Gangsters with Guns Episode #3 (6 page)

“Exactly.”

“You don’t think he’s suspicious? That he knows something?” He knew his father already suspected a setup at Troika. Despite Mikhail’s bravado, Aleksei worried that they were rank amateurs compared to Artur.
 

Here they were, after all, hoping Artur would save them from their latest scrape, since they couldn’t save themselves. They had made the Georgian problem Artur’s problem by compromising Inna, and now they hoped they could provoke him to war so that he would neutralize the threat and save them from Dato and his infamous knives.

“I predict he’ll take action soon,” Mikhail said.

Aleksei noticed the evasion, as well as the tentative statement, so different from Mikhail’s previous over-assured confidence. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing.” Mikhail plopped down in the chair across the desk from him. “Except he fired me as Inna’s bodyguard and gave the job to Vlad.”

“So?” What difference did that make? The important thing was that his father recognized a threat against Inna, one that might motivate him to move against the Georgians, and that Inna had protection in case the Georgians really did lash out against her.

He couldn’t stand the idea that his little sister might suffer for his mistakes. Mikhail had promised him that the drugs she’d taken would keep her from remembering what had happened and assured him she hadn’t suffered, even with the rape. But she’d been a shadow of herself the other night at her home, and he couldn’t deny she was indeed suffering.

“I brought this for you.” Mikhail plunked a black case onto Aleksei’s desk. Aleksei didn’t need to open it to know what was inside. He supposed Mikhail sensed his weakness and didn’t want to give him any excuse to back out.

Both their necks were on the line.

“I have a gun,” Aleksei said with empty bravado. He had a gun, but he had never shot it, except at the practice range.

Mikhail hitched his shoulder. “This one’s unmarked. The police won’t be able to trace it to you.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Inside he felt cold. He wished for a finger of vodka, for the warmth or maybe for the courage it would give him. The plan he had hatched last night when angry and half-drunk didn’t seem quite so brilliant or simple now.

“Don’t forget to wear your gloves. You don’t want to leave any fingerprints.”

“Right. Right. I’ll do that.” Aleksei had never killed anyone. He wasn’t sure he could do it tonight, despite how much was at stake.
 

He couldn’t meet Mikhail’s eye. Mikhail had already killed to protect their schemes. If Aleksei couldn’t pull the trigger when it mattered, Mikhail would know the truth.

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”
 

Did Mikhail know the rest? Did he know how his chiseled body invaded Aleksei’s dreams with dirty images no real man would tolerate?
 

Yet, Aleksei, despite his shame, would close his eyes and relive the tangle of limbs in those dreams, the clutching, grabbing, thrusting urgency—even when he was with Katya.

Especially when he was with Katya.

More than the drug trade he ran from his pharmacies and Troika, this was his most closely guarded secret. No one—not his wife, not his best friend, not his parents—would abide this weakness, this affinity that proved he wasn’t a real man.
 

Sure, Hollywood made it seem normal. But he didn’t live his life in Hollywood or even in metrosexual Manhattan. He lived in Brighton Beach with his feet firmly planted in the mafia world.
 

Stop pretending to be a big man and get me my money.
Stan’s taunts and threats replayed in his head, rekindled the anger that had set him on this course.

Aleksei pushed to his feet and grabbed Mikhail’s black box. Time to face his next rite of passage. Stan would get exactly what he deserved.

EVERYONE AT TROIKA was a poser.
 

Svetlana watched the couple at the table in the window with disgust. Poor little Anya had gone to wait on the impossible pair. The wife was a complainer: this on the table wasn’t good enough; that was too cold; the drink didn’t have enough alcohol. She criticized in a whining voice and then turned her head to the window. Svetlana already knew they wouldn’t leave a tip.

The balding husband ordered a drink and then surreptitiously pinched Anya’s bottom, hard enough to make Anya wince.
Lecher!
His wife, with her big diamond ring, pretended not to notice.

