Outsourced

7

The phone woke him the next morning. Groggy, his neck stiff, he realized that he had slept the night on the recliner. He heard Susie answer the phone and then yell out to him.

He pushed himself out of the recliner, his back stiffer than his neck. Hobbling like an old man, he found Susie in the kitchen.

“It’s for you,” Susie said, handing him the handset, her eyes rolled slightly upward to make sure he knew how trying it was having to answer the phone for him.

Joel was on the line. “You took your sweet time,” he complained.

“You woke me up.”

“Woke you up? It’s nine thirty, pal. Look, I’m in Nashua right now. Meet me at ten in the north end of the mall parking lot.”

“Nashua’s a half hour away. I need to take a shower, brush my teeth-”

“I’m at a payphone, I don’t have time for your nonsense. Your breath don’t smell fresh enough for me, guess what, I don’t care. You meet me at the mall parking lot at ten, understand?”

Joel hung up, not bothering to wait for an answer.

Dan placed the handset back on its base. He checked to make sure he had his car keys and wallet on him, and left the house.

Dan spotted Joel leaning against his red Ford Escort. He pulled up and Joel got into the passenger seat.

“First of all, you’re full of shit,” Joel said.

“Nice to see you too.”

“I mean it. If you wanted a software job bad enough then you would’ve found one.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, there are people our age still working in the field,” Joel argued, his mouth compressing into a tight oval.

“Not as many as there used to be. And that’s only because they’re already in their positions. Let’s see them get through today’s interview screening.”

“You’re still full of shit.”

Dan laughed sourly. “You’re sounding a lot like my wife.”

“Yeah, well, she’s a smart girl. Even if she married a schmuck like you.”

“Then why aren’t I working?”

“Because you’re burnt out.” Joel’s eyes narrowed to thin slits as he appraised his friend. “And more than that, you’re pissed off. After everything you’ve done in the industry you’re now at the mercy of these condescending smug little pricks interviewing you. But if you really wanted a job you could retrain yourself and get one.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You’re lying to me again.”

A numbness had set into Dan’s forehead, almost as if ice had been pushed into his skull. “Why’d you waste my time having me drive here?” he asked, his words sounding hollow in his head. “Why didn’t you just tell me over the phone that you don’t want to do this?”

“Who said anything like that?” Joel hesitated as he pulled at his bottom lip, pinching it with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m just being honest with myself, that’s all. Something you should try. I don’t look at this as my only way out. But I got to tell you, I’m sick of writing software. And there are certain things about your plan that appeal to me.”

“So you’re telling me you’re in?”

“Maybe. I got conditions. Number one, my buddy Eric Hoffer be included.”

“Eric Hoffer?”

“You met him at my second wedding.”

Dan had a vague recollection of a mostly bald stocky man with small pig-like eyes. “That’s your friend who got arrested,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s right. He got screwed in a setup. Did four months for a bullshit charge.”

“Something about attempted rape?”

“No, nothing like that.” Joel showed a thin smile as he shook his head. “Lewd and lascivious behavior. The idiot had a hooker in his car. He had already unzipped when the hooker spots a police cruiser pulling up alongside them and tries to save her own butt by yelling rape. That little incident cost Eric his wife, family and job, not to mention his time in county lockup. He’s been out three years since then and still hasn’t bounced back. He needs this.”

“Sorry, Joel, but we don’t need five people for this robbery.”

“Says who?”

“I already worked out the details-”

“Yeah, you’re an expert all of a sudden in robbing banks? You’ve got Gordon and your Indian buddy along, huh? Fuck that. If I’m doing this, I’m doing this with someone I can trust. Someone I know who’ll back me up.”

“Your friend, Eric, he’s been arrested. They’ve got his fingerprints on record.”

“So? We’ll be wearing gloves, won’t we? And your plan has us in disguise, right?”

Dan started massaging his forehead, trying to rub the numbness out. “I don’t like this,” he muttered.

“Yeah, well, guess what, I don’t like having that loon Gordon involved, but I’m willing to trust you that you can control him for ten minutes. Besides, my guns can be traced, Eric’s can’t. We need him. This is non-negotiable. So what’s it going to be? Are we doing this or are we calling it quits right now?”

Dan found himself asking why having untraceable guns mattered, even though it was obvious to him. In case a gun was left at the robbery, which could happen if one of them were shot. Or other ways too. Joel just stared at him as if he were an idiot.

“Why do you think?” Joel finally said.

Dan nodded. He didn’t bother asking why they couldn’t just file the serial numbers off the guns, since that answer was obvious also. In case Joel ever had to account for the guns that he had registered. “All right, fine,” he said. “Your friend Eric is in. Have you talked to him yet?”

“Not yet, but he’ll want to do this.”

“Hold off until I talk to Gordon.”

“When’s that going to be?”

“This afternoon.”

“Okay, but don’t call me at home. And don’t call my cell phone. I’ll call you later from a payphone. Any communication – you, me, anyone else involved in this – will be through anonymous email accounts. I don’t want there being any phone records over the next week connecting us.”

