Marked Man II - 02 (9 page)

Leslie: O snap? How old R U?

Kyle: Pay grade = only indication of maturity that matters.

Leslie: Sad but true. What’s defendant up 2?

Kyle: Shirokov totally lost in his own little world. Reading a book, totes not even watching what is going on.

Leslie: What book?

Kyle: Hard to tell from here. Looks like Marquis de Sade maybe?

Leslie: What’s the title? Justine?

Kyle: … That’s bananas. Yes! How did u know? Are u a sorceress?

Leslie: He wrote Justine in prison. Poetic justice?

Kyle: Guy has a sense of irony. Got 2 give him that much.

Leslie: Wud like 2 give him a lot more than that.

Kyle: Careful wat u wish 4. May get your chance if not guilty.

After that text there was a long interval in which detective Bollier got no new messages from her FBI friend. She tried to relax and assume that there was some very legitimate reason why Agent Clemons would stop their conversation so abruptly. She passed the time by downing another mimosa and playing a game of darts with the bartender, who had no other customers to tend too at such an early hour. Bollier grew restless and started texting him in the manner of an over-attached girlfriend. Finally Agent Clemons wrote back.

Kyle: Sry - u will not believe wat just happened.

Leslie: Don’t tease Agent Ness! What????

Kyle: Elena Rugov just happened.

Leslie: Who?

Kyle: Recently remarried. Better known as Elena Prokorov, mother 2 Timur & Alexei.

Leslie: O shit what did she do?!

Kyle: Burst into court room. Yelled that Shirokov killed her baby boys. Kept pointing @ him. Think she put a gypsy hex on him or something. Absolutely nuts! Took 3 guards almost 10 mins 2 get her out.

Leslie: That’s awesome. I need to buy that broad a drink.”

Kyle: Sounds like you are having a good time.

Leslie: Don’t judge my spelling I aced that NYPD aptitude test like a sandwich.

Kyle: OOOk then. Cavanaugh just finished up. Solomon making closing statement.

Leslie: Plz no radio silence I’m dying here.

Kyle: I’ll do wat I can. Solomon all tricks and nonsense. I dunno - jury looks damn spooked after Elena’s little stunt. Not buying it @ all.

Leslie: O God. They have to convict. Will lose all fail in the system.

Kyle: Hold that thought. Judge Moore just sent them off 2 their chambers 2 render a verdict. I’ll TXT as soon as I have more news.

Bollier felt helpless and deflated. She stared down into the empty void at the bottom of her champagne glass. How many had she gone through? Two or three. Definitely not more than four. The detective got up to shake out the cobwebs and found her field of vision swimming. Definitely not more than five. Bollier made herself move slowly, with absolute precision. Even though she was in high heels and drunk as Boris Yeltsin she made it to the lady’s room without a stumble or a single missed stride.

In the women’s bathroom Bollier glanced at her reflection in the mirror. The image was distorted, like one of those funhouse mirrors at a carnival. The left side of her face was warped and shrunken like a voodoo head, the right swollen and grotesque. She walked away and yanked a half dozen paper towels from the machine on the wall. She delicately laid them out in a ring around the toilet bowl, brushed back her hair, and threw up.

When she emerged from the bathroom detective Bollier made a straight line for the jukebox. It was all digital, not like the ones she remembered and preferred from her rebellious youth. The selections were obviously intended for a rowdy pub crowd. After scrolling through the menu she settled on Time after Time by Cyndi Lauper. The opening chords echoed in the dim bar as Bollier returned to her stool.

The bartender came over, all muscles and aftershave. He had an exemplary talent. Even though he was talking on his cell phone to a vendor he eyed the empty glass in front of her. Bollier shook her head and mouthed “water.”

A minute later the bartender slid a very tall pint glass of ice water in front of her. It looked massive, like a series of icebergs floating in the frigid Atlantic. Bollier brought the straw to her lips and pushed it away when the brain freeze hit her. Seemingly reading her mind, the bartender took it away and brought back a smaller cup with no ice.

“Time after time, time after time, time after time” was winding down the song. Bollier made a note to tip this man and tip him well.

Lauper’s voice faded to nothing and then the default new metal mix the bar had set up by default resumed playing. Bollier fished her phone out and messaged Agent Clemons.

