The Hard Stuff

by David Gordon

  “Good,” Felix said. “Thank you. And the woman?”

  “I don’t know,” Sherm sobbed. “Yelena something maybe? She’s Russian. I don’t know her. Please. I swear.”

  “Shh …” Felix stroked Sherm’s thin hair. “That’s okay, old man. I believe you,” he said. Then he shot him in the head.

  As they left, Vlad sealed all the sound- and airproof doors behind them, assuring that the three corpses would be safely hidden for a long time.

  *

  Heather had dressed in black to blend in with the other sleek Downtown women, but in fact she was in mourning for her husband, Adrian Kaan, whom Joe had killed. Almost as enraging for Heather, he and Yelena had made his martyr’s death meaningless by preventing the biological terror attack he’d planned. After lying distraught on the island beach where she’d planned to be celebrating with him, newly pregnant, she resolved to seek vengeance on behalf of her fatherless child and to continue on his path. She’d reached out to his overseas network, offering to take his place as their contact in New York, and they had in turn connected her to Zahir.

  Zahir’s first assignment for Heather was to find a buyer for his dope in New York.

  During their years living underground and more recently when posing as black marketeers, she and her husband had learned their way around, so she knew that Little Maria was the lady to call. She also understood that Maria would find out, quickly, the source of this sudden manna from heroin heaven. Maria was no saint, but it made sense she would turn them down rather than cross long-term suppliers. There were plenty of other players or wannabe players who would not be too particular about touching stolen dope or about the taint of terrorism. After all, the shit was good. For the right price, they’d bag it up with Osama bin Laden’s picture on it. So when word got out, she knew it was not a problem. In fact, for her, it was a solution. Insisting on the diamonds as payment, letting it be known the heroin would fund terrorists overseas, all of this was, she hoped, most likely to flush out her own quarry, the murderer they called Joe and his Russian bitch.

  Now, while Felix and Vlad covered their tracks upstairs at Sherm’s, Heather called Armond, Felix’s driver and errand boy, the kind of fanatical romantic they kept on hand to do the grunt work. There had always been a couple of them around Adrian, kissing his ass. To her they were typical adolescent males, desperate for acceptance and importance, and she had been manipulating foolish men all her life. Armond would drive the car, fetch the food, stand guard like a faithful dog. And if needed, he would be the one strapped into a vest full of dynamite and sent onto the subway one day to take out the infidels and blow himself straight to paradise.

  At the moment, though, his task was simpler: follow the woman, the Russian. Heather wasn’t in any doubt about where she and Joe were going now. They’d go to Brooklyn and check out the location of the next meet, like anyone with half a brain—as she told Armond, who had perhaps a quarter of one. And she wasn’t worried about where they’d be later: they’d be at the meeting spot again, tomorrow night. So she told Armond to drive straight to Dumbo, pick Yelena up at the meeting place when she and Joe arrived, and then tail her back to her home, without the risk of her spotting Heather—or Felix and Vlad.

  Then she texted Zahir, whom she knew only via phone and email and had never seen. The message was one word: Tomorrow. Then she went to make her own evening plans.

  27

  Joe and Yelena walked the block. On both sides, old buildings loomed over the narrow street, some of it still cobblestone, the rest patched-over asphalt. It sloped down to a fenced-off strip of municipal and industrial scrub and then the river. It was a good spot to meet, close to major thoroughfares but with little foot traffic and deserted at night. Even now the only cars that went by rumbled into the parking garage on the corner, a converted five-story building. The rest of the block was mixed residential, walk-ups and nondescript lofts. The closest storefront was a coffee shop two blocks away. They walked in and out of whatever was open or easy to open—the car park, the larger apartment buildings—and circled a few blocks. No one paid them any mind.

  “A lot of good places to hide and shoot us from,” Yelena observed.

  “Yeah, but why bother?” Joe asked. “They want to unload that dope and get their diamonds. Why risk a shoot-out? It just draws heat. Even around here someone would call the law eventually.”

  “Then what about us? We have the same problem. We want the dope and the diamonds. But no cops.”

