Gatac

  There’s nothing nice about Nicetown.

  The saying ran through Viktor’s head on repeat as he cruised his Oldsmobile through the Phidelphia neighborhood, following the railroad tracks to his ultimate destination. Fifteen days of the 1990s hadn’t changed much around here and it being a sixty mile drive down to the shore only helped the overcast stick around with that much more tenacity. Nicetown had a skeletal look about it, all life leeched out of it from years of neglect and bad breaks on bad breaks. Viktor slowed down further and scanned the faces on the street, while the engine of his Oldsmobile gurgled along. It wasn’t made to rev this low, but Viktor’s thoughts and senses were on his surroundings. The only thing he could safely assume was that everyone here was a survivor. In a sense, they were his kind of people, provided they didn’t mistake him for prey.

  He soon found the turnoff to his destination, not so much a lowered curb as a vast hole in the sidewalk, where dark dirt and bleached, shattered asphalt reached a murky compromise. The Oldsmobile spun its tires a bit as it heaved its weight through the loose ground and onto the gravel proper of the enormous bnk lot. Wild grass and broken buildings ringed in the parking space clearly enough, at least from a bird’s eye view, and in any event the rge sign that peeked out from behind the corrugated steel fence to the North was as clear a guide as any. ‘Otis &Co. Recmation’, it said, the rust between the welded letters casting doubt on whether said Otis was still around. The mps that were supposed to be mounted on a trio of metal posts atop the sign sure weren’t. Recimed, no doubt. Viktor killed the engine and thought about turning it back on. About driving back the way he had come. Nobody would dare call him coward. His age and vocation selected for a certain amount of discretion in the face of danger. That left this a tightrope walk. He could be neither too timid nor too brash, neither too friendly nor too brutal, and above all he had to calcute that they would remember his face.

  So he got out of the car and gave anyone who might have watched a good look at him. Not a move too many as he closed the door behind him, locked it and slipped a hat onto his balding head. Every step toward the facility’s entrance was a confident stride, a marching rhythm that his body had failed to forget even after all those years as a Thief. A few steps in, Viktor spotted an audience for his entrance. A dog, crouched in a little burrow of broken plywood, wasted just enough energy to look at him, rising neither to bark nor beg. Viktor paid it no further mind and walked just about right past it, pushing open the sheet metal door to the junkyard proper. That the door didn’t have enough of a creak to serve as entrance bell for his arrival seemed the first sign that the pce was still in business. Certainly there was merchandise on dispy, a few cars parked close to the double-wide metal shack serving as offices. Some of the vehicles were dear enough to deserve being covered in tarps against the weather, others clearly picked over for their best and heaviest parts, left on their wheels only so they could be rolled to their final destination among the stacks. Viktor’s heart jumped when he saw Anne’s Nissan in their midst, passenger side pushed in a bit with some paint scrapes, hood and engine already removed. But the headlights and windows and even the wipers were still in pce. Not a lot of people had gotten to pick it over yet. And if so —

  “Yo!” a young man called out to Viktor. Viktor stopped walking, but made no attempt to turn his gaze away from the car. “Help you, Sir? Looking for anything in particur?” the young man continued.“Yes,” Viktor said. As the young man’s shoes — work boots, at least one size too big — crunched the gravel next to him, Viktor finally turned to look at him. 20, maybe? The ‘Stanley’ on his coveralls was hand-stitched. His hands were very clean, probably just washed from an early stint wrenching on something, to tell from the dirt above his wrists and in his hair. Prescription frame gsses and a red neckerchief completed the look. “This car,” Viktor said, indicating the Nissan. “The owner, she owes me.”“Wouldn’t know about that, Sir,” Stanley said. Moved his arm to scratch his head as he said it, nervous habit. “You want I should call Mr. Otis? He bought it off the fel not three days ago. Didn’t say word one about a dy, though.”“Mr. Otis,” Viktor said.“Yeah,” Stanley said. “Yeah, he’s inside.”“Take me to him, please,” Viktor said.“Yessir,” Stanley said, scratched his head again, then turned and walked toward the shack.

  Viktor followed him at fifteen paces.

