Open Forever

[Danzig]

OOC: Since I am just too much of a bore to think of interesting news items and so forth, I've decided to, as a replacement of sorts, to write a series of short stories which detail life and happenings from a strictly 'character' fashion... A short introduction: it's about a man (Roger) and his wife (Leanore) who own a small 24 hour cornershop with laundrette in downtown Danzig. His marriage is a mess, doesn't like his life and is a closet alcoholic. There's not much going on as a whole, but news items that would normally go to my newsthread are posted here with infrequency.

*****​

What began as a sunny morning, early morning mist in the city parks and birds whistling their song as morning rush hour took hold of the city with people scrambling in public transportation, taxis and cars to whatever destination, slowly began to change in a dull grey sky and flimsy drops of rain tapped the windows of the skyskrapers and other grand buildings downtown. Gradually decending from the rooftops, the rooftopgardens, high restaurants, cigarbars, clubs and discos, lowering to streetlevel. Where life is actually happening, where jewish merchants peddle precious gems and diamonds in Beth Yisrael Street, the heartland of the yiddish community in the city. Going slightly south, south of 10th Lane Junction a red light district emerges with several sleazy stripclubs, bars, "wank parlors" and 50 cent booths. In the middle of this district, Leichhardt Square, is a park situated called Leichhardt Heath. On the northside of Leichhardt Heath is Coalport Station, a police station and provides much-needed security for this once crime-ridden area of the city. Coalport Station resides in a former warehouse building which was used to store coal for steamships.

If you stand on the small grassy hill surrounded by flowerbeds, near the bronze statue of Hugo Pflantzer on horseback and look towards the subway station you can see a small corner shop behind the trees, with bright yellow and red sign in neon letters on the front, saying 'Open 24 Hours'. It was a typical shop for any red light district and it sold a variety of condoms, lubricants in an 18+ section which was frequented by the usual crowd; dirty old men, angsty teenagers, prostitutes and other people of low social aptitude. Aside from this, the store offered your twenty-four hour food needs, plenty of alcoholic beverages ranging from cheap beer and whisky to the finest wine and brandy locked in a cabinet. Behind the counter with cashregister a vast array of cigarettes and other tobacco articles were on display. Out in the back several washing and drying machines are located and is also part of the small business. People serve themselves here and the laundrette proves a nice little bonus as an addition to his regular income.

The owner of this shop, Roger, stood there from 7 till 7, dusk till dawn, practically his whole life. He inherited this shop from his father and lacking savings to head out to college, he was stuck here which was, back then, not going to be his whole life. It turned out to be the opposite of his original plans and a turn for the worst occurred when he married - not his beloved highschool sweetheart - but a random `broad' (as he called it) who goes by the name Leanore. She works only weekends and at night an old friend works there. He's a reliable person and Roger is very content with his presence. You could say they're friends for life and both are turning over a modest profit each year with the shop and laundrette. While the surface is glare and flat as a mirror, underneath no one would ever notice. Today, Sunday November 15th in the year 2009, where we are today, Roger was watching a television show and as a custom, Sundays are slow. The television hung from the ceiling and produced an echo-ish metallic sound and visuals were grainy. Still, Roger wasn't going to bother purchasing a new one. Behind him, on a small counter featuring cigars and pipe tobacco a radio played 1980s music on low volume.

An average television show always included sexy women who, not with infrequency, would strip to their panties to capture their audiences undivided attention. This show would prove to be no exception, with not-so-subtle rubbing, squeezing and pinching and, how cliche, eating and sucking a banana. Just the looks were enough to satisfy the average viewer since there was no subject. Random chatter and a few mildy humorous gags were plenty to get it going. Roger's face was resting on his left hand while he was tapping off ash from his cigarette in an ashtray next to the cashregister. He served a handful of customers today and occassionally housewives came in with garbage bags full of laundry through the side entrance. Once in a while he gazed at the CCTV screen, checking if people were behaving or weren't vandalizing his property. Everything seems to be in order and he continued watching the show. After a deep draw from the cigarette, he calmly exhaled through his nostriles in two seperate jets. He stretched his shoulders and grabbed a small hip flask of polished steel, screwed off the lid and took a firm sip. ``God and it's only 10 past 4... Still got three hours to go...'', he thought and went back at waiting for clientele and watching television. Tomorrow would be a good day, busy with paying customers. But Sundays... Skip Sunday.

 

[Danzig]

Part II

*****​

Sunday was and is, next to the most boring day of the week, also a time for Roger to relax after hours. Businesspartner Danno was now working from 7 to 6, a long shift but coffee was fresh and police was patrolling the streets. Roger, beset with a desire to steer clear from his hag wife, strolled down the street to a bar were he was a regular guest. They knew his habits - beer and a shot - and aware of Roger best left to himself. The bar we are talking about is a few blocks down the road on New Market where Roger's shop is located. Old Market lies to the east and the crown jewel of many lawfirms, attorneys and other people sift through paper and books for a living. If you can put Old Market on your mail, you've got it made. Similar for places like Taft Avenue, Franz Grüber Plaza, et cetera. On those places the banks are located, the mightiest financial institutions where more money flows in a single day compared to Roger's whole life. Full of contempt and not inconsiderable envy he looked towards Old Market in the east and saw the glaring glass and steel towers shooting straight up in the dark night sky. On several storeys lights were on - probably early morning traders he read about in the paper. Positioning themselves pre-bourse or something, using high frequency trading systems to outsmart and outmaneuver competitors abroad. The stock exchange was the largest in the world in terms of market capitalisation and a thirty minute walk from here. If you'd walk to Parlor Street where the central bank is, across the street to Exchange Place with the massive fountain and pegasus statues, as he heard a trader saying, `where the action is'.

Roger doesn't bother with financial news anymore since he couldn't attend a fancy college in the city. From his puberty around 16 till his 22nd birthday he closely followed financial news and was preparing himself for a career in finance. He was saving money for college but apparently not enough. The life of high finance eluded him, much to his own disappointment and he ended up in the store he always feared so much, a dystopian future vision of him standing there forever. Even the first few years he was hoping, idle hope, that it would be temporarily but after seventeen years he abandoned all hope. Four years later he took solace in the fact he'll probably stay there until his death. Roger wanted to get a job in the same buildings he is looking at right now. Most of the time when he stared right up, standing at one amazing, stupendous entrance of marble and gold leaf, all he could think was, `why not me?' Bankers in suits tailored to their waistline, shoes made by the best shoemakers in town, a custom and handmade. Quality at its finest. Dining in posh restaurants, ordering a bottle of wine worth an entire day's income. With great resentment and mumbling about misfortune, coupled with swears, he looked at the towering edifices again. `Bastards. Why do I have to stand in a godforsaken shop day and night while you people can do whatever the hell you want?', he spoke out loudly. `Why do I have to save my measly income for a shitty vacation with screaming brat kids around me in a family value hotel. Do I deserve this?' Looking down on the wet pavement, Roger saw an empty can of beer and kicked it on the street and walked on.

In a canyon of concrete and high-rise residential towers for the city's upper crust, very aptly looking down on the common people, Roger walked through the circles of streetlight, shining down on the wet pavement. Only now he was ignoring his surroundings and retreating his face into his coat, behind a scarf. A cold wind from the sea was blowing which sent a chill down his spine. The streets weren't empty and people were going to the red light district for a little ungodly fun. He recognized several people, some of them bought stimulants and erection pills in his shop. Same people all over, all the time. If these people had money, they could buy a classy prostitute in a limousine, a glass of champagne... `I bet those people...' No, Roger thought, I am not going to waste more time getting agitated by my shortcomings. At least I am not unemployed. He came within sight of the bar and outside several drugdealers were hanging out. Some were ordinary junks, offering a watch for fifty dollars, the street price for a shot of crack or smack. Others were pimps, selling dope and blow. Ignoring them is the best remedy. Police officers normally arrest those, but take two of the streets and four new ones will take their place in a flash. Capitalism and competition took care of the problem: gang wars and hitmen. The hate trade is alive and well over here.

