The blond one checked the time on her watch. She was late. She pushed her lips out one last time and then gathered her purse and put on her heavy winter coat. “Paka,” she said as she waved goodbye to her friends. They barely noticed, too consumed with becoming the next face.
Leaving the shelter of the tarp, Natasha pulled the hood over her head and tightened the coat around her slender physique. Strands of flaxen hair whipped around her face despite her best efforts. This April seemed worse than last year’s. It always felt that way. The teen pressed forward, fighting the wind that seemed to gain strength with each step. In her mind, she was determined to only be a little late for her afternoon piano lesson.
A few feet ahead of her, she watched a hunched old man struggled to pull his small cart full of fruit and vegetables, his cane of no real use.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
The crooked shape turned his head to the side and gave her a once over. Wordlessly, he pointed to an alley.
Natasha grabbed the little cart and pulled it for him.
“Spasiba,” he said.
Natasha followed the old cripple down the alley. His movements were rigid and slow at first but they turned fluid and stronger now that he didn’t have a cart to maneuver. The old man stopped and straightened his back, increasing his height by another whole foot. Without warning, he spun around with surprising speed and delivered a backhand straight to Natasha’s face. The force sent her tiny frame to the frozen ground. Pain rocketed through the right side of her face and then zipped throughout her entire body.
She tried to blink the floaters from her sight but was too dazed and breathless to do much of anything. Natasha was so incapacitated by the hit that she couldn’t move. She could only lay there moaning as the sting in her face began to throb.
Igor stepped out of the alley to remind him of his bearings before pulling out his cell phone and dialing. “Viktor, I got lucky. I’m near the McDonald’s. Come quickly.”
He moved back into the alley and then reappeared with the girl. He held her tight against his body, as though they were keeping each other warm.
The gray van slid to a stop just outside the alley. The timing could not have been better.
Igor walked the girl to the back of the van. She did not kick and she did not scream. How could she? She was barely conscious.
Viktor made his way to the back of the van just as the doors were opened. He knew the instant he saw the latest catch that they had something special. The girl’s golden tresses fanned out across the floor of the van as her hood fell to the side. “Such beauty for a young girl,” he said. This is what he was searching for—the prize.
Chapter 3
San Francisco, California
The rattling Muni bus, the workhorse of San Francisco’s very own public transportation, sped down Geary Avenue with gusto. The traffic was light and the bus driver had a lead foot. He also had no patience for slow or stupid riders.
A lady with a pull-cart complained that we passed her stop. “Driver. Driver,” she shouted. “My stop. I need to get off.”
Geesh, what’s with these people expecting the driver to read their minds? You gotta pull the cord, lady.
Finally Ms. Throw-A-Fit wised up and signaled for a stop. A lot of these riders sit here daydreaming expecting the driver to know when they need to get off. I can’t help it but sometimes I secretly laugh at them when we pass their stop.
I yanked on the cord myself once the bus driver threw the steel monster back into overdrive. My stop was 17th and Geary, and my destination was the Russian Tsar, a staple for authentic Russian food and home to my favorite dish in the whole wide world: beef stroganov.
Ever since Ivan Renko introduced me to this sautéed mixture of beef cubes, mustard, and bouillon topped off with sour cream, my appetite wanted nothing to do with anything else. I’ve scheduled more unnecessary business lunches in the Inner Richmond area than one could imagine. I doubt Mr. Renko objected either, since I always paid.
By the way, Ivan is my client. He runs the San Francisco chapter of the Odessa Mafiya or Russkaya Mafiya. While often referred to as Mafiya, the Russian mob is really the Vory v zakone or thieves in law. They originated and existed throughout the Soviet era. Not until the fall of communism did they branch out. Which is great, because now we’re in business together.
I exited the bus and took a deep breath. I smelled grill in the air. The restaurant was only a few doors away, but I was a little early for our meeting. I decided to walk around the neighborhood and kill some time.
