Chapter 5

Brooklyn, one of the most densely populated boroughs of New York, had once been the Dutch village of Breuckelen, on the banks of the East River.

This was where Kris was now headed in his old Mustang, in search of Emirhan Shahin. The private eye would have preferred to have been at the wheel of his beloved, top-of-the-range BMW, but despite its edge, such a car was hardly the thing for a drive around Bedford-Stuyvesant, the neighborhood where Morris Peterson's body had been found.

Darkness was falling and Brooklyn was slowly being transformed into a mass of shimmering lights, like stars in the night sky. The neon lights on Brooklyn Bridge shone, beckoning tourists and photographers alike.

It didn't take Kris long to reach Bedford-Stuyvesant, one of the most ethnically diverse neighborhoods in the borough. His target was a nightclub known to the locals as Mix, since its clientele was a mixture of people from all corners of the globe.

Mix was a favorite haunt of Brooklyn's illegal aliens, a place where they could feel relatively safe from the immigration service's spies. Mix represented the worst that Brooklyn had to offer, and fights, brawls and shootings were regular occurrences. This was also where you'd come to escape, to get high and forget that you didn't know where your next meal was coming from or where you'd be sleeping that night.

These migrants lived their lives a day at a time, knowing they could be picked up by the immigration service without warning and thrown out of the country without a penny to their names.

You could get hold of some valuable information in this club. Every night, as the mean-looking singer sang in her rough, smoker's voice, all the latest news and gossip were exchanged.

When Kris walked into Mix, after parking his Mustang round the back in the yard, he was hit by the strong odor of tobacco, sweat, hookah, and other vile smells. There was, as ever, a mixed bag of customers: Turks, Greeks, Italians, Filipinos, Vietnamese, Colombians, and most of them were illegals. They were trying to unwind after the long, hard day. The atmosphere was hardly friendly, but not hostile either.

The private detective found a seat at the bar and ordered a Scotch. Sitting a seat away from him on his right was a glum-looking Turk who was staring at the bottom of his glass as if hoping that it would somehow miraculously fill with raki. His unkempt beard and red watery eyes, together with the stench of his unwashed body, was quite revolting. His hands, tattooed, cut and bruised, were shoved into the pockets of his grubby, torn jacket in the hope of finding a couple of dollars there.

But there would be no more money today.

The private detective looked carefully around the joint.

Underneath their rough exteriors, these people hid their sufferings, anxieties and fears.

Kris could feel the Turk staring at him.

"Give him what he wants," said the private detective nonchalantly to the barman, nodding towards his neighbor.

"My name's Mehmet Karadga." The Turk suddenly stirred and moved closer to Kris, excitedly watching the barmen pour the glass of raki.

"So, what have you done to upset them?"

asked the private eye, and he nodded in the direction of a group of Turks who were smoking hookah. Kris could see at once that Mehmet Karadga was an outcast even among his own. Not an enviable position to be in. He'd been thrown out of the Brooklyn Turkish enclave, and could not rely on their help any more.

"They caught me thieving."

"They don't look any better than you."

"Ah, I was stealing family money," said Mehmet, and he emptied his glass.

"I'm looking for someone by the name of Emirhan Shahin." Kris looked seriously at Mehmet.

"Never heard of him." The Turk shrugged his shoulders.

"He sells stolen valuables and antiques. He's been seen around Bedford-Stuyvesant, Chinatown, Brighton Beach, the guy to be seen with," said the private detective, nodding to the barman to pour another raki.

"What does it matter who's seen where? We live in New York's shit-hole. It's the pits, a millstone crushing hundreds of lost souls, year in and year out, when they're only trying to make a better life for themselves," Mehmet Karadga muttered philosophically. "People come and go, dozens of new faces everyday, and you try to fight your way up and realize that you'll never get to see the American sun."

"How can I find Emirhan Shahin?" Kris stared at the Turk as he got more and more intoxicated.

"Never heard of him," he said, stubbornly shaking his head.

The private eye placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. Mehmet nearly flipped at the sight of Benjamin Franklin. Then he became surer of himself, and his head cleared too.

"Shahin hit rock bottom. They say he's got something to do with the death of that millionaire, that guy they found a couple of days ago, 5 blocks from here," said Mehmet, tucking the bill away.

"What would a millionaire be doing in a place like this?" asked Kris.

"He was asking for it," Mehmet muttered. "He didn't have the brains to keep his nose out of our part of town on his own after dark. He must've been totally fleeced. Pity I wasn't there."

"Prove it!" Kris responded suddenly.

"I didn't kill him!" spluttered the Turk. "I was unloading containers down in the port."

"I never said the rich guy was killed."

"I don't get it. How did he croak then?"

Mehmet was puzzled.

"Shock. His heart stopped."

"An overdose?"

"There were no drugs in his bloodstream."

"He probably got scared by his own shadow and that's what got him," said Mehmet Karadga, with a dry laugh.

