by Tim Maleeny
“These criminals—these men. They became the mafiya?”
“Mafiya to some,” nodded the Pole. “To others, Organizatsiya. Names do not matter.”
“Some names do matter,” said Cape.
The Pole’s eyes flashed mischievously. “You speak of the men you are after—or the men who are after you.”
“The Major and Ursa. Maybe others—those are the names I’m interested in.”
“I know these men,” said the Pole, his tone matter-of-fact. “But they are not part of the Organizatsiya. They are mere gangsters.”
Cape frowned. “No offense, but what’s the difference?”
“Once they were mafiya,” said the Pole. “The Major was KGB.”
“He mentioned that.”
“The KGB—very important after fall of the Soviets. It was KGB that took money from state banks, working with the vory.”
“That’s quite a scam.”
“Russians lack opportunity, but not ambition,” replied the Pole. “Before the KGB was involved, we were very powerful in Russia and a few other countries, but not very organized. Not like the Italians or Chinese.”
“I know about the Triads.”
“Very dangerous,” said the Pole. “Because they are all connected. A dragon with many heads, but still only one dragon. So when the vory agreed to work with KGB and use their connections in other countries—their spies—mafiya became bigger and more powerful. But the brotherhood lost its soul in the bargain.”
“So the Major was on your side?”
“Never my side,” spat the Pole. “A true vor does not associate with Soviet scum—he was an instrument of the State. I would never trust a man like that.”
“But he worked with the mafiya.”
The Pole refilled their glasses. “Until he broke the law.”
Cape almost laughed but caught himself. “Isn’t that the point?”
“The human law,” said the Pole. “The vor way of life. He stole from other mafiya. Killed important members of the Russian mob.”
“That must happen often,” said Cape. “Turf wars, that sort of—”
“Not like this,” said the Pole, cutting him off. “The Major stole indiscriminately. He betrayed the brotherhood.”
“So why isn’t he dead, if you guys are so big on revenge?” asked Cape. “Hasn’t anyone tried to kill him?”
“Many tried,” said the Pole in a tone that suggested he might have been one of them. “But some Russians…some of us are not so easy to kill.” He raised his lumpy fist and tapped his chest where metal shot hid beneath his flesh.
“So that’s why you agreed to talk to me.”
The Pole nodded. “To cooperate with police or FBI—that is not the way. To even talk of these things is to become a musar.”
“A rat?”
The Pole raised his eyebrows. “You said you could not speak Russian.”
“I got the meaning,” replied Cape. “I think every culture has its own rats.”
The Pole nodded. “But you, my friend, are just someone I am playing chess with.”
Cape raised his glass. “Here’s to chess…and talking about mutual friends.”
The Pole took a drink and smiled.
“So what’s the Major doing in San Francisco?” asked Cape.
“This I do not know. He should not be in this country.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know he has tried to come to the United States before but was not allowed. His name appeared on one of your government’s watch lists.”
“We have a lot of those.”
“He is known to Interpol as a dangerous criminal. That is true of many criminals already in this country, of course, but the Major was stopped at least twice. This I know for certain.”
“So he found a way around the system,” said Cape. “He’s persistent.”
“He is dangerous, because he has no honor. The man who tried to kill you in the park—he had Cyrillic writing on his hands?”
“You read that in the paper?”
The Pole didn’t answer. Cape didn’t press it, saying, “Yeah, he did, but I don’t know what it said.”
“It meant he was part of a Russian mob, before working for the Major.”
“Why change loyalties?”
“The vory are not what they once were,” said the Pole sadly. “Many who call themselves mafiya are just baklany—punks. They will do anything for money—or debt, the lack of money. It is usually one or the other in Russia.”
“Any idea what the Major is doing here?” asked Cape. “Or why he would want to kill me?”
The Pole took a new cigarette from his pack and reached out his hand to perform the levitation trick with his lighter. “The Major craves power. In that way he is not unlike other criminals, or other men for that matter. Remember, as KGB he had great power, but much of what he did was invisible. Known only to the State and its victims.”
“So?”
The Pole stared thoughtfully at the board for a moment. “I think he wants to be famous.”
“A famous criminal, like you.”
The Pole frowned. “I am just an old man who plays chess in the park.”
“You’re not that old.”
“No, the Major wants to be like John Gotti—or better yet, like Robert De Niro.”
“You’re kidding.”
“All Russian gangsters love The Godfather,” said the Pole. “It is funny, no? Big criminals in real life, watching movies to learn how to act.”
Cape checked his bullshit meter. “You’re serious.”
“I have seen it in Russia, and also here,” replied the Pole. “Grown men. Killers. Sitting around a television hanging on every word. The Godfather. Goodfellas. These movies are like religion to gangsters.”
“What kind of movies did you watch?”
The Pole shrugged. “I prefer chess.” He slid one of his pawns two paces forward, a move that cleared one of his bishops to threaten Cape’s queen.
