Counterplay bkamc-18

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Marlene slammed the door on the still protesting Mrs. Milquetost. “The next time that woman tries to stop me, I’m going to scratch her eyes out,” she told her husband.

  “What if I was having sex with my mistress and you burst in like that?” Karp teased as she reached up to place her arms around his neck.

  “I’d have to kill you to avenge my Italian honor.”

  “But you wouldn’t know if you didn’t barge past Mrs. Milquetost and had waited in the reception area like a good wife until my mistress had enough time to get her clothes back on. Ow!”

  Karp rubbed at his lip where she’d bitten him hard enough to draw blood. “Oh, I’d know, buster,” she hissed and kissed him again, gently on the wound. “The woman always knows…even if she doesn’t want to admit it to herself. Now, are you ready to go to dinner? Oh, by the way, it’s the street workers.”

  “What street workers?” Karp replied.

  “The spooks,” Marlene said rolling her eyes. “The guys watching the loft.”

  “What made you change your mind?” Just the night before she’d guessed the poodle people as they lay in bed playing Guess the Spooks. They aren’t really old and that’s probably a bomb-sniffing poodle…yaps and pees all over itself when it finds one, she’d said. Isn’t that right, Gilgamesh?

  The huge Presa Canario who camped at the foot of the bed responded with a mumbled “woof” and shifted his enormous head from one paw to the next, hoping that would be the end of it. The couple in the bed had been keeping him awake with their sexual antics, and he was tired. It took a lot of energy to haul his 150-pound frame around all day. He, too, was trained to sniff for bombs, as well as dismember human threats upon the appropriate command. But mostly he just wanted to go for walks, eat, and nap.

  “What makes you so sure it’s the street workers?” Karp asked.

  “Well, when I came out of the building tonight to walk over here,” she said, “I went right by those guys-both of them clean-cut Ivy League sorts and neither one of them whistled, or yelled, ‘Hey baby, hubba hubba,’ or asked me for a date. And I’m wearing my tightest jeans. You tell me how many street workers in New York would ignore this cute little tush? It’s just not normal.”

  “You have a point,” Karp said. She did look hot in the tight jeans that molded to her still perky rear end. The compliment got him another kiss and he was feeling a bit distracted by the feeling of her body pressing up against his. “Can’t we just go home?”

  Marlene kissed him again but broke the embrace and fended off his attempts to reengage. “No,” she said. “Now, calm down, tiger. The boys will be home anyway, so it’s hours before you would be able to act on that notion anyway. And Uncle Vladimir said it’s important.”

  10

  “So now he’s ‘uncle Vladimir’?” Karp inquired as their cabdriver wove his way down Centre and turned onto the Brooklyn Bridge for the ride over to Brighton Beach.

  Karp wasn’t sure how he felt about her adopting his “other” family. “Uncle Vladimir” was actually his great-uncle Vladimir Karchovski, his paternal grandfather’s brother and, of greater concern, a power in the Russian mob over in Brighton Beach.

  He did not know the man well. He’d always been a distant relative, seen rarely on childhood visits to his grandfather’s house. Back then he’d just been a nice old man who liked to lift him up to eye level, ask if he’d been a good boy, and when he responded in the affirmative, gave him pieces of licorice candy he kept individually wrapped in his coat pockets.

  Only when Karp had grown older, probably about the time he entered law school, did his father spill the beans and tell him the truth about his uncle “the gangster.” The announcement had stunned him. His dream was to become a prosecutor with the New York District Attorney’s Office and somehow “gangster” and “prosecutor” didn’t seem to mix well. But his father had assured him that “that” side of the family had always kept their affairs to themselves, and after Karp got on with the DAO, it had been understood that so long as no laws were broken in the County of New York, there would be no cause for family strife.

  Other than the rare birthday card, a present of Russian crystal wine goblets for his and Marlene’s wedding, and gifts of Russian nesting dolls when the children were born, there’d been very little contact between Karp and the Brooklyn Karchovskis. That was until that past fall when Vladimir Karchovski asked his son, Yvgeny, heir to his father’s criminal empire, to arrange a meeting with Karp and Marlene on Ellis Island to pass on information that had helped Karp unravel the Coney Island Four case.