  “Right,” Joe said. “So we need to be sure the deal goes through. And everyone gets away.”

  Yelena frowned. “Help them get away? You’re always trouble, Joe. It’s lucky for you that you’re fun, too.”

  “Me? You’re the one who starts bar fights.” He took out his Beckett book and then felt in his pockets.

  Yelena grinned back. “That’s what I meant by fun.” She handed him the mechanical pencil she’d used when cracking the strongbox. “Here.” She watched as he started sketching a rough map of the scene on the paperback’s inside cover. “It’s my favorite,” she added. “Don’t steal it.”

  When he’d finished the sketch and returned the pencil, Joe asked Yelena to begin sourcing weapons and she hopped in a cab. He contacted Cash and had him bring in Liam and Josh to help steal and prepare the fast, reliable cars they’d need for his plan. He got in touch with Juno, who was home in his mom’s basement working on Gio’s job, and handed him another technical dilemma to solve. He parked the car in a safe, legal spot a block away from the meeting place. Then he went home on the subway to defrost the diamonds.

  *

  Back in Jackson Heights, Joe took out the ice tray in which he’d left the diamonds. He twisted the tray and the cubes broke, dropping into the colander he’d set in a bowl of warm water. As the ice melted, the invisible diamonds appeared, a small hill of iridescent, insanely valuable and rare pebbles. He went to his room to undress and shower—he hadn’t been home in a while—then thought better of it and went back to the kitchen and taped a note to the strainer for his grandmother: DO NOT TOUCH—OR USE IN DRINK. She was out at her new job, shilling for one of the card clubs, but better to be safe than find out his grandmother had swallowed a diamond and have to deal with resolving that problem.

  Then he turned on the shower and went to undress while the old pipes warmed up. He emptied his pockets—wallet, keys, a jangle of loose change. And there it was, the little baggie of pure dope. He held it to the light and looked at the powder through the transparent plastic, as magical in its way as the diamonds: these substances whose power to create desire—pleasure and beauty, lust and addiction, and, of course, always greed and wealth—ruined lives and nations and left a trail of blood and suffering everywhere they touched. He didn’t open the baggie. But he didn’t throw it out either. He put it back on his bureau and took a long shower. Then, when he got out and dressed, putting on the same jeans and a fresh T-shirt, he found himself staring at it again. Then he had an idea. He found his book and removed the card that the Vietnam vet, the painter, had given him outside the VA. He called.

  “Hey Frank,” he said, when he picked up. “This is Joe from the VA, remember? We met the other day?”

  “Hey, Special Forces, sure I remember. How’s life?”

  *

  Gladys loved her new job. It combined two of her greatest skills, grifter and card shark, into one easygoing gig, her version of the part-time job a different flavor of retiree might take greeting folks at Walmart or sitting behind the front desk at a senior center. She was a shill for the casino, working the poker tables at a card club set up in the basement under a food court, which was itself under a shopping center in College Point. Her job was to play, to draw in the civilians and keep them at the table, chatting and making friends while also generating excitement by winning the occasional big hand. Seeing a sweet, slightly dotty grandma who’d been making modest bets on poor hands suddenly hit it big got the suckers riled up and kept them from quitting wh
en they lost. Telling jokes, asking about their families and ordering drinks for the table when she scored kept them from quitting when they won. The game was straight. Gladys didn’t cheat, but she was an expert player with decades of calculating odds and reading marks behind her, and most of this crowd could be relied on to lose sooner or later and still go home happy enough to come back. They were steady return customers—Asians from the area, groups of older players, Jewish, Italian, and Irish from Long Island and Latinos from the Bronx and Upper Manhattan—so the house’s reputation as honest was important, and any real sharks would be expelled and convinced, via baseball bat if need be, not to return. Gladys won or lost just enough to keep things lively while also keeping it fun, clipping the sheep a little while also making them feel warm and fuzzy: she was half shepherd, half wolf.