Cape blinked, trying to concentrate on the board while absorbing everything he’d just heard. He moved his knight forward, blocking the Pole’s bishop. There didn’t seem to be any other move open to him.
The Pole chuckled softly. “Is that your position, my friend? Are you the errant knight, trying to save your queen?”
“You’re not talking about the chess game, are you?” Cape met his gaze.
The Pole smiled. “Am I not?”
“Unless you have a better idea, I have to see this through.”
The Pole nodded. “It is time to finish the game.” Stubbing out his cigarette, he reached for his bishop.
The board exploded as the air around them tore itself apart. A sharp crack from the cobblestones to their right, chess pieces flying like shrapnel. Cape grabbed the Pole by his collar and yanked hard to the right, rolling them underneath the stone table. Twisting his head around to look upside down across the square, he saw the Pole’s bodyguard standing with a submachine gun braced against his shoulder. He was aiming at the condominiums overlooking the park when a sharp whump stole the air around them. The bodyguard spun around, gun skidding across the stones. Straining his neck to look around their table, Cape caught a glimpse of the bodyguard face down, blood pooling rapidly around his torso.
There was a rapid series of twangs, bass notes from Sally’s bow. Cape released his grip on the Pole and rolled under the nearest table, pulling his gun as he came to a crouch. He stayed under the cement umbrella until he thought he heard the distant squeal of tires, but at this point didn’t really trust his own senses. He held his position, watching the Pole lying under his own table, face down. After no more than a minute he saw Sally’s legs approaching.
“Gone,” she said as Cape stood. He walked over to the Pole, who had rolled onto his back and seemed unharmed. Cape grabbed his arm and helped him stand. The Pole looked from Cape to Sally, scanning her from head to toe. He looked at the bow in her hands and shook his head in wonder. He seemed uncon
cerned about his bodyguard.
Cape studied the four buildings straddling the boardwalk and spotted one of Sally’s arrows in the wall next to a first story window. Because the condominiums sat above the boardwalk, the shooter had plenty of height to get an angle on the square.
“Ground floor,” said Cape. “Smart.”
Sally nodded. “Easy run to the street and a waiting car. Not enough time for me to follow them.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Couldn’t see the reflection from the scope until the first shot,” she said disgustedly. “The sniper must have used a cover and stood back from the window—we’re dealing with a pro.”
Cape nodded. “But you got a shot off.”
“Three,” said Sally. “Two went through the window.”
“You think you got a piece of him?”
“I hope so,” Sally replied, nostrils flaring. “But I doubt it.”
Cape turned to face the Pole, who was staring at him with a bemused expression.
“You risked your life,” said the Pole.
“I was just using you for cover.”
“For an American, you are not a very good liar.”
“Maybe using you as a shield would be smart,” said Cape. “Just in case you were behind this.”
The Pole smiled broadly to give the full view of his ragged grin. “If I were behind this then you would be dead, my friend.”
“I’ve already been dead once this week,” said Cape. “And I’m getting tired of it.”
“Then you must stop these men.”
Cape studied the icy stare of the Russian’s pale eyes. “You’re saying I’m going to have to kill them.”
“I am not telling you what to do,” said the Pole. “I am telling you I would rather play chess with you than go to your funeral.”
They heard sirens in the distance.
“What are you going to do?” asked Cape.
The Pole looked over at his bodyguard, the pool of blood shimmering in the noonday sun. For a moment the Pole looked angry, then sadness settled over his features before he regained his chilly façade. “I am going to buy a new chessboard.”
“We never finished our game,” said Cape.
“True,” said the Pole. “And I believe it is your move.”
Chapter Forty
“You’re lucky I haven’t arrested you.”
Corelli scowled across the table at Cape, who was struggling to look contrite as he bit into a ham-and-egg sandwich. The coffee shop was two blocks from the hotel. He and Sally had checked out immediately, and she was already on her way to the airport. Cape hoped to make the same flight but knew he was pushing his luck. An hour from now he might be behind bars.
“I could take you in for questioning.”
“You mentioned that,” said Cape.
“But you don’t know anything about a homicide in Brighton Beach.”
“Not if you bring me in for questioning.”
Corelli gave him a cop stare for a full minute before exhaling. Grabbing his own sandwich, he took a ferocious bite.
“You’re an asshole,” he said with his mouth full.
“Beau didn’t mention that?” said Cape. “Besides, I called you, remember?”
Corelli almost spat. “Like you had a lot of choice.”
“I was never there,” said Cape. “I don’t know any Russian gangsters. I was just walking by when this nice old man asked me if I wanted to play a game of chess. I abhor guns. There were no dead bodies in the square when I was there. My dog ate my homework…”
“Enough!” Corelli held up his hand. “I get the point. You sure you’re not a lawyer?”
“Not me,” said Cape. “I’m one of the good guys.”
“That remains to be seen,” replied Corelli. “Talk to me.”
Cape took him through it, from the beginning. When he finished talking, his sandwich was still warm, but Corelli’s had long since vanished. Cape had left out only one important detail, and that was Sally.
