Unfinished Vengeance

By Jack Segal

2012-Richard Jameson, a hard-nosed, take-no-prisoners lieutenant with the New York Police Department, is frustrated with the criminal element in society and their impact on his beloved city. But when a law-enforcement officer who has been working to infiltrate terrorist cells is murdered, Jameson is summoned to work on the case because of his knowledge of New York City. He is placed on administrative leave from the NYPD and assigned to the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force.

Molded by the untimely, violent deaths of his siblings during a Russian offensive, Ibrahim Ben Mujihadini is transformed into an unforgiving, ruthless global terrorist. He seeks revenge against the Americans for supplying weapons to the Soviets in the past, and Mujihadini's targets are immigrants of Russian descent. From the Brighton Beach area during the International Freedom Games, Mujihadini plans to slay the President of the United States, who will be officiating at the opening ceremonies, and exterminate as many civilians as possible. He will not be satisfied until his vengeance is fulfilled-unless Jameson can stop him.

From Chechnya, to the Middle East and New York City, Unfinished Vengeance is a high-powered novel of intrigue, deception, conspiracy, and murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 4, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595875191

Jack Segal

Jack Segal, retired educator, is an avid student of history and politics. The Satan Bomb is the sequel to Unfinished Vengeance.

Book preview

Chapter 1 

Richard Jameson, NYPD detective extraordinaire (by his own account), would have loved to collar all the two-legged vermin in this town, but the paperwork would have killed him. As a second choice, he had to get his thrills cruising in the Candy Apple red Mustang down the Jackie Robinson Parkway. Up the Mayor’s backside with his speed limits, he thought. Nobody pays attention to them, especially the cops, not in the year 2012.

"What the f—? I hate that damn cell phone! Oh shit, it’s the precinct.

Lieutenant, this is Sergeant Meyers. What’s your location?

Who wants to know?

Lieutenant, the Captain wants you at the precinct a.s.a.p. Something really big has come up. Where are you?

I m in my car.

That doesn’t narrow it down too much. Where are you?

I’m in the front seat. That’s usually how most people drive. He just loved to play games with Meyers.

Look Lieutenant, no more lip. The Captain told me, Call Jameson to get his ass down here, now! So, I’ll ask you for the last time, what’s your twenty?"

I’m by the Cypress Ave. exit on the J.R.

Well push your new toy but don’t get into any accidents. The Captain is really having a fit. The phone went dead.

Everyone’s got an attitude problem. Shit, here I go again!

Some overpaid and under worked bureaucrat at City Hall came up with the idea of naming this highway after a ball player. He wondered if the tombstones on either side preceded the highway or were the results of the numerous accidents and deaths from this marvel of engineering. There was many a cold night when he had to investigate the scene where some poor schmuck who thought twenty miles an hour meant sixty.

Whether the highway hit the car or the car hit the highway, the usual outcome was a trip to the morgue by the next of kin. The cemeteries on each side were either Christian or Jewish. There was probably nothing left of their inhabitants under the crumbling stones and mausoleums, but before you could say rigor mortis, court orders and injunctions were issued stopping any city planning agency from proceeding. God how he needed to take a leak but the next bathroom available was the one in the McDonald’s on Pennsylvania Avenue and he wasn’t going that far.

He didn’t care for the name because of one other more important and personal reason. Growing up in Brooklyn, he was the only New York Yankee fan on his block. There was only one game in America and that was played in The House that Ruth Built. New York didn’t have the Dodgers or the Giants anymore. They had those pretenders who played in Flushing, Queens. METS what the heck does that stand for? The official name was Metropolitans. After Casey Stengel said, Can anyone play this game? one of Richard’s colleagues at the precinct house blurted out, You know what ‘Mets’ stands for? My Entire Team Sucks!" He hadn’t had a belly laugh like that for a long time.

The Dodgers were mathematically eliminated again. All it took was a snicker and his friends were on him like mustard on pastrami. That little Band Aid box that they called a stadium on Empire Boulevard was a joke. A pop fly to the outfield was always a homerun out of the ballpark. Mickey Mantle, his hero could probably bunt it over the fence.

