Blood Hound

by James Osiris Baldwin

  Sergei waved a ringed hand. "I'll take your recommendation, Leva. Whatever one you like the best."

  Something about their choice of words rubbed me the wrong way. It reminded me of Jana, and of the black nothing of the pistol in her hand. I spoke up before any of the other men could. “Call up Crina for me, Avtoritet.”

  “The small dark one?” Lev asked.

  “I didn’t know you indulged, Alexi.” Sergei arched a brow. “You were always so virtuous.”

  I smiled thinly. “Men will always be men, Pakhun. And yes, Crina is small and dark, Avtoritet.”

  While they poured the second round and fell to small talk, I excused myself to the bathroom with my glass. The relief at finding Vincent and earning my crust was transient. Even if I paid out every cent of debt tomorrow, there was always going to be something I owed this man. He was already working the con: I could smell it. And I would not be able to fight back from my current place. Whatever Sergei spun tonight in front of Nicolai, Lev, Vanya… they would believe it. And nothing would change for me.

  I wanted to be sick. Instead, I poured the rest of the vodka down the toilet and filled it with fresh water from the tap. It’s not like they’d know the difference.

  When I went back outside, the girls had arrived and were adding their yellow and green treble to the dull grayish grind of male conversation. Crina was sitting beside Lev, listening with one deep scarlet lip rolled under her teeth, and she glanced across when I emerged. Her eyes lit up, and she patted his thigh before breaking off to join me.

  “Let’s go to a booth.” I jerked my head towards the curtains and watched Sergei watch me as I slid my hand around Crina’s cinched waist.

  Her eyes widened, but she made good on the giggling and teetering as I led her into relative privacy, the catcalls of the other men following us behind the hush of velvet and the lingering nausea of old cologne.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Crina kept her voice down as she gently pressed me back and straddled my lap. She did it slowly, but her hands stayed on my shoulder and upper arms, her knees on the cushions, and her crotch held off mine. "You don't-"

  “Something is going down tonight,” I replied. “Something bad. I don’t know what’s coming, but you need to get out of town as soon as you can.”

  She froze over me, her face deep in shadow. “What? Why?”

  “I can't give you a concrete reason right now, but there is dangerous talk out there. It’s a matter of time,” I replied. “Sergei is back, and... the Organizatsiya is a monster, Crina, and it’s hungry. Sergei has already criticized me over the casino incident. You were there. And they—”

  She pressed a finger to my lips, looking back at the edge of the curtains. “All right, Alexi. I believe you. You’re right. Maybe about tonight, maybe not… but I can tell you that I lost three clients this week. Gunned down, shot, strangled. And I nearly lost you.”

  I sighed. “I don't want you involved in any of this.”

  “I chose to be here.” Her eyes were hard and fierce in the dim light, gleaming like jet. “But I always have an exit plan. Don’t worry, okay? If you say things are going down, I believe you.”

  Relief swept through my chest. “Thank you.”

  “I’m a survivor,” she whispered. Her fingers dug into my shoulders. “And so are you. So you make sure to take your own advice. You cut town, tonight. You’re too good for these guys, Alexi. Don't let their world kill you.”

  Again. A wash of déjà vu passed over me, and for a moment, I remembered the flash of white hair, the smell of putrefaction and burning wax, the intense cold. My chest hurt with the remembered knowledge of everything dying, that I was dying, and that our only hope was to run for the sea and—

  Crina must have felt my tension loosen because she leaned in closer, breaking off the ploy of lap dancing to hug me awkwardly, urgently, the same kind of one-armed hug I gave Vassily just before he went in to be sentenced for his bloodless crimes.

  “I will. Thank you.” It was all I could say.

  When we emerged, there was a new bottle of vodka and the obligation to have another glass. I threw back my water and let them pour, nursing the new drink while conversation wound down, laughter became less frequent, and Sergei more contemplative and intense. When a natural silence fell, he nodded to Lev, who wrapped up with a quiet word. We waited until Nicolai and his escort came out of the bathroom, and then she left with the other women, Crina included. She didn’t look back, and I couldn't help but wonder if I did love her, just a little bit. She would survive, no matter what.

