry’s fourteen again, and he’s sixteen, and it’s last month. “You can’t stop them from breaking down the door,” Uncle Shecky said once, “but you can stop them from kicking it into your face.” The training is long over; the training is inside him. “Stand perpendicular to the door, like you’re boxing it.” Henry won’t put his eye anywhere near the peephole. Right hand to the gun, left hand on the knob.

  “Henry, wait,” Uncle Shecky says, but Henry pulls open the door, and Lipz is already tumbling into the house.

  * * *

  A crushing embrace. Relief, exasperation. Henry pushes Lipz away and looks her over. No bruises, no fear. But her eyes are bloodshot and wet, and her hands are black with ashes.

  “The fuck,” Uncle Shecky says.

  Before Uncle Shecky can get out another word, Henry takes Lipz to the porch, closes the door behind him, and gives her a second hug. “You’re okay.”

  “It was Tiger,” she says. “Red Dog hacked him up and burned the pieces. Because of us.” She backs up to the rail of the porch, leans against it, head in her hands. “Tiger got out too quick. You thought it, I told it.”

  Henry takes this in. Street justice is always ugly, but he’s never heard of someone getting dropped like this. Red Dog kills when he has to, but efficiently—a blade in the back, a bullet from the shadows. But this is beyond business, beyond assassination—this is a blood-soaked rite.

  Not your problem, he tells himself. Remember what’s important: Kerasha is alive, Lipz is alive.

  But there’s no stopping Lipz, no way not to hear how her hated and beloved mostly-ex was hunted down. Spread out in small parts around the neighborhood. No way not to take in that Tiger was burned—bit by bit—with notice to all the witnesses:

  This is what happens to snitches.

  part eight

  the trusted partner

  chapter 35

  Just before nine o’clock that night, Shecky Keenan receives a text. It’s on a partner phone, the one he uses exclusively with Vasya, whom Shecky had been expecting at the house for some time. He’s canceling, Shecky thinks, he’s done with my emergencies, he’s found another fixer. But the text tells him to step out of the house. So this will be a walk-and-talk, Shecky supposes. Not a terrible idea, considering the blue Impala, the green Mustang, the detective’s badge, the I-Card, the pole camera Kerasha cut down. The closed and frozen accounts, the internal inquiry. The fires. Vasya’s caution protects me too, Shecky thinks. Hope to Jesus this is a sign of trust.

  Stepping out into another humid night, he hears a honk from a sedan idling a few doors down. A livery cab, judging by its make and condition. Shecky hesitates, wishing his affairs were less disordered, worrying about the kids. Uncertain whether he will live through the night.

  A driver steps out, a heavyset man in a crisp white shirt. “Good evening, sir. You’re Vasya’s friend?”

  I hope so.

  He gets into the back, which smells of some lemony cleaning solution. There’s a briefcase on the seat. Shecky buckles himself in and doesn’t touch it.

  Behind the driver’s seat, on a glass panel, blue stickers indicate that the cab is licensed by the city’s Taxi and Limousine Commission. Maybe this is real. Maybe I won’t die after all. Vasya is just avoiding the house, an understandable precaution under the circumstances. But Shecky can’t relax about the driver until the car pulls up to a curb. Until he sees that they’ve parked outside Knish-Knosh, the same greaser where he and Henry had looked over the incident report.

  The driver comes around and opens the door for Shecky. “It’s all paid for,” he says, when Shecky offers money. Shecky nonetheless gives him a five-dollar bill and is turning toward the greaser when the driver, standing behind him now, says, “Just a minute, sir.” Shecky half expects a gunshot, a numb, deaf moment before he feels he’s been hit. This is how it happens, he’s heard. But there’s no shot and here’s the driver with his crisp shirt, pushing the briefcase at him.

  “That isn’t mine,” Shecky says.

  The driver just smiles, and Shecky, at a loss, gives him another five-dollar bill. When the cab at last drives off, Shecky has the briefcase in hand.

  Just inside the diner, a yellowish, suited man with polished shoes inspects the pie racks. Even from behind Shecky can recognize Vasya by his head, which is small and bald and unusually round. Vasya carries himself like a man who buys what he wants and pays cash. Shecky’s relief at seeing his longtime partner is considerable. This is no hatchet man come to fire him, no gun sent to end things. And yet his relief doesn’t last long. Vasya turns and his smile is chilling.

  They are seated and given menus. Beers are poured for them before Shecky can even concentrate on the menu. Vasya, meanwhile, is becoming unnervingly irreverent and casual; deliberately—perversely, even—he steers the conversation straight at the most unsettling topics.

  “What’s happening to our city?” Vasya asks. “The death of a young artist. Murder and fires. A burnt arm found next to a hydrant. The papers say it could be a gang war, but can you believe them?”

  Shecky attempts his own smile. He feels queasy and regrets the fried pierogi he just ordered. Wonders if it’s too late to get something easier on the stomach.

