For all I knew he’d locked the door an hour before closing just so he wouldn’t have to deal with pesky customers wanting him to dirty a knife. Fifteen minutes after his posted closing the lights went off and Tibor exited the front door, locked it, then looked cautiously left and right before walking toward a sprawling, dated apartment complex across the street.
The complex, known as the Sibley Apartments, consisted of thirty or forty three-story stucco and brick structures built just after the Second World War. They’d served as home to returning GI couples in the early fifties. Then refugees from Castro’s Cuba, the Hungarian revolution, Vietnamese boat people, Cambodians fleeing the Khmer Rouge, and now Eastern Europeans and Russians, just a stop on the road to the American Dream.
I attempted to shuffle aimlessly, hands in my pockets, walking a parallel path across the street from Tibor. He had a noticeable limp, maybe arthritic, and although he was glancing around constantly, he seemed not to notice me. Two blocks into the complex he made a B-line for a buff-colored building with painted orange trim.
There was no point in running. I was just far enough away to not be able to reach him before he ducked inside the security door. I watched from across the street and a minute later the lights came on in an apartment on the third floor, just to the left of the stairwell window. Tibor appeared for a brief moment as he lowered a window shade.
I walked around the rear and checked things out, then drifted back to the front door. The door lock didn’t look all that difficult and I was about to retrieve the pick set from my car when two boys approached. They looked to be about ten. One pulled out a key and unlocked the door, never stopped his conversation, which wasn’t in English and sounded decidedly Slavic. I smiled, held the door as they entered, and then followed. They couldn’t have cared less although I suspected they’d been lectured a good portion of their young lives about the danger of strangers.
Names had been taped onto aluminum mailbox doors inset in the entryway wall. Last names with a first initial. Apartment 302 was listed as Crvek, T. T for Tibor I guessed. I quietly climbed the stairs. The hallways were a little too warm, a bit stuffy and smelled of heavy cooking. Fried things, bacon, pork, cabbage. I heard the hum of conversations in the hallway but couldn’t discern any words.
Tibor’s unit was at the top of stairwell, one of four units on the third floor, and if my bearings were correct the same unit where I’d seen Tibor drawing the window shade barely fifteen minutes before. Black plastic numbers on the door, just above the peephole identified it as 302. I felt fairly confident that if Tibor knew it was me knocking, I wouldn’t be welcome with open arms.
There was music playing inside the apartment, classical, possibly a cello solo. Who would have guessed Tibor for a culture vulture? I knocked softly, them stooped down so just the top of my hair would show through the peephole, hoping he would think it was a woman knocking and open.
Amazingly the music stopped a note or two later. Had he actually been playing? I could just make out footsteps approaching the door, padded, the floor would most likely be carpeted. A muffled voice was calling something, then repeating the phrase, whatever it was, it wasn’t English. I heard a body brush against the door, looking through the peephole. I pressed my head closer against the door, just below the peephole so my hair was visible. The voice repeated the phrase, a little louder this time, paused, then muttered something crossly, and then I heard the sound of a chain being unhooked.
The door opened widely, two or three cross words spilling out before they stopped, and Tibor, wide-eyed, wearing boxer shorts, white socks, and a strappy t-shirt attempted to slam the door closed.
I exploded from my crouch and burst through the door. The door flew open with a bang, knocking over a lamp that had rested on a small table just behind it. There was a slight pop and an audible fizzle as the light bulb broke when the lamp hit the floor. Tibor stumbled back. I wrapped him in a bear hug and tripped him to the floor. Fortunately I landed on top of him. Full force.
“Uff!” he gasped, then groaned.
I seemed to have knocked the wind out of him and though he struggled it was half-hearted. I was able to get on top of him, my weight pinning his shoulders and arms. He hissed and glared but that was about all he could do. A slight electrical burn smell came from the broken lamp behind us.
I pulled his ears back to the carpet between my thumbs and forefingers. They were slick, greasy, and slipped from my grasp as I attempted to keep his head still. Thankfully he didn’t scream out. I could feel his coarse beard bristle through my jeans, very unpleasant.
“Tibor, Tibor, I just want to ask you some questions,” I half growled through clenched teeth, squeezing his ears as hard as I could.
He seemed oblivious and began to struggle again, this time a bit more forcefully, moving my weight slightly. I didn’t have control of this by any stretch. I grabbed a handful of hair in both my hands. It was even greasier than his ears, but I hung on, lifted his head, and slammed it down hard into the floor. It seemed to have no effect, nor the second time when I slammed harder. The third time he blinked strangely and let loose with a low, throaty groan. But he didn’t struggle.
“Tibor, Tibor, listen to me. Now listen. I need to find Kerri, you know Kerri?”
He glared back at me.
I slammed his head into the floor, then did it again, as hard as I could.
“I’m going to ask again. Where is Kerri, Karina Vucavitch, Kerri, where is she?”
He focused on my face, glared again, I grabbed bigger handfuls of greasy hair, lifted his head to slam it.
“No, do not, no!” he said.
Thank God.
“Tibor, I need to find Karina Vucavitch, where is she? I just want to talk to her, she is in danger.”
He refocused on me, strangely. He seemed to be thinking, although one could never be sure.
I tightened my grip in his hair.
“With Braco, lives with Braco.”
“Who’s Braco?”
He looked at me like I was from another planet, studied me for a moment.
“Braco Alekseeva, she is his woman.”
“Braco Alekseeva?”
He actually smiled, at least that’s what I think he was doing. Lips curled, teeth exposed, or was he planning to bite me?
“Braco Alekseeva, he would like you to meet,” he half snarled.
“This Braco, he wouldn’t drive an LX11 would he? He drive a big red car, Tibor?”
He nodded, eyes glaring.
“You tell Braco, I’d like to talk with him, I’m going to find him and…”
“Braco find you,” he gasped.
“Good. It’ll save me time. Now Tibor, I’m going to get off you. I want you to stay on the floor. Understand? Nod your head yes.”
He did.
I climbed off carefully, but quickly. Tibor lay on the floor, glaring at me in his strappy T-shirt, striped boxer shorts, and white socks, I noticed the tip of a big toe poking through one of his socks. The rest of him, hairy shoulders, arms and legs with a beer belly beneath the T-shirt rising and falling from his heavy breathing.
“You just stay there, Tibor. I’ll let myself out. Sorry about the lamp. Nice music by the way,” I nodded in the direction of a cello leaning against a wooden chair in the far corner. I backed to the door, began to pull it, bits of broken lamp and shards of glass clinked and tinkled as I closed the door.
Tibor lay still, smiling strangely, like he was the only one in on the joke.
In the hallway I left the opposite way I came, going down the back stairs and out, if only to avoid Tibor tracking me from his window or worse, following. I walked quickly past two buildings, turned a corner, then jogged to my car. I didn’t believe anyone was following but why wait to find out.