  The shack might have been a reasonable size from the outside, but the interior was a wild mess. 600 square feet wasn’t much for fitting a workshop and a customer service counter and an office and an employee bathroom at the best of times; add the thick insution and the wall shelves and Mr. Otis to that and it was a miracle that people had enough room in here to turn around when it was time to leave. Mr. Otis, then, was just in the middle of the workshop, a thin-walled steel pipe fixed in a table vice and a metal saw in his right hand.

  “We got a customer,” Stanley expined as Viktor brushed past him, extending his tattooed hand toward the owner.“So we do,” Mr. Otis said. He had the kind of short, light blond hair that seemed to actually darken with greying, and preciously little of that left, too. “What can I do for you?” he asked.“Two things,” Viktor expined. “One, tell me everything about the Nissan and who came here with it.”“Ah, you see —” Mr. Otis started.Viktor softly shook his head. “Two,” Viktor said, “tell your boy to remove the revolver from his clothes.” As he said that, he slowly reached under his jacket, produced his own pistol and made a show of unloading it. “I do not want an accident,” Viktor added, holstering the empty pistol.“…Dad?” Stanley said.

  Mr. Otis put down his steel saw and held out his hand to Stanley, but his eyes stayed on Viktor. Stanley didn’t move. Mr. Otis kept his hand out. Soon enough, it was filled with a revolver.

  “Go and get me a couple more feet from the pipe stock, Stan,” Mr. Otis said. He grabbed an empty parts tray from a nearby workbench; with a few rough moves, he swung out the revolver’s cylinder and ejected the cartridges. The parts tray was too thin to cushion their fall completely, so all six of them gave a soft pling when they dropped in. “Two and a quarter of the 409. Clean them good. Clean them real good, both ends inside and out, and make sure you use the stainless brush. You get any reg steel on there —”“Rust is bad for business,” Stanley recited. “I got it, Dad.”“And close up the gate,” Mr. Otis said. He held up the empty revolver once more, then put it down in the parts tray beside the cartridges. “Think we’re not having any more customers around for a while yet.”“…yes, Dad,” Stanley said.

  Stanley left. Walked out right behind Viktor. Closed the shack door behind him like he was sneaking out on a te night date.

  “Whatever it is you’re here for,” Mr. Otis said, “Stanley’s got no part in it. You leave him alone.” His voice stayed ft and pleasant through it all. Not the first time he’d had this kind of conversation. Probably the very reason the car was here and not in another junkyard.“Your gun,” Viktor said. “Show it.”“Don’t believe in ‘em,” Mr. Otis said. “My boy thinks we need protection out here. I guess we do. But guns are more trouble than they’re worth.” He stepped in front of Viktor. “Guess that’s the car, too. Knew it was too good to be true.”“Tell me, please,” Viktor said.“Well,” Mr. Otis said. “The car’s fine. Great, really. Would be good enough to sell for salvage as is even with the collision damage but I got a buyer for the engine on a rush order and already made my money back on that. The fel who sold it to me wanted the car gone bad, I tell you what. I lowballed him, I ain’t too proud to say, but he didn’t haggle. Didn’t seem to care about the money at all, didn’t ask about trading it in, nothing. And just when I get suspicious of that, he pulls out the paperwork. He’s got it all, pink slip, service records, even a damn receipt from the cleaners. Not that I don’t appreciate someone who’s got their ducks in a row, but I tell ya, I was gonna get rid of my car after a collision, getting the seats cleaned would be st on my mind. I thought I was dreaming.”“Tell me about this ‘fellow’,” Viktor pried.“Yeah, sure,” Mr. Otis said. “Bck guy, maybe your age? Real clean cut type. Coulda done without the attitude, myself. He was doing me a favor and he acted it, you know?” Mr. Otis gnced over to the file shelves behind the service counter. “Look, everything I know about the guy and the car is in the papers. So I guess you’re gonna want to see the papers now.”Viktor nodded. “Show me.”

  Mr. Otis made his way to the desk. Viktor tensed up as his mind tried to fit various kinds of weapons into the space beneath. Pistol, shotgun? The only cure for that was to stick close behind Mr. Otis and keep his hand on his knife. That way he hoped to see a glimpse early enough, and be on Mr. Otis’s back before the man had a chance to bring the weapon to bear. The son, though…maybe waiting right outside. Viktor gnced to his right. No cover. One more reason to rush Mr. Otis, get them both on the ground behind the counter and then go from there.