  “Gang wars can end,” Vasya says, lowering his voice, “but mugging will never go away. This is just my opinion, but who doesn’t want to knock someone down? At least once in a while, right? The feeling you must get, standing over a body, able to take anything from it, or do anything to it—such power. It must be like a narcotic.”

  Shecky says nothing.

  The food arrives: shish kabob for Vasya, the fried pierogi for Shecky. “Speaking of narcotics. There’s a new device, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it. They say it’s very effective with opioids.” Vasya slices a square of spiced lamb. “It administers a precise dose—and that can be calibrated—but it can be administered anywhere, by anyone. No rubber band around the arm, no foil or spoon, no slapping for a vein. You just press the little device to the body, and pop! The little needle goes in and out. There’s no mess. You use the device once, and then you throw it away. It
’s the same technology as the EpiPen, only—on the street, at least—they’re calling it the FeniPen. Because it was originally designed to administer fentanyl. Isn’t that clever?”

  Vasya eats heartily. Shecky feels like he’s in a play he never got the lines for, but who knows, he could be putting on a decent show. This is something he’s learned at the Watts Community Theater: his best work comes when he takes his mind off what he’s doing.

  “I see you have your briefcase,” Vasya says sometime later, wiping his mouth.

  “My briefcase?” Shecky says. “I wasn’t sure.”

  “Open it up, look inside,” Vasya says. “Everything that was in that garbage bag—it’s all there for you. We kept nothing for ourselves, after paying our contractor. Ten percent, industry standard.”

  Really, Shecky thinks, there’s a standard for this?

  Vasya signals for a second beer. “To be honest, my first impulse was to cover the expenses myself, out of my own pocket. From a private family account. But I know you too well. You would have been offended. I could almost hear your words: ‘This is my mess. I’ll pay the cleaning bill.’ What do you think, does that sound like you? Minus the accent, of course.”

  Say thank you, Shecky coaches himself. Come on, just say the lines, give your audience the old humble-grovel. But before Shecky can say anything, the waitress is there with Vasya’s beer. She puts it down, looks at Shecky’s plate, and asks if anything is wrong with the pierogi.

  “It’s fine,” Shecky says.

  “I forget, you always dine with your family,” Vasya says. “I appreciate your keeping me company.” He looks up at the waitress. “Two espressos, please,” he says, absently tapping his lapel pin. “And you can take these plates—we’re done.”

  The sense of dread gives way to light-headedness. How surreal, this moment. Shecky has always liked Vasya. Has considered, for a long time now, asking him to a meal just like this. No talk of transactions, just two gray men exchanging life notes over a couple of beers. But look at him. His suit, his shoes, his smile, the ease of his movements—and the talk is of opioids and murder. This man is not my type, Shecky wants to tell someone. I’m not like him, I know better, I know what happens when a life is taken.

  But you’re still sitting here.

  And he’s still sitting there for the shift change at Knish-Knosh, when the waitress who brought their food is replaced by the slim and cold-eyed woman Shecky has seen here before. And this waitress takes one look at Vasya, freezes, and runs back to the kitchen. And she never comes back, and the bill is delivered by a busboy. No explanation.

  Minutes later Shecky and Vasya are at the register, splitting the bill and then shaking hands. It’s over, Shecky thinks. I’ve got the lost money, minus “expenses.” I made it.

  “You don’t have to thank me,” Vasya says, leaving Shecky to wonder whether he unthinkingly said thanks, or whether Vasya is excusing him. “And what is gratitude between men like us? We’re so tangled,” he continues, as they step outside. “Whether we like it or not, we’re all accountable for each other’s sins.”

  They shake hands again, and Shecky feels that all of Brooklyn has collapsed under the weight of these words. Accountable for each other’s sins—is it possible? Getting into the cab, giving his address, sinking into his seat, Shecky can’t keep his thoughts away from it. Vasya was speaking grandly, just beer talk—but what if he’s right? Could I be accountable for the acts of my partners? And what about Henry? Is he accountable for my sins? Is he already being punished for them?

  No, that’s nonsense, there was no sin here. Not by me. I can’t be blamed for what I don’t do, what I can’t stop, what I don’t even know is happening.

  But what about all the work you put into not knowing? (Dannie’s eyes are narrowed, her arms crossed.) What about what you taught Henry: you never know someone till you’ve got your nose up their money. How about yours? Where does it come from? Respect for a client’s privacy—such a show of class. But also—such a convenience. How long can you keep turning away?

  He remembers the slim, cold-eyed waitress, the expression on her face when she recognized Vasya. He thinks of Kerasha, who must be around the same age. She, too, could be working the night shift, he thinks, if life had dealt her another hand. She, too, could have reason to fear a man like Vasya.

  And he calls Kerasha because he aches to hear her safe, calls her because she doesn’t call, calls because he somehow knows, even in the absence of evidence, that his beautiful niece is in danger.

  chapter 36

  “Is this a medical emergency?”