As Roger walked past the posse of dealers and junks, looking straight and not making eye contact, he pushed the two doors open. As the doors closed behind him, a warmth from the central steam heating made him immediately remove his scarf and jacket. As he took a stool at the bar, Roger lit up a cigarette and noticed there was only one cigarette left in the crumpled softpack. He looked at the government-mandated healthwarning at the bottom, showing rotting teeth, bleeding gums and some unidentifiable cysts as well. He raised his shoulders coolly unconcerned and took a good look around; the place was quite empty for a Sunday evening. Without asking a beer and a shotglass were passed to him. A bottle of beer and some whisky followed. Without much thought he put the shotglass to his lips, smelled it for a second as a close inspection it was his regular brand, and swallowed the contents of the glass in one fell swoop. Only feeling the tingling sensation in the back of his throat, he ordered a second and while the barman was getting the right bottle, Roger drank his beer without pause. Lighting up another cigarette he reached for the inner pocket of his vest and picked a second pack of cigarettes, unwrapped cellophane and laid it before him on the bar, with his lighter. Staring blank to the numerous bottles of liquor behind the bar, Roger realised his evening wouldn't be much different from his work behind the counter, next to his cash register.

 

[Danzig]

Part III

*****​

After about two hours of drinking and wasting time, looking for people who might what to share a little time with Roger and have a conversation, to no avail, he decided it was time to head back to the store. Retracing his footsteps back to his shop, only this time ignoring the high places, importance and well paying jobs, he quickly made his way back. Music was booming from the numerous stripclubs and Roger was asked several times to come in, get a free drink and amuse himself with the girls. Thanks, but no thanks was his standard reply. Obnoxious doormen, they don't have any manners. At least they ask instead of pulling you in. It happened a few times, say no, and don’t start a chat. `Well, the weather's clearing up again', Roger noticed, the overcast made way for a starry night with thin clouds, lighted by a bright white sickle, the moon. Outside the streetlights, a milky glare shone down, putting a stark contrast between shadow and moonlight. City streets were empty aside from a few cabs and city buses. Not many people on the streets, filth and wet newspapers were lying around.

Danno called while I was enjoying a drink. He didn’t feel good and asked if he could take the night off. Since Roger wasn’t in the mood to go back to his horrible wife Leanore, he figured it would be a welcome distraction. Being depraved of sleep was something he was getting used to, sometimes working 14 hour shifts if Danno couldn’t make it or has something else to do. Roger didn’t mind, if he needed Danno he’d stand at the ready in an instant. Before he’d go to the store, he’d pick up some food at a street vendor and a few cans of beer. Twenty minutes later, Roger was done and back on his chair behind the counter, watching television. Thank heavens he avoided another argument with Leanore, God he can’t stand her. Why did I ever marry that woman, Roger pondered frequently. Oh yes, I remember. And I didn’t want to remember why. I used to love her; we fell in love many years ago. It sounds like a century ago; he cannot even recall the last time they were intimate. We even sleep in separate beds, in separate rooms. A divorce would be costly… for her. And me as well, at least, that’s what I want her to believe. I need to put up with her until she dies in a car crash, commits suicide – would be the best option – or some natural cause. She’s a good housewife, cleans the beds, below-average cook, irons my clothes and that’s about it. Am I a reckless profiteer? No sir. I don’t want her to find out, that’s all. She doesn’t want to divorce because it’s going to cost her. She’s confident the same holds for me. Suppose I file for divorce, she may be a pest, but she’s not stupid, it’s a matter putting one and one together. And she may start sniffing around, can’t be too careful. No, it’s best not to draw her unwanted attention. Hell, any attention from her is unwanted.

Back to basics, Roger was watching television. Late night television is even worse than morning-, day- or primetime television. Goodness gracious, foreigners will be in for a surprise if they turn on the television around 12! Curiously, there are also plenty of other quality programs out there. Talk shows, weather forecasts, cartoons – yes, cartoons at midnight – ‘late nite’ television, cooking and so forth. The thoughts about Leanore and intimacy made him wonder; when was the last time he even thought about it? The times he saw prostitutes don’t count, the only things he thinks about those women is repulsive and disgust. Flipping through the channels, it is not a hard task to find smut. And smut he found, a scene of two women, lesbians of sorts, engaged in all sorts of bizarre acts.

Roger looked around, no customers, kept the remote control at hand in case someone came in. The television screen faces away from the window and because sound volume is always very low and distorted – radio playing in the background as well, people won’t notice when they come in. Perhaps a guilty look and blushes might betray him, but Roger’s well past the stage of blushing or even embarrassment for looking at films of this caliber. On his right fist his chin was leaning and with his left hand, cigarette clenched between middle and index finger, he was pulling his ashtray towards him. He took a sip from a soft drink and proceeded to watch the rather unsettling scene. Both were screaming and hurling insults at each other, violating every common decency while performing sexual positions he never believed the human physique was capable of. One thing he noticed was, one with black hair, her dye was wearing out and gray hairs sprang out, how ugly she was. A wrinkled skin covered with a thick layer of rouge and makeup could not cover her craggy face and eye circles. All she did was shouting and spanking the other woman. For a moment, Roger was sure; he saw pure desperation in the eyes of the passive, less ugly woman. Her expression returned to ‘pleasure’ or ‘joy’ but there was no doubt in Roger’s mind. He knew for a fact, just like he was thinking a few hours ago, why she was stuck in that particular life. For a brief moment, Roger didn’t feel alone. As the debauchery continued, Roger took solace in the fact he’s not the only one with a life not worth living. His cigarette had gone out and he switched to a talk show. Someone came in.

 

[Danzig]

Part IV

*****​

I haven't told you who my neighbors are. On this side of Leichhardt Square, where Roger's 24 hour corner shop is situated, to the left, around the corner on Beaureguard Avenue is a small jeweler owned by an eccentric man, a jew, Rex Lippzski, and Roger does some occasional business for him. On the right side is a small car garage. The owner is a guy named Otto. He's not important. Lippzski's primary business resolves around buying and selling diamonds from unreliable sources abroad, gems, gold and coins. Where he gets his money is unknown, but it is known he doesn't like the Diamond Authority which controls and checks whether imports of diamonds are legal and do not originate from `bloody' sources. Mister Lippzski doesn't seem to be bothered by the fact he's a spider in the proverbial web of the illegal diamond trade. Strange as it may sound, the Diamond Authority is surprisingly quiet about it too, probably the controllers receive a nice slice from Lippzski's cake. But that's what Lippzski says - and I don't quite trust him well enough to take his word for it. I believe it has more to do with ordinary luck than bribery. Roger does, as I already mentioned, business for him. Well, not exactly buying and selling, more in the shape of avoiding unwanted attention. You see, the two seperate shops used to be one single shop a while back. When the building was constructed in 1915 it was home to a shoemaker and salesperson. Years ago, when Roger's father opened up his 24-hour shop, a brick wall was built to seperate the shop into two and he rented the other place to mister Lippzski - he's quite an old character. Probably in his 70s - Roger never bothered to ask how old. But the cellar of the two shops weren't seperated. Instead, an iron door locked from the inside kept `intruders' away and the cellar was used as a storage room. Nowadays, Roger ues it to smuggle goods, mail, packages and other stuff from his shop to Lippzski's. Authorities don't check mail and goods destined for a 24 hour shop. What can be exciting about that? Invoices, advertisements, bills, nothing special about that. Roger receives Lippzski's more sensitive mail, gets a nice bonus, and then delivers it to Lippzski. A perfect arrangement and nobody seems to notice. Roger won't snitch out on Lippzski because the income is too handsome to pass up and Lippzski isn't interested in seeing a jail from the inside. While Roger was writing checks for food and drinks he received yesterday from the wholesale, mail came in. While addressed to Roger from a very neutral sounding company, City Export-Import Co., a front for people who hang around on the South Waterfront of the city where bulk carriers come in and see if any valuable merchandise happens to come with the rest.