“The cops on the scene identified the stiff as part of the Russian mob,” said Corelli. “Now I have to play nice with Brooklyn homicide. So fuck-you-very-much for ruining my afternoon.”
“I tried to keep it friendly.”
“I tried to quit smoking,” snapped Corelli, “but it didn’t do any good.”
“I was just an innocent bystander.”
“Bullshit,” said Corelli. “Innocent bystanders get killed—that’s why they’re called innocent bystanders. In my line of work, nobody’s innocent unless they’re dead. You, my friend, are what we call an instigator.”
“I didn’t instigate anything except a game of chess.”
Corelli started to huff but let it go. Instead he shook his head and almost laughed.
“You think it’s the same dickheads who tried to shoot you in San Francisco?”
“That’d be my guess,” said Cape. “I don’t know too many snipers.”
“You’re telling me the Pole’s clean? I got guys looking for him right now.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“That’s what I get paid for,” replied Corelli. “I’m a cop, remember?”
“Do you think the Pole would kill his own bodyguard?” asked Cape.
“In a heartbeat,” said Corelli emphatically. “If he thought it would get him something.”
“Like what?’
“Do you trust him?’ asked Corelli.
Cape considered the question. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I think I do.”
“Maybe that’s what he wanted.”
Cape didn’t know what to say to that. Corelli made a sound like he was coughing up a hairball but threw back some coffee before the Heimlich became necessary.
“The Brooklyn cops said there was an arrow stuck in the side of a building, right next to a window overlooking the park.”
“That’s where the shooter was.”
“Of course that’s where the shooter was,” said Corelli. “I want to know where the fucking arrow came from.”
“Maybe a sporting goods store?”
Corelli stared at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Just doing my civic duty.” Before Corelli could respond Cape jumped in again, saying, “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“A favor or a question?” said Corelli. “’Cause you used up all your favors already.”
“A stupid question…Why me?”
Corelli gave a humorless chuckle. “Getting tired of being in the crosshairs?”
“You want to change places?”
“Not a chance,” said Corelli. “Your question’s not that stupid, but the answer’s simple—you were supposed to drop the case.”
“But if the Major and his pet rock hadn’t stopped by my office in the first place, this case probably would have dwindled and died on the vine. The cops had already written it off.”
“That’s not how it works in Russia,” said Corelli. “Remember, the Major is ex-Soviet, ex-KGB, ex-mafiya.”
“That’s a lot of x’s.”
“Those guys ran the Soviet Union with absolute authority. They told you to do something, then you did it, no questions asked. They were the law. People who resisted disappeared, lost their families, or wound up in the gulag. Someone from the Russian mob warns you off a case, you drop it like a hot potato, even if you’re a cop.”
“This isn’t Russia.”
“Tell that to the Major next time you see him.”
“But—”
Corelli cut him off with a raised palm. “Let me ask you as question—what would happen to the case if you got killed?”
Cape started to answer but caught himself as the answer started to sink in. “The cops would investigate—” he began.
“For how long?”
“Beau wouldn’t let it rest,” said Cape assuredly.
“True,” said Corelli. “But without the department behind him…” He let his voice trail off.
Cape nodded relu
ctantly. “If the case got cold…”
“Which it would, because the Major would shit-can whatever he’s into just long enough for the cops to move on.”
“Then my client’s story about her friend getting thrown off a bridge—”
“—is just a story with no one willing to investigate,” said Corelli. “Remember, these guys don’t care how messy things get, or who knows they’re the bad guys. You go away, their problem goes away, period—because nobody in their right mind is gonna pick up where you left off.”
“How could a guy like the Major get into the country if they have him on a watch list?”
“Easy,” said Corelli. “He’s not applying for citizenship, so all he needs is a visa to get into the country.”
“Don’t you have to apply for a visa? Supposedly the State Department has the Major on a watch list.”
“Say he goes to the American embassy in Moscow and applies for a visa—they check their list and bounce him back. He just goes to another country where he is allowed to travel, like Latvia, and gets a clean passport.”
“What do you mean by clean?”
“He fills out the new application without mentioning any criminal record,” replied Corelli, “which is highly illegal under U.S. law, but no one in Latvia really gives a shit. So now that he’s got a clean passport, he contacts some friends in the United States and asks them to write a letter to the American embassy in Latvia on his behalf.”
“Saying what?”
“He’s an important business associate, a major investor, or an all-around swell guy. The morons at the embassy get the letter, issue a thirty-day visa, and the Major flies into the country from Latvia.”
“Just like that?”
Corelli nodded. “And once he’s here, no one at the State Department is keeping tabs on him, so he can travel freely within the U.S.”
“Astounding,” muttered Cape.
“It’s what the politicians call a loophole.”
Cape didn’t say anything. He was thinking about a loophole big enough for the Major and Ursa to slip through and realized that tracking them was going to be almost impossible. All his usual tricks and online searches for credit reports, last known addresses, driver’s license applications, were all useless. The men hunting him couldn’t be hunted.
