Fury (The Butch Karp and Marlene Ciampi Series Book 17)

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “There is nothing you could know that would interest me,” Alexis said. “Quit trying to play the older brother that you never were.”

  “You know that is not fair, Alexis. We were separated as boys. I did not even know what happened to you until I was older. Then I tried to write to you but my letters went unanswered.”

  Alexis turned his back. “We are not brothers except that we share some blood. I didn’t need you when I was growing up. And I don’t need you now. In fact, I have a lawyer; you just met her, Marlene Ciampi.”

  “Well, I suppose you could do worse,” Yvgeny replied. “She is as tough as an Afghani, and it doesn’t hurt that her husband is the district attorney who must share the same bed with her.”

  “Glad you approve,” Alexis said. “Now, I’d like you to leave, please.”

  “As you wish, brother,” Yvgeny said. “If I can help, you know where to find me.”

  A minute later, Yvgeny Karchovski was back in his Mercedes. He leaned forward and pressed the intercom.

  “Da,comrade,” Milan Svetlov replied.

  “Has the problem been taken care of?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Good. Your brother?”

  Milan looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Da. He sends his affection.”

  “A good man, your brother. As are you, Milan.”

  “Thank you, sir. So are you, sir.”

  That night was the weekly intramural “gangsters” basketball game at Auburn State Prison. The games were the brainchild of one of the counselors, who felt that the various gangs in the prison might be persuaded to work out their differences in a less-than-lethal way in the pursuit of athletics.

  “A healthy way for them to take out their aggression and establish their pecking orders,” he’d explained to the warden, who’d rolled his eyes. However, the counselor had been awarded a substantial grant—not all of which would find its way to the prison athletic fund—from some dumb bleeding-heart prisoners’ organization in Washington, D.C.

  The last game of the night was supposed to be between the Bloods and the Aryan Knights, but at the last minute the Knights bowed out, claiming that they were all suffering from food poisoning after eating the Turkey Surprise (“What’s the surprise?” “That ain’t no turkey, unless turkeys got tails and teeth”) for lunch. They were replaced by a team composed of Russian gangsters.

  As the game began, Lonnie “Monster” Lynd found himself pitted against the hulking Sergei Svetlov. Once he got over his nervousness, it didn’t take long for Lynd to realize that Svetlov was no basketball player, and he used the opportunity to make up for the humiliation in the exercise yard. He grew so bold as to start talking smack.

  “Come on, you Russian cracker, show me something,” Lynd said, dribbling the ball outside the three-point line. “You can’t touch this.” With that Lynd drove and dunked the ball while Svetlov looked on helplessly.

  Running back down the court, Lynd wagged his finger at Svetlov. “This my house, baby. Come on, Moby Dick, you big dumb white whale, come get you some of this.”

  The Russians turned the ball over and one of the Bloods fed the ball long to Lynd, who again slammed it home and then ran back down the court wagging his finger. However, the next time Lynd drove the lane, Svetlov fouled him hard, raising a red welt on his back. “Damn muthafuckin’ cracker,” Lynd said. He missed both of his free throws.

  The same thing happened the next time. In fact, it seemed that Svetlov was purposely letting Lynd see an open lane to the hoop only to hack him as he went by.

  “What the fuck, peckerwood. Keep that shit off the court,” Lynd yelled, but the Russian just smiled and wagged his finger.

  The third time Svetlov fouled him, Lynd was knocked to the ground. He got up and pushed Svetlov, which was about as successful as pushing against one of the prison’s walls. Svetlov grinned but then spat on Lynd.

  In a rage, Lynd swung at him and connected with Svetlov’s nose. The Russian put his hand to his face and looked unconcerned at his bloody fingers. He took two steps toward Lynd, ignoring another hard right as he waded in, and shoved Lynd so hard the black man was launched into the spectators. The gym erupted into pandemonium. Both teams came off the bench, and the inmates who’d been watching poured onto the floor, where a dozen fights and scuffles ensued. In the meantime, the guards stood back to wait for the prison’s riot team to show.