If you’re not familiar with the Inner Richmond area, west of downtown San Francisco (more specifically the area from 14th Street to 26th Street on Geary,) then you wouldn’t know the population here is mostly Russian. It’s San Francisco’s own Little Russia.
Seriously, it’s the Brighton Beach of the West Coast. The entire street is lined with Russian delis, grocers, video rental stores, lawyers, dentist, chiropractors and whatever else a community would need. Everything is Russian: the signs, the advertising, the old babushkas gossiping up and down the street. With a little imagination, one could easily believe it was some Russian town.
Me? I’m Darby Stansfield, telecommunications consultant to the criminal world. Dig it. I’ve been a consultant to organized crime ever since my successful entry almost eight months ago. As far as I know, I’m the only one to ever exist. Dig it again.
The Fan Gang was my first client. They were a wannabe Triad gang in Hong Kong. With the Darby touch, they went from laughing stock of the neighborhood to respectful competitor to the bigger factions.
All of this was thanks to my Darbytastic idea to sell wireless business solutions to organized crime. The way I saw it, if wireless business solutions could increase the bottom line of organizations like McDonald’s, Apple and IBM, why couldn’t it do the same for organizations like the Yakuza, the Mafiya or the Triads?
You’re probably wondering if what I do is legal. The way I see it, I provide a service like a doctor or a lawyer. I sell wireless business solutions that help organizations become more productive and profitable. What’s the big deal, right?
Chapter 4
I took no more than ten steps before I noticed a sign: “DATE RUSSIAN WOMEN.” What? Really? My neck yanked me back a few steps for a closer look. Yup, that’s exactly what the large red lettering across the flier read. The rest of the flier flirted glamour style photos my way of some of the most beautiful women on earth. Hold up now. I want to date a hot Russian woman.
I took a step back from the storefront. The large pane window was plastered with posters hawking exotic destinations around the world by way of cruise ships or flights from San Francisco. None of that interested me though. The flier that caught my eye was the tiny one tucked away in the lower left-hand corner of the window. That told my left hand and me something––time to see other people.
I must have walked by this storefront a billion times over the last month, but this is the first time I ever noticed a flier promoting Russian women. From what I could tell, Elana’s Travels dabbled in what most people would think were mail-order brides. But this was nothing like that. There was nothing about ordering stuff by mail.
The tours took men to Russian cities to meet these beautiful women in person. Why send away for a Playboy when you can take a trip to the mansion instead? This sounded exciting—promising even. Plus, I hadn’t had much luck since I dated Leslie Choi. She was a spicy gal I met while doing business in Hong Kong. Sadly our businesses got in the way and it didn’t work out. That’s the story of my life.
Now that things were going well at my day job at Teleco, my focus was to get my personal life into tip-top shape. A few months ago, I had become a heavy-hitter at the company, taking up office space on the twelfth floor with the rest of the heavies. We were the sales guys that had the fat cash accounts and were treated like ATM gods. Money flowed through us and straight into the company’s coffers. Becoming a heavy-hitter was the entire re
ason why I came up with the idea to become a consultant. That, and I was on the verge of getting my ass fired.
Anyway, achieving heavy status was a big move in my career. It was all thanks to my Darbytastic side venture. Also, taking a cut from the gang and then a commission from the company made for a sweet paycheck. I was a double dipper, sticking my finger into the chip dip for a second taste—and it was paying off.
I was now keen on finding myself a girlfriend. It was time my bachelor life matched my professional life: en fuego. Gossip-worthy was my goal. With my payment scheme actually working, I had money to blow. Screw you, generic cheese. I’m buying the French stuff.
I got down on my knee for a better look at the flier. It touted nightly socials, opportunities for day dates with the women, translators available… This was basically speed dating done over the course of a week. Meet a bunch of women at a party and then have the opportunity to go on dates with them the next day. It all sounded too easy. I had to find out more, so I headed inside.
