The Hard Stuff

by David Gordon

  “Right. Being leaked by us through back channels.”

  “Somehow this isn’t making me feel better,” Gio said. He gazed through the glass door at the party. “And why is that kid Juno eating shrimp instead of busy setting my rat traps?”

  “Just take some deep breaths,” Joe said. He slid the door open and waved Juno over, then shut it behind him as he trotted out. “Mr. Caprisi is waiting for an update on that project.”

  “Right,” he said, standing with his brightly colored sneakers together as if at attention. He seemed to be resisting the urge to salute. “Ready to report, sir.”

  “Easy. It’s not the army, kid,” Gio said. “Just tell me what’s what.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean Gio. I mean Mr. Caprisi.” He cleared his throat. “This afternoon I took all the IP addresses and phone numbers and passcodes you gave me and hacked into your systems. I did it from the backdoor so no one would tip.”

  “English,” Gio said.

  “Right. Even though you gave me all the info, I still snuck in so no one would know I was there. Then I created a program that would search through all the records, looking for patterns, who calls or texts who, who emails who, and when. Then I can generate a report.” He paused. “Soon. Sir.”

  Gio considered this. “That’s smart. Thank you.” He held out his hand.

  Juno grinned and shook it. “Thank you!”

  “Okay, thanks, Juno,” Joe said. “I’ll see you back inside.”

  Juno glanced back at the party. “Damn, the porterhouse is coming.” He scampered off. Pete, who’d been waiting by the door, stepped out, holding a phone.

  “Phone for you, Boss.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  Pete cleared his throat and spoke into the phone: “Whom, might I ask, is calling?”

  He looked up. “It’s Paul.”

  “You don’t have to say ‘whom,’ Pete.”

  “I thought it sounded classier, Boss.”

  “In grammar, correct is classy. Whom is the object case, understand? Who is the subject case. So you can just say, ‘Who is calling.’”

  Confused, Pete held out the phone. “Paul.”

  Gio sighed, taking the phone. “Okay, thanks. Good work, Pete.” Pete turned to go. “Don’t pass up the spa,” Gio said, hugging Joe. “It’s terrific. I might stop off myself and get a massage. Try to get rid of this tension.”

  “Have fun,” Joe said. “And be careful.”

  Gio hesitated a moment, as if about to speak, then thought better of it, talking into the phone as he walked away. Paul had booked a room in the hotel under a fake name and was waiting for him there.

  *

  The party progressed from dinner to karaoke. Cash sang Tom Petty’s “Refugee,” Juno sang “Purple Rain,” Liam did the obligatory “My Way.” Yelena wanted Joe to do the “Summer Nights” duet from Grease, but when Joe claimed not to know it, Josh stepped in and belted it out, along with some impressively Travolta-esque moves. Everyone cheered and drank. Then, as Cash was launching into his impression of Elvis singing “Suspicious Minds,” Juno pulled Joe aside and showed him his tablet.

  “Look what we got,” he said. He’d pulled up the Carlo email account. Right after the job, Joe had told him to write to the seller, saying they had the goods. He’d responded: I heard the news. Thought that was you. Ready to show samples to experts, both sides. Tomorrow.

  He went on to suggest a meeting at Sherm’s early the next afternoon. Each party would bring a sample of their goods and one man for backup.

  “Good,” Joe said, patting Juno on the back. “Tell him we’re on. And ask for a name to call him.”

  Almost immediately, the answer came back: Felix. Though I won’t say if that is my real name.

  Joe and Juno answered: Who says my real name is Carlo? See you there.

  “Juno! You’re up!” Cash shouted, waving the karaoke mic. Juno’s song, David Bowie’s “Changes,” was about to start. He dashed to the front. As he began singing, Joe leaned over and whispered to Yelena: “What do you say, comrade? Ready for a shvitz?”

  With a smile, she took his hand. They went downstairs to the spa.

  *

  Across town, Felix, too, needed to unwind. In general, when he wasn’t working, he preferred luxury hotels for their room service, among other things. But on this business trip to New York, he saw the wisdom in using Airbnb to book a private apartment under an assumed name and pay with a card linked to a dummy shell corporation. The apartment itself was most likely owned by another shell: high-end real estate is ideal for hiding and securing illicit funds.