  Nicolai locked the door behind them as we settled back down expectantly. They were drunk, beaten off, relaxed. I was sober and not looking forward to whatever was about to be discussed.

  “Well, gentlemen. I will get straight to the point.” Sergei said, looking out over the rest of the table. “The USSR is dead. Now, we have to think about where this organization will be going in the future. How we will grow.”

  How could it grow? I thought of Rodion, the photo the press had gotten of his red-sprayed car window and slumped head. Semyon, cringing beside his bed, his cases full of dirty money. No growth was possible. Lev and Nic and Vanya looked to Sergei, rapt and attentive without any obvious sense of irony.

  “It is time for a reorganization,” Sergei said heavily, hand thudding on the tabletop in emphasis. “Because I know for a fact that everything is going to collapse. The announcement of the dissolution will be out any month now. It is said and done. This is the result of perestroika, which is - and I tell you now - brought about by the West in support of a union in Europe. America and Germany want this union, and they will do everything for it. They forgot what history has taught Russia about giving power to the West, and I tell you now… if the Slavic countries do not pull together in the decades to come, there will be a new kind of fascism in Europe. It will one day make Germany look like a play-date.”

  That did stun the room into silence, even me.

  “Now. In the short term, chaos is good for us.” Sergei’s eyes glinted with anticipatory pleasure. “Very good. Business thrives on uncertainty, debt, speculation, risk. My friends are already looking at their pick for presidents in Ukraine, Russia, and Georgia. KGB men, the lot of them. But if we don’t have a hand in this, we will miss out on a huge opportunity. So, I have decided that we will diversify. We are going to Ukraine to build a hub of trade that will link New York directly to Europe and Asia, my friends. Fuck South America. Goods will travel through the Middle East and up through Russia, then out to anywhere we want. The future is in China and Afghanistan, not Colombia.”

  Sergei’s head swiveled towards Lev. “Lev, you are once again going to be my Advocate. I need you by my side. It falls to you to decide who will lead this community in your stead. My top choice has always been Vassily, who has grown up here and knows the U.S. better than anyone. But you, Nicolai, you always loved America. What do you have to say?”

  All eyes turned to Nic. His mouth flickered in an approximation of a smile.

  “Well. I’d say Vassily ain’t fit to lead his head out of his own ass. He got hooked on product while he was in prison.” While everyone else hung on his words, he looked me dead in the eye as icy, hard certainty settled in my chest. “And Alexi here... well, Pakhun. I told you about Grisha. And since then, it’s just been one fuckup after another.”

  Lev glanced at me knowingly. He’d tried to warn me. But Nic? The man who had patiently mentored Vassily and me when we were green? He'd trained us to take these positions, to succeed him... and apparently, he'd decided that he didn't want to let go.

  “I throw in behind Nicolai,” Vanya added, a little too quickly. Politics had never really been his strong point, but he was apparently still better at pre-arrangement than I was.

  Nic’s eyes gleamed hungrily, victoriously. Damn his skinny, traitorous, ambitious ass.

  “I see,” Sergei said. He looked to me. “And you, Alexi?”

  “What, exactly, did
I do?” My voice was quiet, but for the moment, it carried. “What, exactly, did I fuck up?”

  Nic shrugged. “How many times have I had to pull your ass out of the fire now? Three? First Semyon—”

  “That went off without a hitch,” I said. I couldn’t keep the shock out of my voice.

  “Then this Manelli spook, who wiped the floor with your ass, turns up and tries to hit us at the casino—”

  I banged my hand on the table with enough force that he shut up. “I know exactly what you’re driving at. He got nothing out of me. Not a single damn thing!”

  Nic scoffed. He flicked a hand. “Then how’d they find out?”

  “Jana Volotsya.” Rage wound my voice tight, hard, and flat. Lev tensed.

  “Who what now?” Vanya looked to me.

  “Well... I can confirm that Jana was certainly involved in abducting Vincent,” Lev said carefully. “We’ve started the cleanup at her house, but I’m still sorting through all her paperwork. Did you hear anything about what she was involved in?”