  Mr. Otis stopped by a filing shelf and let his finger ride the backs of the various files, stopping as if by feel on the right one. He pulled it free and then turned to Viktor. “Take a look,” he said. “It’s all there.”Viktor was such a nice guy that he chose to trust Mr. Otis. Abandoning the tactical scan for the moment, he took the file with a nod and opened it, browsing the various paperwork. He had no clear idea what he was looking for, he just knew that this wasn’t what he wanted to see. He traced a finger over the fake name on the pink slip. Not Gdys Johnson, but the document itself appeared genuine. How long had Anne prepared to abandon them? “I wonder if you made a copy,” Viktor said.“Not yet,” Mr. Otis said. “Was gonna run it to the DMV bright and early on Thursday.”“I understand,” Viktor said. He snapped the file closed and lowered his arm, holding it by his side. It belonged to him now. “It is bad,” he said, “that you do not remember this man well. Very average. I looked at the car. Also bad. Only good for scrap. No use for paperwork. That is why you did not bother with making a file for it. I see now I came here for nothing. A shame. But at least you made your money on it.” He met Mr. Otis’s eyes. “I think you must leave it at that.”“Hrr,” Mr. Otis said. “Let me guess, I forget you, too?”“No,” Viktor said. “Forget everything else. But you must remember me, very well. Like I will remember you.” He let his eyes wander. “Your son, he will be Mr. Otis one day?”“…guess we never talked about that yet,” Mr. Otis said.“You must talk,” Viktor said. “Tell him, if he sees this” — Viktor held up his right hand and tapped the tattoos on it with his left — “if he sees this again, then I am sorry.”“Well, ain’t that nice,” Mr. Otis said. “We done here?”“…goodbye, Mr. Otis,” Viktor said.

  Alexander had aged five years in a month. He wore a fitted suit now, to boot. Not a Dolzhikov suit, as those had gone out of fashion. But there were other tailors in Brighton Beach. Life went on like that. And, Alexander hoped, it would be much the same with the business. His father’s restaurant was still quite the same it had seemingly always been, just as full of wood and smoke and evil cloaked in civility. There they were, the lot of cowards, all assembled at the usual table, wearing their usual smiles. Gennady Bakleets, the slug. Zakhar Lazarev, the walking painting. Fyodor Petrovin, trader of lives. And Semyon Pankratev, of course, still too impolite to die.1If you’ve been waiting for their first names with bated breath for the entire book, well, here you go. I got you, fam. How they looked at him! Alexander felt bile rise in his stomach, but he put on a good smile despite everything. Viktor stood beside him, after all. And Viktor had taught him well.

  “Gentlemen,” Alexander said. “It is a pleasure to see you all in good health.” Lazarev’s expression darkened. Not addressing them individually was a snub to them all. “You will forgive me,” Alexander demanded, “that I must speak my own business before I leave you to yours. There will be two items, neither of which I expect to take up much time.”“Of course,” Bakleets said through his teeth.Alexander didn’t dey the inevitable. He spped down the notebook bound in red leather and pushed it into the middle of the wooden table, like a splotch of blood on the white linen. “First, this book contains proof that both Dolzhikovs acted on orders of the KGB,” Alexander said. “Their money, their weapons, even their helping hands were provided to them by the Bureau. Accordingly, all business you have engaged in with the knowledge of either must be assumed to be known to the State and done to its advantage.”Whether the silence that followed was out of self-control, shame or shock, it sted just as long. “That is a very serious allegation,” Petrovin said, eying the book. “We should examine this proof ourselves.” Nobody moved to reach for it.“Of course,” Alexander said. He gave a nod to Viktor, who stepped forward and put down four file folders onto the table, sliding one to each of the Captains. “I made copies of the entire book for your convenience.”“And your convenience,” Bakleets said. While he talked, Petrovin and Pankratev at least picked up their folders and started browsing.“Naturally,” Alexander said. "You are welcome to browse the contents at your leisure.”“Bah!” Lazarev spat. “We don’t know a thing about that book of yours and where it came from. Brothers, I wonder why we should believe anything in here.”“If this is true…if any of this is true, then there are many people we can no longer trust,” Petrovin said, looking up from his file. “Securing our operations might take us years.”“Creating much disarray for every family but yours, young Alexander,” Lazarev said. “And I find it too convenient that you now come forward with such damning information. Again, I must wonder where this book comes from.”“From the dead body of Nikoi Dolzhikov,” Alexander said. “Simmons left her bloody fingerprints on it, but apparently it was of no use to her. We managed to recover it from the scene of his death before it wandered further. Still, we cannot know what Simmons learned from it and what she will do with that information. One more reason to divest yourselves of those liabilities as quickly as possible.”