  But it was during one of her frequent smoke and Jack and Coke breaks that she met Yolanda. She was here with a group: a friend had rented a van to bring a circle of ladies from Washington Heights. But while her friends mostly stuck to the slot machines, Yolanda liked blackjack. She’d done well, too, and was ahead by almost a hundred bucks. In fact, she usually won, and it made a nice addition to Social Security and the pension she got from working for the MTA. But she couldn’t let her daughter know, any more than she could know about the Kool 100 she bummed from Gladys.

  “Why not?” Gladys asked. “She a religious fanatic?”

  Yolanda laughed. She liked this feisty white-haired woman a lot, and she was impressed with the stacks of chips in her tray. “Not that bad. Or who knows, maybe worse. She is FBI.”

  “No kidding?” Gladys said, drawing on her Kool then cooling it down with a sip of her drink. “I happen to know another gal who works for the FBI. Also Spanish. Very cute. I like her. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind seeing her with my grandson. Rather than this Russian he runs around with. She’s nothing but trouble.”

  “Oh, yeah? You got a photo?”

  Gladys took out her wallet and showed a picture of Joe, smiling across the table at her last birthday dinner.

  “Very handsome!” Yolanda said, searching through pictures on her phone. “Here’s my granddaughter, Larissa. She’s in her ballet outfit.”

  “What a doll,” Gladys said. “I could eat her alive.”

  “And here,” Yolanda said, trying to find her favorite. “Let me show you my daughter, Donna. Who knows? Maybe we can set her up with your grandson. I don’t like the guys she brings around either. And her ex-husband is a real schmuck.”

  *

  Donna was almost done for the day when Janet called her from the lab, saying she found something big.

  “What’s up?” she asked as she walked in to find her peering at something tiny through her microscope. “That doesn’t look so big.”

  “Oh, but it is,” Janet said, looking up and smiling through her own glasses. “It’s huge. Come see.”

  Donna looked. She saw some kind of dark-colored fiber. “Okay, what is it?”

  “Hair,” Janet said, with a satisfied smirk.

  “Hair?”

  “Synthetic hair to be exact. Fairly high quality.”

  “You found fake hair in the box? In the stuff they burned?”

  “Yup. Which to my highly trained deductive mind suggests—”

  “Fake beards.” Now Donna smiled. “So they weren’t Hasidic after all. They were in disguises. You’re right. That is huge. Great work.”

  “Thanks,” Janet said. “And look, I cleaned this up.” She took Janet to the long table on which the rest of the evidence from the box was laid out. The twisted bit of stainless steel now shone brightly under the strong lights, its silver disk reflecting upward.

  “Is that from a stethoscope?” Donna asked.

  “Exactly. Got it in one. The rest melted.”

  Donna stared at it thoughtfully. “So maybe it wasn’t an inside job at all. Maybe someone cracked the box. Using that.”

  Janet frowned doubtfully. “I see what you mean, but the combination lock on that box was top of the line. To crack it at all is super impressive. There’s only a handful of people that good around. But to do it in less than ten minutes, bouncing around crappy, potholed New York streets, with the police chasing you?”

  “They’d have to be a pro.”

  “They’d have to be a freaking artist.”

  “But it’s possible?” Donna asked.

  “I guess. In theory. But I’m not sure how probable it is.”

  “Think about it though, Janet. From the thief’s point of view. Your goal is the diamonds. That means robbing the armored truck and breaking the box.”

  “Right.”

  “So moving the box to another vehicle, something that heavy, and getting away clean before all hell breaks loose or actually escaping in the hijacked truck in Midtown traffic are not options. And dragging enough heavy equipment onboard to cut the thing, then having the time before they come stop you. Also impossible.”

  “So they cracked it. You’re right. It’s just like Sherlock Holmes says.”

  “What does he say?”

  “You don’t watch the show?” she asked in amazement.

  “I haven’t had time. It’s on my watch list. What the hell does he say?”

  “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever’s left, however improbable, is the truth.”

  “See,” Donna said. “Me and Holmes agree.”

  Janet pulled her vape pen from her pocket, checked to be sure no one was looking, and took a thoughtful drag. She exhaled fragrant steam. “So that was their plan all along. They never meant to get away with the truck.”