  Say you’re a Russian oligarch or an international arms dealer or just a plain old small-time dictator from a two-bit country that might revolt any day now. Buying an expensive condo in Manhattan or London is the perfect place to park your freshly laundered blood money. First, it allows you to move a lot of cash quickly; imagine how much trouble twenty million dollars—or pounds or euros—is to move and hide in your luggage. But one loft in Soho can easily house it all. As a private transaction between individuals or their corporate avatars, it draws less attention, and it won’t trigger tax exposure until it is sold. And if Putin changes your status from crony to enemy or a rival cartel seizes your coca plantations or the rebels crash your palace, you can just hop a plane to Heathrow or JFK.

  As a result, many of the luxury towers that now crowd the airspace over Manhattan are empty most of the time. No one really lives there. The owners don’t work in town or send their kids to the city schools. They don’t shop at local stores. And they don’t pay city resident taxes, so police and fire protection, sanitation, and road repair are all free. They are basically ghost towns—or rather ghost banks—steel-and-glass vaults built to hold the dirtiest money from the most dangerous and hellish sources in the safest, most comfortable of addresses, as if floating above us on a cloud.

  For his own anonymous lair, Felix had chosen a duplex loft in Tribeca over a doorman building uptown, once again sacrificing luxury for security. But the former industrial space turned out to be lovely—tastefully furnished, spacious, accessed via an elevator that he unlocked with a key from the street and in which he had never encountered a soul. Tonight he’d ordered in sushi, a massage, and, as a special treat sent over from a colleague, a boy and a girl, both teenagers freshly smuggled in from Ukraine: blond and pretty, cowering together and even holding hands like Hansel and Gretel. (Although Felix himself was exclusively heterosexual, he did admire the mindboggling spectacle of Vlad—his “muscle,” to use the very appropriate American slang term—stripped bare, playing with his boy, while Felix enjoyed himself with the girl.) Who needed room service after all? In New York these days, everything you desired could be ordered online and delivered straight to your door.

  26

  After a long sleep and a slow breakfast, Joe and Yelena went by Gladys’s and took one of the larger diamonds from the ice tray where they were hidden. Then they headed to Brooklyn. Yelena needed to change into something more functional if she was going to act as Joe’s backup, and she insisted on arming up, too, although Joe explained that it was pointless. She just shrugged. She took her assignment seriously.

  This was Joe’s first look at her place, though it didn’t tell him much about Yelena that he didn’t already know: It was a large, very clean but very bare space. There was a luxury mattress on a platform box with expensive sheets and pillows. A rolling rack against one wall thickly hung with fashionable but mostly black clothes. Billowing white curtains. White towels in the bathroom and a small number of fancy-looking products. A big, flat-screen TV. Like its owner, the apartment was chic, sleek, beautiful to look at but unlikely to divulge any secrets. The most personal thing was the trunk, Russian army surplus, which contained all her weapons. She didn’t lock it. She knew only too well how little use that was. She changed quickly and they took the train to Fulton Street, where they entered a gigantic glass office building so full of comings and goings among almos
t interchangeable firms and employees that it was basically anonymous. They gave their fake names to security and rode up to the fortieth floor.

  No doubt Sherm paid considerable rent, especially given his special need for privacy, but he was not paying for the view from this high floor. His office was a windowless, sound-, radio wave–, and Wi-Fi-proof steel-lined box the size of a small one-bedroom apartment. You knocked on an outer door, and a camera set in the peephole regarded you. If you were the person expected—Sherm’s was appointment only—then you were buzzed in to a tiny foyer where you shut the door behind you. When that door locked, a green light went on and the inner door unlocked. Next, you entered the waiting room. Here a muscled-up black fellow sat behind a counter with nothing on it but a screen and keyboard. There were filing cabinets behind him.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “Please turn over all weapons, cell phones, and other electronic devices. They will be returned when you leave.”

  Joe took out his cell and laid it on the desk. He grinned at Yelena. Eyes rolling, she drew the pistol from her shoulder holster and laid it on the table. Then she put down her phone.