  In the center of the action, Lynd and Svetlov squared off. A Bloods gang member handed a piece of razor-sharp sheet metal to Lynd, who slashed at the Russian, but Svetlov easily avoided the attacks as he crouched in a wrestler’s stance.

  All around the two men, the other fights began to subside as the combatants realized that something big was going down center stage. One of the guards yelled, “Lynd, put the weapon down.”

  But Lynd wasn’t listening. Connecting with the two punches had given him the confidence that Svetlov wasn’t fast enough to deal with him. He smelled blood and felt like slashing the giant’s throat open in front of the homeboys.

  Lynd lunged, trying to cut Svetlov across the stomach. But Svetlov deftly turned to the side, and the blade missed eviscerating him by half an inch. His left hand slid along Lynd’s knife hand until it reached the heel, where he gripped as tight as he could and then turned the hand back, reinforcing the move with his own right hand. There was a popping noise as the jujitsu technique called katate tori ichi snapped Lynd’s wrist like a dry stick.

  Lynd screamed and the knife went flying. Svetlov wheeled around behind his opponent and quickly put him in a figure-four headlock with Lynd’s throat in the crook of his right arm and his left arm behind the black man’s neck. He then squeezed his massive biceps and applied pressure to the side and back of Lynd’s neck.

  Lynd struggled, trying to break the grip with his remaining hand. He was losing consciousness from the pressure on his carotid artery. He looked beseechingly at his fellow gang members, but they had turned their backs and were walking toward the bleachers. He caught the eye of the man who’d handed him the shiv; the man shook his head and then he too turned away.

  Muthafucka. It was a setup, he thought, a moment before he went limp. When his muscles relaxed, there was another cracking sound, more subtle than the wrist yet at the same time more final. Lynd’s head flopped to the side, his eyes wide and staring but no longer capable of sight.

  As the riot team came rushing up, Svetlov let go of his victim and the body crumpled to the floor. He placed his hands behind his back to allow the guards to cuff him.

  “Vas self-defense,” Svetlov protested. He spat again on Lynd and laughed. “He vas a bad sport, da?”

  16

  “STOP IT! THE WAITRESS IS COMING,” MURROW WHISPERED, pushing Stupenagel’s hand away from where it was groping at him beneath the table in a dark corner of Mr. Brown’s Pub at the Sagamore Hotel.

  “She’s not the only one, lover,” said Stupenagel, who for the moment stopped her assault but left her hand within striking distance.

  Stupenagel had suggested a romantic weekend at the grand old hotel set on Lake George in the eastern Adirondacks. When he protested that he couldn’t possibly get away, she mentioned certain physically challenging sexual positions that she’d been fantasizing about and he’d quickly wilted under the pressure.

  Ariadne was a woman of her word. They’d no sooner checked in, tipped the bellhop, and closed the door than she proceeded to make good on her promises. Sometime after the fourth or fifth round—he’d lost count and was feeling somewhat like a dazed boxer just before the knockout punch—she suggested they disengage and go grab a drink and dinner. “And give my tiger a chance to recover his claws,” she purred.

  “Mmmph,” Murrow said into the pillow before turning his head to the side so he could be understood. “Couldn’t we just order room service. I don’t think I can stand up…. Ow!”

  Ariadne had slapped him hard on the butt. “Nonsense. That last effort was nice but hardly up to your peak perform
ances. We need to get the blood flowing, and there’s nothing like a Last of the Mohicans Martini to bring the color back to your cheeks and get you primed for the main event.”

  “Main event?” he asked, half in terror and half out of curiosity. “I thought we just did the main event.”

  “Oh, my, no, that was just to limber up,” she said. “Next we’re going to…” She leaned over and whispered in his ear.

  “Really?” he said, his face a picture of concern. “Are you sure that’s possible?”

  “Absolutely,” Stupenagel purred, “I saw a picture of it in the Illustrated Guide to the Kama Sutra, volume 10, with foreword by the Maharishi Bhagwan Yodi.”

  “Bhagwan Yodi? You’re pulling my leg.”

  “If this is your leg, I hope you have another one just like it. Anyway, his real name is Mark Cook and he used to jockey a cab in Boston until he had this transformation and decided to go to India to become a holy man.”

