Pete Hamill - Brooklyn Noir

Money. For a minute the thought pleased me.

“It’d be better than this crappy shift,” Paul said.

“Nah,” I said. “It’s not my thing,” I looked at our glasses, both of which were empty. “Besides, I like the company on this crappy shift. Fancy another?”

“Gotta go, Amanda’s having an ultrasound this morning. For some reason she wants me there.” Paul stood up, throwing some money on the bar. “You should get some sleep. You look like death.”

“Sure.” I signaled the bartender for another beer.

The gangster placed his passport, open at the correct page, in front of the immigration officer at John F. Kennedy Airport. The name on the passport wasn’t the one his parents had given him, but he thought the photo nicely captured his likeness. “Good afternoon,” he said in only slightly accented English.

The officer nodded as he checked the paperwork. “How long will you be staying in New York, sir?”

“Just one week.”

“Is this your first visit to America?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have friends or relatives here?”

“Some business acquaintances.”

“So this is a business trip?”

The gangster smiled. “I hope also to have a little enjoyment in your great city.”

He looked like any other guy, he thought, as he checked his reflection in the automatic doors. Any American guy. He wore Levi’s, Adidas running shoes, and a t-shirt that said “Just Do It.” His thick black hair and goatee beard were neatly trimmed. A tiny gold earring in his left ear was a new addition and the lobe was still slightly swollen. He put his hand to touch it, and remembering the piercer’s advice, stopped. He didn’t want an infection.

There was a line for taxis. He waited patiently, feeling exhilarated despite jetlag. He was in New York! For him, the greatest city in the world.

It wasn’t until the yellow cab was speeding toward Manhattan that he unfolded the magazine article that was the reason for his visit. A story about Budapest café society, and, at the bottom, a biographical line that said the author lived in New York City. The gangster believed strongly in fate. Why else would he have chanced upon the year-old copy of an airline magazine while on holiday in the Costa del Sol? He’d gone into an English pub to escape the heat of midday, and seeing a picture of his hometown, had idly turned the pages while waiting for his Guinness to be pulled.

And it was there that he had found him: the shit-fuck guy

“Got you,” the gangster had whispered softly as the bar-man slapped the beer down on the bar and demanded an extortionate amount. For once, the gangster, who was careful with money, having been raised in a household where there wasn’t much, was happy to pay. “Got you,” he said again, and raised the drink in a toast to the goddess of fortune.

He checked into an anonymous hotel near Times Square and went out in search of a payphone. Times Square was a dazzling disappointment; he’d expected a smorgasbord of vice, not toy stores and “family” restaurants. He located a phone and called his contact, making a note to ask him, once business had been conducted, what a family restaurant was and how it differed from a regular one.

“Glock 9mm, as ordered,” his contact said, sliding the bag across the park bench. “Plus ammo. Price as agreed. U.S. dollars, no fucking kopecs or whatever it is you people use.”

“We use dollars, same as you,” the gangster murmured, handing him the money. He decided this guy probably wasn’t the one to ask about restaurants. He didn’t seem that friendly.

“And here’s the address. Tracked him through the DMV. Everything was like you said. It was a good guess.”

The gangster shrugged. “It’s what I would have done,” he said. “If I was little bit lazy.” He took the piece of paper and looked at the address. The words meant nothing to him.

“It’s Brighton Beach,” his contact said. “Plenty of Russians out there. You’ll feel right at home.”

“I’m Hungarian,” the gangster replied.

A woman passed on rollerblades wearing tight little white shorts. The gangster could see dimples of cellulite in her butt as she pushed herself forward. Her mouth was set in a grim line.

“She looks like the devil is after her,” he remarked sadly.

“Nobody in this town’s having any fucking fun,” his contact said.

He caught a taxi to the apartment, which was on the ground floor of a tired street so close to the sea that he could smell salty air. He let himself in. He didn’t plan to kill the shit-fuck guy right away, he wanted to have a little fun first. He was thinking about trashing the place, sending a message, like they did in the movies. Not usually his style, but he felt like being a little expressive for once. This was a special case, after all.

The apartment was a single room. There was no furniture to speak of, just a folded-out futon with a gray sheet screwed up on top of it. A small, old-fashioned television sat unsteadily on a wooden crate. A single poster was tacked to the wall. The gangster recognized it as the original election poster for the Hungarian Democratic Forum. It featured the back of a large, thick-necked Russian military officer. The copy read, in Russian, “Comrades, it’s over!” The gangster smiled as he remembered simpler days. How happy they had been to get rid of the fucking Russians.

He stepped on tiptoe through the crap on the floor — fast food cartons, empty beer bottles, dirty laundry, newspapers, odd shoes, even a tube of toothpaste. Stacks of crusty dishes filled the sink. The refrigerator door stood ajar and rusty brown liquid leaked onto the linoleum. The smell in the room was stale and thick — a hopeless, exhausted musk of despair. The gangster shuddered in disgust and wiped his hands on his neatly-pressed jeans. It was a waste of time to trash the place, the shit-fuck guy wouldn’t even notice.

“You are foreign correspondent?” Lana asked skeptically.

I tried to look mysteriously modest. “Yeah, just got back into town a few days ago, from Bosnia.”

“I don’t trust journalists.”

“Well, you shouldn’t trust me, that’s for sure.” I grinned wolfishly. Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps the lovable-roué routine had worked better when I had a decent haircut and wore a suit. I went to straighten my tie and remembered I wasn’t wearing one. “Another drink?” We were sitting in a restaurant a block or two from the beach. The food was Uzbeki, which is to Russians what Mexican is to Americans — cheerfully ethnic, but not too threatening. Arresting pictures of downtown Baku were showing on the television set. The pictures focused on a large building of Soviet design and a wide empty street. The visual tedium was relieved every few minutes by a passing Lada.

“Ever been to Baku?” I put my hand on her knee. It was plump and warm.

“No.”

She glanced at me and looked away, staring, so it seemed, at the stuffed animal heads mounted on the wood-paneled walls.

“How long have you lived in the States?”

“Thirteen years.”

“Like it?”

“It’s okay.”

“Got family?”

“Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“Just trying to get to know you.”

“What’re you doing out here if you’re big-time foreign correspondent? Why aren’t you at Stork Club or something?”

“I’m not sure the Stork Club is still in business. Anyway, I prefer Brighton Beach. It’s got character.” I swallowed some vodka, trying to pinpoint the place where the evening had gone south. She had seemed friendly enough when I’d picked her up in a bar an hour or so ago.

“Character,” she snorted.

“Is that so wrong?”