Silver Justice

by Russell Blake

  Tales of oligarchs becoming billionaires within a few years of the Wall coming down were commonplace, and every industry that was worth anything was immediately placed in the hands of mob cronies and bosses. Freed of its expensive war machine, the nation openly became a kleptocracy, operated entirely for the enrichment of a few special interests. Most of the movers and shakers were the same ex-KGB criminals who’d operated the thriving black markets during communism, and even the top positions in the government went to familiar faces. The usual suspects.

  Those had been heady times, and because of his craftiness and his ability to speak passable English, he’d been sent to New York. Within a decade of establishing the infrastructure for a now burgeoning Russian syndicate’s presence, he was one of the top bosses in the city. Unlike the Italian mob, the Russians were centralized — possibly a throwback to their centrally-planned heritage during communism — and he answered to the boss who ran the whole state, as well as New Jersey. Originally based in Brighton Beach, Vaslav had been moved to the South Bronx and put in charge of several key neighborhoods before ultimately winding up in the Big Apple.

  His main entrepreneurial concerns involved prostitution and drugs, but he was also open to money laundering through his network of strip clubs, white slavery via his Russian mail-order bride business, shakedowns of other immigrants, and retribution killing. These were relatively low-level pursuits compared to the really big money-makers over the last decade, namely stock manipulation schemes.

  But Vaslav was old school, and for him the old ways were still good ways — the profits from selling young, willing-or-otherwise flesh or a silenced bullet to the brain were also an important part of the mob’s income, even if more problematic to launder. Vaslav didn’t run any of the higher-end white-collar stuff, preferring to stick to what he knew and leave the market gamesmanship to the Canali-decked young MBAs who arrived seemingly daily from Moscow. He was too old to change, and his workmanlike appreciation of the merits of providing two sixteen-year-olds for a fun-filled frolic over the weekend or grinding a slow-paying deadbeat’s hand in a thresher still more than ensured he could pay the bills.

  When two gray American sedans pulled up to the cafe and six obviously government-employed men got out, his bodyguards visibly relaxed so as not to provide any reason for a confrontation. This wasn’t NYPD — they knew all the locals by sight, some of whom were enthusiastic consumers of Vaslav’s wares. No, he recognized the lead figure and murmured the three letters that were guaranteed to chill his entourage’s protective blood lust.

  “FBI.”

  The group approached him, and the agent he recognized pulled up a chair opposite him.

  “Vaslav. We need to talk,” Special Agent Bill Heron said in passable Russian.

  “For this you need to bring a football team and scare my friends?”

  “You’re about ten seconds away from being taken in and interrogated,” Heron said, switching to English, “and I can ensure that your evening goes poorly — it could take hours, or days, for your attorney to get you out of the system.”

  “And why would you want to hassle a law-abiding member of the business community like myself instead of catching criminals? To what do I owe this undeserved attention?” Vaslav asked innocently.

  “You know about the shooting at headquarters yesterday morning. No, shh, don’t pretend you don’t. Of course you do. This is your turf. You know everything that goes on here.”

  “I think I might have heard something on the television. But what could that possibly have to do with me?” Vaslav asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “The shooter was Russian. Covered with tattoos — you know the kind.”

  Vaslav recoiled. “Are you out of your mind? You think I would have anything to do with going after an agent? Do I look insane to you? Please. Go find someone who actually might know something. I can’t help you.”

  “Vaslav. Let’s go for a walk, okay?”

  Vaslav nodded and stood, gesturing to his men to stay put. Heron motioned to him to accompany him down the sidewalk, and they set off at a steady gait, Vaslav spewing smoke into the sky.

  “Those things will be the death of you.”

  “Yes. I suspect if I don’t die in some angry husband’s bed, my foul habits will eventually catch up with me.”

  Heron slowed his pace. “Vaslav, don’t bullshit me. I have a very short fuse. This was an ex-spetsnaz soldier working for a Brooklyn meat company. That couldn’t be more Russian mob if he’d been wearing a sign around his neck.”

  “Honestly, I know nothing about it.”

  “I believe you don’t. I don’t think you’re stupid enough to jeopardize your entire operation here for the commission off one lousy hit. But someone in your crew was involved, and since I don’t know every lowlife in Brighton on a first name basis, I figured I’d come over and see my old pal, Vaslav. Mainly, to tell him that if he can’t come up with solid information that will lead me to whoever was responsible within the next twenty-four hours, that every one of his sketchy businesses will be getting a full proctology exam by immigration, the DEA, NYPD, and of course, my group, which is feeling particularly vindictive given that one of our people was targeted. I can guarantee we will find plenty of ways to make your life miserable, and it will cost you hundreds of thousands, if not millions, to fight — and that’s assuming we don’t come back the next week and do it all over again.”