Leslie: Any update yet? U think it will take long?

Leslie: Is Shirokov still reading?

Leslie: Do U think he’d be a popular boy in Sing Sing? He’s got pretty eyes. For a man.

Leslie: Way to leave a girl hanging, Agent Ness.

Leslie: U officially are killing my buzz now. What is going ON?

Bollier had just hit the send button on that last message when she sensed a movement in the periphery of her vision. A new customer had come into the bar. It was certainly getting crowded. All she wanted to do was to drink alone, but even that was impossible, even at two o’clock in the afternoon, apparently.

The new customer decided to sit in the bar stool directly next to hers, even though there were two dozen open and freely available. Bollier straightened her back and got ready to move to another seat. For most of her adult life detective Bollier had been perfecting a courteous rejection reserved for the advances of men. When she turned 21 she didn’t know how to handle the attention and more often than not made an awful scene, swearing and calling the poor guy a chauvinist pig or a degenerate pervert. Over time she had grown more gracious. But on this day she did not feel like being polite. If anything without breasts made a play on her Bollier was going to bite.

Out of the corner of her eye she watched the new customer raise his hand and signal the bartender.

“What will it be?”

“Get me a whiskey sour, and get this pretty little lady a refill of whatever she’s drinking. What are you drinking missy?”

Bollier hissed and turned to unleash a torrent of venom when she recognized the customer. Agent Clemons winked at smiled at her.

“Oh my God Kyle. Do you have any idea what I was about to say to you?”

He laughed.

“Yes I do.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“Don’t play games with me! What’s going on with the trial? What happened?”

A very thoughtful look came over Agent Clemons’ face. He scratched at his hairline, as if trying to remember who or what Bollier was talking about.

“Oh the trial. Right. They found him guilty.”

The shock of it did not immediately register with the detective. She had to ask the question again, twice, just to make sure that she had heard him right.

“Guilty? They found Shirokov guilty?”

“On all counts.”

When the news at last sunk into her consciousness Bollier jumped and then hugged Agent Clemons so hard that he fell off his bar stool. He laughed and staggered back, barely able to hold himself and his enthusiastically drunken friend upright. Their hands folded together and they started slow dancing to the rhythm of some beat that only they could hear.

Agent Clemons eased Bollier back into her seat and ordered a pair of victory shots.

“Ugh. Ok. Last one. This is the last one for me,” she objected. “We have to tell Jordan!”

“Definitely. Let’s take him out.”

“To hell with that. We’ll have him over at my place. A private party for just the three of us.”

“That sounds great.”

Two hours later Detective Bollier and Agent Clemons stormed through the door of her apartment, still laughing. The detective went off to the bathroom to freshen up and Agent Clemons made his way into the living room. Upon entering he let out a gasp. Jordan Ross was unconscious on the floor, lying next to an empty bottle of Riesling, in what appeared to be a modest pond of his own blood.

Chapter Six

Hood rats from The Bronx threw rocks and trash at the bus as it moved up along South Broadway. There was no danger as the windows were barred by iron but some of the inmates flinched anyway and swore threats at the kids. The man sharing the seat to Shirokov’s left yelled out at them.

“I’ll cut your nuts off and feed them to your uncle, shitbird!”

When another stone bounced off the side of the bus near them he pushed both middle fingers up against the glass and shouted more threats that were strangely specific to Shirokov’s ears. Had the man actually cut someone’s testicles off and stuffed them in another person’s mouth? By the looks of him, it was a distinct possibility.

“Go ahead! I’ll throw all your nuts in a bag and throw ‘em into the Hudson! Punk bitch!”

The volume of the man’s threats was beginning to irritate Shirokov so he asked politely if he might cut it out. He reached out with his manacled hands and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me. Kids are gone now. You sit and make quite please.”

Turning around, the angry inmate looked ready to make good on his threats, but when he saw Vladimir Shirokov sitting placidly there he shut up and sat down.

There were maybe thirty or so other prisoners on the modified school bus. Most of them stared straight ahead, stoic and sweating ribbons in their orange jumpsuits. The ride to Sing Sing was not a long one by car, but the bus was heavy, laden with special security equipment to accommodate carrying the most dangerous men in New York State. By Shirokov’s guess the bus never once got going more than forty miles an hour.

