“No. No one else knows. And they have no need to know. I’m only useful in some places and certain ways, Alexi. My ability has always been subtle... Suggestion, hypnosis, eavesdropping. A useful skill to have in prison.”
A useful skill to have in the Organizatsiya. I could readily imagine him 'suggesting' that our old Avtoritet needed to be killed and replaced. Nic was right. Vassily was a fool to think of challenging Lev, and I’d been a fool to even entertain the thought that we’d find a way. “So Sergei knows Rodion is dead?”
“Of course. He ordered him killed.” Lev leaned in a little. “Rod was only ever meant to be a temporary fix. He had no view of the big picture, and he was as corrupt as Semyon. Sergei has plans for this place, Alexi... but that is all I will say of this matter. You are not a captain, or Vor v Zakone. You are young and American. There are parts of the business you still have no right to know.”
His words stung, and I looked down. When I thought back on my late teens—my grades, my horse-riding trophies, my accomplishments and first successful hits—I felt they were mine. My achievements. That is a very American way to think, but that was not how the old Soviet men thought. My achievements were theirs. They had put in the money, time, and energy, like I was a garden and they the gardeners. They’d sent me to the good school, bought the horse, taught me the skills that helped me succeed. He was right. Suddenly, my own early hardships and Vassily’s hardships in prison, whatever they were, seemed vastly inconsequential. Compared to Kolyma, Fishkill was a palace resort. Neither of us could have survived the things our fathers endured. “Yes, Avtoritet.”
“So, tell me how you ended up this way.” Lev regarded me levelly, but he looked a little owlish, with bags under his eyes and lines around his mouth. “Nic said you were ambushed.”
“At Vincent’s,” I replied. The details of the night were slippery, out of order. I struggled to prioritize them. “By a spook named Carmine. He works for Manelli and could even be the one who set up Semyon’s security… but that isn’t the most important thing. He doesn’t know who Vincent Manelli is. He says Vincent is an imposter.”
“That’s not possible,” Lev replied. The confidence in his tone was unsettling. “He’s been vetted by George Laguetta and by me. He’s been able to provide the contacts he claimed to have.”
“The fact remains. They believe he’s an imposter using the family name and are trying to find out his identity,” I said. “And they’ve pinned Frank Nacari on us.”
“They’ve… unless someone told them, they should have no idea that we are involved.” Lev had the look of a man reaching his limit of stress. He wasn’t the one who’d had a bomb set under his car and a pistol shoved in his mouth.
“Well, someone rigged my car. If it was the Manellis, then someone told them that I was on this job.” I tried to keep the bitterness from my voice and failed. “Carmine mentioned that he had a ‘little bird’ who told him about Vincent. Someone is working against us.”
“Already? I hoped this sort of thing would have died with Semyon.” Lev frowned. “What a mess.”
What an understatement. I pushed myself to the edge of the sofa, easing my feet to the ground. I couldn’t bend my knee, but it was able to take my seated weight. “Do you have any idea who might be trying to take me out, Avtoritet?”
Lev regarded me in silence for a long moment, running his tongue over his teeth. I watched him carefully, but he showed none of the subtle signs of guilt. No contraction of the pupils, no nose or neck rubbing, no nervous hands, no flushed cheeks. “Not many people know that Vincent has gone missing. Did you tell Vassily, perhaps?”
“No.” The word burst out before I could stop it. “Vassily had nothing to do with this.”
“Well, Alexi, you have to understand something.” Lev leaned in, hands folded between his knees. “Sergei still hopes to make Vassily Avtoritet of New York in the future... and you have been working for me. Loyally, I might add. Vassily has been gone for five years. He's an exceptionally good liar, and your acting out on your father has had quite a ripple effect, in terms of your place within the organization.”
“I didn’t ‘act out.’ He was a monster. A rabid dog.” And a master at convincing people that he was never at fault. Everyone made excuses for him. “Vassily hardly knows anything about it.”
“I heard that it was discussed with Vassily last night.” Lev shrugged. “You probably should have told him before Petro did. He has been exposed to the worst possible version of the story already.”