  “Heron. Come on. What the fu-”

  “I don’t think you’re reading me, Vaslav. One of your own tried to kill an agent at headquarters. That kind of act is like throwing a rock into a quiet pool. It will cause ripples that will continue for a long time. Someone on your side made a horrendous error in judgment, and there will be a price paid for that. We can start with you. If you really want the full weight of the federal government coming down on you starting tomorrow then simply do nothing, or protest your innocence, and you will soon be spending two dollars for every one you take in trying to stay out of prison. Just the sheer number of underage Russian pros who will need bail will be staggering, and the number of felony charges arising from your prostitution rings will read ten pages. So don’t fuck with me, Vaslav, even the slightest bit, because I am in a really, really foul mood, and I’m looking for someone to take it out on…and you’re it.”

  “That isn’t fair. I did nothing.”

  “Correct, my friend. It’s completely unfair. Just as hooking sixteen year olds on heroin so you can sell their bodies to old perverts isn’t fair. It’s a fundamentally unfair planet. There’s only power and money and the desire to crush the weaker by the strong. I believe Tolstoy captured the essence of it in War and Peace. That being so, you’re in the cross hairs, and if you don’t find out who did this, I’ll grind your bones into jelly and leave you a smear on the sidewalk. A delicate equilibrium has been disturbed, which will cause collateral damage. You will be the first of that damage. Next, your other friends here in the city will suddenly find it impossible to do business. And then Brighton will get its own special task force, hundreds of agents if necessary, to make it impossible to move without being arrested.”

  “But-”

  “I am not bullshitting you, Vaslav. Twenty-four hours. I know you can make this happen.” Heron turned and began walking back to the cafe.

  Vaslav spun and accompanied him.

  “You’re an ugly, bad man, Vaslav. But you’re a known quantity. I would prefer not to have to deal with another ugly, bad man, but you will lose your position of prominence if you don’t help me on this. You can pass that up the chain of command. They will understand. Because you will be just the first of many in their organization — and the cost to them will be massive.” Heron reached over and patted Vaslav’s shoulder, brushing some dandruff off his leather jacket. “Massive, Vaslav. You don’t want that.”

  Chapter 14

  Rodney Everin sauntered down the sidewalk in Orange, New Jersey, carrying a plastic bag containing a late lunch — a six pack o
f beer and a sandwich from the corner market. The balmy afternoon sunshine warmed his rugged features as he meandered back from the store. The hangover from the prior night’s festivities was a dull pounding in his frontal lobes — he was hoping the first or second of the frosty tall boys would dampen the worst of it. Even sleeping till one in the afternoon hadn’t blunted the throbbing. But a little hair of the biting dog worked every time.

  He passed a pair of women standing outside a beauty salon, smoking, and nodded at them with a smirk, taking care to flex his considerable upper body muscles so they could appreciate his physique.

  “Yo. Howsa bout you and me take a load off and have a little drink?” he shot out at both of them. “Someplace cool and private?”

  “Drop dead, lowlife,” the little brunette suggested before returning to her conversation with the blonde about how she was going to kill someone named Tanya if she came anywhere near her again.

  “You’ll be begging for it come Friday night, baby,” he hurled back, grabbing his crotch with his free hand.

  The blonde made a gesture with her little finger, and the two cosmetologists cackled with glee.

  “Dykes,” he muttered and then continued on his way. Plenty more where that came from.

  As he approached his apartment block, he spied a government sedan with a giveaway whip antenna parked in front. His alcohol-ravaged synapses shrieked a warning as he slowed momentarily, trying to assess the situation. A pair of serious-looking men in suits were descending the stairs from the front entrance, surveying the street. One of them held a sheet of paper in his hand with a series of photographs on it — a mug shot and a driver’s license scan.

  Rodney felt a tingle of apprehension in his gut. Instead of making the turn towards his place, he kept on walking, picking up the pace without seeming obvious.

  As he reached the far end of the block, a voice behind him called out, “Rodney Everin. Stop. We need to talk to you.”

  He kept moving, ignoring the man, hoping they’d think they’d gotten the wrong guy.

  “Rodney. FBI. Stop where you are.”

  That was all he needed to hear. Feds at his digs. Probably something to do with the deal he’d been trying to set up, to get a half-kilo of meth fronted to him so he could sell to his bar buddies. That must have triggered something — maybe the whole thing was some kind of sting, where he was being set up.

  He debated stopping as instructed then thought about the marijuana in his pants pocket and the quarter gram of meth next to it — if they searched him, he would be going back to prison, no mistake, even if he hadn’t done anything on the half-kilo yet. The switchblade he carried for self-protection would be icing on the cake.

  He made his decision and bolted, rounding the corner and sprinting across the street. If he could make it to the second block from the park, he could lose them — or at least jettison the dope so they’d come up empty on a search. Then all they’d have was his word against whoever’s. He hadn’t done anything yet, so wasn’t guilty of anything but being stupid or drunk when he was talking to the dealer. There was no law against being a drunken idiot that he knew of.

  The man who’d called after him raced for the car, and his partner took off in pursuit at a run — he’d been no mean athlete in college and even after seven years he could keep up with the best.