Out near the forest preserve Broadway became Albany Post Road. Shirokov sensed a subtle change in the inmates around him. They were still quiet for the most part, but they grew tense. Shirokov guessed correctly that they must be getting close to their destination. He had never been to Sing Sing other than the brief stay following his arraignment, and he did not know what to expect.

The night before Shirokov had asked one of the other men in the holding cell what Sing Sing was like. He appeared to be a veteran of such institutions.

“I dunno. I been in tougher lockups. Sing Sing ain’t no joke though. Ain’t been since the 90s. The Neo Nazis run the place now. They’ll shank you just for lookin at ‘em wrong. Guards all on the side too.”

During the short stay Shirokov had some experience with them, and he nodded thoughtfully.

“Thank you friend. I appreciate information.”

“What about you? Where you been holed up? I know you ain’t no first timer.”

Shirokov let himself smile out of the corner of his mouth.

“Ha. You are only half right on that my friend. But is my first time in prison in United States.”

“For real? Man you in for a hard time. First timers ain’t do well in the clink man.”

Shirokov laughed so hard that he almost had an asthma attack.

“I was in Black Dolphin prison in Russia for twelve years. This will be nothing my friend. Like vacation in Florida sun.”

The other inmate grinned back at him.

“Oh man I hope I ain’t in a cell with you. I can tell you crazy.”

Soon after the man introduced himself as Winston. They shook hands and the two of them exchanged their most gruesome prison stories well past midnight.

For some reason that Shirokov could not discern the prisoners had segregated themselves in the bus according to race. Over in the back part of the bus Winston was in a group with a bunch of other African American inmates. In the middle where Shirokov sat it was a mix of Latinos and Europeans. Up front the privileged seats were occupied exclusively by bald-headed white prisoners covered in swastika and Aryan nation tattoos. There were no orders given by the guards. They had just gone ahead and done it on their own. Shirokov thought a reminder to himself that he must ask Winston about this the next time that they had a chance to speak.

Just as the department of corrections bus came to a stop outside Sing Sing’s front gates, Shirokov heard a smattering of whispers from the prisoners up front. He leaned his head out into the aisle to get a better look.

Several of the Neo Nazis were talking and pointing in his direction. One of them, a squirrely man with a nose that looked like it had been broken six or seven times at least spoke up.

“Hey! That’s him. That’s that Russian Jew mafia guy I told ya about. Hey you!”

Shirokov pointed a finger up at his face.

“Me?”

“Yeah you! I don’t see no other Russian Jew mafia hoodlums on this here bus. What’s your name?”

“Vladimir Vladimirovich Shirokov.”

The squirrelly inmate with the broken nose screwed his face up in his confusion.

“Why the hell you got the same middle name as your first name? What’s that some kind of foreigner Jew nonsense?”

Shirokov sighed.

“Do you really want to know? Then you should ask with respect.”

All at once the interior of the bus became stone silent. It was as if the oppressive heat of the bus had just been turned up another dozen degrees. Registering a look of pure shock on his face, the squirrelly man stood up and walked out into the aisle. He seemed about ready to charge at Shirokov when a pair of guards entered the front of the bus. One of them struck him with a nightstick and forced him back into his seat.

“Alright listen up! We’re going to file out of here two at a time, starting from the front of the bus here. If you give us any back talk we’re gonna club you. If you stand up out of turn we’re gonna club you. If you try to run oh BOY we really are gonna club you. Any questions?”

None of the inmates were foolish enough to ask anything, so they began filing out two at a time, as directed. When Shirokov emerged out into the sunshine he fell in with the rest. At the front of the line the squirrelly looking man glared back at him, all daggers laced with arsenic. He spat on the ground. Shirokov smiled back politely and waved.

The double cell that they put him in was sixteen by twelve feet. Two beds were affixed to the walls on either side, and there was a toilet and a sink in the middle. A barred window let in light from the outside. Compared to the cell he festered in for twelve years in Russia, it was a presidential suite at a luxury hotel. Shirokov took off his shoes and laid down on the bunk to finish reading his copy of the Marquis de Sade’s Justine. When he learned that prisoners were allowed to bring three books with them into Sing Sing, Shirokov was delighted at the unfathomable decadence of it.

“I love America,” He said to no one in particular.