  A short time later, the Karchovski family crossed paths again with the family Karp. Yvgeny Karchovski’s half brother, Alexis Michalik, an NYU professor, was accused of raping student Sarah Ryder. Ryder had been the one to stick Harry “Hotspur” Kipman with the scissors when Marlene had proved she was a liar out to get Michalik.

  The case had gone a long way in getting Yvgeny, a former colonel in the Soviet Red Army who’d illegally immigrated to the United States to join his father, to acknowledge that the legal system in America could and did work. But after that, Karp and his Brooklyn relations had gone back to their respective turfs.

  That distance, however, had not included all the members of Karp’s immediate family. Marlene, who’d met the older man and been charmed by his Old World manner and kindness, surprised her husband one evening by announcing that she’d been painting over on the boardwalk at Brighton Beach and decided to stop by that afternoon to see Vladimir at his St. Petersburg Tea Room restaurant. She’d been greeted by both the old man and his son like a long-lost daughter and sister, respectively. Her money had been no good as they dined on honey cakes, cabbage pies, and pickled tomatoes, washed down with lemon kvas and green tea, while they talked about their lives and families.

  Vladimir would like to see the twins again, Marlene had said that night.

  Now, we’re arranging family visits? Karp had sighed in response.

  To be sure, he was curious about his family’s history. They’d all belonged to a Jewish community in the Galicia region of Poland. But Cossacks had burned the village, murdering Jews of all ages and genders. His father’s side of the family had immigrated to the United States; the other side had escaped into Russia where they’d eventually joined the Bolshevik Revolution and became heroes of the Red Army. He knew that Yvgeny had served in Afghanistan until his tank had been struck by a rocket, leaving a portion of his face and upper body scarred.

  There were questions Karp would have liked to ask his cousin, and to be honest, in the brief instances they’d been together, he’d found that he liked his Brooklyn relatives. Yet, at the heart of it all, he was ill at ease with the whole criminal enterprise business. The relationship, which both sides understood, would always remain at arm’s length.

  Moreover, ofttimes, he wondered how many people they might have killed. Probably no more than Marlene, he mused, which caused him to wince. His wife’s propensity for acting the part of the avenging angel made it difficult to point the finger at others sometimes.

  Marlene had taken the boys to see their great-great-uncle and cousin by herself. She’d started to explain to Vladimir that Butch would have come except he had to work, but the old man put a finger to his lips. We are family, and I understand why these meetings are…difficult for him. When you see him, give him my love…an old man’s affection for his brother’s grandson. And thank him for loaning his beautiful wife and darling boys for a few hours to brighten an old man’s afternoon.

  From his large but not ostentatious home in the middle of the Russian community, they’d walked past the knish shops and furriers to the boardwalk along the beach. Marlene had done her best to ignore the dark sedans that slowly preceded and followed them, as well as the two burly Slavic types who walked behind them at a discreet distance as if out for a mob-guy stroll.

  Vladimir wore a light-colored linen suit with a black beret, which she discovered was his favored mode of dress when out for
his daily walk along the boardwalk. While the twins ran off to play along the breakers on the beach, the old man and Marlene got a chance to talk about his role in the community. She noticed how ordinary people greeted Vladimir warmly and treated him with extreme deference, but it didn’t seem borne of fear so much as genuine affection for a benefactor.

  Yes, they don’t see me as a…a gangster, he said. I dislike that term myself. It is for people who seek a life of crime because that is what they want-it is the way they are made. I suppose it can be argued that I didn’t have to lead this life either. For instance, my brother, your husband’s grandfather, he was a success as an honest businessman. But I came later, with no money and up against a lot of…of discrimination because I was “stupid” immigrant, a Russian Jew, maybe a Bolshevik…. I did not feel I had the choice if I wanted to support my family and myself, and to protect them from bad men with evil intent who would have preyed upon us. It has been this way for many people when they come here-the Irish, the Italians.