  “Your backup?” the man asked.

  With a sigh, Yelena removed the small revolver she had in an ankle holster.

  “And the knife in your boot.” When she looked at him sharply, he added: “I can see it all on the scanner.”

  “You wouldn’t expect a girl to go knifeless?” she asked with a smile, then shrugged and drew a long, lethal combat knife from a sheath concealed in her boot.

  “Now I feel naked.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the man said. He transferred their items to a file drawer. “Now you can go in,” he said, pressing a button that unlocked the third inner door. They entered.

  The room was comfortable if simple. Thick carpeting and fabric on the walls in muted grays. A table with two chairs on either side, also padded with gray, and one chair on the side between them. The two seats nearest Joe and Yelena were empty and waiting for them. The two across the table were occupied by a dark-haired man in a stylish black suit with a closely trimmed black beard and, overflowing the chair next to him, the biggest human that Joe had ever seen. He was massive on every scale: arms like the legs of oxen dwarfed the arms of the chair; his tree-trunk chest stretched the fabric of the knit polo he wore. It would be impossible to hug him, should you ever want to do such a thing; your arms wouldn’t even make it around his shoulders. His legs, thick as telephone poles, were uncomfortably wedged under the table. It was hard to imagine him ever being comfortable in normal human environments—cars, planes, bathtubs, beds. And topping it all was a massive, bumpy, completely bald head, like a prehistoric dinosaur egg, with beady eyes under a low, heavy brow, a flat lipless mouth, and a drooping black mustache nestled beneath a lump of a nose.

  Sitting on the single chair was a little old man in work clothes, a black apron, and thick glasses that made his blue eyes bright as they darted about like twin fish in a bowl. This was Sherm. And leaning against the wall, like the only adornment in an otherwise bare space, was another muscled black man in a T-shirt and sweats who happened to be a cousin of the one out front. He’d be pretty intimidating if he didn’t look like a doll beside the mountain breathing in the room. But the AK-47 he held across his chest made up the difference.

  This was Sherm’s place: essentially he was an appraiser and middleman, hosting sales and exchanges between people who didn’t trust each other but couldn’t go to the law.

  “Hello, hello, how are youse,” Sherm called, in an old-time New York accent, eyeing Joe with a barely perceptible twinkle. “Sit right down. You must be Carlo and …” He hesitated, looking questioningly at Yelena.

  “Just call me Carla,” she said.

  “Fine,” Sherm said with a shrug. “This is Felix.” The bearded man nodded. “And that is Vlad.” Vlad didn’t move at all. Joe and Yelena both nodded and took their seats. Sherm went on: “So youse all know how this works. This place is safe. No one is being recorded. No one is armed, except Timmy over there. So let’s get down to business.”

  Yelena reached into her bra and pulled out a small folded tissue that she laid on the table. Sherm unfolded it.

  “Ah,” he said. “The ice.” From his apron pocket, he drew a small headlamp, which he fitted over his forehead before switching it on, and a magnifying loupe, which he pressed to his eye after removing his glasses. He peered deeply into the diamond, and the bright, tight light beam seemed to shatter into rainbows as it struck the teardrop-shaped stone. Sherm looked up, forehead momentarily blazing before he switched off his lamp. He smiled, showing brown and gold teeth. “This, my friends, is a diamond.” He sat back, replacing the loupe with his glasses. “Maybe three carats. Very nice.”

  Joe folded the tissue and gave it back to Yelena, who tucked it back in her bra. He smiled at Felix. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

  Now Felix smiled. “I’m impressed,” he said, his accent posh Brit with a French undertone. “I had my doubts as to whether you’d be able to arrange payment. But from what I hear, you operation was …” He paused. “Extremely professional. I’m glad to be doing business with you.”

  He offered a hand to shake, but Joe held his out, palm up. “I’m glad you’re glad. But there’s one more piece of business to take care of.”

  “Yes, of course,” Felix said. “Forgive me. Vlad?” he asked the giant, who reached into his shirt pocket and handed him a small plastic baggie. The bottom held a gram or so of off-white powder. Felix tossed it across the desk and Joe caught it.

