by Frank Zafiro
“And then?”
“Don’t give them time to think about it,” Val said. “Demand an answer before they’re allowed to leave.”
Sergey pursed his lips. “An answer drawn out by force is likely to be an untruthful one.”
“Possibly,” Val answered. “But it makes no difference. We are not bluffing. If a man in that room gives a false promise, we will deal with him. And that will only serve to drive home our point to those who remain.”
Sergey nodded his approval. “You are a wise lieutenant, Valeriy,” he said. “Perhaps I misjudged you when it came to strategic matters.”
“I am only trying to emulate you,” Val said.
“Ah,” Sergey replied. “Flattery.” He shook his head. “It does not become you, my friend.”
“There is no flattery in speaking the truth,” Val said.
Sergey smiled and the two men fell silent again. A few minutes later Black Ivan pulled the car up to the side door of the warehouse. A car under a tarp stood near the concrete staircase. Sergey motioned to the car and looked at Val questioningly.
“A contingency,” Val said. “The doors are unlocked and the keys are in the ignition.”
Sergey did not reply. He waited for Ivan to exit the vehicle and open the door for him. Val reached out and touched Sergey on his elbow.
“Wait one moment,” he said.
Val exited the rear of the car and scanned the area for any threats. Seeing none, he nodded at Black Ivan, who stepped to the side to indicate to Sergey that the way was clear. Sergey stepped out of the car with a confident stride and adjusted his suit jacket. Val headed for the entrance. Sergey followed, trailed by Black Ivan.
Val stepped inside and waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkened interior. A short distance away was a door leading to the open bay of the warehouse. Yuri stood by the door, holding an AK-47 in front of his chest. He gave Val a nod to indicate that all the guests were present and waiting.
Val pointed upward and raised his eyebrows. Yuri nodded again, holding up three fingers and making the sign of a gun with his forefinger and thumb.
Val held up his own hand and moved it like a chattering puppet.
Yuri grinned, his blackened front teeth prominent. He nodded his head vigorously.
Val stepped forward and allowed Sergey to enter the interior of the warehouse. Black Ivan followed behind him and closed the door snugly. Val leaned close to Sergey and whispered in his ear. “All of our guests are here. Our own men are in place. And the guests have been talking amongst themselves.”
Sergey took a deep breath and let it out. “Well then,” he said, “let’s get on with the theater.”
Sergey strode through the door where Yuri stood, directly toward the center of the warehouse. Five men sat in a rough semicircle on metal folding chairs. One of Val’s best hand-to-hand soldiers, Mikhail, stood directly behind them. Sergey didn’t break stride until he stood almost directly in front of the young black man in the center.
“DeShawn Brown?” he asked, speaking slowly. Val knew he was making an effort to minimize his accent.
DeShawn Brown licked his thick lips once and nodded calmly. Sergey returned the nod. His eyes scanned the remaining four men. “I must to apologize that I know not each of your names here today,” Sergey said. “Perhaps you will do me the honor.”
He smiled, but none of the men spoke. His smile hardened to something closer to a frown. But still none of the men spoke. Finally DeShawn Brown cleared his throat.
“I think the man wants us to introduce ourselves,” he said to the group.
“Yes, yes,” Sergey said. “Thank you. I thought I was clear.”
The men were hesitant as to who should go first. Sergey settled the question by looking at the man on the left end of the group. He was the youngest among them, a black kid who Val guessed could not have been more than nineteen. He sniffed with false bravado and puffed up his chest.
“Shit. I’m Murder.” The Deuce Trey flashed a quick sign with his hands, then lowered them uncertainly.
Sergey responded with only a nod, then moved his eyes to the next man.
The Latin-featured man wore baggy pants and a white wife-beater. A brown rag hung prominently from his front pocket. “Paco Gutierrez,” he said flatly. “Dean Avenue Diablos.” He said the words with obvious pride, laced with anger, but made no hand gestures.
Once again Sergey smiled and nodded. His eyes passed over DeShawn Brown to the remaining two men.