`What's this?', Roger asked himself and looked around. Danno was standing behind the cash register serving customers while Leanore was working in the laundrette, cleaing machines. He grabbed a boxcutter from his packaging table behind him and carefully opened the box. The packing letter and contents would be saved while the rest would be thrown in the central incinerator, the heating unit of the building. Roger was the only one with access to the central heating unit - which is why Lippzski also chose him to be cut in with his schemes - guaranteed quick and clean destruction of incriminating evidence. Opening the box, Roger discovered the usual contents. Diamonds, individually wrapped in paper, sparkling clean. He held one diamond in his hand, to the light. What a beauty she was! A seemingly flawless gem. In an attached letter, Roger read it was from a person named Valencia. He trusts Lippzski will take good care of the merchandise and used as a deposit for a quite considerable loan at the Trust Bankers Company in the city. It seems this Valencia needs to stash his illegal produce and what better way it is to use it as collateral for a loan. `Herewith I include 28 diamonds of finest quality, flawless in nature and natural white. Refraction sublime. Handle with care. Yours, Valencia.' Interested in knowing if Valencia was an honest man, Roger counted the diamonds. But, unaware if he made a mistake, he counted again. How could this be? Again, but the total amount wasn't 28. Thirty seemed the correct number.

`It seems our good friend Valencia is seeing if Rex won't doublecross him. If two diamonds disappear, he knows who done it.' Roger laughed at this, took a cigarette from a box on his desk, lit with a table lighter and drew deep. `Nah, that's just conspiracy stuff. It's a payoff. Obviously.'

`What if I...' Roger thought out loud. `No, I won't risk my relation with Lippzski. It's his stuff, his trouble. Instead of even pondering about nicking the two extra diamonds, he took his telephone off the hook and dialled Lippzski's number. Phonetaps are rare but you can't be too careful. `Rex? Hey, it's me, your neighbor grocer Roger. I'd like to see you got your brandy. Yes, very special 12 year old. Come and have a look.' Rex did not answer. Roger hung up and a few minutes later Rex was in his store.

`Hello there Rex. There's something special for you. Follow me.' Rex knew the way, but Danno didn't know about the special business relation between Roger and Rex. Best keep it that way.

`I see what you mean,' Rex said while looking at the diamonds. He read the letter and counted the diamonds. `Thirty. Those two aren't accounted for, they're payment. Valencia is a valued customer of mine, Roger.'

`Then why is this the first time I see his name mentioned?' Roger asked, without feigning curiousity.

`I'm afraid that's none of your business Roger.' Clearly, this wasn't the first time Lippzski lied to me, a bold faced lie, but this time, any person could swear he was hiding something from me. And getting involved isn't in the cards today.

`Well Rex, if that's the way it is. So be it. Are those two diamonds a payment of sorts?'

`Yes. They're worth too much to reward your service to me.'

`That's what I've been thinking Rex. I don't like diamonds or gold coins. Somebody like me isn't the type of person who goes to a gold dealer to unload a bag of coins or whatever. The usual tariff, please.' Rex handed me several banknotes, I counted the money and shook hands.

`You can put the box, as usual, on the lowest step of my staircase to the basement.'

`Sure thing Rex. And don't forget your bottle. I handed him a bottle of fine brandy. While I'd love to get paid for it, it's value is not even a tenth of what I got from him. Best to let it be. Rex left the store and I proceeded to do what he asked of me. The money Rex gave me would be put in the cashregister when my nightshift starts. It's insured against theft and the bank won't ask silly questions. Admitted, I found Rex' behavior unsettling. While he's always quiet about sources, I came to know more than I bargained for doing his more secretive incoming mailings. But in all these years I have never seen or heard of Valencia before. Could it be worth investigating? Just like in the movies.

 

[Danzig]

Part V

*****​

`So, if I get this right, you want me to figure out who Mister Valencia is and what the City Export-Import company does. Is that so? I am recording this conversation, so we won't have any misunderstandings later on.' A private detective, named Ivan Lajolo asked me. He was a sort-of corpse, preserved not too well, getting bald and unshaven. He smelled like black, bitter coffee and heavy cigarette fumes. His fingers were brown and yellow of nicotine stains and his nails rugged and unclean. He lit a short, wide unfiltered cigarette and through the narrow beams of light through the blinds clouds of smoke hovered through the damp atmosphere of his small but well decorated office. Lajolo took a sip of his rather unclean mug of coffee and waited for me to speak up and confirm what he just said.

`Well, yes...' I awnsered, rather unsettled.

`Good. Well mister Roger Piano... Strange surname... Roger, I may call you roger? Let's forget about formalities. This mister Valencia, do you have a first name? Some background information on this Rex Lippzski please. What's he like, where does he live?'

`What about him? He lives on Terrace Hill near the Overlook Plaza with all the fancy new condo's, Kipling Mansions. Housenumber 23 bis. He's in his 70s and his a small-time dealer in diamonds, gold and other valuables. He has a jewelry shop next to my convenience store. Pretty ok guy I guess. Not much trouble. Over the phone I've explained the thing, the business relation between me and him.'

`Sounds like a pretty one-sided deal if you ask me,' Lajolo replied. You carry the risk unless you have some evidence on him. Do you?'

`Of course I have, I keep copies of most things passing through my office. If he tries to frame me, I'll nail him good. We're partners in crime, so to say. Still, there's something about the latest batch done that makes me feel uneasy. Twenty-two days ago I received the first package from this Edouard Valencia from the City Export-Import Company. With increasing frequency and Lippzski's secrecy is also increasing... with the same frequency. I want to get out of this deal but there's no way in hell I can make it without his payments every week. And I had to swallow his latest change of heart, today he paid me in gold coins instead of cash. I'll be damned if those do not come from criminal sources. You ok with payments in specie instead of cash?'

`I don't mind.' Lajolo drew on his cigarette and stood him to refill his mug. He didn't bother to ask me for a second cup and I let it rest. The taste was bitter and no doubt in my mind it was old; it must've been hours in the same can. `As far as I can tell Roger, the business relation between you and him is pretty profitable. Wish I had a neighbor like him. Why bother with the questions?'

`I bother because...' I was looking for words but Lajolo interrupted and answered for me.

`You bother because this is probably big. Probably is the keyword here. As long as you pay me, I'll look into it. But I understand your concerns. You want to have some information on him... To blackmail him perhaps to make the terms of the deal a little more lucrative for you?'

`Well, no, Ivan. I just want to know what's behind all this. I know for a fact the guys who deal on Beth Yisrael street are three times the crooks Lippzski is but this Valencia person annoys me. Could he be a frontman?'

`That's what you are going to know if I can do my job,' Lajolo retorted. `Sounds like an open-and-shut case to me. I have ventured before into the dark depths of the diamond trade. It's a messy world but not bloody. Most are forced out of business by the small clan that runs the show. They don't kill or maim or drive by shootings or whatever. A downpayment of $2000 would cover most initial expenses. And when I'm done, we'll deal with the remainder, another $2000. I'll write an invoice and send it to you as soon as possible. But the City Export-Import Company rings a bell. Come to think of it, the name Edouard Valencia sounds familiar. Like I've heard the name before.'

I paid four gold coins promptly worth around $500 each and Lajolo put them in his wallet. `You don't mind if I go to the assay and have them checked before I do any work? You can come with me, so you'll know I won't doublecross you or something. I like to give people the impression I'm not a complete scammer.'

`That's okay by me.' Lajolo wrote down the address of the assay and penned down in his agenda when he would visit the place. It was a reputable assay office managed by a subsidiary of a major bank in town. He wrote down several details of my story and added a few notes of his own. I believed our little conversation was concluded until he told me wait a while. His eyebrows frowned and he lit another cigarette. His look turned from relaxed to serious and immersed in deep thought instantly. He turned off the taperecorder.

`Look Roger, I am telling you this because the pay's good and I recognize the situation you're in. I've been into something similar myself. Couple of years ago. I know damn well who Valencia is and I don't want the second payment of two thousand. I don't need to go to an assay to know these are genuine. If you got paid by Lippzski then I am one hundred percent sure it's the real deal. Now let me tell you something: I am not going to repeat this because even if Valencia knew one tenth of what I am going to say to you, I'm dead. Close your shop, sell it, whatever, walk away from the deal while you still can. I hope you got some savings to start anew. Or don't. That would only arouse suspicion. Lay low for a good while. Be quiet. Valencia is a major criminal in town and word on the street his he shifted his attention from drugs to diamonds. As you may know, the police is organising a major crackdown on narcotics. They're successful and have caught many drugdealers. They're disappearing off the streets. Valencia saw this coming and is now working with many insignificant jewellers to spread his bloodgems. I don't know where gets them from, where the gems are extracted and frankly, I do not want to know. Get out of this while you still can. Don't call me, when that door closes behind you we part ways. Lippzski is a pawn and he's good because he isn't monitored by the police because of the little niche between you and him. Some people are making a pretty penny out of this and it ain't you or Lippzski. Figure out a way to get out of this while you still can. If you want, I know the address of a person who can solve problems. His main act is "robbery with deadly outcome". I suggest you listen to me Roger. I'll give you his phonenumber. If you call and give Lippzski's opening hours, you can be sure it'll be done the next day. I'll arrange the payments.' Lajolo wrote down the person's phonenumber without a name. `He works 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Don't be shy to call. It's practically your only ticket out of this and to be honest, you cannot sell your store.'