He didn’t drink as often as he used to but time was catching up to him. It was doctor’s orders since he had come down with Hepatitis. It felt as if someone had hit him with a sledgehammer right in the gut. He was so weak he couldn’t walk the twelve feet to the john. When he tried to urinate, it looked like chocolate syrup. How about that? Bosco coming out of his dick. The cramps and the constipation didn’t add to the enjoyment either.

He had no idea how he got the disease. The days of drinking on the shifts were over. He missed his shots of Johnny Walker Red. He had graduated into Black. He heard that they came out with Blue, but that was too rich for his taste going at over two hundred bucks a bottle.

When he attended the obligatory Irish wake when one of his brothers in blue got killed, he hated going through the explanation of why he couldn’t bend the elbow with them. He just said, Doctor’s orders.

Between the caffeine and the stress of the job, he had no idea how much longer he would stay with the department. He had thoughts and dreams of what some of the other guys did. They did their twenty and out. If they were lucky they applied and got disability. Get your check once a month; retire down to the Carolinas or Florida. Lay in the sun three hundred and sixty five days a year with a babe that was half his age. No questions asked, no garbage to throw out, no take out the dog. Just sun, swimming and sex.

The most important item on the Mayor’s agenda was re-election. The name of the game is to keep the job, be top man on the totem pole, numero uno. If you wanted to get anywhere in the department, you had to vote Democrat. God forbid if you told anyone that you were Conservative or Republican. Of course on the q-t, you could vote anyway you wanted, but if you wanted to move up, you had to play by the rules and he simply HATED TO BE ONE OF THE BOYS!!!!

Chapter 2 

The Captain wants to see me. What did I do now? He enjoyed talking to himself, he never lost any arguments.

Coming up on the Bushwick Avenue exit, there wasn’t an Irish bar to be found. He grew up not too far from here. No way in the world would he want to live here now. .

He got caught by a red light on the corner of Broadway and Chauncey. There used to be a movie theater there. It started with a c, Continental, Commodore, Congress. It came to him. It was the Colonial. He remembered going there as a kid for thirty-five cents. You could see two full-length movies, five cartoons and a serial short. He loved watching Tim Tyler and the Jungle Cruiser, or Flash Gordon. You could hear a pin drop when Ming the Merciless came out on the screen. Only Flash Gordon, Dr. Zarcoff and Dale Evans could counter the fiend Ming and his plans to destroy the Earth. They played tons of stickball games on the side street. Many a Spalding was lost in the sewers and on the roofs of the buildings. He remembered the time when, while fishing the balls out of a sewer with a clothes hanger fashioned into a loop, someone was throwing down all these rubber balls from the theater roof. He later found out that it was the movie projectionist. The guy’s name was Ira. He always sported a two pocket shirt and held a toothpick in-between his choppers. Gee, someone in New York doing a kind deed.

The theater didn’t exist anymore. It was just a distant memory as was most of the old neighborhood. In its place was the same aged brick building. He could see the bricks peeling and the abundant graffiti. In place of the movie marquis was the inscription in eighteen inch gold letters:

Church of Christ for all Sinners

Reverend Theodore R. Simpkins

All Welcome

Gone was the pizza store next door. Sometimes if you were lucky and you enlightened Angelo behind the counter that the half-eaten cholesterol special tasted funny, he would give you another one for free. He was sure that the guy knew we were scamming him but if you didn’t do it too often, it made your day.

Next to the pizzeria was Block’s candy store owned and operated by Lil and Ben. He was a big bear of a guy who made the best egg creams. Now, it was a Korean nail salon-The First Best Nail Salon. Leave it to the Asians to murder the language.

The furniture store was always having a going out of business sale. He referred to the stylish crap they sold as Kings County Renaissance. The sofas and chairs were usually covered in either putrid pink or chartreuse. For a little extra and if you decided to pay it out at three dollars a week forever, customized plastic covers were included. There was nothing like sitting on hot plastic in August, wearing Bermuda shorts and leaving half your thigh when you got up.

If he opened his window, the smell of urine would kill him. Another hazard in these neighborhoods was the kids playing with the hydrants. It was more convenient and cheaper to take the hydrant method to cool off than going to the city municipal pools. He remembered spending many a summer with his family at Betsy Head pool on Howard Avenue. You paid your fifteen cents admission, and you went into a locker room where they gave you a numbered wire mesh basket with a similarly numbered tag with an elastic band attached. You put it on your wrist, but if you were really macho, it went on your ankle. Everyone changed in the same room. After the proverbial scan of everyone else’s dick, you put your clothes into the wire mesh basket and brought it to the attendant. You prayed that at the end of the day, you got back your same clothes. It wasn’t rocket science to get back the same clothes you started with, but the guy behind the counter wasn’t a rocket scientist.