  The woman speaks as though through a mouthful of sticky taffy, and Kerasha is sympathetic. Taffy-mouth works for Dr. Andrew Xu, answering his after-hours line. Paid horribly, Kerasha is certain, to listen to all the people the little man has fucked up, to make sense of their crazy talk and then pass on their messages. Life has treated this woman badly, so what if a mouthful of taffy helps her get through it. There are worse things she could do to herself.

  “Ma’am? Are you there?”

  Another point in this woman’s favor: she asks valid questions. Is this a medical emergency? Am I here? Or am I in that basement room putting a needle in my arm? That girl had more than a likeness—she had a sameness. I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, Uncle Walt sings to her. He will be her audio guide today, not exactly leading, but traveling with her.

  It was just hours ago that Kerasha saw her sameness with the needle. Okay, a needle, what-evskies, nothing to tweet about. This is Brooklyn, after all: the streets are paved with syringes. But this wasn’t some faceless skell looking up from that basement window, and this was no one’s mama. Those eyes, that defiance, that shame—Kerasha knows them well. Remembers what she was ten years ago, the girl the world looked past.

  Well I saw her, Kerasha thinks now about her sameness. I saw the needle in her arm, and I watched her push the plunger. Jesus fuck, what’s happening to me?

  “Ma’am?” Kerasha hears a muted cluck, as though the woman is using her tongue to dislodge the taffy from her molars.

  What could be happening: time travel, unlikely. Stress-induced hallucination, quite possible. Schizophrenia, not out of the question. But is this a medical emergency? Kerasha gives the only answer she can, and isn’t sure she actually says it aloud: “I’m calling to acknowledge the duplicates of myself.”

  This sounds like something Henry might say. He saw his duplicates all over the dead runner’s studio, and it took an outside perspective, hers, to spot differences. To help him differentiate between self and other. (Thank you, Johari window; thank you, Franklin library psychology section.) Now she needs this same help for herself, but fuck knows why she picked Dr. Xu.

  I didn’t pick him, she thinks, eager to forgive herself. Her hand grabbed the phone, her fingers did the dialing. She never memorized Dr. Xu’s after-hours emergency number, but what was left in her of little Kerry—ever unreeling, Uncle Walt whispers, ceaselessly musing—must’ve seen it somewhere. See, want, take—it’s not me making this call. She hangs up and tosses her phone.

  As she climbs down from the roof of Dr. Xu’s office, self-disgust bubbles up, burns and fouls her mouth. Really, Kay—him? That TV-shrink posture, the coffee table, that ponytail, those dusty boxes of merlot, the fucking bowl of marbles, that lonesome toothbrush—he’s the one you call?

  Uncle Walt passes the mic to guest speakers. First, herself: I don’t take what I want, I take because I want.

  Next, ponytail himself: But where do you think that comes from—your want?

  She hates not knowing. Fears, at the same time, answers that peep out from the dark.

  “There’s more to you than you’re telling me,” Dr. Xu said to her once. This was their very first meeting, but already he was unleashing the full power of his condescension. “And that’s to be expected. Resistance is part of therapy. But I am beginning to question,” he continued, putting his hands into a ball, “whether there’s more to yo
u than you’re telling yourself.”

  Kerasha checks her surroundings. Is startled to discover, as Uncle Walt put it, where she has wandered in her vision. The streets of Bushwick reek of burnt rubber and plastic, of dirty chemical fires. The snitch barbecue, Kerasha remembers. Red Dog’s work.

  So Brooklyn has a new forever stink, she thinks. An air stain, Mama might call it.

  She passes a man with broad shoulders and hairy arms and scars on his face. Wisps of short hairs cover his shirt. He smells of pomade. A barber, probably. But he moves like a hunter, starting and stopping. Watching, listening, looking for someone. Another spider with fangs, she intuits, dangerous. She puts space between them. Shoves him out of mind, because something worse is coming at her, the numbness that precedes the itch. Kerasha slaps her arms.

  “Get the blood flowing.” This is from Nicole the yoga embezzler, Kerasha’s old cellie. “Always be feeling, even if it’s pain.” Pain to choke off the itch, to quiet the ponytail’s voice. Stinging pain to stop his questions, and then comes actual pain, when she stumbles over a bottle, one of those giant malts Mama’s last and worst boyfriend used to drink. Trips and falls and scrapes her palms on the asphalt. Road burn. The streetlight shows black granules in the red wet circles cut into her flesh. My dirty little stigmata, she thinks. She can already hear the homily from Sister Xenia, the mother superior at Sisters of Mercy. At the halfway house where Kerasha spent the first month of her probation, she heard a lot about God’s will. If Sister Xenia saw her cut hands now, she’d undoubtedly call them “a blessing.”

  More like a humbling, Kerasha thinks. How did this happen? She stumbled—she, the noiseless patient spider. She who sees hair clippings, who cuts down pole cams. Only when there’s a giant bottle of malt liquor on the sidewalk, somehow she doesn’t see it. She falls right over it, because her brain blotted it out.