Suffice to say I am quite desillusioned right now. I left the office with the phonenumber but didn't know what to do yet. It seems pretty obvious this goes way above my head without only one way out of this. Or two, and I don't like either one.

 

[Danzig]

Part VI

*****​

It's been months since I last saw Rex. His shop is closed, mail's not coming in anymore and to be perfectly honest, I don't mind. With him out of the way, plenty of worries from my side have disappeared like fresh snow on a sunny day. But I wonder, where did he go? Where'd he went? He left everything the way it was like it was in... December. Late December it was when I had a little chat with that private investigator Ivan Lajolo. He offered me a contact, a person who could 'deal' with Rex in a rather unlawful way. Not that I disagree with unlawful matters, but having a sort-of friend murdered, well, that goes a little too far doesn't it? Money's still coming in when the monthly rent's due, gas and electric bills are paid on time. His bankaccounts are still active; the same number is used every month. If he were missing or was reported dead, the accounts would be closed down. Nothing of the sort, but perhaps someone else is paying? Not to arouse suspicion? Ah, who am I kidding, I don't care any longer. Rex is gone and if it were up to me, he'd stay gone for a lot longer than little more than two months. Saturday evening, normally he'd go to the bar and have a few drinks. Yet somehow, tonight he wanted to work the nightshift. From 8 till 5, 9 hours of backbreaking labor. Around 5 Danno comes in for work so I can go to bed... Finally. Only ten past 8, four hours and fifty minutes to go. It's not as slow, the weather's okay for the past few days. People go to peepshows, wankbooths, hookers and other red light establishments. Most are people who buy erection pills, sexy creams, condoms, booze and cigarettes.

Television was on, showing a horrible hillarity show, radio playing 1960s sottish love lullabies and in very customary fashion, a cigarette was burning in the ashtray. This afternoon was particularly dull; he had to go to the supermarket while drunk. After not being able to catch sleep last night, I began drinking in hopes of falling asleep. But it didn't work so I had to stay up all night. My whole day and night rhythm is messed up because of my irregular hours. If I sneak into Rex' shop, case the joint and find some stuff that's easy to pawn, I might use that money to hire a temp worker. And catch up on sleep. There's a fence a few blocks away. Officially he's a coppermonger, at the back he deals in all sorts of stolen goods. Rex once told me about him, he seems like a guy you could trust. Problem is, he's been here a few times to buy erection pills and tablets to relax anal muscles. I know that because I kept the CCTV footage in hopes of blackmailing him one day. He'd instantly recognize me and understands those diamonds, bracelets or whatever I come to sell aren't part of granny's inheritance. But I gotta try it one day. If he starts asking annoying questions I could always make a hint or so about his perverse nature. But what's perverted in these enlightened times? Ivan Lajolo called me a few days ago, asking he I were still interested in getting that phonenumber. I politely announced I was no longer interested, explained Rex has gone missing. He took notice, said he'd call again on Saturday and hung up. Today's Saturday and I'm expecting a phonecall. I have not the slightest idea what it's about, but my gut instinct has gotten my internal alarm bells ringing. Lajolo asked me if I were still interested, doesn't sound like he was expecting a 'no'. More an endless whine about moral questions, whether it'd be 'ok' to do it or what-not. Lajolo knows too much and I actually regret going to him. This Ivan Lajolo could well be onto something. Conspiring against me, setting me up. To frame me. Blackail, extortion, who knows? But what are my leads? I only heard vague rumors where Rex might be. Rex wasn't known for discretion and couldn't keep his airtrap if he started talking. He had a habit of spilling his guts, there was this one time when he...

I hear my wife's television upstairs. God I hate that hag. If only there was a way to get rid of her, that would be something! But she can cook and clean and every once in a while she's willing to work in the shop. On top of that, she doesn't have the faintest clue how much I despise her. Keep it that way I say. While I was busy pondering about life, Rex and everything around it, a man and a woman walked in. He immediately caught my attention because they weren't whore and client. No, a sophisticated couple. The man was wearing a fine dark blue suit, raincoat, a pink silk tie and silver teardrop buttons. I couldn't entirely see her, but she must've been dressed as smart as him. He asked her to look for something and he approached me. He looked behind me, as if he were searching for something. I kept staring at him. Upon closer inspection, he looked more latin instead of northern. Obviously he came from the south. His laid his hands, wearing fancy leather gloves, on the countertop and remained silent.

`Are you looking for something special sir?' For a few moments, he remained silent. Didn't open his mouth and didn't, from what I believe, even pay attention to me. I turned around to turn down the radio volume and while I was moving, he opened his mouth to talk. I recognized a southern accent, Spanish perhaps.

`As a matter of fact yes, I am looking for something. It's not special, it's a person. Next door is the shop of one Rex Lippzski. It's closed down for some time now. For some odd reason. I cannot seem to discover a sign notifying customers of his sudden departure or reasons why its closed. Could you help me?'

Relax Roger, I thought. This isn't your average guy looking for a jeweler to fix his broken watch. `Maybe I can, mister...? Rex Lippzski is my neighbor, occasionally he comes in for a fine bottle of brandy. But I don't know anything about a vacation or where he's hanging out. Did you receive a letter saying he's on holiday? He likes to take long holidays'

Suddenly the man's tone changed. From kind it shifted to angry and impatient. `Look... If I received such a letter, I wouldn't be here. Now tell me, where is he?'

`Mister, that depends who you are. Rex doesn't like it when people hear things about him.'

`I am sure he won't mind hearing Señor Valencia is here to ask where the goods are. They're mine and I want them back. It's been too damn long. Where the hell is Rex Lippzski?'

`My memory isn't what it used to be. Rex is very picky about his contacts. And I never heard him talking about a mister Valencia.' I looked down on the counter then looked back up at his face. What the hell am I doing? I am being obnoxious to someone who might be a murderer, or worse! What if he is some sort of major hoodlum who can order a brutal killing of someone by only snapping his fingers... How can I be so stupid?

`How much do you want, shopkeeper?' Valencia asked me.

`Don't bother with money... Keep it, I don't want, ehm, need, yes need your money. All I want is the following: don't say a word about it. Rex Lippzski is a good friend of mine. He was a shy person who never let go of any of his business with people. The following happened. Rex Lippzski disappeared in December last year. Shortly before his disappearance, I went to see a private investigator named Ivan Lajolo, I can give you his address. Whatever Rex told me about a certain City Export-Import Company I forwarded to him and see if he could investigate. A few days later he said he came up with a plan to kill Rex, take over his business in smuggling diamonds and split the dough right down the middle. Because I haven't said yes yet and Rex' disappearance, the plan was put in the fridge until he resurfaces. I believe Ivan is plotting to kill him anyways for the diamonds even if I say no. So maybe...'

`Good God... You gotta be kidding me. Rex mentioned the City Export-Import Company? I think me and a few colleagues need to visit mister Lajolo very soon.'

`Yeah Rex got drunk and then he started talking...' Already the man announced he was leaving, hauled his wife, or that woman with him out of the shop and took the nearest cab. Without even asking Ivan Lajolo's address. Ivan Lajolo's out of the way. Rex is a friend, but one Ivan Lajolo less doesn't trouble me. I'll read it in the paper tomorrow.

 

[Danzig]

Part VII

*****​

`Whaddaya mean, what's wrong with me?' I was greatly agitated my the smug grin on the face of the banker who sat in front of me. I had to negotiate a small credit to restock my shelves and it was cheaper to finance it for a year than draining my personal bankaccounts. But the bastard refused any credit, he deemed me a liability. Excuse me! `Look mister, I am profitable for over fifteen years now, fifteen years straight, that's a better record than your own bank. All I need is twenty thousand, no more.'