“Going a little overboard, aren’t we?”

“No. Fuck no. This is a deal breaker too.”

Dan shrugged. “Fine. Anyway, it makes sense. No reason not to be as careful as we can. I’ll set up an account later today. Try calling me tonight from a payphone and I’ll have an email address ready for you.”

“What do you know?” Joel smiled and punched Dan in the shoulder. “We’re going to do this, huh?”

“We’ll see what Gordon says.”

Joel made a face. “I still don’t like you dragging that clown into this. Working with him for eleven years at Vixox was more than enough for me.” Joel took a deep breath, shrugging. “But I have to admit, you did put together a brilliant fucking plan. I spent all night last night trying to poke a hole in it, and couldn’t.”

“Thanks.” Dan glanced at his dashboard clock and started feeling antsy. He had two hours before he was supposed to meet with Gordon and he still wanted to stop off at home so he could shower and clean up. “Are we done now?”

“Yeah, for now. Assuming we’re still on, I want all of us to meet at my place tomorrow to go over the details. Plan on noon.”

Dan nodded as the two of them shook hands.

As Joel was getting out of the car, he looked back and showed a reflective smile. “You realize if we go ahead with this, that’s it as far as the two of us are concerned. Afterwards, no more ’gammon, no more meeting for beers. We’ll be dead to one another.”

Dan started laughing. “No problem there, Joel. Whether we rob this bank or not, I don’t plan on seeing much of you in the future anyway.”

Joel froze for a moment. Slowly a sneer twisted his lips. “Same here, pal,” he said.

Detective Alex Resnick took the call that the owner of the Kiev Market had been beat unconscious and the store ransacked. His partner, Walt Maguire, was oblivious, his feet up on his desk as he talked over the phone with his girlfriend. Resnick tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a signal that they had to go. Maguire nodded, made several attempts to end the conversation gracefully, then muttered, “I’ll call you later,” as he hung up the receiver.

“What’s the story?” he asked.

“Owner of that Russian grocery store on State Street got beat up.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Don’t know yet.”

Resnick drove. He was a sixteen-year veteran of the Lynn police force and a detective for seven. His partner, Maguire, was just a kid of twenty-eight and had only made detective a month earlier. As far as Resnick was concerned, Maguire still had baby fat. With the siren on they got to the grocery store in seven minutes. Three police cruisers and an ambulance were already there. About a dozen people crowded the sidewalk trying to get a look inside the store. As Resnick pulled up behind one of the cruisers, he could see the store’s front window had been smashed and a cash register lay among the broken glass on the sidewalk.

Maguire left the car and walked over to the cash register. He put gloves on, let out a few breaths and then lifted the register to his waist before lowering it back to the sidewalk.

“This mother’s heavy,” he told Resnick. “Must be some antique lined with lead or something. Got to be at least eighty pounds.” There were four patrolmen standing outside the store looking bored. Maguire turned to the closest one. “You want to help me bring this back inside?”

The cop made a face. “If I want to go on disability, maybe. Thanks, but I’ll throw my back out moving my own furniture.”

Resnick walked over to the same cop. “What can you tell me?” he asked.

“The owner was knocked unconscious. Paramedics are inside with him now. It looks like he’ll be okay. Whoever did this smashed up the place pretty good.”

“Any witnesses?”

The cop shook his head. “The wife was there. She claims he tripped and hit his head.”

“Okay, stay where you are and keep the public out.” Resnick turned to the other patrolmen. “Why don’t you guys check the crowd, then the stores nearby. See if anyone’s willing to talk to us.”

Resnick sighed. At five foot ten and one hundred and seventy-five pounds, he was three inches shorter and forty pounds lighter than his partner. He hoisted the cash register on to his shoulder and headed towards the entrance.

“What are you doing?” Maguire asked as he rushed to open the door for him. “I would’ve helped. And you’re compromising any possible fingerprints.”

“There weren’t going to be any fingerprints.”

Resnick carried the register to the counter and placed it where a dust outline showed it had originally been. Off to the side an elderly man lay on the floor while two paramedics worked on him. The man’s wife stood nearby crying. Resnick took a quick look around. A freezer in the back had been smashed up, probably with a tire iron. Top shelves were pulled out, bottom ones kicked in. The place was a mess.

Resnick moved closer to the store owner and could see that his forehead was wrapped heavily in gauze and that blood had trickled down from his ear. He asked the paramedics how the man was doing. One of them looked up at him briefly before turning back to the store owner. “Signs are beginning to stabilize,” he said. “He’s pretty much out of it. Took a nasty blow to the head.”

“But he’ll be okay?”

“It looks that way.”

Maguire had pulled the wife aside and was asking her what happened.

“My husband fell down,” she said, still crying.

“You’re saying he hit his head when he fell.”

“Yes. He fell. Over there.” She pointed towards the doorway.

“Then why’s there blood on the edge of the counter?” Resnick moved in front of Maguire, blocking him from the wife. “I am very sorry about this, Mrs. Wiseman,” Resnick said.