"Where is Shahin hiding?"

"It'll cost you. Lots," added the Turk uneasily. "My girl's up for deportation."

"You'll get nothing more from me," said Kris.

At that moment ten tall, menacing Russian skinheads, built for a fight, walked into Mix.

Kris did not miss the fact that the group of Turks around the hookah pipe suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

"Looks like trouble," the private detective remarked calmly.

As the Russians ordered vodka, they glanced over threateningly at the Turks. The atmosphere was tense.

Mehmet Karadga was trembling, either from raki or fear.

"Maybe we should get some air," said Mehmet forcedly.

"So, do you remember where Emirhan Shahin's hiding now?" Kris inquired impassively.

Suddenly, the group of Turks jumped up and made for the exit. The Russians, who had been prepared for this, barred their escape and rushed at them, their fists in the air. The Turks had obviously done something to upset the guys from Brighton Beach. Gang brawls were nothing unusual in the pits of Brooklyn.

Before long, everyone in the place had been dragged into the fight. Tables, chairs, bottles, billiard balls, bodies, yelling and cursing filled the air. As the private eye had predicted, trouble reigned at Mix. Although Kris had his faithful Sig Sauer P229 under his arm, he was in no rush to use it. This gun was for emergency use only.

"I'll ask you one more time, 'Where is Shahin hiding?' yelled Kris, fighting off two Russians at once.

Mehmet Karadga was about to respond, when he was kicked violently in the chest, and sent flying, scattering the bottles on the next table.

"Get me out of here, and I'll tell you!" shouted the Turk, reeling in agony.

Kris ran over to Mehmet. He pulled him up and together they made for the exit. The private detective was a master of kung fu and could take care of himself in such situations, unlike Mehmet, who had grabbed a billiard cue and was thrashing it from side to side like a sword.

There was a crowd blocking the exit, all trying to get out at once, but Kris managed to clear a path.

The private eye and the Turk ran outside.

"Quick, over here!" yelled the private detective, running into the yard.

Getting into the old Mustang, Kris and Mehmet watched as a vanload of Russians drove up and came to a stop in the road right in front of them, blocking their escape. The Russians got out, grinning horribly, and reloaded their guns.

"We're done for!" cried Mehmet in a panic.

The Russians were in no rush to start firing and instead waited to see what the private eye was going to do.

Kris put the car straight into reverse and backed right up to the wall of the neighboring building. Ahead lay a filthy, malodorous alley, and the exit was blocked by the Russians.

"What are you doing?" asked Mehmet fearfully.

"Hold on tight," Kris warned.

The private detective slammed on the gas, picking up speed, and the Mustang plowed toward the Russians' van. They did not seem to believe that the private eye was actually going to mow down their van. The Mustang got closer.

In panic, the Russians opened fire. A shower of bullets rained down on Kris's car. The Turk ducked instinctively, but the next moment he noticed that the windshield was still in one piece. The word "bulletproof" went through his mind.

Mehmet Karadga pressed himself down into his seat in horror at the thought of colliding with the van. The Russians ran in all directions, still firing at the private eye's car.

Kris violently turned the wheel to the left, making the Mustang swerve up onto its left wheels, with its right wheels in the air. The Mustang sped easily through the narrow gap between the wall and the van. The private eye then slowed down a little and the car thudded back down onto all four wheels, before speeding away from Mix.

After driving crazily for fifteen minutes through the night, the private detective stopped by an apartment block. Kris and Mehmet got out of the car. The pleasant, clean night air filled their lungs.

The private eye looked at his bullet-peppered Mustang. "Lucky they didn't get the gas tank," thought Kris.

"I need a Band-Aid," said Mehmet pitifully.

No sooner had the private detective climbed back into the car for the first aid kit, than the Turk tried to make his escape.

Kris, seeing him disappearing into the shadows, scowled and gave chase. After a relentless, ten-minute obstacle race, Mehmet Karadga came to a dead end. Seeing a fire escape on an apartment block and realizing that this was his only way out, the Turk started climbing up to the roof, forgetting his fear of heights. Kris was right behind him.

Up on the roof, the private eye caught up with the Turk and cornered him on the very edge of the building.

"I'll tell you everything!" shrieked Mehmet in fear, turning away from the view of Brooklyn by night.

"Good, I'm listening," retorted Kris sharply.

"Emirhan Shahin is laying low in Chinatown, at the Lao Wan restaurant with his Chinese pals," Mehmet gabbled. "It's a secretive place. They don't just let anyone in. You'd do better to stay away!"

Kris nodded and was about to leave, when Mehmet Karadga added,

"I know what happened to that unlucky millionaire." The Turk's face grew serious and took on a strange, eerie grimace. "Belial got him."

"The commander of a demonic army in Turkey, according to legend." The private detective snorted.

"Precisely," said Mehmet, deadly serious.

Kris turned and walked silently into the night.