`I know that mister... Roger Declerc? But new banking policy forbids small firms getting a credit that is ten per cent of their annual profit after taxes.' He looked at the ceiling and avoided my stare, I was getting frustrated he kept hiding behind numbers and all sorts of banking standards and rules and the occasional ruling by a court.

`Read my accountant's statement. He says and I quote: ``Roger Declerc's 'Open Forever' at 32 Leichhardt Square on the corner of Runnymeade Avenue'' - that is me. That is my shop and my accountant confirms, quoting again: ``... has been profitable in continued operation for the past fifteen years, acquiring net income margins as given and stated of at least 10% and durable profit of 145,895 thaler and 92 cents in the year 2009 after taxes deducted. Seasonal influences, weather and economic circumstances have been included in aforementioned calculations for coming years'' blah blah blah. Happy now?'

`I cannot deny the truthfulness of your accountant's statement Mr Declerc but you must understand that were are enforcing new regulations and 20 grand is not ten per cent of your annual profit. We know your business is healthy and we know your expansion into laundry services has paid off and not one loan went bad... But there are regulations and as a bank, internal policy changes must be followed and abided by...'

`I get it. You cannot earn money off my hardworking back. Goddamnit, I am a client for over 20 years ever since I took over my father's business. I have all my accounts under one roof, my family have been doing business with you when you were called Small Business Credit & Loan. Now you are a bunch of uptight bankers who do nothing but count the money they get from usury! Now listen to me Shylock, that creditline is part of a deal, I have the paperwork and contracts or otherwise I am going to see the Better Business Bureau and Committee of Small Banking Oversight. Your name will be mentioned for violating contracts, you'll be in so much shit its almost unbelievable.'

`Mr Declerc there is no need for such rough measures such as the BBB and CoSBO...' I could see he was starting to sweat and shifted his eyes nervously. All banks fear the BBB and CoSBO - small businesses have an edge over banks since banks were responsible for the bankruptcy of many small businesses in the 90s when they recalled millions worth of small loans to refinance their own risky operations - and getting a government bailout too when the banks threatened to go under themselves. That was in the early 90s and since then the government has a penchant to rule in favor of people like me. Time to get what I came here for.

`You arrange the credit, I'll sign the papers. And don't think I won't let an attorney look at it first before I return anything.' I removed the plastic wrap from a pack if cigarettes, opened the lid and offered the banker a cigarette. He gladly accepted a cigarette but he offered me a light. A smart gold lighter produced a small but constant gas flame, bright blue and purple. He wiped his mouth with a silk piece of cloth and stood up to shake hands.

`Of course Mr Declerc, naturally. I will get a Credit Department staffmember to get it in order right now. Right away.' We shook hands and I was off, back home. It's been a few days when I last worked in the shop - Danno and my hag wife have been doing my work so I could get some much needed rest and sleep. But I was not able to put some other things to rest: Señor Valencia. The day after I told him to hook up with my old friend Ivan Lajolo and I read in the paper the next morning a private detective was found dead. Name: Ivan Lajolo, age 42. It appeared he was shot in the neck, an execution. No traces, no DNA or clues that could lead to the culprit. All his personal files and documents were taken by the assailant, the safe was cleaned out - it seems señor Valencia likes to be very thorough in dealing with potential threats to his business. But I don't worry about anything. If he found something damaging or incriminating against me, he would've shown up weeks ago. He is aware of my presence in the shop and sometimes when I watch CCTV footage there's not a single instance I saw him around the shop, inside or even, as far as I know, in the neighborhood.

I still have the key to Rex Lippzski's basement door. For months his shop's empty without a sign of life. I have came to the realization he's more likelier dead than alive. After taking a cab from the bank in the financial district back home I greeted Danno who was serving a customer and I went to my little office. Adjacent to my office is the door to the basement, but I needed an excuse to me away for a little while, while I searched Rex' part of the building in hopes of finding some information that would shed some light on his disappearance.

`Hey Danno! I am going to see what's in the basement we can throw away. I haven't cleaned the place in months. You take care of the store when I'm busy down here.' There was a confirmation from behind the counter; I grabbed the keys, unlocked my door and walked down the steps. I didn't lie to Danno when I told him the place needs to be cleaned. The cellar is a long chamber which was used, in the early 20th century, to store and fill pickle caskets. The sour smell hasn't disappeared and some old barrels still stand in a corner emitting the foul odor. At the far end of the basement is a ladder going to the condemned building next to my apartment building with my shop on the ground floor. The condemned building has been condemned as far as I can remember. Nobody knows why; it's boarded up and all entrances are sealed by bricks. It's very old too, a long time ago when I was at the City Registry which records all changes in building or lot ownership, the condemned building has been without an owner for a century. Why it's not demolished is any man's guess. I believe the ladder to the condemned building is the last accessible entrance - if I hadn't locked it up with an iron trapdoor. I don't like drugdealers and junks in my cellar. A narrow corridor, near the ladder, goes to the central furnace which heats the entire building through a network of steampipes. Because I am the only person with access to the furnace, it's a piece of cake for me to destroy damning evidence such as parcels and boxes destined for Rex but mailed to my address. Luckily I kept a few with assorted letters describing its contents - signed and date stamped by Danzig Post.

In the dim light of a single lightbulb I found the key to Rex' door to the cellar. I unlocked it, turned on the light in the staircase and moved up. His store was the same as always; a musky scent, dust on books and tabletops, dark since all shutters are closed. I switched on the light but noticed no immediate strangeness. Jewelry was still on display - beautiful as ever. The safe has not been tampered with and even some diamonds were still lying next to his tweezers and magnifier. `Rex must've gone up in smoke', I mumbled as I walked slowly through his story. This isn't a crime scene, there are no signs of a fight or a struggle or even an argument between Rex and others. I put on my gloves not to leave any fingerprints. Rex hasn't paid me the monthly rent so even legally I can evict him and take the jewelry. Does he have any unpaid debts? I picked up the phone; no signal. Line's dead. `You know what I am going to do?' I said to myself `I know Rex kept a book where each item in his inventory is described. If the book gets lost, I'll be like a kid in a candystore.' Remember last time when I tried to figure out where to deposit the jewels? That guy a few blocks away, the fence annex coppermonger may be interested. Didn't even need to mention the kinky stuff; Rex' inventory for pennies on the dollar! Such a bargain is too good to pass up.

I know squat about the value of diamonds so even if I get twentyfive per cent I'm satisfied. But he won't scam or trick me. One third is the deal and I get Rex' shop again. A lot of extra cash. I already know what I am going to use it for: the laundrette. The present part of the shop for the laundrette will be solely for XXX rated articles; some expansion and investment will be needed. So screw the credit to restock my store! I am going to use the money I earn off Rex' jewelry and put the credit at work to expand my business. 'Spring is comin' to town and today's my lucky day' is a song I whistled I recall from my time as a child as I searched Rex' desk and eventually found the keys to his cabinets and began to empty everything. Rex is gone, Rex is missing and if he comes back I'll just say his old friends came in. Contract is nullified here and now. Today I need to visit the City Registry and make some vital changes in my ownership declarations. Rex Lippzski is no longer tenant and Roger Declerc is sole owner and landlord of 2 bis Runnymeade Avenue to be incorporated again into 32 Leichhardt Square. My income will double, perhaps triple!

 

[Danzig]

Part VIII

*****​

It was cocktail night in Danzig. Bankers, financiers, traders, CEO's, people from all walks of life in the financial world, from across the globe travelled to Danzig to celebrate the passing of resolution 58-6 in style, the creation of some thinly veiled global central bank in disguise. Security was extra tight in town with police patrolling virtually every street and back alley, mobile CCTV monitoring stations were placed at all strategic corners and plazas and heavily armed police officers guarded banks and government buildings. The locations were the festivities were held, The Gentlemen's Club, the Danzig Rotary and the Banker's Society were overhauled from stately 19th century manors to fortresses guarded by an army of private security and police. Helicopters flew from building to building, using search lights to peek inside hoping to catch a terrorist off his guard. Roads were closed off by concrete blocks but thankfully Leichhardt Square was relatively peaceful. The police station at Coalport on the other end was on highest alert, ready to move when or if something slightly out of the ordinary happens. But let me tell you, nothing was ordinary on that night. About 90 per cent of the world's GDP was concentrated in Danzig alone, celebrating something no ordinary person could grasp the importance of. In the future I am sure people will curse this day and spit fire and brimstone whenever someone mentions the partying men, dancing on top of a world they created with the stroke of a pen. Beggars disappeared off the streets, all places and clubs of potential troublemaking were raided and shut down for the night. Left-wing writers cafés, student gathering points, everything was closed and if people protested, they were arrested and hauled off to unmarked police vans. Police officers weren't required to wear their numbered badges and only neutral markings were visible. So if a police officer shot someone without reason, there was no way anyone could point a finger at him.

