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I’ve layered leggings under my jeans and have two sweaters under my black hoodie. My beanie is pulled down over my ears and my hands are covered with thin gloves. I’m freezing but can’t operate the delicate knobs of the camera or telephoto lens with anything thicker. My elbows, knees, and hips are poking painfully into the metal. I return my attention to the viewfinder and the scene unfolding.
I’ve come to the docks every night this week, waiting for my ship to arrive. Tonight it docked, but as expected, no one came aboard for several hours. Customs seems to have no need to inspect this ship, conspicuously busy with others that have arrived today. Finally, long after sunset and after every normal person has gone home, a semi pulls up, accompanied by a few dark SUVs and some very large men. I snap away. God bless digital cameras. A lone dockworker appears from beside a crane, one of the men speaks to him, hands over a thick package. He tucks it away without opening. Lights appear on the crane, and he begins to move containers around on the ship. I return to the SUVs and truck and snap several pictures of license plates, and then several more of the faces of each man.
Mostly, they just look bored. Two are smoking, one is on his phone, and another doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything other than leaning against the driver’s side door. He looks up at me, and I freeze. My heart pounds frantically in my chest. I know he’s unlikely to see me this far away, and even so I’d just be a slight bump on top of a container. His hair is slicked back into a ponytail, a jagged scar cutting across half of his face. An altogether sinister appearance. My skin crawls.
A container drops onto the semi with a loud crash. I just about jump out of my skin, having been so focused on Scarface and the goon squad. The men load back up in the SUVs. With the semi in the middle they caravan out of the shipyard.
I pop the SD card out of the camera and swap it with a generic card filled with random pictures of the shipyard. The real card I tuck back in the plastic case before slipping it into my sports bra. I pack the camera into my backpack and begin climbing down the ladders attached to the containers.
I don’t head home right away, instead opting to ride the subway for several hours, going back and forth to nowhere. I pull the images into my tablet before stashing the card back where it was. I note the license plates of the SUVs and the truck. Eventually, my paranoia settles enough that I head back to my apartment.
After uploading my data to my Dropbox cloud, I make a beeline for the shower, and crank it as hot as it goes until I’ve worked the last of the chill, literally and emotionally, out of my body. I dry my hair, braiding it against my scalp in two French pigtails and change into a lessMission: Impossibleoutfit: a tight white t-shirt, skinny jeans tucked into my black boots, and a black coat that goes to mid-thigh. It’s late, but I’m headed to see someone that doesn’t exactly keep banker’s hours.
I met Pierre years ago, investigating police corruption. Pierre is an odd fellow, vaguely resembling a humanized scarecrow. Tall, lanky, it’s difficult to determine his age. Somewhere between thirty and one hundred with almost translucent pale skin and sunken cheeks.
He stands behind the counter of his pawn shop. The shop is real enough, and turns a tidy profit. The usual assortment of musical instruments, sports equipment, tools, and jewelry dots the meticulously maintained shop. I can feel his gaze on me the minute I walk inside.
“Roxanne, lovely to see you.” His voice is soft spoken, with the slightest trace of a French accent. I know his appearance is a carefully crafted ruse. He’s an astute business man, far stronger and more cunning than he looks, and trades in information as much as money.
“Pierre, it’s been too long.” I give him the traditional French air kisses on each cheek.
“Would you like to sit down for some tea?” It’s an invitation, also a code.
I nod.
He rounds the counter, locks the door and flips the sign to ‘closed.’ He holds the curtain covering the back door away and sweeps his arm for me to enter. As I pass, I see him flip an unmarked switch on the wall. It makes the glass vibrate, so parabolic microphones will struggle to pick up anything, and it activates active interference with any other listening, recording, or transmitting devices. Through the back, we make our way down into the basement. Here, it’s brightly lit and spotless. An artist is painting in the corner. I’m not sure I want to know if he’s counterfeiting the Monet in front of him or restoring one. We settle into his plush office.
“What can I do for the city’s most promising journalist?” He tents his fingers in front of him.
“Information,” I start. “I want to know where to find the New York Bratva and who the major players are.” If he’s shocked, it doesn’t show on his face. “And,” I decide to push my luck, “I need a new ID.”
“Hmm.” He taps his fingers together. “Why?”
“I’m working on a story.”
“Of course you are, my dear. But those are two big requests. You’ll have to give me something more than that.”
I pause. I trust Pierre, to a point. But I see no possible way to get this story without his help. Plus, I’ve already confessed enough to condemn my soul to the Bratva if he were going to sell me out to them. In for a penny.
“I think they are trafficking girls through New York. A lot of them are turning up dead. They are young, Pierre. Like, teenagers.” I see his face soften. I know he thinks of his own daughters, tucked safely away with his sister in Paris at art school.
“Dimitri Popov is the head of the Bratva in New York.” Pierre frowns. “Of all the families, the Bratva is by far the most brutal. The bigger problem being that Popov himself is a vile, narcissistic sociopath.”
“The families?” I ask.
“The mafia families. Russian Bratva, Italian La Cosa Nostra, Irish mob. There exists a fine balance between the families, which creates a sort of truce. There hasn’t been a mafia war in decades because of it. In general, the mafia has a certain amount of ethics, in their own way. Honor, loyalty, things like that. Popov doesn’t care. He will succeed by any means necessary, regardless of who he had to double cross to get there. He would make a deal with the devil to sell his own mother out.”
Pierre rises from his desk to collect an electric teakettle from a cabinet. “It would have to be his mother; he murdered his father to gain his position.”
“He what? I feel like that would not go over well.” Isn’t the mafia all about family?
“Popov is charming, you see, he manufactured some evidence here, bribed some people there, convinced the Pakhan back in Russia that his father was skimming profits. So they allowed him to kill his father and assume his position.” Pierre hands me a cup of tea and a small sugar bowl.
“Pakhan?” I ask. I put two cubes of sugar in my tea and watch them melt.
“The head of the Bratva, in general. Of the families, the Bratva is most connected to the old country. You won’t find much influence with the Sicilian mafia in La Cosa Nostra, or the Irish seeking approval from back home. But the Bratva is connected, though it’s mostly about money. So long as the money keeps flowing up the way it’s supposed to, the local factions run independently.”
I nod along. “So the Pakhan thought Popov’s father was skimming money, blessed Popov to kill him, and now Popov is in charge. Is he on good terms with the Pakhan?”
