by Dylan Rust
Tom shot her a stunned look.
“I was given approval by the assistant director,” she said.
“All I have to do is win a couple poker games, right?” Jack said, sarcastically.
“Yes,” Claire said. “Do what you have to do. We’re depending on you.”
“If you do anything that gets the attention of the cops, this investigation is over,” Tom added. “We’ll disavow everything. You’ll be back in Rikers. We’re calling the shots, understand?”
Jack nodded. He’d let Tom think whatever he wanted to think.
Claire walked up to another whiteboard and flipped it over. It showed the layout of the club.
“If you’re going to go through with this, it’s important that you know the layout.”
Jack studied the layout, memorized it. It didn’t take him long. Five minutes. Tops.
11
The Dacha House was constructed inside a repurposed storage warehouse. Igor’s father had purchased the building in the nineties and used it to store goods he’d smuggled into the country from Russia. Igor didn’t see the dilapidated building as a storage house. He saw it as an opportunity to take control of the city.
When he was old enough, he gutted the building and hired workers to build the club.
It was located just one block north of Brighton Beach, which was home to New York’s largest Russian immigrant population. Most of its inhabitants arrived in the seventies. It was why the locales referred to the neighborhood as Little Odessa. In the nineties, Little Odessa became a hot bed for wealthy Russian oligarchs to set up shop, launder money, and disappear.
Sergei’s influence was still felt in the neighborhood.
Locales knew who Igor was.
They were scared of him.
They called him the Bear Cub.
Igor hated the name.
Despite the Grekovitch’s fall from the power in the motherland, the ghosts of Sergei’s reign still haunted Little Odessa. Igor knew that the locales feared him.
He used that fear to build his club and to rebuild his father’s empire.
The building itself had three floors and one basement level.
Its old brick had turned a light brown and each of its numerous windows were painted black so no one from the street could look inside.
Across the street was the Holy Trinity Orthodox Russian Church. Many in the neighborhood thought it strange that Igor decided build a club in such close proximity to the church. But as much as the club was a way for Igor to assert his authority and influence within the city, it was also a tribute to Russia and his father.
The word Dacha in Russian means second, seasonal home. And that’s what Igor thought of the club. This was a seasonal home for him. It was a tribute to his Russian tradition, culture and heritage. It being built across the street from the Russian Orthodox church would reinforce that message.
It didn’t take long for the club to be regarded as one of the hotspots in the New York underworld.
If you wanted to play high-stakes card games, broker deals with bad men, sleep with women, this was where you would do it. It was a safe space for the decrepit, evil, and sick.
The club had two entrances. One facing the street and one in the back, down an alley behind the club.
The street entrance was just below the clubs red neon sign and its where the general public would enter the club from. The front door was thick, cast iron, and painted black. Two bouncers, who were required to have special Russian military training, stood outside of it twenty-four seven. The bouncers were big, intimidating, and didn’t fuck around. If your name wasn’t on the list they’d show you their guns and tell you to fuck off. Once inside the club, guests were greeted with a pat down by four security guards. If they were clear, they’d be allowed into the club’s main hall. If they were were caught with anything suspicious, they’d kick you out. You wouldn’t be allowed back in.
The entrance in the back was for high profile guests and gang members only. It was lavish and protected by two of the clubs security guards. There was no list. The guards either knew who you were or they’d kill you. It was that simple. To get access to the back entrance you would have have to walk down an alley behind the club. Igor had security positioned on the roofs of buildings that made the alley. They’d communicate with club central security.
The club’s main hall comprised the first two floors of the building. The first floor was large and expansive and had game tables, a stage for a DJ to blast the most obnoxious and repetitive electronic music he could play, and a dance floor for the inebriated patrons to let go of their inhibitions. Security was interspersed throughout the floor.
The second floor was mostly just a balcony that ran along the top of the first floor. Security guards inside would look down from the balcony onto the dance floor and game tables. There were rooms on the second floor, though. Rooms with beds and large windows. That was where the women worked. That was where they made their money.
The third floor was where Igor’s office and central security was located.
Igor’s office was large, ornate and simple. Artwork was hung along its walls. The artwork showcased the rural Russian countryside; Snowy valleys and dark forests, tiny peasant towns, and royal men and women dressed in extravagant clothes holding shaskas or kalashnikovs.
Central security was busy and jam packed with over twenty guards who were monitoring every camera in the club. They had eyes on all three levels of the floor and the basement level. They didn’t miss much.
The basement level was where the bathhouse was located. It was small, damp and smelled of chlorine. If Igor wasn’t in his office or at his penthouse, he’d be there with a group of his inner personal guard and a dozen scantily clad women.
Aside from the guards, the club staffed over two hundred people. Bartenders, dealers and women. But unlike most clubs in New York, there was not a lot of turnaround. If you worked in The Dacha House, you didn’t work anywhere else and you would never work anywhere else.