Some nations protested the creation, mainly left wing nations, but knowing the political and financial trickery of the sponsors of the resolution - not a single true politician, mind - but bankers and they owned the legislative process in Augsburg lock stock and barrel. For example, what I've heard on the news just this morning, the main financer of the extensive lobby that preluded the resolution was nobody less than Enzo Defalá himself, the president of the central bank of Danzig. He spent around 2 million thaler of his own money to buy fancy champagne, caviar and other stuff to 'persuade' delegates to listen to his story with great success. When the belltower on Taft Avenue, the financial heart of Danzig - and the world as well - tolled 6 the resolution passed and from that point on anyone could picture the sight of bankers toasting to another nail in the coffin of liberty and the victory of big finance over 'the people'. Even delegates from the otherwise rather communist nation of Carentania supported him. An incredible piece of work, I must say. Yesterday the bankers of Danzig didn't hold sway over foreign countries and now they do. Personally I don't care, they deserve the treatment for being lousy, treacherous and corrupt. Like all politicians. But they sold the souls of their countries in return for a bunch of quick pleasantries. Unbelievable. None of this matters to me right now, I've got bigger fish to fry.

Just the way I planned, I moved the jewelry out of Rex' shop and began to stash it inside my own part of the building. I went to the City Registry that same day and altered the Articles of Agreement between me and Rex - one sided, I have to admit. But I do not believe he will come back, he's disappeared and nobody knows whereto. But something posed a bit of a problem: the quantities of rough and cut gems. The jewelry isn't that difficult to get rid of, but by the time I found a professional locksmith/safecracker who was able to open the safe, I had to give him a cut to keep his mouth shut. But where to get rid of all the gems! This was something I did not expect and I believe I haven't planned everything thoroughly enough. But as I remember, Beth Yisrael street is the center of Danzig diamond traders. I'm sure the coppermonger who is able to fence the jewelry can give me a few addresses to look up.

After I returned from the City Registry, the first thing I did was cancel any schedule I had to work in the shop for the coming week. Danno and a new colleague, a woman, who is infinitely more attractive than my wife which is a plus too, has been hired and she also does some work in the laundrette. Danno doesn't mind what I do - as long as he gets his paycheck at the end of the month he's okay with it. So that evening I made an appointment with the coppermonger in his workshop. His place was closer than I thought first and from his window I could even see the condemned building towering over this part of the city. It was quite a warm evening; a dry wind from the southern lands was blowing in which made the entire atmosphere in the city a lot more tolerable. The coppermonger even had opened his window to let some fresh air in. Well, there wasn't a lot of fresh air because he lit his pipe stuffed with caramel-cream flavored tobacco. The acidic sweet stench hovered across the room while he was mesmirized by some of the jewelry I took to him, lying on his desk. I looked out the window, hearing police sirens in the distance and a radio from a neighbor - up, down, left or right. Dozens of tourists, Oikawans, people from the south, east and west were moving like ants on the sidewalk, taking photos of old, imposing buildings built in the 19th century. Security officers looked rather nervously at the crowds, pressuring them into other directions, often telling to keep moving, not to stand still, taking photos of uniformed police officers was strictly forbidden, do not take pictures, keep moving, don't look that way, more instructions, keep moving, take off your backpack, inspection, passports, identification, references, hotel phone number, more inspection.

The coppermonger, Eric was his name, was accompanied by a woman who, it appeared, was his businesspartner, lover and mother of two children outside his marriage. She was typing some stuff - falsifying documents to make everything 'legit' again. Eric drew on his pipe and tapped on his desk to ask my attention, I looked around.

`You know Roger, your "aunt" couldn't have collected more fancy jewelry I tell you that.' He took the pipe from his mouth, licked his lips and scratched his bald head. `Your "aunt" must've had a lot of money lying around. And not a lot of family if you "inherit" all these precious jewels. Goodness me, I haven't seen such quality in years."

`Eric, my aunt was a very wealthy woman. I was born on the wrong side of the family.' As much as my lying goes, I don't believe Eric is going to fall for the 'aunt' story. Too bad for me I guess, it was worth venturing a try.

`Your "aunt" indeed possessed an excellent taste for fine jewelry. For example, this tear-drop cut diamond, flawless grade. I am quite sure this gem alone will fetch at least 20 grand at a sale on the exchange at Beth Yisrael. You should go to the Danzig Traders Bank, they're specialized in this sort of stuff. And got tight lips too.'' I sold Eric ten thousand worth of stuff. I do not know and I do not care how much it's worth in reality, but ten grand is an aweful lot of money.

So I've decided to take the plunge. the Danzig Traders Bank is a respectable institution and their secrecy is unrivalled. I'm not going to those folks on Beth Yisrael Street. Not that I have anything personal against Jewish diamond dealers, I need a little more secrecy and I am not that willing to involve myself in the dealings of a close-knit community of people who, and I certainly expect it, are familiar with Rex Lippszki and his possessions. But there's someone else I might need to appease. If I have the diamonds appraised by someone at the bank and get some official documentation on them, selling those gems back to Señor Valencia at a discount might keep him off my back. If I sell the story of Rex' disappearance - he'll buy that, since it's not even a lie - what's stopping him from getting back whatever he and Rex agreed at a bargain price? I might do just that. Whatever I'll receive - it's a profit.

 

[Danzig]

Part IX

*****​

Months later

In the so called `hard class' of the Danzig subway system, complete with scratched windows, rife with graffiti and the smell of vomit and beer, I was on my way to meet Roger. To get to downtown Leichhardt Square from where I live, that is, from Dorfler Street Station the train takes me through some of the worst slums the city has to offer, namely Holtz Court Bridge and under the canals to Knight’s Heath. The once beautiful park, with flower beds of assorted radiant colors in spring and summer, ponds and playgrounds for children, which used to be the central feature of Knight’s Heath, is now a small tent city where immigrants from the north have taken shelter, its November and rain comes pouring down most of the time. Buildings surrounding Knight’s Heath are supported by wooden beams; drug dealers patrol street corners looking for customers and cheap brothels fill up otherwise abandoned buildings. Most edifices are boarded up, squatters have taken over the property and most structures have fallen in disrepair years ago. A staggering number of illegal immigrants live there, from all parts of the world. Law enforcement hardly bothers to patrol the area and the citizens police themselves - and others if necessary. The municipal administration has made attempts to improve the situation but most stranded in red tape and lackluster to genuinely invest money and effort in the area. Now the municipality is considering constructing walls around the neighborhoods and setting up checkpoints to monitor incoming and outgoing traffic. A walled off part of town in Danzig, who would’ve thought back then when the city didn’t suffer from all those immigrants. Luckily many are being expatriated back to whatever hellhole that spawned them, good luck dying of malnutrition, and good riddance I say.

But I’ve grown soft over the years. Roger is the last hard case I plan to deal with. From what I read, passed to me by The Big Man Himself, he’s a bit of a weirdo. He visited this Ivan Lajolo, private eyes, told a vague story and used two names: Roger Piano and Roger Declerq. Piano’s his mother’s name. Why he decided to use it, painfully obvious, remains a mystery to me. Maybe he already lost his mind when he visited Lajolo. He left clues everywhere for me to pick up. Someone can’t be that stupid? We haven’t heard from Roger but something’s bugging me, I decided to find out myself independent of the Big Man Himself. Contrary to what many think, Roger’s still busy with hauling jewelry and other contraband. Crazy or not, he’s making a killing for himself. And I want to find out how I can cut myself in, retire and live independently from here on after. On my way, I found a trail of people who went missing or simply vanished off the face of the planet. This Valencia person doesn’t exist – I’ve done my research on him – Rex the jeweler is also dead and gone, Roger’s wife committed suicide a while back under suspicious circumstances, his daughter moved to places unknown and I don’t expect to find many answers from the detective; he’s dead too. Another person, Danno, a former colleague of Roger, seemingly bought his launderette and 24/7 store but refuses to talk to anyone about… well anything really.