  Rodney swung around another corner and tossed his sack into a garbage can. The weight wasn’t worth the ten bucks the beer and sandwich represented. He fished in his pocket for the dope as he ran and palmed the little baggie as he poured on the speed. Startled pedestrians gave him a wide berth, the sound of his work boots thumping against the pavement all the warning they needed. Nobody wanted to get involved in something they didn’t understand, and an adult male doing the four-minute mile down the sidewalk was unusual enough to warrant caution.

  “Rodney!”

  The voice behind him sounded like it was a hundred yards back. He hadn’t seen his pursuer when he’d ditched the beer, but there was no mistaking him now. He still needed to lose the drugs, though, and the switchblade. He’d be sad to see the knife go — they were pricey these days, even for the crap blades from Mexico. Maybe he could recover it later.

  A group of teens on a stoop cheered him on as he ran past them, whooping in delight at this unexpected entertainment on an otherwise boring day. One took up the pursuit on his skateboard for a few short yards then thought better of it when he heard the agent pounding down the sidewalk behind him.

  He collided with a couple of metal garbage cans, spilling the contents into the gutter as he stumbled through the trash and recovered his footing. He ventured a glance over his shoulder and saw that the fed was gaining. Seeing his pursuer bearing down on him, he darted into the street, trying to time the traffic so he could put some distance between himself and the agent.

  He almost made it.

  The Dodge Ram crew cab slammed into him, flipping him into the air. He struck the pavement with a wet thunk, bouncing like a ragdoll for a few yards before rolling to a halt. A Chrysler screeched to a stop a few inches from his head, and the last thing he registered was the warm wet flow of blood streaming down his nose onto the pavement.

  “What do you mean, he ran?” Silver demanded.

  “Took off like a scared rabbit when he saw us. We advised him that we were FBI and demanded that he stop, but he just tore away like we were shooting at him,” the voice on the phone reported.

  “This was supposed to be an informational interview. Low pressure.”

  “I know. But he had a different idea.”

  “Which hospital did they take him to?”

  “University. He should be there by now. We’re on our way over, as soon as we get finished with the local cops. They’re dragging their feet on filling out the reports. You know how they like to bust our chops.”

  “How badly was he hurt?” Silver asked.

  “Pretty badly. The paramedics gave him a fifty-fifty chance. He hit the road hard. Man against truck doesn’t usually wind up with the man winning. Stupid bastard.”

  “And you have no idea why he ran?”

  “You mean other than he was an unemployed ex-con with no visible means of support who could still afford a little weed and some methamphetamines? My guess is that he was up to something and thought we’d caught him. Or he was afraid we’d take him in and find the dope and he’d back in lockup. And it could be he’s our killer — we’ll need to get a warrant for his place and search it, see if we can find anything incriminating.”

  “Probable cause is going to be tough,” Silver said, “but I’ll see what I can swing.”

  “He did run from us.”

  “Yeah, but you know as well as I do that a decent lawyer could argue that, given his history, he panicked. Acting guilty isn’t the same as being guilty — something about reasonable doubt and presumption of innocence. But I’ll do what I can. Let me call over to the hospital and see what I can find out.”

  “Okay. Soon as we can break loose from here, we’ll be there.”

  “10-4.” Silver terminated the call, then pulled up a number on her computer and dialed it. After a few minutes of being shunted from person to person, she got the emergency room nurse, who was willing to take a few moments out from her busy schedule to give her an update.

  “We just wheeled him into radiology for a CT, and then he’s going straight to the OR. Looks like massive intracranial bleeding — his pupils were non-responsive when he came in. Legs are both broken, his hip, most of his ribs…arms have compound fractures…I don’t think he’s going to be doing any triathlons any time soon.”

  “Sounds like he’s lucky to be alive.”

  “I don’t know that I’d use the word lucky. But he’s still breathing.”

  “I know it’s probably a stupid question, but I’ll ask anyway. What are the chances that he pulls through and regains consciousness?”

  “Sweetheart, I have three lottery tickets in my purse for the next big one, an
d I’d guess my chances of quitting this job and living in the South of France next month are better. But I never said that. Only a doctor can answer that question in an official capacity.”

  “I completely understand. Listen, I appreciate it. My men will be there shortly. I’d really like it if you could take out a minute and fill them in. Could I ask you to do that?”

  “No problem. I’ll just look for the G-men in the lobby. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot among this bunch.”

  Silver hung up and cursed her luck. This had gone from routine to disastrous in nothing flat. And they didn’t even know if the victim was their man. The odds were far greater that this was just an ugly confluence of events and the killer was still out there planning his next murder.

  The worst part was they might never know. If the killings stopped abruptly, but they found no evidence Rodney was the serial…she didn’t even want to go down that road.

  She balked at the prospect of having to explain to Brett what had happened, then decided to get it over with and made her way to his office. That was some hunch she’d had. So far, at least one man down, possibly a vegetable — or dead — and nothing to show for it.

  ~ ~ ~

  The big Chevrolet sedan pulled up to the curb outside the shabby home in Brooklyn. A man and woman got out, their business suits incongruent with the neighborhood. They checked the address and ascended the stairs to the small porch after doing a quick scan of the quiet street. The woman punched the doorbell, and they waited for someone to answer.