Shirokov read peacefully for about an hour until the guards showed up again. He sat up on the bed as they slid the bars aside. The guard got out of the way and Winston came into the cell, carrying a couple of magazines and an empty fish bowl.

“Aww shit. Look at this now. They had to find the craziest motherfucker in here to put me with.”

Once the guards departed Shirokov stood up and embraced Winston like he was a long-lost brother. The fact that he would even be allowed a roommate was an unheard of perk in Russian prisons. Between the books and having someone to talk too, Shirokov was practically ecstatic at his conditions.

“Weenston! I am so glad that you are here. We are to be roommates it seems.”

Winston had never seen anything like Black Dolphin and was less thrilled with the accommodations.

“Yeah. And for a long-ass time too.”

Shirokov regarded his new cellmate with a look of concern.

“What is the matter? We have books! We have light! In Russia never do we have these things.”

“Shit man you out of your mind being happy in here. I’m in this bitch for twenty five years. Sorry if I ain’t all enthusiastic about it. How ‘bout you? How long you in for?”

According to the chemist, it was somewhat of a guessing game. Shirokov thought back to their first conversation about the compound, and tried to remember exactly.

“Ehh. Between two, maybe three weeks. Depending.”

“Hold up. I thought you said you was convicted for two life sentences. For all that H you was bringing in.”

“This is true my friend. That was my sentence. But what you asked was how long I would be in this place. My best guess, two or three weeks. Depending.”

“Depending on what?”

“My digestion.”

Winston raised an eyebrow, obviously wondering if he had just been sentenced to spending the next twenty five years in a small cell with a Russian lunatic. Shirokov could see this.

“I can see what you are thinking my friend, but do not worry. In no less than three weeks’ time you and I, we will walk out of this place together. You have my word.”

“Shit man you really are crazy ain’t you.”

At this Shirokov started laughing again. After a while Winston could not help but joining in. His new cellmate had a bizarre and magnetic kind of charisma, a passion more infectious than polio. Soon enough Winston was laughing at the sound of Shirokov laughing. They kept at it until they were red-faced and completely out of breath.

Not long after the cells all opened up and the prisoners came out for dinner. Shirokov followed Winston and the other inmates down a metal staircase, through a long hall and into the cafeteria area, which was already half full. The prisoners lined up around the wall with scratched plastic trays, waiting for their meals.

The cook gave Shirokov a piece of white bread, two slices of meatloaf, a small puddle of cream corn, and a container of tapioca pudding. For a second Shirokov paused and held the line up. He asked the cook for an extra item.

“Excuse me. Do you have any prunes?”

“Prunes?!”

The inmate behind the counter serving as head chef said the word like it was an unthinkable curse. He stared at Shirokov, uncomprehending and apoplectic. He repeated the word.

“You asked for fuckin prunes?!”

“Yes. Please.”

“Get this simply motherfucker out of my line. Asking for prunes. This look like the produce section at fuckin Whole Foods to you?”

Winston came along and steered Shirokov away from the counter.

“You got to be careful man. I can’t be looking after you out here. I’m gonna go eat with my peoples. You got to go sit with yours.”

Not understanding, Shirokov was about to ask Winston what he meant by this, but by the time he turned to do so his cellmate was gone. Winston crossed the cafeteria and sat down at an empty space on a bench. All of the men at his table were black. Shirokov scanned the room, and noticed that much like the bus, this was highly segregated as well.

Slowly, Shirokov walked over towards one of the half-empty white tables, carrying his tray. He was half way there when three Neo Nazis stepped up and blocked his path. The squirrel man who he quarreled with on the bus was pointing at him again.

“That’s the one. That’s him. That’s that Jew Vladarada Rochmanov Shirokov something!”

He stood behind a much larger man as he made this accusation. The man’s hair was buzzed on the sides and grown into a Mohawk on top. On either side, a gothic German cross was burned into his scalp. The man slapped the tray out of Shirokov’s hands, sending his dinner tumbling to the floor. Still yammering behind his taller friend, the squirrel man laughed.

“That’s right bitch. You’re in our house now. You filthy Jew bastard. White power!”

“White power!”

Several other men sitting nearby joined the chorus. Shirokov glanced to his left and to his right. He nodded and lowered his head, seemingly about to accept this degradation as the established order of things.