“He’s only been out two days. I was planning to tell him when this happened.” My head was throbbing, and it wasn’t just from the headache. Every one of the words coming out of Lev’s mouth nettled my ears. “Vassily is my sworn-brother. And Grisha deserved everything I gave him.”
“It’s arguable whether or not he deserved it.” Lev grimaced. “And it doesn’t change the fact that everyone is now frightened of what you’re capable of. Including Vassily. I can't think of any other people who would know you were on this job. I assume you told him?”
Arguable? When I remembered my father, I remembered a drunkard, a half-seen bestial shadow in the darkness of my bedroom. I remembered the rise and fall of a tire iron, but not the face of the man he’d beaten to death in front of me. I remembered... not all that much, in all honesty. The days before I had made the rainy midnight run to Vassily’s family home and the period between my thirteenth birthday and my mid-teens was a black hole. There was nothing but nothing, the complete absence of memory. The few memories I had before then—that first witnessed murder behind a bakery in Red Hook, other odds and ends—had only returned after I’d killed him.
"Alexi?"
"I mentioned I was on a job, Avtoritet." I looked up at him, but it was an effort. "I did not share the details, and especially not the details of my appointments. You were the only one who could have known that."
The other man opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and closed it again. His brows contracted together. “Well... I can't blame you for your suspicion, but I didn't hire you with the express intention of killing you. Someone may have you bugged, Alexi... someone may be wondering why I called you for a private conversation in my office. Given what happened to Grigori, and given that Sergei is returning to America, you can surely see why some of the men here might be concerned about what you're being sent out to do?”
“No.” Everything he said sounded distant and dull in my own ears, as if he were speaking from far away. “No, I don’t. No one talks about this to my face. The problem is that no one talks to me.”
“Soon after you killed Grigori, there was talk of having you removed.” Lev glanced at my face, not long enough. Why wouldn’t he meet my eyes now? “The men in question are superstitious, and they fear. But I spoke for you.”
How nice. Old Uncle Lev looking out for me. “And I guess you’re not going to tell me who wanted me put down?”
Lev stopped trying to speak for a moment, exasperated. “No. I do not want another internal feud. The fact is that people wonder about someone capable of smashing his own father’s head in with a hammer, and they think: ‘Who’s next?’ That’s how it was. Grigori was a friend to many.”
So was Semyon. My ears were ringing. What a load of bullshit. Vassily had no cause to turn on me. Nic, Ovar, Vanya, even Petro... none of them had ever expressed concern in my presence. My memory flashed back to the Manelli spook. Carmine. The more I thought back—his contempt and arrogance, brashness, confidence—the angrier I felt. Someone was working with him, ratting out his own people to our enemy. "I hope you plan to have your office searched for bugs, Avtoritet. I'll resume my search tomorrow."
"Alexi, don't be ridiculous. You can't even walk." Lev glanced down at my legs, and his mouth drew across disapprovingly. "I will put Nic-"
"No." I counted to three and heaved myself to my feet. My head spun, the room looped, but I remained upright. While Lev watched me in silence, I limped to his living room door and caught h
old of the jamb. “I resume tomorrow. I'll find Vincent. The Manellis are going to pay for my knee surgery.”
Chapter 10
On the drive back, I lolled against the rear window of a hired car, brooding on nothing while I watched the city go by. The conversation with Lev left me feeling full and foggy and numb. My knee throbbed like a second heart, the discomfort echoing in my fingertips and the pulse under my tongue. The joint was slightly uneven, the patella smashed into several pieces and only just healed. It was better than nothing, but whatever Kutkha had done to help was not quite enough to put us all back together again.
The sensation of my Neshamah’s presence was disquieting. I'd always known that the Higher Self was real, but he was always there now, humming like a cloud of ozone in the back of my mind. I had no idea what to make of this new, invasive consciousness. Once the euphoria of connection had worn off, it left me with the sense that I was constantly being coldly observed by a pair of alien eyes. Judged. I dared not seek or ask him questions until we were alone.
Vassily was waiting for us in the foyer. It was cool compared to the early morning heat outside, but Vassily looked like he'd been in a sauna with his clothes on. He was pale, sweaty, his eyes sunken, his t-shirt clinging to his wiry chest. He was awake, at least, but he took one look at me and scruffed his hair with both hands. “Mother of fuck. What did they do to you?”