Mrs. Wiseman’s eyes were mostly shut as she cried. “Do I know you?” she asked, trying to open her eyes enough to focus on him.

“I shop here sometimes,” Resnick said. “You have very good smoked whitefish.”

Mrs. Wiseman nodded slightly as recognition seeped in. She was a small woman, not much at all to her. “I’ve seen you, yes,” she said. Her head turned to the side as she watched the paramedics lift her husband on to a portable gurney.

“You probably want to go with your husband to the hospital. We can talk with you later.” Resnick handed her a card. “How am I to go with him?” she asked. “How can I leave the store like this?”

“I’ll have the hospital call you then.” Resnick took a heavy breath. “Mrs. Wiseman, this is not Russia. People like Viktor Petrenko are not protected here. If you tell me he did this, I will arrest him, and I promise you he will go to prison.”

Mrs. Wiseman seemed to shrink inwards as she watched the paramedics move her husband out to a waiting ambulance. She pushed her mouth shut, her eyes helplessly looking over the damage that was done. Then she met Resnick’s stare and shook her head. “No,” she said weakly, “my husband fell.”

Resnick nodded and placed a hand on her shoulder before walking over to the counter. He found a yellow pages directory, called a glass repair shop and arranged for them to replace the store front window within the hour. Taking another deep breath, he moved to one of the aisles and started doing what he could with the shelves, then stacked the food back on to them.

“What’s going on?” Maguire asked.

“Go check if anything came of the canvassing,” Resnick said. “Give me a half hour, okay?”

“This is ridiculous. Let the old lady hire a cleaning service. And who’s Viktor Petrenko?”

Resnick ignored him and continued methodically restacking the food that had been dumped on the floor. Maguire watched for a moment then, cursing to himself, joined his partner.

*

“I can’t believe you had us do that,” Maguire complained.

Resnick gave his partner a hard stare. “You would leave that old lady alone with the store like that?”

“That’s not our job.” Maguire tried to meet his partner’s stare but had to look away. “Besides, I don’t like being lied to. She’s going to tell me straight-faced that her husband fell when it’s clear as day that someone slammed his head against that counter?”

“She had no choice.”

“Bullshit. And who the hell’s Viktor Petrenko?”

Resnick gave his partner a sad look before turning to talk to one of the cops who had been canvassing for witnesses. “Anything?” he asked. The cop shook his head. “No one saw a thing. At least that’s what they’re saying.”

“I’d like you to go to Lynn Memorial and take a statement from the husband when he wakes up. Okay?”

“Sure, but I’ll be wasting my time. He’s not going to tell us anything.”

“Yeah, I know, but we need to get his statement. Why don’t you wait until those repairmen are done with the window, then you can take the wife along with you.”

“Sure.”

Resnick clapped him on the shoulder before turning towards the Buick he was driving. He unlocked the car. Maguire got in the passenger side.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?” Maguire asked.

Resnick waited until he secured his seatbelt. Then, “Petrenko, among other things, runs an extortion ring in the North Shore, targeting Russian immigrants. He did this.”

“Why didn’t you push the wife some more? She looked like she was ready to start talking.”

Resnick shrugged.

“I mean, Jesus,” Maguire continued, “what’s wrong with these people? If she talks to us we can arrest the bastard.”

“Then he’d have her killed. Not just her, but her husband and any children they might have.”

“That’s bullshit. We could protect her.”

A shadow fell over Resnick’s eyes. “No we couldn’t,” he said. When Resnick got to Essex Street, he took a right, heading away from the station house.

“Where are we going?”

“I guess we have no choice but to introduce you to Petrenko. For all the good it’s going to do.” Resnick drove in silence after that, a darkness clouding his face. Maguire watched him for a minute then looked straight ahead, trying not to let his partner’s mood affect him. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a thin smile crack his partner’s face.

“What?” Maguire asked.

“I was just thinking of something. When you meet Petrenko, make a comment that you think he’s Jewish.”

“Why? Is he Jewish?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the point?”

Resnick’s smile stretched half an inch. “Humor me, okay?”

“Fine. I’ll humor you. What did you mean when you told that lady that people like Petrenko are not protected here?”

“Pretty much what I said.” Resnick’s thin smile disappeared. “Petrenko used to be KGB. In the Soviet Union, that sadistic son of a bitch could pretty much do as he pleased. The Russian community here know his reputation and are terrified of him.”

“How’d someone like that get into the United States?”

“By invitation. Petrenko showed up in Lynn fifteen years ago, right after my rookie year. He started off as a collector, beating the crap out of deadbeat gamblers. I tried putting the arm on him and was stopped cold. I looked into it and it turned out to be someone from the State Department. Petrenko made some sort of deal with them.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

“Is he still being protected?”

“Not by them, at least I don’t think so. But Petrenko’s smart and living a charmed life. So far I haven’t been able to get anything on hime to stick.”

“What’s the worst he’s done?”

“Probably a couple of dozen murders.”

“Shit! You’re joking, right?”

“I wish I were.” Resnick showed a pained expression as he pulled up next to an auto body shop. “Petrenko’s in there waiting for us.”

“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.