And Every Man Has to Die rcc-4

by Frank Zafiro

  Another chorus of laughter and a few “Oohs” went through the room. Norris paused a moment, searching for a reply. He settled for the tried and true-a middle finger.

  “Is that your IQ or the number of parents you know?” Chisolm asked him, sparking another round of laughter.

  Saylor raised his hands to settle things down. “Okay, that’s enough. Does anyone else have anything besides verbal jabs?” No one replied. “Okay. Then let’s hit the street.”

  Chairs scraped as officers rose to leave. As Chisolm stood, Norris called out to him. “Hey, Tom, I heard that at your age, ‘getting a little action’ means you don’t need to take any fiber today.”

  “That’s not what your wife said,” Chisolm said. “By the way, you need to pick up some bread on the way home after work.”

  “Really?” Norris said. “What brought that up? The yeast infection?”

  Chisolm raised his palms in a half shrug, half surrender. He couldn’t top that. Instead, he gathered up his patrol bag and headed for the basement to get his car.

  2249 hours

  Valeriy rapped lightly on the front door. After a few moments Marina appeared in her bathrobe. When she recognized her brother she smiled and opened the door.

  “Good to see you,” she said, giving him a short embrace. She planted a light kiss on his jaw. “But you always come so late, Valera. If you came earlier, you could have some dinner with us.”

  Val shrugged. “I don’t want to intrude on your family time.”

  She waved his words away. “Don’t be foolish. You’re my brother. You are family. Besides, Pavel loves you. I think perhaps you are even his hero.”

  Good.

  “And Sergey?” Val asked.

  She gave him a puzzled look. “Sergey loves you, too, silly. You are like his brother.”

  “I feel the same,” he said. Like Cain and Abel.

  Marina slid her hand into his and leaned her head onto his shoulder. “We were right to come here,” she said, her voice soft. “America has been good for us.”

  “Yes,” Val agreed. “It is a place where a man can shape his own destiny.”

  “A woman, too,” she reminded, nudging him with her shoulder.

  Val nodded, though he didn’t understand. What was she doing any differently as Sergey’s wife in America that she couldn’t have accomplished back home in Ukraine? There wasn’t much difference, other than some luxuries. Not like how his own vista of opportunity spread open for him when he came to this country.

  “A drink?” Marina asked him.

  “Sure.”

  She squeezed his arm and drifted away. Val watched her slim form as she walked toward the kitchen. His sister was a beautiful, pure woman, perhaps the most beautiful woman he knew. Sergey didn’t have any idea how lucky he was to be married to her. Though Sergey didn’t treat her poorly and was very discreet with his mistresses, Val didn’t believe that he was close to worthy of her. Of course, Val knew he would probably not find a man alive that would be worthy of Marina.

  So what would she do when Sergey was gone?

  The creak of the stairs pierced his thoughts, and a moment later Sergey entered the living room, still fully dressed. That meant that his boss intended to go out, whether to see a mistress or otherwise. Val would have to convince him not to. It was important that he be at home tonight.

  “Valeriy,” he said. “You are coming by late again. More business?”

  Val nodded. The two men moved into the kitchen and sat at the small wooden table in the corner. Marina put a short glass of vodka in front of each of them. Val smiled his thanks to his sister but Sergey merely grunted and threw back the drink with one hard swallow. Then he tapped the glass with his wedding ring. Marina refilled the glass without pause, then left the bottle on the table.

  “Bed for me,” she said pleasantly before kissing both men briefly on the cheek and leaving. Neither man spoke until the creaking sound of the stairs faded.

  “What is so pressing?” Sergey asked. His voice was a little sharper than Val was accustomed to.

  “The first move is in motion,” Val said.

  Sergey considered for a moment. “You mean the black move or the brown move?”