The black man sat in his chair without swagger. “I’m Bone-T,” he said simply. “East side.” He also made no hand gestures. Val figured him to be almost as reasonable as DeShawn Brown, and hoped the two of them would sway the field.
The last man sat leaning away from the others. He wore black Levi’s with combat boots, a white T-shirt, and a blue flannel shirt over the top. His shaved head and the swastika beneath his left eye left no doubt as to his affiliation. The contempt on his face was palpable. “I’m Oscar Krueger,” he said through gritted teeth. “And there ain’t no reason why a white man should be sittin’ here with niggers and spics.” His words brought an immediate eruption from the other four men, who leapt to their feet and moved toward Krueger.
But Mikhail was quicker than any of them. He knifed between Bone-T and Krueger and pushed the larger black man back. Bone-T’s considerable frame blocked the other three men from advancing. Mikhail brought his lead hand up in a knife edge and eyed the group coldly, as if daring one of them to step forward.
“This is my meeting,” Sergey said, the friendliness never leaving his voice. “I guarantee safety of all men.” There was a momentary pause before Sergey waved his hand toward the chairs. “Please, sit down. Enough of this.”
The four men sat down reluctantly. Krueger stood behind Mikhail with a smug look on his face. Val caught Mikhail’s eye and nodded imperceptibly, and Mikhail whirled around and struck Krueger in the jaw with the knife edge of his hand. Krueger stumbled backward, dazed, and fell to a knee. Mikhail reached out and took him by the arm to keep him from falling any further. He then guided Krueger back to his chair and sat him down almost gently. Krueger jerked his arm away contemptuously but said nothing.
“There will be no trouble here,” Sergey said, still smiling. “And no bad names. We are civilized men, no?”
The assembled group sat silently. Their collective anger radiated outward. Sergey paused, taking the time to meet each of the five men’s eyes once more. Then his smile broadened. “You know why it is that all of you are here today. Is like movie, no? The Godfather? You are the five families and this is our parley.”
Men shuffled in their seats, uncertain. Krueger refused to meet anyone’s eyes.
“So,” Sergey said. “Is very simple. You all see what we can do.” He pointed at DeShawn Brown, then his finger drifted over to Paco Gutierrez. His hand opened up to wave at all of them. “This could happen to any of you. Is very easy.”
“Maybe we be coming back at you,” Murder said in a low voice. “Ever think of that?”
“Would be mistake,” Sergey said, his voice confident. “My men are soldiers.”
“My boys be soldiers, too, motherfucker.”
Sergey shook his head. “No. You call them soldier, but they are not same. My men served Soviet Union in Spetsnaz. You know Spetsnaz?”
No one answered.
“No?” Sergey raised an eyebrow, an expression of theatrical disappointment on his face. “Is not matter. They are like your Delta Force. Only better.”
The men remained silent.
“So, you see I speak truth. This is also true—we wish no more violence.” He allowed the words to hang in the air for a moment, then added, “But peace is not free.”
Val watched as each man listened to Sergey. DeShawn Brown and Bone-T were impossible to read, but he was the least worried about their responses. Gutierrez’s eyes brimmed with rage, but he seemed to be listening. Murder at the end was doing his best to appear c
ompletely unconcerned, but doing a poor job of it. He was certain to comply. A quick glance at Krueger told him the same.
“We are not greedy men,” Sergey said. “And we do not wish for you to be unable to feed your children. Our number is reasonable. Twenty percent.”
Murder’s eyes flew open wide, but none of the other four men changed their demeanor. “Is small price, really,” Sergey said. “You keep your territories, your people, everything.”
Murder shook his head emphatically. “Ain’t no fuckin’ way I am giving up no twenty percent to no fuckin’ Russian,” he said, but there was little conviction in his voice.
“Perhaps,” Sergey said dryly, motioning toward Deshawn Brown, “we should have made our point clear with the Deuce Treys instead of his Crips. Your gang is stronger?”
Murder swallowed and shook his head.