Svetlana snapped her dishrag and scrubbed harder at the counter in front of her. Despite an i.d. card that claimed she was twenty-three, Anya could not possibly be old enough to serve alcohol let alone drink it. Much as Svetlana would like to intercede on the girl’s behalf, she couldn’t risk upsetting the customers and losing her job. Anya had tolerated the abuse with exceeding politeness—something neither her bosses nor her miserly customers deserved.

Attendance at Troika had been anemic at best, limited to a new-money crowd willing to pay the inflated prices and desiring others to notice. The coatroom was occupied by fur coats, even when the weather was merely brisk instead of Arctic cold.
 

The fancy décor, courtesy of Koslovsky Imports, certainly made the place seem swanky. While the sweet, young, and foreign waitresses all clad in tight little outfits didn’t exactly up-class the place, they did contribute to the novelty and perhaps to an illusion of high service. Still, the band and live entertainment were third rate, and the food, despite its high sticker price, was basically the same chow every other Russian restaurant in the area served.

How they stayed in business was a mystery—unless the nightclub was a front for a much more lucrative business venture, as Svetlana and Vlad both suspected.

Jack regularly tried to upgrade the menu and get the surly cook staff to cooperate. Everyone nodded and smiled and then pretended not to understand English and did whatever they wanted. He was American. So what did they care?

They might be singing a different tune if anyone ever got fired. So far no one had. Most of them weren’t on an official payroll anyway. They were in the country illegally, and Aleksei paid them in cash. Not the waitresses, though.
 

The gaggle of nubile young women, recently arrived on seasonal visas from Odessa and the former Eastern bloc countries, had all of their paperwork in order. They received official paychecks. Their employment was exceedingly legal, even if their documents were full of lies. They claimed to be in their twenties, but Svetlana guessed Anya and several of the others were closer to seventeen.
 

Svetlana surveyed the club. She had expected only a few stragglers tonight. Who would want to drink or have dinner downstairs from where a man had been murdered? But tonight, for once, the place was packed.
 

Murder seemed to stimulate the Brighton Beach economy.
 

She had caught more than one customer sneaking up the spiral staircase to gawk at the yellow crime tape sectioning off the ballroom. She directed the bouncer to guard the steps. He stood now at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed. He looked formidable, but Svetlana bet he would let anyone pass for a little green. Everyone in Brighton Beach, herself included, was an ambitious entrepreneur.

The patron at the end of the bar tapped his bejeweled fingers on the counter. “Vodka, straight up,” he commanded. His accent sounded English, which likely meant he had come straight from the mother country. Troika was not an international tourist destination, unless said tourists hailed from Russia.

Was he a member of the mafia? She inspected the loose cut of his jacket. He could be packing.

She guessed him to be her age, early forties. He attracted his share of glances from the giggling waitresses. Because of his playboy good looks—broad shoulders, dark blond hair, eyes a Russian blue—or the Rolex gracing his wrist?
 

Money could make any man attractive, but this one was beautiful to start.

She placed the shot glass in front of him. He cast only the briefest, wordless glance in her direction, as if she were barely human and completely beneath his notice.
 

His contempt hurt her pride. She realized she was old enough to be the mother of most of the girls working the floor tonight, but she didn’t appreciate the way his eyes slid over her as if her age had left her a wrinkled old hag.
 

She rocked the damn bootie shorts and stilettos Aleksei forced her to wear, damn it!

But she was no longer seventeen. Or twenty-three. Or even close to thirty.
 

She expelled her frustration with a harsh breath that blew the wispy hair out of her face. What did she care what the man at the bar thought of her? Her job didn’t depend on his approval—unless Aleksei and Jack suddenly decided the bar would be more profitable with a younger, sexier bartender.
 

She had already been cast aside once. Nothing to stop the same thing from happening again.

While she didn’t depend on this job for her livelihood, she couldn’t afford to lose it.
 
As it was, she could barely make ends meet, even with her main employment.
 