  “They have schools for that?”

  “Apparently, and he knows what he’s talking about with the Kama Sutra. Legend has it he’s deflowered more than three hundred vestal virgins—I guess they don’t count nonvirgins—and set them on the path of enlightenment.”

  “Sounds like a sexual predator to me.”

  “Probably, but you’re missing the point.”

  “No, I’m getting the point. I’m just trying to catch my breath.”

  “Exactly, my little big man. Which is why you’re going to get that cute little tush up and escort me down to Mr. Brown’s Pub, or I’ll go on my own and maybe be abducted by a gang of bikers.”

  “Those poor bikers, if they only knew that they’ll be spent and worthless men before you get done with them,” Murrow teased. “Ow!”

  She’d slapped his butt again. “Just my luck there aren’t any gangs of outlaw bikers at the Sagamore. A bit highbrow for their tastes. But if you don’t come along, I’ll find someone who’s willing to explore the Kama Sutra volumes 1 through 100 with me.”

  “All right, all right,” he said. “Man, the things I do for science.”

  Stupenagel kissed him on the back. “Art, dear boy, it’s an art, and you are my Picasso.”

  Ten minutes later they left their room, which had been tastefully decorated in Georgian Colonial, and headed for the lobby. As they passed, other people turned to stare and sometimes giggle at the odd couple. To start with, Ariadne was a good six inches taller, and she added to the difference with her affection for stiletto heels, the higher the better. She also dressed as if she’d bought her wardrobe off an avant-garde runway in Paris, preferring bright, splashy colors regardless of the season or time of day and had a lipstick to match every variance of color.

  As for Gilbert Murrow, she’d made no attempt to change his de rigueur business attire of bow ties, vests, and cardigan sweaters. “I fell for the geek in you and wouldn’t change a thing,” she’d told him. “At least, not at work.” She did, however, have “suggestions” on how she wanted him to dress when they went out as a couple—a lot of Land’s End khakis and polo shirts for casual, and knockoff Armani suits that she got from some mysterious connection in the Garment District. He only hoped it wasn’t a couple of wiseguys knocking off trucks.

  Murrow rarely complained about her treating him like her own life-size Ken doll. Ariadne always made it seem as if he’d made the selections, and she believed in rewards for good behavior. Nor had she ever insulted him by suggesting that he wear lifts or even a bigger heel. “In fact, I like the idea that every time you face me your mouth is so close to these babies,” she said, waving the babies in his face.

  Yet, their relationship wasn’t all about sex. For all of her tough-girl bluster and locker-room talk, Ariadne was well read and could intelligently discuss a wide variety of philosophers and writers from Plato to Dan Brown. She’d traveled the world as a working journalist and had interviewed many of the most famous people of her day, as well as covered the usual assortment of wars, scandals, and disasters. Although mostly a reader of nonfiction, she confessed to the “occasional romance novel.” She told him they made her hot and so he had not teased her when he came to bed one night and found her reading a paperback titled Heathen Sins with a picture of a bare-chested Indian warrior who looked amazingly like Fabio with dark hair, holding a helpless, buxom white woman. A half hour later, she turned out the lights and rolled over on top of him. “Come here, my noble savage. I need to be ravished with lots of heavy panting and a few threats if I don’t comply with your wishes fast enough.”

  She loved to talk about serious matters, too, and loved that he was a good listener. But she knew when to be quiet and let him hold forth on the topics that mattered to him. He’d a real affection for political strategies and running Butch’s race, and she encouraged him to try out his ideas and some of Butch’s speeches on her. “No one has a better bullshit detector than Big Mama,” she told him. “If they sound good to me, the public will eat ’em up.”

  No one had ever listened to him as she did, not even Karp, whom he worshipped. Once when he’d been belaboring the value of public-opinion polling, he looked over at the couch where Ariadne was lying down and saw that her eyes were closed. He stopped talking, hurt that she’d been so bored that she fell asleep. But then she opened her eyes and asked him why he quit.

  “I thought I’d put you to sleep,” he said, pouting.