The lady behind the desk—I’m guessing she’s Elana—looked to be in her late forties. She wore a blue sweater and black slacks. She had shoulder-length blond hair and smoked her cigarette like it was 1971 and chain-smoking in an office was normal.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello. Sit, sit,” she replied, her Russian accent noticeable. “I am Elana Voronova. Where you want to go?”
I surveyed the office as I walked slowly towards her desk. Wood paneling summed up the look and feel. Everything felt or looked dated, even the Pan Am poster touting Morocco.
“I saw the flier outside. The one with the women on it.”
“Ahh, you like Russian women,” she said with an eyebrow raised and a pleasing smile. “Russian women are very beautiful.”
“Oh, you don’t have to sell me. I want to know more about these tours.”
“You must go on tour. You like it very much. Young handsome man like you has no problem attracting best women. Like in candy store you will be.” She winked.
Candy store? This is getting better. “How much is a tour?”
Again, she motioned for me to take a seat near her desk. There were cracks in the leather chair from years of butt-smothering customers and I was about to indirectly rub cheeks with all of them.
“Very affordable. I have tour leaving in four days to Minsk, Belarus.” She began digging under the mountains of travel crap on her desk. The third pile, four packets deep, is where she pulled out a binder and flipped to a page marked Minsk and pointed to the women. “Belarusian women, very beautiful. Very traditional. Love feeling sexy and they all looking for strong man like you.”
Well, I couldn’t disagree. I had taken to doing push-ups in the morning—up to fifteen so far. My goal was to make my pectorals twitch individually. I always thought it was cool when body builders did it. Right now, only my left one moves.
I took the binder from her. It was sticky, most likely from years of cigarette tar build-up. Gross? Yes, but not enough to stop me from leafing through the women’s profiles. With every flip of the page, the women seemed to become more and more beautiful. From reading their bios, it was apparent that they all loved to cook, keep a clean house, stay in shape, travel, go to the beach, and spend time in the outdoors. A lot of them loved the opera and listening to symphony orchestras. They were cultured and hot at the same time. Jackpot!
“Is this true? Are these real women?” I asked as Elana lit up another slender brown.
“Sure they real. This is not scam. I know all girls personally.”
Elana was convincing, but I couldn’t help but wonder if these women eventually turned into husky-voiced, chain-smoking travel agents. “It’s tempting… But four days? I dunno if I can—”
Elana cut me off with a wave of her cigarette.
“No, no, no, you can go. Take a vacation. You Americans, all you do is work, work, work. No time for play. Elana knows best. This is good for you.”
I flicked my thumb at the window. “The flier says these women are looking for a loving man to make a family with. Very marriage oriented.”
“Yes, sure. You like marriage? Belarusian women very traditional. Love their role as submissive woman and keeper of house. Not spoiled like American woman who only want material things and shop at boutique store.”
“Why are these women so interested in marrying foreigners?”
“Not many good man left in Russia. So many die in wars and a lot drink. They alcoholic,” she said as she mimicked taking a shot. “Plus they cheat. So little to choose from. Women must put up with many bad behavior.”
“That’s harsh. Not much to look forward to.”
Elana shrugged and said, “Foreign man treat Russian woman better and she is very appreciative. Not so choosy.”
“Well I’m not so sure about the whole marriage thing…”
Elana’s cheeks sunk in as she took another long pull on her cigarette. “Then don’t ask to marry,” she said while exhaling a grayish-white plume at the same time. “Have good time—dance and drink.”
I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t attracted to these women and Elana had put forth a good argument. She basically had me at ‘candy store’. I signed up on the spot.
Chapter 5
Punctuality is Ivan Renko’s middle name. Knowing my little vacation planning caused me to fall behind schedule for our weekly luncheon, I found myself jog-walking like a senior citizen over to the Russian Tsar.
