The Dewey Decimal System (27 page)

I stop turning the pages. My head knows this is no forgery. I understand I needed to see this. My heart asks the obvious question: is this the woman for whom you have marinated me in blood? Is this the creature you would seek to protect?

Hakim Stanley watches me from the corner. Smiling. I know what he’s thinking.

I close the file, pick it up.

I close my eyes. Stand there for a while, like that.

Place my gun in my mouth. It’s still hot, tastes like chemicals. I pull back the hammer.

But that doesn’t feel right. No, nothing is that simple. It’d be cheating.

I withdraw my pistol and open my eyes.

In picking up Jovana’s file, I have exposed another. It’s cover reads:

Walter Reed—National Institutes of Health

That would be me.

Hell no. I take both dossiers. I extract one sheet, the photocopied mug shot of Jovana. I pocket this.

At the wet bar I grab a bottle of vodka. Drop both files in the fireplace. Douse them in vodka.

Matches on the heath, strike them,
poof
. Flames consume paper.

Pull off the gloves. Get out the Purell
^TM
, scrub up.

Based on this new information, I might need to rethink my current plans.

I pop a pill, and Hakim and I wait and watch the fire until it’s all gone.

T
he playground. The garbage. It’s all there. It’s always been there. Outside of the projects, properly named the Gun Hill Houses.

It’s me outside the projects, just as I was on my return from figurative padded rooms in D.C.

Biopsies, drip IVs. Catheter tubes. Nonsense questionnaires. A rainbow of pastel capsules and pills. Isolation tanks. Electrical charges. High-pressure hoses. Induced headaches. Neon green tracer fluids coursing through the body. Restraints. Merciless fluorescent lighting.

Note that none of this matters now. Disregard it. The System maps out my future movements.

Enter the building. All surfaces are subway-car metallic, reflecting the warped form that is me. Enter the elevator and a cloud of piss and beer. Push the correct button.

All of this is deeply familiar. Exit the elevator, follow the hallway to the correct door. Take out the key. Enter the bedroom. Pistol is drawn.

Stanley hovers in a darkened corner, a shadow. Blinks his single eye.

Iveta/Jovana sleeps beneath a worn sheet.

Watch the sheet rise and fall. Rise and fall.

Two options, both simple and easily done. Either way it ends badly for me.

I choose option B. Lift the gun. Engage the safety.

I take the page from Jovana’s file out of my pocket, unfold it, and set it beside the mattress. Place the key to the apartment on top of it. On the back I have written:
Jovana. FBI/INTERPOL knows. I know. Time to go.

Take a last look at her. She appears so small. I can only see the top of her head.

On my way out, I withdraw the plastic bag from the bathroom vent. Avoiding the mirror, knowing who I’ll see there.

Close the door behind me, quiet as possible.

T
wenty-sixth Street near Sixth Avenue.

The prehistoric parishioners start straggling in, so I reckon services at the Cathedral of Saint Sava are soon to be getting underway.

I spritz a little Purell
^TM
on my hands. Rub it in.

This idea here came to me late last night.

Taking a welcome break from the 000 of computer science/general works, I had been doing some reading on the Serbian Orthodox Church, so it was fresh on the brain.

Woke up this morning and thought, hell, it seems like a nice day for a walk regardless.

I got here via a series of left turns. You know me. You know how I do.

Adjust my hat. Feeling way out of place.

“Sir, you had asked to see me?”

I point myself in the speaker’s direction. It’s the same dude from my previous visit, and like all the best priests he’s clad in black from head to toe, even in this goddamn heat.

“Yes, I did. Don’t know what the protocol is here, so I’ll just get to it.”

I produce the ziplock, the mummified hand within.

“This, well, I believe belongs to your institution. Not this particular church, but the denomination in general. Sorry about the … the packaging.”

He looks at the thing in confusion. “Is this a joke, sir?”

“No, it is not. This is, you know,” I jiggle the bag, “‘the hand.’ Or whatever.” I mime the quotes in the air.

He gets it now. His substantial monobrow nearly hits his hairline. “For the love of … And I suppose you believe you can sell me this thing?”

I shake my head. People assuming shit, I swear. “Just here to return it. That’s all. What am I gonna do with it? I don’t know what you people get up to with these deals, but I can appreciate that they’re important to you.”

He looks from me to the baggie and back to me.

“So, here.” I hand him the ziplock.

He takes it. “There were stories,” he says quietly. “I heard it went missing, during these endless wars, of course …”

“Well, it was presented to me as the real deal. Carbon dating, X-rays. I don’t know how you actually confirm shit like that. Pardon me, Padre.” Shouldn’t be cursing in church.

He sticks out his hand. We shake. I see his eyes are welling up, which seems to be embarrassing for both of us.

“Please …” he says. “Won’t you stay for the service?” He indicates a nearby pew.

I think about that. It is the weekend, after all. My books can wait, they’ve waited this long. And it’s hot as fuck out, that nasty wet New York heat.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, sure, why not.”

“What is your name, my friend, so I can dedicate a specific prayer. So that God may protect and continue to bestow His blessings.”

I want to say,
Iveta
. I want to say,
Hakim Stanley
. But I say, “Decimal. Dewey Decimal.”

“Dewey Decimal,” he repeats. “Thank you.” He dabs at his eyes and splits.

Probably has a warm-up kind of thing he does, get himself psyched up to represent for God.

I watch the old biddies inch forward to take their positions. Enjoy that incense.

Thinking, motherfucker, I’m so glad I didn’t off myself. I have a lot of living to do up in this bitch.

Wonder where Jovana is right now, right at this very moment.

Wonder about Stanley. His family.

A minute later I sit, pop a pill.

Damn, these pews are comfortable. Despite the multitude of microscopic parasites and bacteria that reside in the wood, residue of asses past.

A hush comes over the place as the service begins, like gauze dropped over my head.

And I sleep.