He made a hard left off Broadway and just missed ramming a double-parked bus. After slipping the driver the bird, he downshifted up Hopkinson Avenue and took a right onto Eastern Parkway. This was his absolute favorite street in all of Brooklyn. In all the eight lanes moved quite smoothly when there wasn’t any traffic. But this was Brooklyn, there was always traffic.

He passed all the hookers plying their trade even though it was daylight. If you were stopped at a red light or caught in the intersection, they came right up to you like flies on honey.

Hey baby, they blurted out. Want to party? How about a quickie for fifteen? Want to go around the world for thirty?

He was consistent, always turning them down. Not that some of them weren’t tempting, but he didn’t need the diseases. Those old army pictures of guys with v.d. left a lasting impression on him. He couldn’t think of anything worse than getting up one morning and finding his dick on the floor. He knew a lot of guys who couldn’t keep it in their pants. Many of them wound up giving their wives or girlfriends all kinds of unique afflictions.

Approaching the intersection he could see the massive columns of the Brooklyn Museum on the left. When he was a kid, his parents took the family to see the Egyptian exhibit. Who in their right mind would make jewelry out of dead beetles?

Behind the museum, lay the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. It was also a great place to take a date, find a quiet spot and try to get lucky when your teenage juices were flowing.

The light changed to green and after seeing a guy running the cross street signal, he gunned it back up to fifty, only twenty M.P.H. over the limit. The museum faded away and he saw the unique design of the Grand Army Plaza branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. He remembered being in the seventh grade and having to research a report on Elizabethan clothing. Never had he learned so much about ruffles. All those guys must have been gay. How could you tell the difference between the men and the women if they all wore puffed up shirts and blouses?

Jameson took a right onto Flatbush Avenue. The Cadillac dealership was gone too. Everybody drives Beamers now.

Brooklyn sure has changed. Gone were all remembrances of his childhood. Even the stores his mother took him to downtown were history. He recalled numerous visits to A & S, Martins. Where E.J. Korvettes department store (which someone told him stood for Eight Jewish Korean Veterans) once stood, was a CVS drugstore and a liquor store. Hey, the local populace needed their drugs and alcohol.

Jeez, what a shit hole, he thought.

Chapter 3 

Jameson angle-parked the car on Pacific Street under the sign:

Police Vehicles Only,

All Others Will be Towed Away At Their Expense

Finding a parking spot wasn’t easy, you had to maneuver and avoid the broken beer bottles. There was many a time when he exited his patrol car and lost his footing on beer spillage, or worse even, urine.

The One Hundred and Twenty Second Precinct house was certainly named correctly, The Craphouse. The brick walls were covered in mildew and pigeon dung. Each and every one of the windows on the first two floors had at least one crack in them. The icing on the cake was the nests in all the nooks. People walking by must wonder whether this is a police station or an aviary.

Sauntering into the precinct the first to greet him as usual was the desk sergeant, John Meyers. Meyers was always spit and polish. He had to look the part to impress the old timers and rookies alike.

Hello Dick.

The sergeant’s emphasis, with all its respective connotations, was on Dick. As always, Meyers’ salutation and inflection was well noted by Jameson without exhibiting facial expressions. As a cop he learned to ignore a lot of crap whether it was outside the precinct or inside.

Jameson was a lieutenant, gold shield and all. He could have reamed Meyers out, but, that just wasn’t done these days. Meyers was on the job longer than he. It just wasn’t done. Even if he confronted him in the sanctity of the locker room, it would get around the precinct before you could say, I’m innocent of the whole incident. Who are you going to go crying to? The Captain didn’t give a shit. Actually, no one gave a shit. You solve your own battles or you lose them.