"Take him, Vasya." Kir, my driver, was a spiky-haired Chechen with slow eyes and a very small mouth. He didn’t really believe in saying hello.
“I can take myself.” I checked the touch of impatience in my voice and hobble-hopped away from the back door, catching Vassily’s offered arm. “Thank you for the help.”
Kir flippantly saluted me before he turned and stomped out, his shoes ringing off the tiles. He hadn’t said a word about my injury. That was the way of the Organization. Much of the time, no one would tell you what they thought. It was every man for himself.
“Alright, you. It's bedtime.” Vassily ignored my protest and braced his arm under my armpit, grabbing my shirt when I tried to push him away by the ribs. “You and me, a one-way ticket to Sandmanland. I am sooo fucked up.”
“No. No bed.” I put a hand against his ribs and tried to move away, but Vassily was stronger. He half-led, half-dragged me towards the elevator. “Vassily, there’s things I have to do.”
“Dude. You look like you’ve been trying to bone a hornet's nest. You need to rest.”
“I can’t.”
“Lexi...”
“Don’t ‘Lexi’ me.” My temper lunged through the cracks in my will with disgusting ease. “Vassily, there’s business that can’t wait.”
“Okay, fine. Be an asshole about it, then.” Vassily rolled his eyes. I noticed then that he was sweating more than the heat really warranted. His skin was waxen and clammy to touch, his face and hands twitchy. I read it through my fingers and through the dark, gritty smell of unwashed hair. "Go fuck yourself up some more. I don't fuckin' care."
“Are you... are you all right?” I asked.
The change in conversation made him pause. I could almost hear the gears grinding as he stared at me, catching up on the question. “Me? I’m fucking fantastic, but I want to know what the hell happened to you. Nic called before and said you got jumped. Who’s gotta pay?”
Carmine would pay. How? I wasn’t sure, yet. There wasn’t any point trying to fight a guy who could clean your clock from across the room. “The Manellis. Someone tipped them off. Someone inside the Organization. But you didn't answer my question. Are you alright? You look ill.”
“You'd get a fuckin' answer if you weren't being such a bitch.” Vassily flushed an ugly shade of red across his face and throat. Something was not right. He smelled strange, a smell I didn’t recognize. My synesthesia translated it to something pink, lurid pink, and greasy. "Stop being a bitch and go to bed when I say so, and I'll tell you."
“What on earth have you been drinking?” We got into the elevator. Vassily took a moment to deliberate over the scratched buttons. There were only four of them. “You smell dreadful.”
“Antifreeze,” he said, cheerfully.
I stared. “You had better be joking.”
Vassily laughed. It had the edge of a bray to it, a high, manic pitch. “Just brandy, man. Just brandy. I’m fine, seriously.”
When we got inside, I used my good foot to get the first shoe off but had to have Vassily remove the second. I lost all ability to concentrate as soon as we were in the house. My hands were itching and stinging in my gloves, and when I pulled them off, I recoiled. My hands were naturally smooth and pale from years of keeping them covered, and after cramming the gloves on over bloody, wet skin, they looked drowned. The backs and palms were puffy and torn, with old blood under my nails and in the creases of my fingers. The smell curdled in my nose, thick and putrid and violet.
Dead.
The stench morphed in my nostrils, and suddenly, I could smell it. The kitchen, from my parents’ house. The old cabbage and stale sweat reek of angry, shouting people. Blood and urine on the old linoleum. Spilled horilka, the bottle half-empty on the floor. My vision clouded. I stumbled on Vassily's arm.
“Lexi? Hey, Lexi?”
My breathing sped. The sensory flood was merciless, the sensations as real as the day I’d last been home. I heard the cat howling inconsolably at the peeling window, saw the broken table and the long, cold shadow of the crooked ceiling fan. I was fourteen again, unable to move, unable to think... unable to do anything except look up at...
My vision cut. My eyes simply shut down as I barreled blindly past Vassily to the sink, struggling with the faucet. I plunged my hands underneath the cold water as the other parts of the flashback kept resolving, kept clarifying. The buzz of a single fly. The sound of my father throwing up in the bathroom down the hallway. The meowing hadn’t stopped, but it wasn’t the high-pitched mewing of mother’s tabby calico. It was the deeper, resonant howl of a Siamese.