  I wanted to say it. I wanted to tell them about the Fruit, to lay it out like a grand prize I’d been holding back so I could spit it in Nic’s face. But I knew, even as I weighed up my answer, that none of these men would understand the Fruit’s significance anyway. They’d laugh, at best, because what could it do for them? Would it make money? Add to the business? My dreams and visions, the struggles behind the scenes of the murders, the discovery of a fruit from the Tree of Knowledge meant nothing to them.

  I’d never sought power in the Organizatsiya before, but I wanted it now. This was culmination of a long game played out with my life and the lives of people I cared about. Nic had spent years on this. He had us all lined up.

  “She was working with the Manelli spook and Semyon.” I grated the half-truth out flatly. “Working behind Lev’s back. She organized Semyon’s magical protection, maybe even facilitated him turning to the Feds. She played us off one another. And now, she’s dead because of me. Vincent is safe, and the trade link with him. And you want to talk about my failures, Nicolai? What about your failure as lead enforcer to find the rats in our rank? You didn't know Jana was a threat.”

  “I don’t have magic,” Nic replied. “She was a freak, too. That’s your job.”

  “No, it’s not.” I was pointing at him, and every time I moved my hand like a weapon, Vanya flinched. “And it was your job to protect Vassily’s financial operation. He generated two million in stocks the year after graduation. He invented the credit card serial generator, and if we concentrated on that and oil instead of coke and guns? We’d have the richest operation in this country.”

  “So he’s a nerd. Computers don’t mean shit.” Nicolai sneered.

  "You set him up to go to prison, didn't you?" I knew I should have been subtler, but I blurted it out before I could stop myself. "You and Semyon."

  “Alexi has a compelling point,” Sergei said. He looked like he was enjoying the fight.

  “Really? That’s what you were trying to get at? Fuck off.” Nicolai chuffed around his cigarette, cupping his hand to light up. "Semyon's dead. You can't prove shit."

  He was as nonchalant as a tomcat, but I saw understanding dawn in Lev’s eyes. He sat back and rubbed his brow. All of this had been happening under his nose, and his powers of persuasion, of subtle control, meant nothing. He was far too weak as a leader to wield it.

  “You set him up the whole way.” I wanted to do to Nic what I’d done to that guy in the bathroom: blow him apart. I tried to channel the energy, the power, but it was like squeezing clay from a tube. Something must have showed, because everyone froze warily.

  “That is an interesting question. But I have one last question for you, Alexi, before I say my piece.” Sergei sat back, hands clasped on his belly, just below his breastbone. “Why did you kill Grigori? With his own sledgehammer, no less?”

  I wanted my chin. “He was a rabid dog. He killed my mother, and he wanted to kill me. I took him out before he could. This city wasn’t big enough for us both.”

  Sergei nodded and rumbled low in his chest. And then he shook his head.

  “My boy, you don’t understand the most important thing about this mess,” he said. “Because you forget one thing. Your mother killed herself.”

  “Because he beat her,” I said. “He pushed and—”

  “She broke. Because she was weak.” Sergei’s eyes flicked up to look at me then, full of disappointment... and warning. “And so are you.”

  There was a deeply uncomfortable pause around the table. In the silence, I set my glass down, still with half the shot of Kors, and stood.

  “Sit down.” Sergei motioned with his eyes to my seat.

  Vanya and Nic tensed, and I remembered Lev’s warning to me. They thought I was an atom bomb, primed to explode. I hadn’t been: but I was now.

  “With all respect, Pakhun, I’d rather go and study my Art.” I turned a small, stiff smile on him. “Excuse me.”

  “You are not excused,” came his brittle reply. “I haven’t finished speaking.”

  “Then please, by all means, speak.” I stayed in place, but I was not going to sit.

  Nic folded his arms, watching me in silent triumph.

  Sergei heaved a dramatic sigh. “Nicolai, I name you Avtoritet of New York, as Grigori Sokolsky—honestly, the man I wished could have managed Brighton Beach until his deathbed—is not here to claim that honor. Lev will be by my side as Advokat as we establish our Asian contacts. Vanya, your man Petro Yankovic has been voted by the others as suitable for the role of Cell Commander, and he will take Nic’s place when he rises to his new station. As for you, Alexi, I have other work for you and Vassily befitting your age and skills.”