“You are young man,” Sergey said. “But you must to be very smart if you are in charge at age so young. Perhaps you should listen to what the others say before you decide.”
Murder’s eyes flicked from Sergey to the others. Then he leaned back in his chair and shrugged. Sergey smiled again, that same diplomatic smile that always left Val wondering where it came from. His eyes settled on DeShawn Brown.
“Do you accept?” he asked the black man.
DeShawn sat still for a long moment. He and Sergey stared at each other, locked in a battle of wills. Val knew Sergey would not speak again until the gang leader had answered.
The sound of men breathing and the occasional drip of water from somewhere in the back of the warehouse were the only sounds. Val’s eyes flitted from face to face. The tension in the room climbed a notch; all the chips were on the table now.
It was DeShawn who broke first, as Val had hoped he would. The man’s gang had been targeted and he’d seen firsthand how surgical and powerful the Russians were. He was no fool, which is what Val had counted on.
“Twenty percent be fair enough,” he said. Then he stood and held out his hand.
Sergey took it and they pumped once before releasing, then DeShawn turned and walked away from the group.
Sergey turned his gaze to Bone-T. The east side gangster held Sergey’s stare but didn’t bother waiting as long as DeShawn. He nodded and stood.
“S’awright,” he said. He clasped hands briefly with Sergey, then turned and left as well.
Val wondered which of the remaining men Sergey would choose next. He knew what his own choice would be, and Sergey did not disappoint him.
“And you?” Sergey asked Murder.
Murder looked at the remaining two men, then stood up suddenly and said, “Awright, awright.” He held out his hand. Sergey took it. “Deal, motherfucker,” he said, then released Sergey’s hand and made his way self-assuredly in the direction the other two men had taken.
Sergey eyed Gutierrez next. The Mexican’s expression was flat, but his eyes were still fiery with hate. Nonetheless, he stood calmly and held out his hand. “Twenty,” was all he said.
Sergey waited until Gutierrez had left the building before turning to Krueger. “I save white man for last,” Sergey said. “I know it is hard to deal with inferior men, but we do what we must do, no?”
Krueger rubbed his cheek and nodded grudgingly.
“Shall we be friends again?” Sergey asked.
Krueger nodded, then stood and held out his hand. “For that twenty percent,” he said, “you keep any of these niggers or spics from moving in on downtown where I sling my shit.”
“Of course,” Sergey said.
“Partners then,” Krueger added, still shaking Sergey’s hand. Then he turned and fired a hard glance at Mikhail. The bodyguard remained unfazed. Krueger strode out of the building, his combat boots thudding on the concrete.
Once they were alone, Sergey turned to Val and smiled. “I think, my friend,” he said, “this went very well.”
“I agree,” Val said. Very well indeed.
0908 hours
B.J. Carson lifted the shot glass to her lips. For a moment she was struck by the absurdity of the situation. She’d done her fair share of drinking in high school and college, but she couldn’t remember a time where she had hoisted a shot at seven-thirty in the morning. If anyone had told her just six months ago that she’d be doing so, she’d have laughed at them.
Across the table, Anthony Battaglia paused before downing his shot. He met her eye, smiled slightly, shrugged, and threw the shot back expertly. Carson closed her eyes and followed suit.
The whiskey stung and burned her throat on the way down, then settled into her belly with a comfortable warming glow. She reached for her glass and chased the shot with a swallow of beer.
The two of them had gone directly to the Happy Time Tavern as soon as the shift ended. The entire discussion lasted all of three sentences. The suicide’s ghastly stare of nothingness filled Carson’s mind’s eye. The stark reality of death was something she had been unprepared for, despite all of the training at the academy and all the warnings from instructors and other cops. She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to throw off the image of Anne Carew sprawled on the toilet, her head askew over the top of the white porcelain sink. Instead of dissipating, the image crystallized once her eyes were closed. Carson let out a breath and opened them again.
Battaglia watched her carefully. Then he rose and moved to her side of the table. Carson slid over in the booth. Battaglia sat beside her and rested his forearms on the table, grazing her elbow. She savored the comfort of his closeness.