As soon as I entered the restaurant, I spotted an elderly man in a booth near the window munching on pickles. His face, a battlefield of scars noticeable from a distance, would make most turn away. I headed straight for him. He was my lunch date.
Ivan always had a man outside, but he liked to keep watch as well. He wore his typical outfit: a black or gray button-down shirt and black slacks. The long sleeves were necessary to cover his tattoos. He once whipped off his shirt and showed them to me: crude black drawings of crosses, roses, stars––even a large spiraled cathedral littered his chest and back. To the average person, they were nothing more than religious icons. But to a Russian gangster, they told the story of his life, his crimes, his morality, and where and how long he did time in the Russian Gulags.
Prison is where they all got their ink. Time spent in jail was worn as a badge of pride—and Ivan was a king in there. The star on each knee said he bowed to no one. Rumor is he killed many a man while imprisoned, one for being late to a meeting. I wasn’t sure if this was true or not. Who kills for something like that? A crazy bastard, that’s who. But for some reason I didn’t fear Ivan. While he was still fit and quite muscular, he was older now. I could outrun him… possibly. Still I was never late to a meeting. Until now.
I was no more than five feet away when Ivan started to speak.
“You’re late. What did I tell you about men who are late?”
“Late men are dead men,” I said as I slipped into the pleather-covered booth. “But I’m not late. I’m tardy. Big difference.”
Ivan waved off my excuse. “I order for us already.”
“I’m sorry. I was next door at the travel agency.”
“You taking trip?” He asked as he unfolded his napkin, placing it on his lap.
“I am now. Going to Minsk.”
Ivan looked up at me with an eyebrow raised in question. “Why do you go to Minsk?”
“Don’t get the wrong idea here, but the women there are hot and the travel agency next door has these tours. I’ve never been to Minsk, so why not kill two birds with one stone?”
“Yes, I know about Elana’s tours. These women you will meet are looking to marry successful men.”
“Well, who wouldn’t? I’d marry rich if I could, but enough about me.” I didn’t want to share my personal life with Ivan. This is a man who was pushing sixty yet was still getting laid by young women of all races.
The truth? I really wanted a girl to call my own, someone I could really care about. I was tired of being single. A woman
on my arm—and other parts—was what I was missing. Plus, I finally had cash to throw around.
Just then the waitress arrived at our table with our orders. One by one she placed the platters on the table starting first with the shashlik, the Russian version of shish kebab, and then the beef stroganov. These were followed quickly by the pickled veggies, a couple of Russian salads, and a loaf of black bread. It all looked delicious.
My nostrils flared like a bull’s as I inhaled the aroma of the sautéed meat. I stabbed a chunk of beef with my fork and ran it under my nose. Mmmmm. Then I clamped down on the tender piece and slid it off with a silly grin. An explosion of flavors coated my tongue as I chewed and swallowed. It never got old.
Ivan and I both allowed ourselves the courtesy of shutting up so we could polish off a good portion of our meals. The food here is best when hot from the kitchen.
“How’s business?” I finally asked.
“We are doing better with the Air Charger.”
“The credit card charger you can use anywhere.” I convinced Ivan early on that beating someone into paying what he owes doesn’t work. Most people get used to the beatings, to a degree. So you have to beat them more. At that point you run the risk of killing them accidentally. Poof! There goes the cash cow. People may not have cash but they have credit cards. One swipe through the charger and they get paid.
“Collections have increased 150 percent.”
Yes! I threw my hand up for the obligatory high-five. Ivan only stared back at me with empty eyes as he bit down on a piece of pork and pulled it off a skewer. What a frickin’ spoilsport. I didn’t care; I was happy to land him as a client and was willing to put up with his intimidation bull crap.
“Have you tried the mini-charger that attaches to your cell phone?” I asked, returning to my food. “It’s much easier than lugging the big charger around.”
Darby Stansfield Thriller Series (Books 1-3 & Bonus Novella) Page 29
