The Dewey Decimal System Read Free

to or forgotten by me.
    The Prius backed up (illegally) to Eleventh Avenue and headed south. Even as I put the Nissan in gear, two things occurred to me: 1) must clean my dirty hands; and 2) no need to be concerned about losing my target.
    New York City had all but emptied over the last year.
    Or so it seemed. In actuality, it’s at about 10 percent of the population as recorded in early 2011. That’s about 800,000 people, counting all boroughs. Nobody knows for sure, impossible to know. Hard to get used to though.
    Even prior to the Valentine’s Occurrence (which was really a series of coordinated occurrences, plural; I find it irritating and inaccurate to refer to that day as a single event, but when a name sticks it sticks), folks were leaving in droves, especially after the third major economic crash and the free fall of the dollar.
    We were ready for the first big crash, more or less ready for the second, but certainly not the third, which was effectively a death knell for the dollar, euro, pound, rupee, and yen.
    And then, the Valentine’s Occurrence(s). A.k.a. 2/14.
    Traffic, at any rate, was light.
    Shapsko exits the Ukrainian Hall shortly after 4 p.m., accompanied by five men this time, including the two with whom he had initially come downtown. The group stands near the entrance, engaged in conversation.
    At a certain point the whole crew bursts out laughing, and four of the men begin moving in the opposite direction of the Prius. Shapsko waves them off and heads toward his vehicle with another man.
    I have a decision or two to make at this point: brace him here with his friend being an unknown quantity, or continue my tail job.
    Fuck it; I extinguish cigarette number eleven, wring my hands with the good stuff, and, checking for cars (yeah right, but habits die hard), cross Second Avenue at an angle.
    They’re both at the Toyota. Shapsko has his keys out.
    “Yakiv Shapsko.” I pull out my bogus Homeland Security badge. The name on it is Donny Smith.
    I’m doing my white people voice, the voice of authority.
    Shapsko half turns. He looks amused. His companion moves toward me but Shapsko places his hand on the man’s chest.
    Hold the badge near the man’s face but I already feel like I don’t have any control over this situation. Shapsko radiates smart, competent. I would’ve pegged him as a yahoo.
    “Mr. Shapsko, I represent the department of Homeland Security …” His friend starts jabbering in Ukrainian but I continue. “And request that you accompany me for questioning.”
    “Regarding?” Shapsko has this expression like something’s funny, which I find annoying. He still rests his bare hand on his companion’s chest. The man’s denim shirt is dark and can’t possibly be clean.
    “Regarding matters of national security. That’s all I’m authorized to tell you.”
    The Ukrainian then gives a disarmingly genuine smile. The hair is different, and his nose looks reconstructed, but I feel like I might have met the guy before.
    “Am I under arrest?” His English is solid, colored by that proto-Slavic accent.
    “Sir, I’m merely asking you to answer some questions, if you’ll just accompany me …” I like to keep it as professional as possible, but use broad strokes.
    “Am I under arrest?” he repeats, as if to a child.
    It’s a reasonable question, to which I say: “No, but that can be arranged if you’d prefer to go that route.”
    Jingles his keys. “I do. Have no arrest warrant, I won’t go anywhere with you.” Almost apologetic like.
    His pal is inching toward me. A couple other guys have come out of the hall and are watching the exchange.
    This isn’t working out. What am I doing? I’m pretty shitty at this direct approach.
    “Sir, I need you to understand that I’m characterizing your behavior as uncooperative …”
    But he’s in the car and keying the ignition, his friend scuttling away. Yakiv looks at me from the driver’s seat and shrugs. The Toyota pulls off and is