  Silence.

  “I see you remain unconvinced,” Alexander said. “The second item then. I have been able to independently corroborate much of the information contained within the notebook and more besides. Captain Sidorov kept excellent notes. A habit he picked up from his friend and co-conspirator Nikoi Dolzhikov, I think. I have at my disposal detailed information about your operations, your bank accounts, who gives and who receives…money and other favors. If any of you find items in the notebook that require further detail to verify, I will be gd to provide that detail…in confidence. And my price is, you will find, very reasonable.”

  More silence.

  “There are two seats open at this table,” Alexander said, then looked to Viktor. “We will take them.”Lazarev scoffed. “You have ambition, boy, but are not even a Thief yet,” he said.“I don’t care to be,” Alexander said. “And if you are wise, you will no longer wield that name, either. Without Boris Dolzhikov, all you have are your own fiefdoms and the garbage will soon be breathing down your necks. You will need to move quickly to cash out and get the money away from prying eyes. If you agree with me on this, then you will work with me and listen to my counsel — I know more than you can imagine. Together, we can come out of this even stronger than before.”“Simmons,” Lazarev said.“What about her?” Alexander said.“We cannot tolerate you sheltering her,” Petrovin said. “If you wish to prove your intentions, deliver her to us without further dey.”“I would if she had not fled,” Alexander said. “She crossed us all. Believe me, gentlemen, when I get my hands on her, you will know about it…and you will see for yourselves the consequences of vioting my trust.” He let his look sweep the room. “You may have some assumptions about me, because of my age, or because of my father. Today I offer a free bit of counsel: discard these assumptions and see for yourselves what I am capable of.”

  Yet more silence.

  “I think we have much to offer each other,” Alexander said. “In any event, I have kept you long enough from your business. Enjoy your meal, gentlemen. Compliments of the house, of course.”

  As soon as Alexander turned from there, the whispers began. Every step emboldened the arguments, grown men — what passed for that, anyway! — hissing at each other, debating what to do. It was just as he had long suspected; without the firm hand of their bygone king, the dukes were left to bicker. Nikoi’s decapitation strike would have led to nothing less than all-out war, unless someone stepped up to lead again. Alexander moved briskly, round the corner, past the kitchen and into the alley. Only when he was outside did he permit himself to bend over, hands on thighs, and breathe. Everything had gone…as well as he had expected. Everything was in pce. And no matter what they decided, he had a way forward. He had power. He would show them what an Ignatyev man could accomplish, given the chance.

  “Phidelphia is a dead end,” Viktor said, smoke rising from his nostrils. He stood next to the service entrance with a cigarette between his steady fingers, held close to his chest. Alexander nodded, not looking up from his attempts at breathing. “The trail goes cold at the junkyard,” Viktor continued. “They say a man sold them the car. Of course, that man could be her cutout or a simple scavenger. Their description of his features was…common.” He sucked on his cigarette briefly, too brief to even let the embers at its front fre up. “White, young, brown hair.”“And they told the truth?” Alexander asked. He gnced at Viktor’s Oldsmobile parked out front.“I am satisfied of it,” Viktor said.“What about the package?” Alexander asked.“A mailbox close to the junkyard,” Viktor said, taking a leisurely draw from his cigarette. “What a coincidence.”“Funny coincidence,” Alexander said. “Knows my address and everything.”“I would not call it funny,” Viktor said.“I can’t call it anything else,” Alexander said. “Not until I see a body.”“We can only guess,” Viktor said. He looked at a bird perched on one of the trash cans in the alley. It was picking at the side of a bck pstic bag. “You gave a good speech. You have almost convinced them, I think. But it would be good for everyone if she turned up dead.”“Yeah,” Alexander said, falling back to English. He took another breath and straightened up. Viktor looked to him, meeting his eyes. Alexander nodded, slowly. “Yeah, it would be.”