It wasn’t easy moving up the ranks. He had to walk the walk and talk the talk for eleven years. If you want to rise in the NYPD you’ve got to learn who to go up against. His first mistake was to call his partner a lesbian bitch. After being brought up on departmental charges and relieved from active duty without pay for thirty days, it was time to think first and talk afterwards. It also didn’t help matters any that she was the niece of a borough commander. The only positive event of that incident was nurturing his relationship with Scotch whiskey. Miraculous how five or six shots of Johnny Walker could relieve the thoughts of being railroaded.

He was happy to return to duty. With all the stress and bullshit, it was still his life. Dealing with the everyday garbage made the boring days and even boring nights when he was off the job a distant second. Here he was back in his own environment. He was the boss. The gold shield carried a certain degree of power and respect. When he was off duty, its only usefulness was that of a paperweight.

Jameson, the Captain wants to see you on the double, Meyers blurted out. And furthermore, don’t hang out in the shape up room. As soon as you adjust your uniform and look presentable, see the boss now.

He never liked going up the steps to the Captain’s office. Not that he couldn’t negotiate the two flights. It was the wooden banister that was a horror. Splinters protruded in all directions and the stairs themselves were in horrible shape. Missing pieces of wood was on every landing. Without much effort you could look down from the second floor into the basement. The steps were littered with cigarette butts and a.b.c. gum (already been chewed).

Jameson stopped off at the John. He never cared much for reporting to the Captain, a carryover from his suspension days. Whenever he was summoned to the Eagles Nest (as he referred to the Captain’s office), he had the sudden urge to take a leak. This was not an easy decision as the unisex bathroom was a pigsty.

He always knocked out of habit, not that he wanted to. Once in a while if he lucked out, he would catch a female rookie or patrol person (politically correct for gender neutrality), in a state of disrepair. On the rare occasion of that fortunate occurrence, he made sure to close the door slowly.

The bathroom looked like one would come across included with a bachelor pad. Tiles were missing from the floor, graffiti on the walls. No soap dispenser

existed, (not that there was ever any soap), no paper towels. If the absolute need arose and one was fortunate, you may find a few sheets of toilet paper.

He did his thing and washed his hands using water from the rusting leaky faucet. After shaking off his hands, he did a quick wipe down on his uniform. Just in case the Captain decided to shake hands, Jameson needed to dry off. Having passed inspection by gazing in the broken and soiled mirror, he exited and walked down the hallway.

On each side of him, were portraits of precinct commanders. There were twenty in all, which worked out to an average of six per year. This was not an easy gig. Everyone was after your ass. One mistake and the brass, the P.B.A. and the community came down on you like a bat out of hell.

Jameson proceeded to the door, which read, Captain Moses Schwartz and underneath Precinct Commander. This may have been the only door without a cracked plane in the entire building. The door needed a good coat of paint and varnish, but like everything else here it withstood the vagaries of time. He knocked and heard the gruff retort, Come in.

Captain Schwartz held the position for seven years. He was already beating the odds. Having just turned sixty years old he didn’t look it. Tall and trim he could pass for a patrolman twenty years younger than himself. Working out every day by lifting weights and jogging, he was in better shape than anyone in the building. Rumor had it that he dyed his hair and had had follicle implants, but no one dared bring that up to him. His dark brown eyes cast a piercing gaze at Jameson.

"It’s really generous of you to bless us with your presence, Richard."

Chapter 4 

Ibrahim Ben Mujihadini had been bestowed upon him after taking several Russians’ lives. He had been born with the name, Viktor Ruvchenko into a family unique in his village of Roztuvia. The village was situated about twenty kilometers north of the capital of Grozny on the Terek River. It was equidistant from the Russian border and was merely a short trip for any Russian soldier to come across the border for an evening escapade with any of the local women.

His father, Ivan Ruvchenko had been one of these philandering troops, an honest man who barely eeked out a living as a construction worker when there was work to be found in the town. After a brief physical encounter which got out of hand, his ill-mannered and uneducated father did consent to marry Saraviel Lavtenko but only after being tied down by four of the town’s citizenry and having the local Muslim Imam perform the hastily prepared ceremony while he lay on the ground hog-tied. He repeated the words from the Koran phonetically having no idea what he was speaking. Any minute thoughts of escaping across the border to his encampment would have led to a swift death as there were Chechen spies in all the army camps. In less than forty-eight hours, relatives of the violated girl would slit his throat from ear to ear. Marriage in his thoughts was not nirvana but still far better than the alternative.