  Other than dog chum? I was genuinely surprised. With Nic as Avtoritet and Petro running the enforcement in the Beach, there would be no contracts for me. There would be nothing for me.

  “Vassily is to go to Miami, to liaise with our younger, enterprising operation there and to assist with keeping the road to Colombia open and free. South America is still worth our time. He will have a chance to prove himself there.” Sergei watched me with some amusement now. “And you will be coming with me and Lev for a tropical vacation. We are building a community in Thailand first of all, and we have business in Phuket which will require your particular skillset.”

  It took me a moment to process what he had just told me. Leave the country? I knew what went on in Thailand. There would be no fuel racket there, no advancement into fake credit cards and careful money laundering. Southeast Asia provided three things to the black market: slaves, organs, and heroin. None of them were the sort of business I wanted to be involved with.

  “I understand,” I replied. “I will talk to you tomorrow, Pakhun. Avtoritet.”

  I directed the last to Lev with a slightly bowed head. Nicolai’s eyes tracked me at a slow burn on the way out, but this time, no one tried to stop me from leaving.

  Chapter 21

  I reeled all the way back to my apartment and took the long way home, driving around and around the neighborhood in agitation. If I was pulled over tonight, I’d lose my shit. I’d kill a cop and end up in Wisconsin somewhere. At least it wouldn’t be Thailand, but Vassily would still be stuck in Miami: addicted, alone, with Nic’s forces arrayed against him, surrounded by strangers. He’d be dead within the month. It was one thing to tell him to get his crazy-making ass out of my house and clean himself up, quite another to be on the other side of the world, and probably never to see him again.

  We had two choices. We got our asses out of New York, or I got really powerful, really fast. And then what? Kill everyone that hated me, and rule over a graveyard out of spite?

  I was exhausted, wrung out from days of stress and strain. I went home to clean up before going to Mariya’s to break the bad news, and found two letters in the letterbox and a package on my doorstep. The package had no address on either the back or front and no stamp. I sniffed the paper: it s
melled like Crina’s perfume. One letter looked like it had come from Lev’s office, dropped off by a courier while I was still out. The other was the telephone bill, now well overdue.

  The package was large and thick, but surprisingly light. I had not been expecting a package. I unwrapped it outside slowly and suspiciously, but relaxed as a red cover came into view. A post-it was tacked to the front.

  “I promised I’d get this for you,” the note read. “Sell it if you have to. And stay alive.” Crina had signed her note with three suns, almost like a personal sigil.

  It was Das Rote Buch. I smiled despite myself and tucked it under my arm while I looked at the other, unmarked letter. A slip of paper with an address written in Lev’s deeply slanted hand: 14b Grove St. It offered both satisfaction and confusion. The address was a safe house in Bushwick, which must have been where they were taking Vincent. But why was he confirming it for me? Out of respect? Consolation?

  Jana’s mysterious L, the name she hadn’t written, was still in the back of my mind.

  I took the book inside to the den, sat down, and savored the rest of the unveiling. Even though it was just a copy, it was beautiful, hand-bound, an authentic replica of the old German journal Jung had used to record his innermost revelations. I turned it, breathed in the scent of new ink and leather, and sighed as the muscles relaxed along my spine.

  Tongue humming, I laid the book out on my knees and turned the first page. My eyes lit on some of the brightest, most stunning images I’d ever seen: beautiful illumination enmeshed with pages and pages of elegant German calligraphy. It looked like something from another time, and the illegibility of the text made the images stand out all the more. Mandalas wove into themselves with fearsome complexity; a many-footed snake ate itself as a naked man looked on in terror. What caught my attention and held it was a singular image of a tree that looked vaguely like a Joshua tree, some kind of succulent plant with diamond-shaped leaves. The tree that Vincent had tried to draw so poorly in his diary was splendid in this painting, framed against a night sky with the moon—or was it the sun?—glowing trapped within the loose cage of its branches. It shone with a radiant corona that should have been impossible to depict in paint, framing a huge fruit-like rind that hung from a stout branch. A humanoid shadow was visible through the skin of the fruit, which was partly enfolded by the tree’s branches just like the way a woman would embrace her own pregnant belly. The figure within was poised like a dancer in mid-air, hands lifted, hair flung up in an arc.