  Vladimir had walked a little farther, pointing and laughing at where the boys chased through a crowd of protesting seagulls. He stopped and looked out to sea, as if to imagine those ships full of immigrants. We had to organize ourselves, the strong leading the weak, when the larger society wouldn’t help. I made my living by sneaking people into this country, yes, for profit, but I also feel good about that. And I make money off such things as gambling and some of man’s other vices-but those are his choices, I am merely a provider of goods and service. Never drugs, and I would not demean women by making them prostitutes. And if I have…at times…resorted to violence, it has only been in defense of me, my family, or my people. As such, I offer no apologies and any sins I have committed will be judged by God.

  Marlene had been over to visit the old man several times since, occasionally running into Yvgeny, who had always treated her warmly. Then one day, while drinking tea with Vladimir at his restaurant, he’d suddenly asked if she and Butch would consider coming to dinner at his house.

  I wouldn’t ask…or risk my nephew’s reputation if I did not think it important to discuss something directly with him. It is the sort of thing best discussed in person and not over the telephone lines.

  Marlene had accepted. Later, when she told Butch, he’d agreed with an uncharacteristic solemn nod.

  As the cab rolled over the Brooklyn Bridge, the couple grew silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Then Butch said quietly so that only his wife could hear. “Fey was murdered last night.”

  Marlene blinked hard once. “How?”

  “I don’t know much,” he said. “Jaxon called just a few minutes before you arrived and didn’t want to talk until we’re face-to-face tomorrow. But apparently, Fey was strangled…with rosary beads.”

  “Kane,” she said, echoing his response a half hour earlier.

  “Yeah, looks like it,” he answered. “I’d like to know how Kane found him. The feds had him buried pretty deep.”

  Marlene wasn’t so surprised. “The feds had a traitor who got a bunch of kids murdered and Fulton shot to help Kane escape.”

  “Yeah, but Michael Grover’s dead, and supposedly he didn’t know Fey’s whereabouts. Anyway, I’ll know more tomorrow.”

  Marlene stared out her window. She clutched her handbag to her lap, glad of the heavy presence of the Glock inside but upset that her family was in danger again. “It’s getting dark outside,” she said wiping at the tears that had formed in her eyes.

  When they arrived in the Karchovskis’ neighborhood, the streets were oddly empty of cars and pedestrians. As they pulled up to the house, a large man whose head seemed to almost disappear into his massive shoulders waddled out from the gated courtyard to pay the cabbie and escort them into the living room of the house. He then waddled back the way they had come without saying a word the entire time.

  They didn’t wait long. Vladimir Karchovski soon appeared, leaning on the arm of his son, Yvgeny. He immediately disengaged himself and came forward to hug Marlene and kiss her on each cheek. He then greeted Butch in the same way. “Welcome, welcome to my home,” he said and led them to the sitting area.

  Marlene took a seat on the couch next to the old man. Butch and Yvgeny remained standing, which gave her a chance to compare the two. They were nearly identical in height, weight, and age. Anyone who did not know them might have guessed that they were brothers, maybe twins. They both had high, wide cheekbones and would have had the same eyes, gray flecked with gold and curiously slanted, except that Yvgeny had lost one of his during a battle in Afghanistan and now wore a black patch. They were both handsome men in a rugged way, and even the scars from the burns on his face did not subtract from the overall attractiveness of Yvgeny. Careful, old girl, Marlene cautioned herself, keep thinking this way and you’ll be fantasizing about a Marlene sandwich.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Vladimir said.

  “Uh, they aren’t worth that much,” she replied, wondering if the old man’s sly smile meant he’d read her mind.

  A chessboard was set up on the coffee table in front of the couch. When Yvgeny noticed Karp’s attention drawn to it, he asked, “Do you play?”

  Karp shook his head. “Not really. Or perhaps I should say ‘horribly,’ a real amateur…a sort of ‘last man standing’ strategy that would get me whipped by either one of my sons.”

  “Ah, but so very American,” Yvgeny said, picking up a silver cigar box and opening it to offer one to Karp, who declined, and to Marlene, who accepted. “The subtleties don’t interest you, you’d rather…how do you say it…‘slug it out.’ Always rushing in where the proverbial angels fear to tread.”

  “Are you saying Americans are fools?” Karp asked with a smile. He knew his cousin was trying to bait him and he was willing to rise to it for the time being.

