Dave Zeltserman: Outsourced

“How do you know that?”

“Unfortunately, I know how that son of a bitch thinks.” Resnick paused for a moment. “Be careful in there. We want to get to him, but don’t let him get to you. He’s got very good lawyers. You do anything he can sue you over, he will.”

The body shop, a dirt-stained one-story concrete structure, had both its front and side windows covered with cardboard. Inside the place was lit up by rows of fluorescent lights. The middle bay had two guys attaching a bumper to a Cadillac. Three other guys stood around smoking cigarettes. As the two detectives entered by a side door, all five of the men looked at them for a moment before turning back to what they were doing. Resnick ignored them, knocked on a closed office door, then opened it. Viktor Petrenko was alone in the office sitting behind a desk. He frowned at the interruption.

“Yes?” he asked, his eyes deader than a mannequin’s.

“I need you to answer some questions,” Resnick said.

“You, I know,” Petrenko said, staring deadpan at Resnick. Then looking at Maguire, “I don’t know you.”

Maguire stared back, trying to figure out where he had seen eyes like that before. Maybe inside the reptile house at the zoo. He matter-of-factly flashed his identification in Petrenko’s direction before slipping it back into his wallet.

Resnick said to Petrenko, “The owner of the Kiev Market, a seventy-two-year old man about half your size, was brutally beaten, his store trashed.”

“That is too bad.”

“What happened, Viktor? Were they short this month, or did Mr. Wiseman try standing up to you?”

“Are you accusing me of this?”

“Why would I do something like that?”

“I have no idea. But if you are, I will need to call my lawyers.”

“You don’t need to do anything. Not if you can tell me where you were at ten o’clock this morning.”

A thin smile pushed on to Petrenko’s lips. “I was here, of course.”

“Can anyone corroborate that?” Resnick asked without much enthusiasm.

“Of course.” Petrenko stood up, walked to the office door, opened it and yelled something out in Russian. One of the three men smoking cigarettes looked back at Petrenko, tossed his cigarette to the floor and trudged into the office. The man looked more Neanderthal than human with his thick brow and a mass of black hair that left almost none of his forehead visible. Slouching forward, he ignored the presence of the two detectives and focused his stare in the general direction of Petrenko.

“Ask him,” Petrenko demanded of Resnick.

“Go ahead, beat it,” Resnick told the semi-Neanderthal.

The man gave Petrenko a questioning look and then started stammering that Petrenko had been in his office all morning.

“I said beat it.”

The man waited until Petrenko gave him a nod before leaving the office.

“Do you think any of those men working here will say anything different?” Petrenko asked. “So unless you have someone who will say otherwise, I suggest you stop this harassment.”

An angry laugh exploded from Maguire.

“Did I say something amusing?” Petrenko asked him.

“You’re a goddamn coward, Viktor, beating an old man like that. Someone who could be your own father.”

“No, he could not be my father.”

“Why not?” Maguire winked in the direction of his partner. “You’re both Russian, right? You’re both Jewish, right?”

Petrenko flinched. Muscles bunched along his shoulders as he took a small step towards Maguire. “I am no zhid,” he forced out, his color paling to a milk white. Resnick held his breath, his hand moving to his service revolver. Petrenko stopped, almost as if waking from a dream. Unclenching his fist, he sat down behind his desk.

“No offense,” Petrenko said to Resnick, a thin smile back in place.

Resnick gave his partner a signal to leave the office. Then, to Petrenko, “You want to call me a zhid or anything else, go right ahead. I look at you as nothing more than a rabid animal that needs to be put down, and one of these days I’m hoping to get my chance.”

“Is that a threat, Detective?”

“No threat. Simply a statement of fact. I’m going to be spending a lot of time on State Street looking after these Russian store owners. I hope I get a chance to see you down there.”

Once they were back in their car, Maguire turned to Resnick. “What the hell was that about?”

“I took a long shot that we could bait Petrenko into assaulting you. Almost worked.”

“Thanks,” Maguire said, his face reddening. “I appreciate the thought.”

“You might have taken a punch, but in the long run it would have been worth it to put that psycho away, or better yet, have an excuse to put a bullet in his ear.”

“Nice of you to volunteer me for something like that.”

“I had no choice. He would’ve ignored any comment coming from me.”

Maguire sat stewing for a minute. Shaking his head, he asked, “Why did he go mental over me calling him Jewish?”

“In Russia, only gentiles are considered true Russians, Jews are considered something else. A lot of these so-called pure Russians like Petrenko are as anti-Semitic as they come.” Resnick paused, a darkness muddling his features. “To him, the money he extorts from these store owners is nothing, just loose change. He does it because he feels it’s his duty to exercise an iron fist over them.”

Resnick found an open parking spot in front of one of the divey bars that lined Washington Street and pulled into it. “Lunch time,” he said.

“I don’t think they serve food here.”

“We’ll see.”

Once inside Resnick ordered a double shot of bourbon and, after downing that, ordered another.

“I don’t feel comfortable drinking on the job,” Maguire said.

“Don’t then. This is just my version of a three-martini lunch. Something I need after dealing with Viktor Petrenko.”

Maguire rubbed a hand across his jaw as he watched his partner drink down his second shot and signal the bartender for a third. “Something that’s been bothering me. What’s the sense of trashing the store? How can Petrenko expect those people to be able to keep making their payments if their business is shut down?”

“They have no choice about making their payments, they’ll just have to find a way. And as far as smashing up the store, when the insurance check comes in it will go right into Petrenko’s pockets.”

The bartender refilled the shot glass. “That’s all you’re getting,” he told Resnick. Resnick nodded and took the bourbon in one gulp. Giving the car keys to Maguire, he held his hand out palm down and saw that for the first time since Petrenko had moved on his partner his hand had stopped shaking.

Holy shit. I’m going to be robbing that damn bank.

Even after all of his planning, the bank robbery had never seemed real to Dan. At some level, he must’ve been hoping that Joel would turn him down, that he would have an excuse to back out. Now that Joel was in, the robbery was no longer a vague concept. They were going to do it. He was going to do it. When the realization had first hit him it left him numb. Driving back from New Hampshire, he could barely pay attention to the road. It was as if he were on autopilot, moving without any thought or awareness. Kind of like he was stoned on some powerful shit. He remembered stopping off at home. His hair was wet so he probably took a shower, and he had a fuzzy recollection of talking with both his children, but that was all. On his way to Gordon’s he must’ve stopped off for a pizza and a six-pack of Guinness because as he pulled into the complex he noticed the items on the front seat next to him.