Authors: Jared Paul
As was his habit, Agent Clemons arrived fifteen minutes early and picked a table in the rear with a clear view of the entire restaurant. An emergency exit door was only a few paces away. Agent Clemons ordered an iced tea at the counter and used it as a paper weight for the Sunday edition of the Times. He scanned the headlines for any news that might be p
ertinent or alarming. Half way through an article on a European conglomerate hoping to win a city bid to build a new massive parking garage in Tribeca, he glimpsed Jordan Ross walking in with a slight limp and making his way over to the table.
Setting aside the paper, Agent Clemons pushed out a chair for him.
“Afternoon. What happened to you?”
Jordan waved it off.
“It’s nothing twisted my ankle on the stair master. Where’s Bollier?”
“Stuck in traffic but she’s on her way. How did your meeting go with mister
Polzin?”
Leaning back in his chair, Jordan gave the G-man an insincerely apologetic sort of look. The idea was to draw information out of
Polzin but what was one more deceased Russian gangster more or less?
“Not as well as I may have hoped.”
“So I heard.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Agent Clemons grabbed at his iced tea and took a long satisfying slurp that sank the level of liquid in the glass several inches. He watched Jordan Ross lounging back in his black windbreakers and hoodie and wondered what kind of an animal he had released out into the wild.
“I wanted to see your reaction.”
“And?”
“I hope you’re not taking this lightly. Anyone can kill a guy. Anyone can kill a couple of guys. Bringing down a whole criminal enterprise isn’t so simple. It’s like
taking down a building. My uncle used to work construction, he was a demolitions expert. Controlled implosions was his thing. He brought down structures that were condemned or had to be removed to make way for something bigger and brighter and so on. He taught me that destroying a building is much more complicated than people think. You can’t just walk in and light a stick of dynamite then throw it wherever you want. The explosives have to be placed in very specific locations, so that they take out load-bearing columns. You can waste several dozen tons of dynamite and you wouldn’t collapse a condo like the one you’re in now, but if you put it in the right places, then it can be done with just a few sticks. These Russians have built up a very tall tower over the years. Polzin was nothing. He’s out of the way, that’s all fine and good he was a piece of shit, but we needed to know where his boss hangs his head. His boss is a load-bearing column. You follow?”
Jordan Ross yawned and fiddled with a pack of sugar he took from the condiment basket.
“I’m going to say this once, Agent Clemons. So that it will be very clear. You don’t need to treat me like an idiot. I’m not a jarhead and I’m not a blunt tool. I know full well what we’re trying to accomplish and that killing Polzin did not advance that goal. Like I told Bollier, I didn’t have a choice. It’s all fine and good to have a plan but in the real world in combat in situations unexpected things happen and you have to adjust. Could I have taken him alive? Maybe. Was I going to risk taking a slug to the gut to do it? No.”
Agent Clemons saw detective Bollier come in through the door and folded up his newspaper to make room on the table.
He tried to finish up his lecture with Jordan Ross before she found them in the back.
“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 sa
ndwiches 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 s
howed 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 84
th
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 thing 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.”