  “Perhaps,” Yvgeny said. “Or maybe just naive, a sort of innocent belief in yourselves. But there must be something to it that allowed the United States to become the most powerful nation ever on the planet, more powerful than even the old Soviet Union. Maybe it is your bigger-than-life mythology…good guys in white hats always beating the bad guys in black hats…you don’t believe you can lose, and so you don’t lose. You are always so reluctant to start a fight-or, more importantly in today’s world, to strike first-even though you know you are being threatened. It is almost as though you cannot fight back until pushed nearly to the brink of not being able to fight at all.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Your history is replete with examples of what I am talking about. The easiest is, of course, American reluctance to enter World War Two. If the Japanese had not been so stupid as to attack and waken the sleeping giant, you would have probably not started fighting until it was too late…your allies already gone down in flames, and you would have been standing alone against the darkness. It is the same now with this so-called War on Terrorism. You have been attacked-repeatedly-and yet you treat each incident as if it were some sort of separate crime, instead of an act of war. You worry about such things as ‘profiling’ young Muslim men because of your sense of fair play and not wanting to discriminate, yet it is young male Muslim extremists who are intent on murdering all of us. You have the power to obliterate entire regions where you know your enemy is hiding, yet you send in your troops to do the slow, dirty work-and to die-because you don’t want to risk harming ‘innocent’ civilians.”

  “Is that so bad?” Karp asked.

  “Only if you want to survive,” Yvgeny countered. “For one thing, those citizens are probably not so innocent if they are lending support, recruits, and a base of operations to your enemies. You cannot fight this war the way you are going about it, not if you want to win it. You are simply not killing them fast enough, or enough of them, to discourage the rest, even in Iraq. But you are reluctant to bring the full force of your military power down on their heads because it would look like you are the bully, and Americans hate bullies.”

  Yvgeny shook his head. �
�Once again, you will wait until you are pushed to the brink, before you will act as you did against the Japanese and Germans in World War Two, brutally, ruthlessly, and accepting nothing except unconditional surrender or death. The problem is that when you wait too long, you start at a disadvantage, which will cost more lives than it otherwise might have-innocent lives as the terrorists kill until finally you say ‘enough’ and do what it takes to put a stop to it. But this time, if you wait too long, you might not win at all, your culture-all Western culture-could be wiped out except what is allowed according to the whims of a despotic religious leader, a Caliph. Even now it will be difficult to turn the tide. I know these people; I fought them in Chechnya and Afghanistan. It is nothing for them to lose their lives.”

  Karp’s eyes had widened at the mention of the Caliph and again at Chechnya. He would have liked his cousin’s take on the issue, but Yvgeny reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Come, let us go eat,” Yvgeny said. “This is not the time for political discussions. I am sorry to have climbed up onto my soap stand.”

  “Box…soapbox,” Karp said. “It’s an expression.”

  “Yes, soapbox-an interesting concept; you’ll have to tell me the derivation of it sometime,” Yvgeny said. “But I shouldn’t have given such a speech. Besides, what effect can an American district attorney and a Russian…ah…businessman have on such enormous affairs of state?”

  “You never know,” Karp said. “It’s why we have a First Amendment protecting free speech and a free press. Without discussion and debate-whether between two people or among two million-we will indeed be lost.”

  “Well said, cousin,” Yvgeny laughed. “Spoken like a true American.”

  Dinner was soon served in the formal dining room, a collection of dark teak, leather, brass, and crystal that could have been brought piecemeal out of Tsarist Russia with its portraits of ancient nobility, tapestries, and Greek Orthodox icons of varying sizes on the walls. Even the meal was Russian-several courses consisting mainly of pelmeni, which were small balls of minced meat covered with pastry, shashlik, a seasoned and broiled lamb dish, potato vareniki and mushrooms in sour cream sauce, all of it accompanied by a powerful red rkatsiteli wine from Anapa. “That’s a famous wine-producing resort area on the Black Sea,” said Vladimir, who had enjoyed pointing out where each dish and wine had come from in Russia, as well as giving a bit of the history of either the course or the region. His tales were accented by a young man playing the balalaika in the background.