  Val suppressed a scowl. He tried to keep his discussions with Sergey somewhat encoded so that anyone listening wouldn’t be able to connect the dots. Their most direct and pointed conversations usually took place outdoors, away from their vehicles, while walking. There was less chance that someone was recording them that way. He knew that he was likely being overly careful on this matter, but the memories of the KGB refused to leave him, so he kept his vigilance. Perhaps the Americans were not so invasive. Perhaps their organization was not yet interesting enough to the police to garner this level of attention. But the vigilance was his discipline and he kept to it, so it bothered him when Sergey strayed so far.

  “Black,” he said reluctantly, “then brown.”

  He didn’t like this simplistic code-speak. Anyone listening would immediately break out the racial meaning, particularly after the events to come.

  “Good,” Sergey said. “And Ivan?”

  “The judge set bail at $20,000.”

  “For disciplining his wife?”

  Val shook his head. “The police officer he fought with suffered a broken ankle. They are charging him with assaulting her as well.”

  “Her?”

  “The police officer was a woman,” Val said with a shrug. “It is America.”

  Sergey sighed, but nodded. “Of course. Who will take Ivan’s place?”

  “Ivan is free,” Val reported. “Yuri bailed him out.”

  Sergey frowned. “For twenty thousand? That is a steep price to pay for one man’s freedom, brother.”

  “We used a bail bondsman. It only cost ten percent.” Val gave Sergey a cold smile. “As I said, this is America.”

  Sergey gazed at him for another moment, then returned the smile, just as cold. “I see. Sometimes I forget how easy it is here.” He paused, then said, “Very well. Proceed as planned.”

  “Yes, Sergey.”

  “But after our second move, I will meet with the leaders of the gangs.”

  Val’s desire to scowl grew. Not only was Sergey abandoning careful talk, he was now changing their previous plans. “I thought you decided that I would go to them.”

  “I changed my mind,” Sergey said.

  “Why?”

  “Do I answer to you now?” Sergey snapped.

  Val didn’t reply. He wrapped his fingers around the vodka glass and brought the drink to his lips. As he sipped and swallowed, his mind raced. Why the change of plans and attitude from Sergey?

  “I asked you a question,” Sergey pressed. He tapped his thick fingers on the table to accent each word. “Do I answer to you now, or am I still the boss?”

  Val set the glass on the table. “I didn’t answer the question because the answer is apparent. You are, and always will be, the boss. I answer to you completely.”

  “So you say.”

  Val gave Sergey a hard look. “You are my brother’s wife. You are my captain. Do you doubt my loyalty?”

  Sergey didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “I am wondering something, Valeriy Aleksandrovich. I am wondering why the men I talk to speak of their loyalty to you. I am wondering why they all speak so highly of you. I am wondering why they stand ready to do anything for you.”

  “Their loyalty to me is based upon their loyalty to you,” Val answered evenly. “They know my loyalty to you is absolute.”

  “Is it?”

  Val clenched his jaw. His eyes narrowed. “Sergey, I will do anything you ask. But you break my heart when you question my faithfulness.”

  “I wonder, sometimes, if you even have a heart to break, Valeriy.”

  Val didn’t answer. He wasn’t about to show Sergey, or anyone, his secret heart. Instead he pushed back slightly from the table, reached into his pocket, and removed a heavy-bladed folding knife. With
a flick of his thumb he snapped the blade open into a locked position.

  Sergey watched.

  Val placed his left hand on the table. He left his small finger extended and curled the others into a fist. He looked directly into Sergey’s eyes before lowering the tip of the knife onto the table next to the first knuckle of his extended finger. The razor-sharp point dug into the wooden tabletop. “How many knuckles do you want?” he asked, his voice flat.

  Sergey seemed to appraise him. Then he asked, “How many will you give me?”

  “All that you ask for,” Val answered without pause.

  The tension between the two men hung in the air like an invisible fog. Val sat easily, his knife poised above his small finger, his eyes boring into Sergey. Sergey stared back, his expression contemplative. He lifted the glass to his mouth and drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “I want the whole finger,” Sergey said softly.

  Val shifted the knife so that it rested near the base of his finger. He gave Sergey a meaningful look and pressed downward.