The staff was an amalgamation of Russian immigrants or second and third generation Russian-Americans whose families owed the Grekovitch’s a debt. They all had to speak Russian and they all knew to stay away from Igor and his inner circle. Each one knew that if they talked to the authorities, not only would they end up dead, but so would all of their loved ones.
The women who worked the floor and rooms wore thongs and were topless. They’re job was to keep the guests happy. The bartenders and dealers had a different drive. They were all men. Their chief aim was to keep the guests drunk. They worked hard and were lethally loyal to Igor. They’d do whatever it took to rise up the ranks. That was their ambition. They’d take a bullet to prove their loyalty.
The club was a fortress.
Impenetrable and intimidating.
12
“Go down, go down!”
Igor Grekovitch grabbed his dick and pinched it. His erection stayed firm. He ran to his desk, pulled out the bottle of pills he’d taken thirty minutes ago and read the instructions. Maybe he’d done something wrong.
Sidenafil Citrate. Onset is typically within twenty minutes and lasts for about two hours. If it lasts longer than two hours, consult your physician. Do not take more than two pills within a six hour period.
He took six. It’d been more than two hours since his dick was soft.
He’d been celebrating. He’d gotten drunk.
He threw the bottle he was holding at the wall. The naked women on his office desk had her legs spread, she was passed out. There was a line of cocaine from her navel to her lower breasts.
He walked walked away from her. He didn’t want to think about her body.
He just wanted his erection to go away.
He was frustrated.
Everything was going so well for him. The only problem in his life was his mild erectile dysfunction. He was having trouble getting it up.
Tonight was supposed to be his release.
It was anything bu
t.
For the past month, he’d spent every moment worrying about every detail. Aleksander had assured him that everything was going as planned, but Igor knew better. When he read in the New York Post that the NYPD had found a dead Russian with ties to the mob on Shooter’s Island, he knew he’d have to reorganize and recalculate the situation.
His men had made a mistake.
How was he going to rebuild his father’s empire if his men kept making mistakes?
He knew the mishap would get the attention of unwanted organizations. The feds. Interpol. He’d have to prepare, be ready.
He pulled up his pants and put on a shirt. He covered his tattoos.
He had hundreds of them.
They covered every square inch of skin on his body from his lower stomach to his upper neck. At the center of his chest was an eagle. It was in front of a silhouette of the New York skyline. Behind the silhouette, a fire. On each side of the eagle were two skulls. Fire burst from their eye holes, their mouths open as if screaming. Engraved on the head of each skull was a cross. Holding the skulls were two demons, bursting from a church. The demons were horned and were draped in a ribbon that read ‘Day of Wrath.’ The rest of the tattoos that draped his body contained a mixture of religious and demonic content with the odd reference to America and Russia. The only tattoo that broke the mould was on his back. It was one of his father’s tombstone. It showed his father’s tomb covered in the blood of his brother.
Looking at the tattoos made him angry.
He punched the mirror. It cracked. In the shattered glass, were thirty versions of himself. His fist was bleeding.
“Fucking shit,” he said.
His dick was still hard as a rock.
He walked to his desk and wiped the blood on a rag.
“Wake up,” he said to the girl.
She mumbled. Her name was Chelsea. At least, that was her stage name. Igor didn’t give a fuck what her real name was. She was just a slab of meat to use when he saw fit. She was one of the new ones that had just come in off the boat. She was young and attractive. He wanted to test her out. He did this with all the good ones. Once he was done, once they were tamed and reigned in and knew who was boss, he’d give them a little freedom. Chelsea had been a good girl. She learned quick.
“Get up!”
She moaned.
“Get up, bitch!”
She opened her eyes, looked at Igor, and then closed them again. It was almost as if she had awoke in the middle of a nightmare and felt the only way to escape was to go back to sleep. Maybe she wasn’t as smart as he thought she was?
“Fucking whore!”
He slammed his fist on the desk. She woke up.
“Oy,” she cried.
“Get some clothes on and get the fuck to your room,” Igor said. “I’ve got business.”
She looked at his dick, the fold in his pants. He was still hard.
“Not that kind of business! You girls are all the same. You all want a piece of the Eagle.”
His phone buzzed. Aleksander texted him. He was just outside the club.
Chelsea got up. She was still in a semi-delirious state, but knew that when Igor got angry he left marks. She saw what happened to Isabella last week. Those big black bruises on her face came from Igor’s hand. He was a monster.
“Fucking whore,” he said. He raised his fist and and walked up to her. She cowered, closed her eyes and waited for it. It didn’t happen. There was no pain.
His phone rang.
She grabbed her clothes and got dressed. She ran out of his office.
“Privet,” Igor said.
It was one of his men. They had just picked up a new girl. An American. She was older, but she would be worth something. Igor told him to bring her to the club and put her in the cellar. Sasha would have a look at her and check how clean she was. One American girl could fetch ten Ukrainians on the trade market. As long as she was clean, he’d keep her around.
He sat at his desk. On top were two bags of cocaine and six empty bottles of vodka. He brushed them all onto the floor. He’d get one of the girls to come in and clean it up. He pinched his dick once more. He needed this boner to go away. He pinched it so hard that he was worried he drew blood.
