Part 15 (1/2)
”You believe we will do this?” Klesko asked. ”Kill them, every one?”
”I believe it,” Isaac said.
After a moment more of consideration, Klesko pulled the car over to the curb.
”Go,” said Klesko, reaching over to open the pa.s.senger side door. With a sense of relief, Tiger shoved the pa.s.senger seat forward with his foot and climbed out of the car, allowing Isaac to climb out as well. Tiger got back into the front seat and Klesko steered them back into the traffic, leaving Isaac Hamlisch behind.
”We find the girl,” Klesko said.
”Da,” Tiger agreed.
They turned west and drove to Tenth Avenue, then pointed north and headed all the way to 87th Street and Amsterdam, the corner where they had lost track of the girl and her friends the night before.
They scanned the area-this time in full daylight-trying to figure out how the children had escaped them.
”How do they disappear into the air?” Klesko asked as he and Tiger continued their search of the corner where the four teens had eluded them. ”These are magic children?”
They had been forced to abandon the previous night's search as the police descended on the area, but now it was daylight and the streets were back to normal business. As he had the night before, Klesko soon focused on the empty bank on the corner. He tried again to peer through the soaped windows, but without satisfaction. Tiger followed as his father moved to the narrow service walkway at the rear of the bank building, finding the rear fire exit. The men found something curious there: on the door handle hung a small combination lockbox, attached to the handle tightly enough so it could not be removed.
”There is a key,” said Tiger.
”Eh?”
”If you open the box with the code, there will be a key inside.”
And then Klesko understood: the bank s.p.a.ce was empty and available for lease. The key was for realtors to gain access to the property. Klesko tugged at the lockbox, confirming that it was still fully attached and unbroken.
”If they entered here, they have the code,” said Tiger.
”How?” Klesko asked.
Klesko stepped to the first Dumpster near the door and lifted its top. The bin was less than half full. At least a dozen empty pizza boxes were stacked inside, plus three plastic grocery bags piled near the top, filled with trash. Klesko tipped the bags open and found crumpled wrappers for various kinds of snack food: chips, candy, popcorn, etc. He closed the Dumpster again and the two men moved out of the walkway, back to the sidewalk.
”This was her place,” Klesko said.
”No more,” said Tiger. ”They would not stay.”
”They are gone,” Klesko agreed. ”So. Why throw garbage away? They will never come back. Why make it clean? Who has code for getting this key and also makes this place clean?”
Tiger considered the question, but suspected that his father already knew the answer. Tiger followed Klesko to the front entrance of the bank s.p.a.ce, where inside the window a placard was mounted. It read: For Commercial Lease-7,000 sq. feet Desmond & Green Realty
NINETEEN.
The phone picked up on the first ring.
”Yeah.”
”Hey. This is Wally.”
”Little sister,” Panama purred. ”What up?”
”You had another place for me to get an ID,” said Wally. ”Could you give me that?”
”Not the Brighton?”
”No. The other one you said.”
”What? They mess with you in Brighton?”
Wally considered the question: Did they mess with me in Brighton Beach? They changed her life in Brighton Beach. Did that count?
”Long story,” she answered. ”It's fine. The other one?”
”Jersey City,” answered Panama. ”You don't like Russians, then fine, I give you some New Jersey Nigerian motherf.u.c.kers, see how you like that. You ain't never find no Africans blacker than these. These motherf.u.c.kers black ...”
Wally waited out Panama's diatribe on the abyssal blackness of Nigerians until he finally coughed up the Jersey City address.
”What else goin' on?” he said once he had dictated the address. ”You gonna bring somethin' in? More o' those s.h.i.+ny expres...o...b..xes?”
”That was a onetime thing,” said Wally. ”But I need to ask you something about Rage.”
There was a moment of silence on Panama's end of the line, and then a sigh. ”I'm disappointed, little sister, you wanna get in some s.h.i.+t with Rage. You too good for his business, you want my opinion.”
”I'm not going to do business with him.”
”Then good.”
”He's still moving party supplies to the clubs downtown?”
Another moment of silence on Panama's end. ”Who the f.u.c.k is askin'?”
”I am,” Wally said. ”Do you remember Sophie? She used to be with us?”
”Little Sophie ain't welcome aroun' here no more. Used to be sweet, now crystal got her all f.u.c.ked up. Think maybe she mulin' for Rage these days.”
”She's dead. Killed.”
”Okay,” Panama said after a pause. ”That ain't exactly shockin' news, you see what I mean. 'Tweaka chick goes into business with Rage, nex' thing you know she found dead.'”
”Yeah,” said Wally. ”Doesn't mean I can't be curious. You've got nothing for me on this?”
”What I got is a big slice o' Panamanian wisdom: let it the f.u.c.k go. You hear me, little sister? Nothin' good gonna come out of you holdin' on to that kinda s.h.i.+t.”
The trip to Jersey City went smoothly enough. Tevin and Wally traveled alone, taking the New Jersey PATH train to Journal Square and walking two blocks to a warehouse doorway on Sip Avenue. The Nigerian crew lived together in their warehouse s.p.a.ce, and a few of them were still asleep on cots when Wally and Tevin arrived at nine o'clock. The transaction was simple, especially compared to Wally's experience in Brighton Beach: the Nigerians delivered a first-rate fake ID for two hundred dollars, no questions asked and no lives changed.