She knew whose fault that was. Her ex-husband with his young wifey. The newer, shinier model had been picked from the ranks, just as Svetlana had been, and now enjoyed the executive-level job that should have been hers. Would have been hers if her husband hadn’t cheated on her, abandoned her, and then saddled her with caring for Philip all on her own.
 

Her ex lived a fancy life—exotic trips and shiny new foreign cars and a housekeeper—while she scraped by with what little she could cobble together after she paid the fees to Philip’s facility. She couldn’t even pay those anymore, not when the costs of care rose faster than her earnings.

Past due. The group home had sent a notice that her payments were past due and issued a warning. If she didn’t settle her account soon, Phillip wouldn’t be allowed to stay.

She plunked the glasses harder on the counter than she should have as she filled drink orders. One day she would have enough money to make sure her son got everything he needed—whether his father wanted to pay or not. One day soon, provided her project with Vlad reaped the promised rewards.

Role-playing at Troika was a means to an end. Vlad had exceeded all expectation and danced them straight to the center of intrigue in Little Odessa. Now she watched and waited like a spider patiently spinning its web.
 

Anya came up to the bar with the happy couple’s newest request, vodka for the husband and something complicated—hold this, extra that, tell the bartender not to be stingy with the gin, and just a twist of lemon—for the wife.
 

Anya delivered the order in her quiet voice and with a shrug of apology. She was a good girl, too good for this place. And too young.
 

Anya with her sparkling eyes reminded Svetlana of the woman she had been—before life had knocked her around.

“Have you seen Mr. Victor?” Anya asked shyly.

“No. Not tonight.”

“Oh.” The disappointment was palpable and distressing.
 

“Why?” Svetlana asked as she poured the drinks for the couple.

“He said he would come talk to me this weekend. About getting married.”
 

“Victor can’t marry you. He’s already married,” Svetlana said, but knew the warning was useless.

“Not to him,” Anya giggled. She leaned over the counter and whispered, “To someone else. A citizen. So I can get a green card. And make more money.”

Svetlana nodded. She had expected something like this, but confronted with it, she felt sick to her stomach. Anya couldn’t possibly know what awaited her.

“He told me he found someone. We’re supposed to sign papers.” Anya had a guileless excitement, like a puppy wagging its tail and begging to play, not suspecting she was about to get beaten with a stick. She would never be the same.

“Do you know who this man is? Or what job you’ll get? Victor makes things sound easy, but they’re not. Maybe you should go back to Odessa.” Before the words were out of her mouth, she knew they were a mistake.
 

The girl’s face hardened with determination. “I can’t go back. I have to make money. For my family. For my son.”

“You have a child?” The information surprised Svetlana, who was so seldom surprised. She should have known little Anya wouldn’t be waiting tables in bootie shorts at Troika if the world had offered her a better option. Neither of them would.

 
PAUSING AT THE entrance to the nightclub, Victor squared his shoulders and prepared for his next round with Gennady Morozov, the Directorate’s representative. Around him the buzz and hum of the dinner crowd would create an excellent cover to their business. His prospective buyers could inspect the merchandise while Gennady watched the deal go off without a hitch.

This meeting would go differently than their first. There would be no ignominious repeat of the encounter at
Secretnaya Banya.
Tonight Victor was prepared. Almost.

He checked his watch one last time before entering the bar. He hadn’t received confirmation yet that everything he needed was in place. There was no reason to think his plan had gone awry. It was still early. Possibly, the help he’d hired had forgotten their directive to call him immediately with news.

Gennady spotted Victor and moved from the bar to a table at the back. Victor read the implicit command in his motions and went to join him. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, fit and lean, virile and relatively young, the Directorate’s new representative was a perfect specimen of Russian manhood, something Victor couldn’t help adding to all of the reasons to resent him.
 

Gennady scowled at him when he pulled the chair out for himself. “Where’s Artur?”
 

“He’ll be along shortly,” Victor promised, even though he didn’t have the means in hand to make Artur jump to do his bidding. Not yet. He checked his watch again. Any minute now.