Dan Fesperman - Lie in the Dark

Still, Vlado chafed at the idea.

Kupric continued. “The longer Vitas stayed in, the more pressure he applied. There are ways this sort of thing is done in this kind of business. One way is to start killing your competitors, frowned upon these days because it attracts the wrong kind of attention. Another way is like with any business, through sweat and hustle. You undercut your competition’s prices, move in on their markets with better service and faster delivery.” Another new capitalist who already thinks he knows it all, Vlado thought with amusement. “Then there’s the way Vitas used. He simply began throwing his weight around, and this only invites retaliation, and not the sort that is likely to leave you standing. I think that’s why Vitas is dead.”

“You think? Or you know?”

“I know, or know as well as I ever could without having seen the shooting or heard the order.”

“How so?”

“Like I told you, it was the word in the network. One day it seemed to be everywhere: Vitas had pushed too hard, and with too little evidence of having the force to back it up. He was a man with a title and a name, but little else in the way of connections that would help him survive any serious challenge. The only way to deal with that kind of threat was to take out the name and the title. Which meant taking out the man himself. If you make yourself a target in a war zone, sooner or later you’re going to be hit. And that’s what happened to Vitas, sooner rather than later.”

“Is anything you heard ‘in the network,’ as you say, in the way of specifics? Or about the structure of these competing operations that might offer some hints as to who was responsible. Who might have been hurt the most by what he was up to, for instance?”

“Specific as far as who gave the order? None. Nor is it likely that anyone who knows will talk about it, unless he wants the same fate. As for the structure, and who was being hurt, take your pick. Any of a half dozen men in this city had enough power to have ordered it, or even another two dozen from the next rung down, although taking out the chief of the Interior Ministry police probably would come from the top, and you’ve doubtless seen the intelligence reports on that chain of command.”

He had, in fact-four single-spaced typed sheets that Kasic had tucked into the slim file to brief Vlado on the current state of smuggling in the city. That information squared neatly with Kupric’s assessment-a half-dozen men, each at the top of a fairly small operation, each with chunks of the markets for every consumer good from gasoline to meat.

After a short pause, Kupric said, “Look, I’m not going to be able to solve your case for you, or point the finger at your man. I’m only telling you what was the common knowledge to be heard during the past two weeks by anyone with ears.”

“Though I suppose you’ll want extra compensation for this ‘common knowledge,’ if you haven’t already gotten it, or whatever it is they parcel off to you from the larger action for these choice pieces of information.”

“Only what is due to me. And nothing that will generate anything more in the way of illegal traffic. I only parcel off, as you put it, the share that would inevitably come my way anyway Only enough to keep my hand in the game so I can keep my contacts alive.”

“All for the greater good, of course.”

“You act as if you are above all this, with your exemption from the army and your regular pay and your heated office. So tell me, do you have a family?”

“Yes.”

“And they are still here in the city?”

“No,” Vlado said. “Gone to Germany.”

“Yes, I see,” followed by a silent stare, as if Vlado’s answer had closed the case. “Mine is still here. Four boys and a girl. And my wife, of course. All living in four rooms, although we really can’t use the fourth room, the largest, because it faces south across the river and the window is gone and the walls are full of metal. So don’t tell me how I should get along in life, or that I am holding back too much, and don’t think that you can dictate in any way what I can or can’t do.”

For a price I could, Vlado nearly said, though he wasn’t at all sure what that price would be, or who would pay it. He only knew he was weary of the justifications for everyone’s petty chisel, one game of scramble and hustle after another, and usually for nothing but water, a little extra food and a roof over your head.

From the cigarette factory, Vlado recrossed town toward the city center, to meet the second of Kasic’s sources. He was a butcher, Muhamer Hrnic, who ran a meat counter in a market hall near the outdoor Markale Market. By now it was midafternoon, so the crowds had peaked out. Only a few dozen people were still walking among the stalls and counters inside the dim, drafty hall. This was the best time of year for the half dozen or so butchers who’d set up shop along the long walls of the building. The weather was cold enough to keep their meat from spoiling even though there was no electricity, and the doors and windows of the building were kept open to keep it that way. As customers stooped to peer into the counter windows their breath fogged the glass.

On the counters in the middle of the hall, a few forlorn women in shawls and head scarves tried to peddle the last of their small piles of loose cigarettes and other odds and ends. Others offered orphaned bottles of Sarajevska Piva, the local beer still being brewed, though lately it tasted sourly of corn and old socks.

Nearby at one end of the room were a few card tables selling old sections of garden hose, plumbing joints, clamps, assorted nuts and bolts, tangled lengths of wire, and light bulbs burned to within a few hours of their expiration. It was as if a crew of handymen had dumped out the contents of their toolboxes. Vlado glanced around for Grebo’s card table, but he and Mycky had either packed it in for the day or were selling outside this afternoon.

Hrnic’s meat counter was at the far end. He was a large man in a white smock streaked with the dried blood of cows, goats, and lambs, darkened into streaks and squirts, then smeared. The smock looked as if it hadn’t been washed in weeks. He had a wide face and gray eyes, and close-cropped silvery hair with lank bangs with a few strands drooping toward his eyebrows like untied shoelaces.

His meat looked reasonably fresh. Two sides of what Vlado supposed was lamb were hanging from hooks, suspended over the counter. In the display case there were a few passable pork chops, and arrayed on top were several large boles of deep brown cured meat, the salty ham that went down best with a little bread and a few belts of plum brandy

The prices never failed to make Vlado gasp, thirty Deutschemarks a pound for the fresh meat, forty and more for the cured ham.

Vlado introduced himself quietly, and Hrnic ordered a teenage girl behind the counter, probably his daughter, into action. She poured hot water from a thermos into a cupful of instant coffee and sugar, then whipped them into a chocolate-colored froth. She brought them over to an empty counter where Hrnic had led Vlado. The butcher then directed his daughter toward the cured meat, holding two fingers apart to indicate the width of how much she should slice. She nimbly wrapped the chunk in white paper and brought it to Vlado.

“For your troubles,” the butcher said.

Everyone was so generous today.

Vlado ignored it for a moment, saying, “I suppose you know why I am here. You’ve supplied us with certain information on Esmir Vitas, and I’m looking for any leads or ideas on why he might have been killed and who might be responsible.”

Hrnic followed with a tale similar to what Vlado had heard from Kupric, only this time Vitas was said to be horning in on the meat trade. He was pushing too hard too fast, not going about it the way one had to these days. Then word filtered out that he would soon be dealt with, that he didn’t have the muscle to back up his title. It was, of course, common knowledge. Then he was dead.