  Sergey’s hand shot out and caught Val’s at the wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong. With a hard pull, he moved Val’s hand away. Blood coursed from the deep cut on Val’s small finger and he could see the white of the bone at the bottom. But his finger was still whole.

  “Put your knife away,” Sergey instructed. He rose from his seat and wet one of Marina’s kitchen towels in the sink.

  Val snapped the blade shut and slid it into his pocket. Sergey thrust the damp cloth toward him, and he pressed it against the cut on his finger.

  Sergey sat down. “I’m sorry I doubted you, brother,” he said. “But this is a dirty business we are in. Loyalty is a rare commodity.”

  Val lifted the dishtowel and inspected his cut. He was going to need some stitches.

  “There is a saying in our country,” Sergey continued. “Maybe you know it. ‘An enemy will agree, but a friend will argue.’ Do you know this saying, Valeriy?”

  Val nodded. He dribbled some vodka onto his wound. It stung, but he resisted wincing. “I know this saying,” he said. “I live it.”

  “I can see that,” Sergey said. “Now, tell me why you came here tonight.”

  Val pressed the towel back against the injury, then looked up at Sergey. “You need to stay home tonight,” he said, “so that you will not be connected to anything that happens.”

  “Very well. I had certain plans, but…” He shrugged.

  Val ignored the obvious reference to Sergey’s mistress and went on. “After our business tonight, I planned to sit down with certain people to discuss the future operations here in River City. If you want to be the one to do that, I will step aside.”

  “What do you recommend?” Sergey asked.

  “I recommend you stay as insulated as possible,” Val said. “Let me be your voice for now. Everyone who knows anything knows that I speak on your behalf, but no one who wants to prove that will be able to.”

  “You mean the police?”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t think they are a realistic threat,” Sergey said.

  Not now, Val thought. But when we expand, they will be our greatest threat.

  Sergey took another sip from his vodka glass. “I think that in matters such as this, people need to see that I am the one in charge. Their people, and ours, too.”

  “I am certain you are correct,” Val said. Perhaps it would work better for him, too.

  Sergey nodded. “I am.” He reached out and patted Val on the forearm. “You are a good lieutenant, Valeriy, but I am a better general. You must trust my vision.”

  “I am yours,” Val said.

  Sergey laughed, a short barking sound that filled the small kitchen. “We saw that tonight already, didn’t we?” He reached for his glass and drained it. Then he stared down into the empty bottom. “What about the bookkeeper?” he asked.

  Val shifted and turned his left hand over, pressing it down to the tabletop to maintain pressure on the cut. With his free hand he picked up his glass and raised it to Sergey in a silent toast and swallowed its contents. Then he held it out toward Sergey.

  After a moment the older man smiled and poured them both another. Val turned his glass in his fingers. “They also say in our homeland that the tongue always returns to the sore tooth,” he mused.

  “This particular tooth is rotting,” Sergey replied. “And the dentist failed to pull it.”

  Val felt the warmth from the vodka brewing in his stomach. He raised the glass and sipped. This felt like old times to him. They could have been sitting in a Kiev flat, huddled against the cold and sipping vodka. Those times were simpler, back when his ambition was simply to become Sergey’s right hand.

  He pushed away the sentimentality. “Our man did his job. He is not to blame that the target was not present.”

  “But where is the target?”

  “I don’t know. But I will find out.”

  Sergey stared down into his vodka with a concerned expression. “What do you think, Valera? Is he on the run? Or did he go to the enemy?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” Val replied. “But I will ask you this. If someone took from you what we took from him, would you simply run away? Or would you seek out your revenge?”

  “I think we both know the answer to that.”

  Val nodded. “For me, as well. And I don’t think that Oleg is so different from either of us.”

  “No,” Sergey said. “He was bold enough to steal money from me and to complain about how I ran matters.” He shook his head. “What a fool. You would think that a man who was stealing would remain as quiet as possible, so as not to attract attention to himself.”