“That’s not the first dead body you’ve ever seen, is it?” he asked.
Carson shook her head. “No. I had a few DOAs while I was in the training car.”
“Naturals?” Battaglia asked.
Carson nodded. All three had been elderly people who died unattended deaths. There’d been nothing suspicious about any of the cases, and by the third one she was comfortable with that kind of call.
“Those don’t seem quite as immediate, do they?” Battaglia asked.
“No,” Carson answered quietly. The only other dead person she’d seen had been in a fatal collision that she’d helped investigate, but she hadn’t gotten close enough to the driver to really experience any emotional connection.
“This one was a little different,” Battaglia stated.
“Yes,” Carson whispered.
“You got there pretty fast.”
Carson nodded. “Maybe fifteen, twenty seconds.”
“Quick response.”
Carson blushed at his compliment. “Just dumb luck, really. I was close when they put the call out.”
She recalled the almost vibrant, pleading gaze in Anne’s dying eyes when she’d first seen her. What a stark contrast it was to the one just a few minutes later.
Carson didn’t think about things like dying or God very often. Her upbringing made her a Christian by default, but she was fairly lapsed in the more orthodox traditions. But watching the life force seep out of Anne made her wonder what really did happen when a person died. Where did they go? Did they go anywhere at all? And more than anything, when would it happen to her?
“It can be a little unnerving,” Battaglia said. “Makes you wonder about life and death. Religion, and stuff.”
Carson met his gaze. “Yeah. Exactly.” She was a little bit surprised at his insight, but glad for it. “Do you ever get used to it?” she asked him.
Battaglia shook his head slightly. “Not really. I guess you get to a point where you find ways to deal with it, but I don’t even think the homicide detectives get used to it.”
Carson sighed. “Used to it,” she said, and was conscious that she had slurred the sentence. “How can anybody get yewshed to shomethin’ like that?”
Battaglia didn’t answer; he only took another sip of his beer.
The two sat in silence for another long minute. The radio played a classic from Aerosmith. The slow, poignant chords of the electric guitar caused a pang in Carson’s chest. A tear ros
e up in her eye and she quickly brushed it away, masking the motion by taking another drink of her beer. When she looked at the glass and saw there were only two fingers left in the bottom, she took another swallow and finished it off. The pitcher in front of them was likewise empty. Battaglia’s glass was also nearly empty.
Just be a good cop. You’re a different person now.
She let out a rueful chuckle that reminded her of Robert Carew on his porch.
“What is it?” Battaglia asked.
She met his eyes. The gaze burned with fear, darkness, and desire.
“With all that death,” Carson whispered, “I just want to feel alive.”
Battaglia pushed away his glass of beer and rose from his seat. Carson slid out of the booth while he peeled off several bills and left them on the table. They made their way out of the tavern and into Battaglia’s truck. Battaglia drove to her apartment silently. The radio was tuned to the same station that had been playing in the bar, and Carson listened to the tail end of the song. When it ended, she reached up and turned off the radio. Battaglia didn’t object. She sat and listened to the creaking of springs and the truck’s seat and the whirr of the tires.
She knew she was drunk. She knew where this was going. She just didn’t care.
Battaglia stopped at her apartment complex. She led the way to her ground floor apartment, fishing her keys out of her purse. The doorknob opened easily, but the deadlock gave her some trouble. It was never easy to open and she usually had to jiggle the key for several seconds. But she found herself unable to make it work this morning. Part of it was the beer and whiskey, she knew. But part of it was that her hand was trembling.
After a few moments, Battaglia reached past her shoulder and covered her hands with his own. The warm strength of his fingers flooded down her arms like warm electricity. She let her hands fall away from the key and Battaglia worked it for a couple of seconds before it caught and turned.
She thought about saying thank you, but felt that any words might break the spell of the moment. She wondered if that would be a smarter move, wondered if this was all a big mistake. Her logical self screamed in agreement, but the admonition fell on deaf ears.