The flow of clean water shocked through my nerves, and my head jerked as colors and textures flooded my tongue and fingers, stabbing and hot. My vision beat back in, a kaleidoscope of unresolved colors throbbing in time with my heart.
“Hey.” Vassily’s head was a worried specter, light-rimmed, hovering in the mirror. “Alexi?”
The pour of water was an anesthetic, reinstating equilibrium, and it drew me back towards the present with its flow. I stared at the pair of faces in the mirror. Vassily was tall, lean, movie-star handsome. I was short and disappointing. I had my father’s white eyes and burly build and my mother’s height and pinched features.
“Hey uh... you want something to eat?” Vassily said. “I got some potato chips.”
Potato chips. It was so inane that it hauled me back into the present moment. My mouth was so dry that chips would turn my tongue into jerky. “No. Can’t.”
Vassily’s mouth drew to one side. I noticed his pupils were fully dilated under the bathroom light. He had bedroom eyes, junkie eyes. “Trust me, man. You might not be feeling shit-hot right now, but you gotta eat something. Not unless the Manellis were stuffing you with foie gras while they beat the shit out of you, you know? Getting bashed takes it out of a guy.”
He was right. I knew he was right, but I wanted to resist. His blue fur voice made me twitch all over. It was so tactile that every word made my skin feel like it was being rubbed by sound. I flexed my nails against the porcelain sink and drew a deep breath.
“You okay?”
“Just...” The adrenaline had worn off, energy extinguished. Words blurred in my mouth, came out all wrong. Instead of trying to speak, I reached back, hand dripping wet, and awkwardly half-groped, half-clapped Vassily on the arm. I felt like a clumsy assembly robot, unable to coordinate my limbs properly. “Over... stimulated. Dark. Need dark.”
“All right. You get to bed, then.” Vassily knew what “overstimulation” meant. Knew it meant I couldn’t deal with too many words, too many sounds. He sh
ortened his sentences automatically. “But food, soon.”
“Soon,” I echoed. I focused on my breathing, staring at my soggy hands under the water. They looked drowned, dead, too white. There was still blood under my nails. Goosebumps crawled over my arms, and I reached for the scrubbing brush. “Wash. Shower first.”
Vassily sighed and moved aside, and I lost track of him while I scrubbed at my hands, back and forth, back and forth. It hurt, but it felt good.
“You got real close to the Reaper this time, didn’t you?”
The sudden sound broke my momentary trance. I dropped the brush convulsively, and it clattered into the sink. It was several seconds more before I could speak. “Yes.”
“Turn the water off. You’re bleeding.”
Numbly, I complied. The mirror showed me my own heavy-boned face, shadowed and pitted under the white light. I looked exhausted and dirty.
“I’m gonna talk to Lev. Get you off the hook.” Vassily’s voice was very low and unusually serious. “I can tell by looking at you, Lexi. You got the death-mark. You looked down the barrel of a gun.”
My hands hurt. I gently shook my head and opened the mirror cabinet to look inside. The tumbler where I usually kept my spare pair was empty.
“Did you hear me? I’m gonna get you off this contract.”
“No.” Dry-mouthed, I gingerly patted my palms over with a clean towel. He was right: they were bleeding. They were clean, at least. “Don’t you dare.”
“No, you gotta understand me. I just got out of the fucking slammer, Lexi, and I didn’t spend five years rotting in the boonies to get out just in time for your funeral. All right?”
The depth of anger in my friend’s voice shocked me. I turned to face him, hands wrapped in terry cloth. Vassily was sweating like he had a fever, beads shining on his forehead. “Vassily, the men already disrespect me. Someone tried to bomb my car. I can’t lose any more face. They’ll kill me just for that.”
“Right. So I’m gonna talk to Lev, and I’m gonna look at setting you up with something better. Something we can work on together. Fuck the three hundred G’s. We’ll make a million by the end of the year if we get back into credit cards. You remember the serial generator I was working on? That’s the way of the future, man. Not this neighborhood racketeering shit.”
Blood Hound Page 12