  “Not every man is capable of remaining silent,” Val said. “But don’t worry, Sergey. The horse may run quickly, but it cannot escape its own tail. I will find him.”

  “Do whatever it takes,” Sergey instructed. “I am not a man to be trifled with, nor betrayed.”

  Val only nodded.

  Part II

  Take time to deliberate;

  but when the time for action arrives, stop thinking and go in.

  — Andrew Jackson

  FIVE

  Wednesday, July 16th

  0507 hours

  DeShawn “Dee” Brown sat on the couch, sipping slowly from the bottle of beer. The TV in front of him flickered with images of dancing women, gyrating to a beat that he couldn’t hear because of the mute button. He didn’t care. The sleeping forms that lay twisted and piled on the floor and furniture of his living room needed the quiet and not the pulsating beat of Sir Mix-a-Lot. And DeShawn was more interested in the sweet bitches shaking their asses.

  He should be asleep himself, but he’d been up late working on a problem with his little cousin, Ladondra. Of course, no one called her that. To most everyone, she was Dondra, but to Deshawn, she would always be Little La La.

  DeShawn shook his head. Poor girl was only fifteen and she went and got herself pregnant. He’d sat with her for hours, listening to her cry and rave about her situation until she finally told him who the swinging dick was. He had worried that she’d crossed the line and found some guy in a rival gang, but she’d stayed true blue. Still, DeShawn wasn’t happy to hear it was Ronnie. The boy was a low-level runner who might make it up to selling shit on the corner someday, if the motherfucker overachieved. There was no way he could take care of DeShawn’s little cousin, even if he wanted to. So that didn’t leave many options.

  After he checked that Little La La was in bed, and kissed her on the forehead, he went looking for Ronnie to discuss those options. Unfortunately, the rabbit-ass motherfucker must’ve known DeShawn was on the lookout for him, because he was nowhere to be found for the longest time. DeShawn was just about to give up when he ran smack into the kid coming out of the Circle K convenience store.

  He’d gotten right up into Ronnie’s grill, but quickly saw that something wasn’t clicking. DeShawn hadn’t
thought to ask Little La La if she’d told the boy yet. The answer was clear from the surprise and confusion in Ronnie’s face.

  “I din’t know you was declaring the girl off limits,” he’d stammered. He apologized, but he gave no hint he knew about the condition she was in. “I’d have never touched her if you’d said the word.”

  DeShawn swore, shook his head, and brought the stupid punk back to the house. Now Ronnie lay sleeping on the overstuffed chair in the corner, curled up like some little kid.

  DeShawn didn’t sleep. Instead he sipped a brew and watched some big-ass black girl shake her moneymaker while he mulled over what to do about Ronnie and Little La La.

  He shook his head. What choice was there? Ronnie could try to hit some big score and have enough to take care of La La and the baby, but what were the odds of that? He couldn’t handle that kind of action. Besides, the stupid punk would probably blow all the money. Spend it all on rims and chains. Shit.

  DeShawn sipped his beer. A blue-clad form in the easy chair shifted in his sleep, passed gas, and sighed. DeShawn ignored it. Put five brothers in a room, he figured one of them had to fart eventually. Plus, it wasn’t healthy to hold that stuff inside.

  The beer was flat, so he screwed the cap back on the bottle and walked into the messy kitchen. He opened the fridge and put the bottle on the bottom rack, where it was coldest. He knew that because unlike most of his crew in the other room, DeShawn had finished high school. He even flirted with going to college, though he never told anyone. In his world, saying he wanted to go to college was along the same lines as telling everyone he was gay or something. The reaction would not have been congratulatory.

  Besides, he wouldn’t be where he was now, running his own crew. Taking River City for serious bank every goddamn day.

  He smiled and closed the refrigerator. Then he thought about Ronnie again and scowled. What in the hell was he going to do about him and Little La La? Maybe if he had Ronnie take care of the-

  KA-BLAM!

  DeShawn jumped. “What the fuck?” he yelled, and took a step toward the living room.