  “Exactly,” Donna said, nodding. “They just drove around in circles, giving the safecracker time to open the safe. Then they ditched the truck someplace where they knew it would take us time to get to it.”

  “On purpose!” Janet added. “Not by accident like Jack thought.” He was the senior agent in charge, who’d assumed they’d lost control and crashed into the subway, then fled.

  “Right,” Donna said, tone rising in excitement. “And they burnt their disguises and stuff not so much to hide evidence as to clean it, make it useless to forensics. No offense. I mean for IDs.”

  “No, you’re right,” Janet agreed. “No DNA or prints survived that. And they had to ditch the costumes when they bailed from the truck—”

  “So they could just walk away. Fade into the crowd,” Donna finished her thought. “Who knows? Maybe take the subway home.”

  “Brilliant!” Janet shouted, high-fiving Donna. “I mean, you know, deviously clever in an unlawful way. But who is there around who can even come up with a plan like that?”

  “That son of a bitch,” Donna muttered, her eyes narrowing as the wheels turned in her head.

  “Your ex-husband?” Janet asked in confusion.

  “No, a different son of a bitch. Thanks Janet!” she yelled as she ran out.

  28

  Frank let Joe in and shook his hand, holding the cane in his left. He was wearing the same paint-spattered work pants and boots, but now he had on an old blue pin-striped dress shirt, also speckled in paint and missing several buttons through which Joe could see gray chest hair. One buttonhole, Joe realized, was fastened with a paper clip. His glasses hung on a cord around his neck, and he had on a light-blue cotton hat with a floppy brim bent from being rolled and stuffed in pockets. It was clear he’d made an effort to wash his hands but there was still paint along the edges of the nails. His hand felt strong but supple, like an expertly broken-in baseball glove, worked past roughness into smoothness again.

  “Hey kid, come in,” Frank told him. “Want coffee? I’ve got some on the boil.”

  “Sure,” Joe said. “Thanks.”

  Frank crossed the space, loping easily on the cane, and disappeared through a curtain along the far wall, leaving Joe alone to look around. Joe had never visited a working artist’s studio before and he realized with a certain embarrassment that he expected the walls to be filled with pai
ntings like the ones he’d seen on the internet. Though of course those were finished works, framed and on display in museums and other collections. In reality, the studio was not at all like a gallery. It was more like a busy, chaotic workshop with living quarters attached.

  Frank’s studio was in Harlem. He had half a floor of an old building with a view of 125th Street’s swarming action below. The main space was mostly open and raw: wooden floors patched with tin, including a square of linoleum marking a space where dividing walls had been torn out and roughly spackled over; bare walls painted white but splattered with color especially at the height where a man might absently wipe a brush, the layers built up over years or decades, so that it looked like a multicolored growth now; a pillar in the center so crusted it resembled barnacles caking a sunken ship; the ceiling open, with lighting fixtures, vents, and bundled cables looping through the beams. A number of canvases, some quite large, shoulder height and arms’ width, were slotted into a rough structure made of two-by-fours and covered in a plastic tarp. A few others were turned to the wall, though Joe could see paint at the edges and telltale drips on the floor. Mostly there were art supplies: cans and tubes of paint stacked on metal storage shelves and rolling metal tables like you’d see in a restaurant kitchen, rolls of canvas under a long, paint-covered worktable made of scarred wood, cans of brushes, rags, chemicals, boxes of charcoal, pencils, pads, paper, along with torn magazines, newspapers, books, and discarded mail. In the center of the space were an old kitchen chair, a stool, an armchair with the stuffing bursting out, and a broken-down daybed that Joe recognized from some of the nudes he’d seen online. There were adjustable lamps and an empty easel. Off to one side was a curtain, and through the part he could make out another area with furniture and a carpet on the floor: the living quarters no doubt, occupying the second, smaller part of the space.

  Frank came back clutching two steaming mugs of coffee by the handles in one hand and a container of powdered creamer tucked under his arm. “Ran out of milk,” he said. “But I found this shit.” He put it down on the worktable and handed Joe a mug.