  Manhattan had it all.2Yes, at the end of the damn story we’re finally going to Manhattan. Cold dry winters and hot wet summers, floods and tornadoes and just the nicest weather in between. It wasn’t the biggest city on the Kansas River but Christy wouldn’t move an inch up or down on her life. Christy — Miss Christy if you knew her, Christiana Lee Lewis if you didn’t — was a Manhattan girl through and through. Manhattan was where she’d been born and God willing Manhattan was where she would die. Her father Joseph would’ve appreciated if she could’ve been this settled in her retionships, because — as he kept saying — he’d hate to see the family business leave them for ck of family. Then Christy would tell him he wouldn’t have to worry about that if he just kept up the smoking. They’d both grin at each other and so life rolled on. Joseph’s nagging seemed a bit more sincere now that he’d officially passed the salon on down to Christy, though he struggled with the idea of being retired. Every customer of his she could sweet-talk into letting her handle their haircut rather than asking “When’s Joe gonna be in?” was a victory. It wasn’t like Joseph minded his daughter taking away his st excuses to show up for work, not at all, but his old pals seemed to think he would and Joseph, bless him, had never had the heart to tell them otherwise.

  In any event, when Christy went downstairs from the apartment to the salon, she found a customer waiting outside. The customer was a tall woman, bundled up in thick clothes. There was no telling how long she had been waiting, just standing next to the door. There was still a half hour before the salon should open, going by the sign out front, but Christy kept time mostly for the convenience of her customers. The salon could open as early and close as te as they needed, and besides, it wasn’t like everything had magically gone dirty overnight after the close-out clean from the day before, though Christy would’ve thought nothing of going over the whole pce again just to be sure. Simirly, she thought nothing of unlocking the door and pulling it open with a big bright smile first thing on her face.

  “Hello there, Miss,” Christy told the customer. She hardly noticed the customer back up a bit from her. “Looking to have your hair done?”“Yes, Ma’am,” the customer said. As if that wasn’t enough of an answer, the customer brushed off her knit cap and ran a hand through her hair, pausing where the short natural curls gave way to straight bck hair. “Today would be good. I am sorry for imposing on you at short notice. I would have called ahead, but I was not quite sure I would make it this far today.”Christy smiled. “No need to apologize,” she said. “I can take you right now, actually, if that’s okay with you?”The customer smiled. “Of course,” she said.“Then come on in,” Christy said.

  As they entered, Christy switched on the lights inside. The floors were still shiny and slick, the chairs all rotated to face their mirrors just so, hair trimmers cleaned and a set of sharp scissors on all three work carts.

  “Now what exactly do you want done with your hair?” Christy asked, walking behind the front counter to switch the radio on as well.“I should like the straight ends removed,” the customer said. “If that can be arranged.”“Oh, it sure can,” Christy said. “Take a seat and I’ll be right with you.”

  She showed the customer to her chair. The leather on its seat was well-worn but free from tears, and nothing creaked on it. The customer gingerly eased herself into the seat and let her eyes wander everywhere but Christy. It wasn't an unusual reaction. People were attached to their hair, to how they looked, and nervosity was just to be expected, particurly with such big changes. Some wore it on their sleeves, some got excessively chatty, some just went into a kind of limp state, as if pying dead. Christy tied her apron on over her work clothes and pulled one of the carts in close.

  "How long have you been growing it out?" Christy asked."About a month," the customer answered."That's a good time," Christy said, putting on her most reassuring smile. "No good to rush into the big chop. You been wearing it straight for a while?""...too long," the customer said.Christy choked down a little ugh. "That's truth," she said. As she spoke, she pced a bck salon cape on the customer and fastened it around her neck. "Been there myself, you know.""I see," the customer said. "If I might ask, what was your occasion?""Oh, nothing, really," Christy said, smoothing the cape down. "Everybody’s got their thing. Bad breakups, new job, just moved into town, but me, I thought I could use a change, you know?" She paused to make sure the customer had noticed her smile in the mirror. "You'll feel better after. I promise."The customer smiled cautiously. "I will hold you to that.""Then I better get it right," Christy ughed. She put her hands on the customer’s broad shoulders. "Okay! Ready to change your life?""Yes," the customer said. "I suppose I am."