  “I wasn’t sleeping, baby,” she said. “I was just concentrating on what you were saying. I love listening to you talk, Gilbert. I love the way your mind works.”

  That might have been the day, even the moment, when he realized he was in love with this big brash woman. It terrified him. He knew she was much more worldly than he was and, until he’d finally objected, due to the seeming endlessness of the list, she’d had no compunctions about discussing former lovers. It was usually in some fun anecdotal sense, but still it made him wonder if he was just the next former lover. The thought broke his heart, and he sometimes cried when alone in the shower, thinking about how dull life would be if she ever left him. But they’d been lovers for four months and she showed no signs of wanting to split, so he did his best to go with the flow.

  When they got to the lobby of the hotel, Murrow wanted to go straight to the Trillium, a five-star restaurant that he’d been salivating about since they got on the road. But she’d insisted that they start with a drink in Mr. Brown’s Pub. Once inside, she chose a booth in the darkest corner. He figured it was to try out another one of her kinky ideas when she almost immediately began toying with the zipper of his Dockers.

  Then the hand that had been temporarily at ease started inching its way up his leg again. “Don’t you ever stop thinking about sex?” he asked, though for the moment he let her hand wander.

  “Not when I’m near you,” she replied and gave him a squeeze.

  Murrow yelped, which at least served the purpose of getting the waitress’s attention. She hurried over to the table. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you two,” said the girl, obviously a local kid home from college for Christmas break and trying to make a little money. “What can I get you?”

  “The lady and I will each try one of your Last of the Mohicans Mar-TEEN-ies,” Murrow said, squeaking out the last word when Ariadne gave him another squeeze.

  “Shaken not stirred,” Ariadne added innocently. “Just like Bond…James Bond.”

  The waitress gave them an amused look and left for the bar to put in their order. Stupenagel turned to watch her go but suddenly tensed and turned back around to face Murrow. “Look who just walked in,” she said in a low voice. “But don’t be obvious.”

  Murrow stole a peek around her head. “Hey, Hugh Louis! I didn’t think he wandered this far from the ’hood.”

  “Do you think he’d recognize you?”

  “Nah. I’ve seen him at a couple of functions that Butch has attended. But I was in the background both times and never even got introduced. Will he recognize you?”

  “Mayb
e,” she said. “I interviewed him about fifteen years ago when he was representing that girl who claimed she’d been abducted by white supremacists. I was the one who broke the story that it was all a big hoax. He wasn’t real happy with me, so he might have my face memorized. What’s he doing?”

  “He’s bellying up to the bar. Now he’s ordering…a beer. He’s drinking the beer and…uh-oh…”

  Stupenagel started to look but he whispered urgently, “Don’t turn around. Olav Radinskaya and Shakira Zulu just walked in.”

  Forty feet away, Zulu looked around the dark bar and sniffed. Honkytown, she thought, only people of color in this hotel are the bellboys and the waitstaff. She didn’t like being this far from her constituency, nor did she like the amused looks she got from the local crackers for her Angela Davis afro. Maybe I’ll just come up here during the revolution and burn this bastion of whiteness to the ground. Burn, baby, burn.

  Unfortunately, revolutions cost money, so sometimes she had to make compromises with her ideals—such as the stock portfolio and real estate investments that she mothered like the children she’d never had. Zulu meant to continue amassing her personal fortune, even if it meant dealing with white devils like Olav Radinskaya, a repulsive man with an egg-shaped head and thinning blond hair. He favored blousy silk shirts from which tufts of wiry, gray chest hair poked out, and thick gold chains. He apparently didn’t believe in bathing and reeked of acrid nervous sweat and onions. Radinskaya looked dumb as a stick, but she knew he was clever and ruthless, a middleman for the Russian mob but with his fingers in his own dirty pies as well.

  Radinskaya noticed Zulu looking at him and smiled. Ugh, he thought. He didn’t like women in the first place. But this is a particularly ugly one, dark as a piece of coal, almost makes that pig, Louis, look white. Ugh, hardly more than animals, these niggers, but necessary that I deal with them as if friends for now.