A few months ago Roger owned and operated several launderettes, a 24 hour corner stone and was a successful small entrepreneur. But after several events surrounding the disappearance of jeweler Rex Lippzski, his diamonds and the condemned building nearby, he went insane and tumbled back into poverty I was told by people familiar with Roger. Though, from my own careful observations, I think his insanity might be exaggerated. What I do know is the following: he blew most of his money on booze and out-of-court settlements with collection agencies, lost almost everything, wife, kids and business. Now he still lives on Leichhardt Square in his apartment, sold his shop to his former colleague Danno and rents out Rex’ old jewelry shop to a hamburger chain, the Habib Burger. Now I phoned Roger, confronted him with his lies, half-truths and so forth and demanded we talk. I like getting close to the people I extort, but I need to lay low on this one. The Big Man Himself is not aware of my small, personal operation and he’ll be furious when he finds out.
I specifically invited Roger to a fancy restaurant, Tout Court which is way out of The Big Man’s area of operations, instructed him to dress for the occasion but, much to my bitter annoyance, he refused and demanded we eat at that local hamburger horror, the Habib Burger. He said he’s depressed and cannot bear life anymore, ah, I have grown soft. I’ve decided to go to Roger instead.

The subway is relatively safe if you know when to travel and what routes to avoid; CCTV is in operation everywhere and police officers are keen to keep bums and vagabonds out. Many illegals simply disappear in makeshift holding cells until they're escorted out of the country. The train car was filled with people, mostly the bottom of society. Everybody who earned enough to afford a taxi took one; safer and more comfortable. Or buy a ticket for a first class car. But a first class seat won’t protect you from muggers or other street scum, so first class cars are empty most of the time. I need to pay this Roger a visit since he more or less messed up a very profitable operation. A windfall opportunity passed him by and he grabbed it – I would’ve done the same, I admit – but he got himself into a world of hurt. Now I need to smooth the record for The Big Man Himself, he likes to keep his files tidy. What happened a few months ago don’t concern me much; it was more of a coincidence we found out what exactly happened. I’m quite sure Roger is keen to find out how I managed to find him. The Big Man Himself forgot about him, maybe its apathy, but he’s got bigger fish to fry. I am one hundred percent sure he would go after Roger like a pack of wolves the second he becomes aware of Roger’s secret deals still continuing to this day, but I want that goldmine all for myself. I deserve it for all these years of toil and hardship for The Big Man, yeah, he raised me, but a nice bonus won’t hurt for 35 years of being a hitman.

I would’ve taken a cab but I need to keep a low profile, going with the subway doesn’t draw as much attention, and it’s easier to disappear if the goings gets tough. Recollecting what I thought, Roger didn’t want to meet me in a fancy uptown restaurant called ‘Tout Court’, I sincerely believe that’s the best establishment to discuss the predicament he’s in when he deals with me. By the time I arrived at the fastfood joint, Roger was already there. Such a depressed piece of human excrement is hard to miss; unshaven, unclean, a cheap suit, shoulders bent forward, sighing and breathing heavily. I was late but that didn’t bother me. He’d better shape up when I to talk to him, but that’s something I made sure he understood when I phoned him to have this little meeting. Normally I’d love to send in some of The Big Man’s strong-arms to shorten him, but he actually, I pity him and I cannot do anything with The Big Man’s boys without him finding out. He’s got eyes and ears everywhere. Time to get down to business.

Roger looked at me, surprisingly, he instantly recognized me without saying a word, as the man whom he talked to on the phone. He didn’t smile or anything, his face was a blank stare, nor did he extend his hand to greet me, he just got up and said “Hi. Hey mister, do you want something to eat? I’ve been waiting for an hour. I already had my supper.”

“Yeah why not. I don’t know this place, is there something you can recommend?” I didn’t like this eating establishment at all. A bunch of greasy people from the south were busy beating halal meat into hamburgers, cutting fries out of potatoes, soaking salads with too much olive oil. No, this isn’t my idea of a proper supper. Roger walked up to the counter and ordered a menu: the Big Habib Burger, a medium Martyr Milkshake and as side dish a small Sharia Salad Shaker. Roger walked back to our table, I looked around and there were only a few other people eating. It was a plastic Arabian paradise; the walls were covered with stained paper banners with Arabic writing on it, probably poems to praise Allah. Turbans and swords hung on the walls. There were no ashtrays on the table, but Roger lit up anyways. From the kitchen, a man came loafing to the counter and waved to Roger to capture his attention.

“Sir, this is a no smoking environment, please extinguish your cigarette thank you sir.”

Roger replied without looking up “Mohammed go stuff yourself.”

“Yes sir thank you sir.”

Settled.

I looked around and now would be the best time to start. Roger was cranky but just by looking at him I knew for certain his attention was entirely focused on me and my message. How I found out he stole everything from Rex’ jewelry store, still running smuggling operations from a new location, the whole drill. Without further lingering, drifting around the subject, I gazed again at Roger. He was yawning, looked at the burning ash of his cigarette and then I noticed his purple eye circles. The man hasn’t slept in days!

“Now you listen to me Roger, Rex is dead and gone and it was your entire fault. You are directly responsible for his death. Soon after me and The Big Man Himself discovered it was you who was stiffing us, hell, Rex would’ve still be alive today slicing the salami and putting us at a disadvantage, hell, we couldn’t find out at first how you were involved one way or the other. We always suspected you played a role somewhere, so cards on the table chum. Whatever’s left to salvage for you, you’d better do it right now. Your bitch wife whom you divorced betrayed you. Not because she was a dumb ho who screamed off rooftops, but because her cunt of a daughter inherited a precious diamond ring and pawned it to pay off several collection agencies. That ring was something neither of you could afford. Not even in your heyday as entrepreneur Roger. That thing was worth one hundred and thirty grand. Word hit the streets and that’s how we came to you.”

“I’ve always hated my wife. She is dead; this isn’t a lame prank you’re pulling on me? This is the first good news I’ve heard in months.” Roger looked around the restaurant. Several guests left. The greasy guy who asked Roger to stub out his cigarette, walked to the entrance, flicked a switch, and loafed back to the kitchen.

“She committed suicide a year ago. Haven’t you heard?”

“No mister. Frankly, I don’t care how. All she did was spending my money and saddle me and my business with debt. I can understand why she did it, hell, if I owed money to a bunch of hucksters and usurers, I’d bite the bullet too. Thankfully I got rid of them when I sold my business and everything but the kitchen sink.”

“Back to business, shall we Roger? It’s nice you view me as a family therapist, but I’m not here to walk down Family Avenue and have precious quality time together. You did steal from us. Now, Rex did it as well but hey, can’t get any more dead than him. Don’t go down his road and just cooperate.” The last few guests left. No new ones came in. Just me and Roger were all who were left in here, aside from the kitchen staff.

“Mister, like I told this Valencia guy and his boys earlier, when Rex disappeared months ago ago, I didn’t knew what happened to him or who got to him. I’ve always suspected Rex was wheelin’ and dealin’ with all sorts of shady people. Not the kind of people who’d do bodily harm if they didn’t get paid though, Rex was Jewish. That’s a tight-knit community you know. Rex never left a note or anything. Not to me or to his colleagues on Beth Yisrael Street. He didn’t phone me. Since I was owner of his place, I took all his belongings and moved ‘em over to my part of the joint. According to the business statutes I was allowed to take back the rented property and take some stuff as a means of payment. Rex was behind rent already but I left it there since the swag he sold under the table was going so smooth and I got a fair share, I sort of let it go, you dig?”

“Wait a minute there Roger, who the hell is Valencia? And when did he stop by to visit you? Valencia doesn’t exist. There’s no Valencia. We’ve heard it all, don’t bother. He’s an illusion. You’re delusional Roger. We have heard these old wives tales about the City Export-Import Company or whatever, we went through documents at the better business bureau, the chamber of commerce, the company doesn’t exist. Valencia doesn’t exist. He was someone else. A fake name I suppose.”