  Joe shook the contents down and then opened it. He licked his pinky and then dipped it just slightly, coating the very tip. He tasted it, and immediately that warm bitterness filled his mouth.

  “Tastes like dope to me,” Joe said, resealing the baggie and putting it on the table in front of Sherm. “But you’re the expert.”

  Sherm peered into the baggie with the same concentration he had focused on the diamond. “Ah,” he said, smiling appreciatively. “The Persian.” He put his jeweler’s gear away and took out a small case from which he removed a clear plastic container, a vial with a dropper, and a tiny measuring spoon. He scooped heroin into the little spoon and dropped it in the container. Then he added several drops of the liquid and slowly shook the container until the powder dissolved. In seconds, the liquid changed color, first yellow, then a dark brown. He smiled.

  “Shit is on the money, my friend. I’d say over ninety-nine percent pure.”

  Now Joe put his hand out. “We have a deal,” he said to Felix, and they shook on it. Sherm started to hand the baggie back, but Felix shrugged. “Keep it, Carlo. As you say, I have plenty more where that came from.”

  Joe tucked the baggie in his pocket, ignoring the dirty look from Yelena.

  They made arrangements for the exchange the following night, a straight face-to-face on a street in Dumbo, in Brooklyn near the river. Joe and Yelena left first. Their weapons and phones were returned, and the outer doors locked behind them. Next Felix and Vlad came out. As soon as Felix got his phone he made a call. “Hello, my dear,” he said. “Yes, we are just leaving.” He winked at the guy behind the counter, while Vlad got their guns.

  *

  As they exited the building and headed down the block on their way to fetch the Corolla and drive to Brooklyn to check out the location, a woman watched Yelena and Joe from the deli across the street. She sat at the counter by the window, a toasted plain bagel with light butter and regular coffee in front of her, face in her phone like everyone else. Neither Joe nor Yelena took any notice. Why would they? Only Yelena had glimpsed her once before, in passing, and then she had been a blonde. Now she had black hair cut in bangs and dark, round glasses, a black jacket over a white T-shirt and black jeans. As they walked by, her phone rang and she spoke into her earpiece.

  “Hello Felix,” she said. “I am watching them now. It’s the same two.”

  “Are you sure?�
�� Felix asked.

  “They killed my husband,” she told him as she casually stood and strolled out, following them from a distance, leaving her untouched food. “I am unlikely to forget.”

  *

  Upstairs in Sherm’s waiting room, Felix spoke into the phone, “Yes, dear, I understand perfectly.” He rolled his eyes at the guy behind the desk, who smiled back conspiratorially while Vlad handed Felix his gun and then checked his own, standing like a pillar in the inner doorway. “All right then,” Felix said. “See you soon.” And he shot the counterman in the chest.

  At the same time, Vlad, who’d been blocking the inner door, turned back into the office and opened fire, dropping Timmy, Sherm’s guard, before he had time to even raise his rifle. Felix walked back in, approaching Sherm while Vlad stood watch. Sherm had not even moved. He was in shock.

  “But, but why?” he asked, finally, as Felix walked up and pointed his gun at his head. “They’re gone. There’s nothing here to steal.”

  Felix smiled. “Names,” he said.

  Sherm blinked at him questioningly.

  “For Mr. and Mrs. Carlo,” he explained. “Their real names.”

  Sherm shook his head. “No names here. That’s the rule. I know what youse say is all.”

  Felix nodded at Vlad. As Sherm peered nearsightedly up at him, Vlad cupped his head in his hands, cradling it like a newborn’s, fingers splayed over the smooth skull and sparse, fine hair. Then he began pushing his thumbs into Sherm’s eye sockets, exerting slow and deliberate pressure as Sherm began first to squirm, then to struggle wildly, then to scream helplessly as the giant’s thumbs gouged out his eyes and dug deep, and pain became the only thought, the only truth that occupied the interior of his mind.

  “Names,” Felix demanded. “I know you recognized the man. Who is he?”

  “Joe!” Sherm cried, eagerly. Vlad relented and Sherm gasped in relief. “Joe Brody.” He cradled his face in his hands.