After completing the remaining four months of service to Mother Russia, Ivan settled in the small village with his semi-reluctant bride. The relationship between the newlyweds grew stronger as the years went by but they were never based on one of true love. His mother worked long hours for little pay as a domestic servant to the local constable. This minor official though Chechen by birth and ethnicity was a Russian stooge. She was paid less than the going rate others in the village received for similar labor. It was an honor to be chosen by

Constable Yevgheny. If she refused the position, she would invite retribution upon herself and the entire family.

Several times she came home in tears and her garments in disarray. It was common knowledge that Constable Yevgheny had roaming hands upon any female within arms length. His father could only find solace from this predicament in a bottle of vodka.

The marriage produced Viktor the eldest, followed by Alexander and Matr-uschka. Viktor was ashamed of the Russian names bestowed upon him and his siblings. How could his mother, a full-blooded Chechen have chosen these names? Of the three Ruvchenko children, it perturbed Viktor the most. He had vowed to change his name as soon as he reached adolescence.

The three children had had fond memories of growing up in the village. The house built by his father was small but neat. There was a wood fireplace to give heat although it was not a good match for the winter temperatures. At times, the thermometer outside had indicated below—7 degrees Celsius. The layering of woolen shirts, pants and socks did not stop the incessant and biting cold from affecting the cabin’s occupants. He could swear that the temperature inside was equal to that on the other side of the thin wooden slats.

But, there were also some gloomy memories. He remembered fishing at the river even though his brother Alexander was far more skillful. The Terek River used to be pristine clear in the past, but the Russians had used it as a dumping ground for sewage from its military installations. To eat the fish was to take shorten the one’s future and would surely hasten their demise. It seemed that Alexi (as he had developed the habit of calling him), would just toss the hook in with a piece of black bread at the end and snag a fish in under a minute. No matter how hard he tried to outnumber Alexi’s catch, he never did succeed.

Matruschka was the apple of his eye. She was always bright, bubbly and cheerful. Her long black tresses were unique among the young ladies of the village. She matured into a beautiful teenager. Her facial features thanks to Allah did not in any way resemble any of her contemporaries. Growing into her striking womanly form, any man in the village would kill to make her his bride.

Life was hard in the village. If one showed promise, the Russians would allow the children to finish gymnasia, completing the twelfth grade. However, this was not the customary track. Most of the adolescents stopped school after the eighth grade and searched for menial positions. Those who didn’t succeed became alcoholics.

Viktor had excelled in mathematics among his peers. A superb swimmer, he was Captain of the swimming team and had won numerous medals. He could expect the opportunity bestowed upon him in one of the colleges where the Russians allowed Chechens to attend. The authorities strictly limited the locations to certain ethnicities. Chechens were not allowed to attend Universities or colleges in the major cities. The authorities thought it most unwise to entertain the thought of having large groups of ethnic minorities with the potential to cause unrest proliferate among easily predisposed students. They had recalled the spies and fifth columnists when the Nazis had infiltrated Russia. These traitors had improved the chances of Operation Barbarossa to succeed. Only the colossal sacrifice of millions of Soviet citizens had turned the tide of the Great Patriotic War.

When the day arrived for the senior class students who showed promise, they assembled in the school’s auditorium. The interviewer was dressed in a drab green heavy woolen single-breasted suit. His shirt and tie were wrinkled and his shoes probably not polished for years. Out of a class of forty only six had passed the exam. It was common knowledge that the exam given to Chechen students was made disproportionately difficult to keep the number of graduates attending university to the bare minimum. This would result in a limited group who returned to the village to become teachers, pharmacists, or if they really excelled doctors or engineers. The Soviets were experts in social engineering.

To the right of the questioner and about ten feet to the rear stood the very imposing figure of a Soviet woman in army dress uniform. Her uniform as opposed to the questioner was exaggeratedly pressed. The buttons shown with a brilliant patina. Her shoes were highly polished, her corpulent reflection could be seen with crystal clarity.

The questions posed to the group were quite matter of fact. Do you like the village? Do you like school? What profession would you care to enter?

The questioner introduced himself as Comrade Russtinov. He motioned to his colleague and referred to her as Major Shpiltinovsky. Not a smile was exhibited by either of the pair.