“Goddamnit mister I know Valencia is a man who came to my twenty-four seven store not long after Rex went AWOL, he said he represents the City Export-Import Company and I’ll be damned if that aint the truth. All I know is Valencia got diamonds and other valuables from abroad, God knows where, and Rex fenced ‘em off. When Rex disappeared, I took over whatever merchandise came in. Valencia didn’t know how I was involved and somehow he wasn’t bothered since I didn’t spill the beans on me. All he wanted was, was a taste of the profits. When the stuff stopped coming in, we called it quits and we both went our own way. I decided to pay him off, a tidy sum, to keep everything silent. Since I made plenty of money selling the merchandise on Beth Yisrael Street, I didn’t mind. Valencia was happy he got a little slice of the cake already. Truth is I don’t know where Valencia’s at right now. I haven’t seen him in months. Word must’ve reached the source of the diamonds or Valencia informed them to stop sending, or redirect shipments to a new fence. I don’t know I’m out of the loop for quite a while, it all went passed me.” Roger got agitated when I kept pushing the Valencia topic. Bingo. This is where I can nail the son of a bitch. He’s evidently lying.

“Well let me tell you something Roger, I don’t know who this Valencia moron is, but I’ll give you the benefit of doubt. I know Rex was involved with plenty of backroom deals with all kinds of weird people. Weird people like you. A man like Valencia fits right in. But fact to the matter remains Valencia and the City Export-Import Company don’t exist. You are sure this isn’t an elaborate lie?” Roger turned his face to the Mohammed person behind the counter who was counting money and writing the amounts down. While he was occupied with it, Roger waved his hand and he said the food would come soon. We were still alone in the restaurant; ten minutes had passed without any new customers. Something isn’t right. A waiter brought the food to our table. It did not look appealing. Roger wasn’t getting nervous about anything. Am I not intimidating him? The more he talked, the more relaxed he got. His story was consistent in its bullshit but somehow he was telling the truth. His own version of the truth? Maybe I was getting close. I don’t know, but while I was listening to him, I forgot my surroundings. I am getting soft, too soft damnit. Something is not right around here. There are too many people working in the kitchen, taking quick glances at me. Not enough patrons. What the… where’d they all go? Only me and Roger are here. Streets are busy, its suppertime still yet nobody comes in. Then I noticed! The neon light sign above the door says ‘closed’! Mohammed’s shifty eyes are going to something under the counter. I need to get out of here. Alarm bells are ringing in my head at maximum volume. Did Roger lure me in a trap?

“Mister Siniori, I know who you are. And I know who The Big Man Himself is. I also know is this: tomorrow, everybody will ask ‘where is Siniori?’” The man named Mohammed stood next to the entrance with a keychain; he closed the fake Arab curtains to obscure from public view whatever’s going to happen. He waited for Roger to say something. Many things went through my mind, I’m dead. Looks like Roger’s not as crazy as he passed off to everybody, crying over everything. As everybody was silent, Roger lit up another cigarette and looked complacent at me, his grin reveled in a smug sort of evil, as if he was already anticipating and enjoying my future pain. Roger was still looking at me, his grin, mesmerized at his own thoughts. “Mister Siniori, do you have a deathwish? You came here, drawn by greed. And you were too dimwitted to see the bigger picture. Greed clouded your senses; your senses failed you this time. Big time. Lock the door Mohammed.” Roger waited for Mohammed to comply. “Seems the tables have turned eh, mister Siniori. Because that’s your real name, the Big Man Himself told me that yesterday.”

What the hell! Roger and The Big Man Himself know each other? I’ve been set up by the man who raised me like a son, hauled me from the gutter, such betrayal. How did Roger do this? Why? When did they talk?

“You see Siniori, I wasn’t lying when I told you I hated my wife. How she blew all my money on male prostitutes, cheap clothes and bad ugly jewelry. When she filed for divorce she wanted part of my business but I got her to shut up when I gave her that ring. You know, the really expensive one. That stupid bitch was so happy she didn’t realize she signed her own death warrant. Danno, my colleague, he hated her with a fiery passion. She had to die. Faking suicide isn’t that hard and a little money here and there to the right detective, easy does it. You got to me easy. I know you Siniori, you’re a hitman. A stupid one at that. And working independently from your boss isn’t your job.” Roger took a drag from his cigarette. I quit smoking, but I felt an urge and confronted by a glaring truth, it didn’t matter anymore. “Can I have one of your cigarettes Roger?”

“Sure. Why not.” He gave me a cigarette from his crumpled pack and lit it up.

“Now let me continue Siniori. I’m sure you wanna know why you must die. I’m better than you. I’m profitable and clean. You have a history of being rotten. I got rid of competition highly efficiently. Rex was murdered because he was stiffing me. I wasn’t stealing from him, he stole from me. From day one this business I ran was a front for smuggling. I thought I could trust Rex, but hey, you know Jews. Every diamond, every gem and piece of gold belonged to me. All stories you heard from third parties how I secretly went into his basement, redirected shipments to myself, all baloney. Who told you that anyways? No wait, don’t answer. Little does it matter now.”

I took a bite from my Habib burger. I was feeling sick but I had to eat. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The meat was a bit salty and rough but didn’t taste that bad nonetheless, there were hints of beef and other meat in it. I’ve eaten halal meat before, but this didn’t taste anything like it.

Roger paused for a second and continued after he asked Mohammed for a cup of coffee. “Rex’ disappearance was orchestrated with perfection. All this time I kept up the nonsense story I didn’t know, blah blah blah. Oh yeah, and lets cut the crap for a second, The Big Man Himself is Eddie Valley. Eduard Valencia. E V. Eddie came to my store shortly after Rex exchanged life for death and was interested in doing business with me. Eddie was actually thrilled to see Rex depart God’s green earth. He never liked him, couldn’t trust him. Seems Eddie was right all along. You see, I’m honest. Eddie saw how I processed all incoming stuff and used my shop as a perfect guise. Private eyes Ivan Lajolo had to die as well. He was involved to a degree, but I’ll save you the story. It doesn’t matter for you. I set up the whole thing with my wife’s ring with Eddie’s consent. Danno made sure she died. My daughter got the ring and paid off her mother’s debts. It was me who told every snitch, stoolie and bookie about the ring. And it got to you. Doesn’t that sound like a perfect ruse or what?”

My food plate was only half finished. I didn’t like the taste of this food. I pushed it aside while hoping he’d finish me quick and painless. Getting betrayed by the man you served 35 is bad enough, but how Roger and Eddie worked together is probably worse than mere betrayal. He’s right about my stupidity. I should’ve known.

“I get rid of my competition efficiently.” Roger said. “Nobody finds them again. They disappear. Rex is gone you know. Gone for good. The Habib Burger moves around town a lot. My apartment building is located next to a condemned edifice. It’s the perfect place to store meat in a cold storage unit until it’s time for processing. A little while ago Eddie asked Mohammed if he could move the Habib Burger to Leichhardt Square. Conditions are perfect.” Siniori opened his mouth while he was chewing on a bit of Habib Burger, to say something but he couldn’t, instead a small chunk of meat fell out, onto the table. “Before you throw up, know this: nobody notices a thing. Only because I told you. Mohammed is a little bit traumatized by war and conflict. When I met him, I immediately recognized the great potential of a creative chef. Did you know he was called The Butcher back home? His colleagues were his fellow militia men. Rather unscrupulous I might say. This is a controlled environment for his anger. It’s therapeutic, vengeful satisfaction. Eddie thought it was a fantastic idea when I explained my intentions for Mohammed’s Habib Burger joint. But before you go to hell, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the genius of this operation.”

I threw up everything inside me. I vomited all over the table. Roger looked at it and laughed “Siniori, I think it’s time for you to go. Mohammed will lead the way.” I got up and noticed my clothes were stained by my own vomit. As I looked up, I saw Mohammed clutching a hatchet and a revolver, waiting impatiently for me to go with him.

The end.​

OOC: I may revise and overhaul some parts of the story in the future, for logical reasons, better connections or removing inconsistencies. That's all and until next time!