The office door swung open.
Bad timing.
Igor’s face was red from pain.
“Igor,” Aleksander said in a gravelly, heavy voice, his arms spread out. “You alright, Iggy? You’re eyes are watering.”
“I’m fine,” Igor said. He looked at his crotch. His boner was down, but there was blood. ”Come inside, sit.”
“Of course, of course,” Aleksander said. He sat down and looked around Igor’s office. “Having fun? I saw the woman running down the hall.” He let out a laugh. “She looked nice.”
“Just letting off steam.”
“You’re father didn’t act like this.”
“He’s dead.”
“You should be careful,” Aleksander said. “It’s my job to take care of you, you know that.”
“What do you want?” Igor said. He just wanted Aleksander to get to the point. He knew Aleksander didn’t really give a rats ass about what he did in his spare time.
Aleksander pulled out a document.
“It’s a letter,” he said. “Signed and stamped by the NYPD commissioner. Dimitri, the dead man from Shooters, is not a problem.”
“Good.”
“Relax, young boy. Your father went through this. These are growing pains. Every young business has them. It’s okay. But might I make one suggestion?”
“What?”
“You’re father’s motto was never to mix pleasure with business,” he said. “You might want to try it. These woman are products. We shouldn’t damage the goods. Take them home, have fun with them there. Treat the ones you like well.”
“Fuck those girls.”
“No,” Aleksander said. “You shouldn’t.”
Igor sighed. Aleksander was always lecturing him. “What’s the status of the latest shipment?” he said.
“It’s good,” Aleksander said. “The two injured women from the container that broke are in the Bronx. Our doctors are treating them in the lab. If they don’t make it, we’ll dump them.”
“That’s good,” Igor said. He laughed a little, grabbed a bottle of vodka from inside one of his drawers and poured a shot for Aleksander and himself. They both shot back the drink in unison.
Aleksander pulled out his handkerchief and rubbed his brow. “Is everything ready for the poker games tonight?” he asked.
“Yes,” Igor said. “But that fuck head Lyle Cunningworth will be here. I’m going to show him the video.”
The two men laughed.
“Is it bad?”
“It’s very bad.”
“Good,” Aleksander said. “The more in our pockets we have, the better.”
“I worry that this is too easy,” Igor said. “I worry that I don’t deserve this. I worry we will soon face our first true obstacle.”
“Don’t be silly,” Aleksander said. “If your father could see you…”
Igor interrupted. “The men who killed my father are still live. If my father could see me, he would be ashamed.”
He pulled out his gun from inside his desk. It was a Smith and Weston 357 Magnum’s steel. It shined in the dim light of the room. He rested it on the table. “The man who killed Dimitri, is he downstairs? That was a big mistake. It could have cost us. I don’t care who he is. I want him dead.”
“Yes,” Aleksander said. “He’s in a cage. He’s downstairs. And, like I said, don’t worry about him. He’s a growing pain.”
Igor laughed. “He’s a piece of shit,” he said.
“Don’t kill him” Aleksander said. “He is a cop.”
“He was a cop,” Igor said. “When he started working for us, he stopped being a cop.”
“Don’t kill him,” Aleksander repeated. “Not yet. The commissioner has cleared us of wrong doing, but that
is it.”
Igor smirked. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s move on to other business. We’ve got another shipment coming in two weeks. No more mistakes.”
Aleksander nodded.
“Good,” Igor said. “I don’t want to talk business anymore. I need to get ready for tonight.”
Aleksander knew what that meant. Igor wanted another girl. He nodded and left the office.
After he left, Igor grabbed unzipped his pants and checked his junk. It was still bleeding. He cursed. He wanted to look sharp. He liked good first impressions. The monthly poker tournament was to start soon. He got up and left his office. The smoky air of the club filled his lungs. The tables were busy. It was going to be a good night.
13
The church across the street from The Dacha House had long black spires. They shot up into the dark of the night. A crow was perched at the top of one. Its silhouette was black against the low, white clouds that covered the sky. Its caws sounded lonesome and dark.
Jack walked past the church.
The crow flew away.
The club was busy. There was a line to get in that stretched down the street. Jack counted more than one hundred waiting to get in. There were three black BMW E46 Coups parked just outside. Their windows were tinted, their rims were wide and their metallic bodies reflected the light from the lone street lamp that sometimes flickered on and off.
Two bouncers stood outside the club. They were wide, burly men. One was taller than the other. Both were bald and they both had wires in their ear. They wore thick black overcoats, to hide the weapons they carried in their jacket pockets.
Jack skipped the line.
He cut in front of a wallstreet trader-like looking guy who had slicked back hair. A modern day Gordon Gekko.
“Hey, buddy,” Gekko said.
Jack turned around and flashed the boob his GLOCK 17.
Gekko took a few steps back and joined the line again.
The bouncers saw the exchange and smiled.
The smaller of the two was lighting a cigarrette. Jack stood in front of them.