Comrade Russtinov began his interview by posing the first series of questions to the group as a whole. The responses from the six were oral. They did not have to raise their hands nor stand to respond. The first student who answered in this fashion, which was customary among gymnasia students, was gently but resolutely admonished. The other five quickly understood that their answers were expected to be hurried and impromptu so as to leave no time for deliberate fallacious responses.

Viktor noticed all the while that the Major had been eyeing the six young charges. She held a notebook in her left hand, a pencil in her right but her hands were still.

What do you think about the Russian Armed Forces, Comrade Russtinov posed. Quickly, answer the question. This is not a game. Answer me.

He did not expect answers in mass from the group anymore. He called on one student after another in rapid bursts of questions like that of an automatic weapon. He studied his charges by their individual identification photos. On his desk were the six manila portfolio folders. Russtinov had done his homework well.

His voice distorted from that of friendly questioner to Grand Inquisitor. Torquemada of the Spanish Inquisition had been resurrected. Responding incorrectly would not lead to the rack or death, but the economic doors of one’s future opportunities would be slammed shut forever.

The first student seated on the left Ivanov shifted in his seat. The Soviets are our friends and comrades in the struggle against Capitalism.

The same question was posed to Igor who responded, I admire the soldiers, they protect us from hooligans and bandits.

Comrade Russtinov asked Matrinka, And you my lovely would you like to wear the uniform of our Imperial Russian Female Corps.

Matrinka responded hastily, Of course, but I would like to see the skirts shorter to show off my legs.

The students snickered quietly, Major Shpiltinovsky did not. She carefully turned the page in her notebook and entered a few carefully chosen words.

Comrade Russtinov posed the next question to Boris. How would you improve the village after your return from university?

Boris answered proudly, I would build a monument to the brave men and women who have fought for the freedoms the Soviet army guarantees us.

Comrade Russtinov and Major Shpiltinovsky seemed most pleased by this answer.

And you my lovely Irina, what would you do to help your fellow villagers?

Irina answered nervously, I would become a nurse or perhaps a doctor and bring good health to the people so that they could serve the state better.

It was now Viktor’s turn. Comrade Russtinov moved closer to Viktor until he was no more than two feet from him. His black eyes staring into Viktor’s, he

shouted, I see by your chart that your mother is a Muslim and your father a Christian. Would you fight and die for the glory of the Soviet people?

Viktor stood and with arms at his side but fists clenched stated emphatically, I would die to defend Russia from all invaders, but I would sooner die to defend the honor of Chechnya. I live for the day when the Chechen people will be free to live in a free Chechnya.

Major Shpiltinovsky winced. Her eyes were calculating every signpost of Viktor’s body language. The clenched fists, cold sweat, the voice not quivering, his body stood erect as if ready to leap on both of them. She was confident that if he had been holding a weapon, he would have attacked them at a moment’s notice.

The meeting ended abruptly. There was no thank you from the two Russian interviewers. Everyone was asked to leave except Viktor. Major Shpiltinovsky approached him.

How can you be so stupid? You are a silly, immature young man. Your naïveté and ill-manners will serve you and your family no good. I guarantee you will not live to see your nightmare of a free Chechnya, but another reported outburst like the one I witnessed today will cause hardship and suffering on your kin. What do you have to say for yourself?

Expecting an apology, Viktor’s inquisitor was met with a glare of defiance. Viktor was speechless. His only response to Major Shpiltinovsky was placing his hands in his pockets and extending the middle finger of each hand.

Getting no satisfaction from the youth, Major Shpiltinovsky bellowed, Dismissed.

Chapter 5 

You wanted to see me Captain?

Sit down, Richard. We have to talk. Jameson was completely astounded and confused. Invariably the Captain referred to him as Jameson, or just ‘get in here.’ More often he was referred to as DICK or asshole. But, he never called him Richard, and twice at that. Something must be up, as he never displayed such manners toward him. The Captain’s tone was not exactly solicitous. It was more commanding in tone, in a no nonsense and authoritative manner. Jameson complied readily.

Please sit down, Richard.

Please, he never used the word please to anyone especially not to him. Something’s up and it must be big time. Jameson sat down still in a state of shock. Perhaps the Captain was drinking hard so early in the day. Many a time, he had seen a bottle of Johnny Walker Red protruding from the Captain’s bottom desk drawer. Anyway, a man should be