The Family Business 3 (20 page)

We stood out like a couple of purple giraffes in the zoo as I parked the car in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn, home to the largest Russian community outside of Russia. Dotted along the avenue were cafes, coffee shops, pastry shops, and stores selling authentic goods that made the locals feel like they had never stepped foot outside of the old country.

“Leave your piece in the car,” I told Orlando, placing Bonnie and Clyde in the glove box.

I reached for the door, and he placed a hand on my arm to stop me. “You sure about this?” he questioned, no doubt wanting to turn the car around and drive back home. One glance outside the car at the hulking Russians watching us from the corner and I understood his concern, but we had bigger issues than them.

“Bro, you have to trust me. I know what I'm doing,” I said in my best big-brother voice. “You walk in there strapped and you're as good as dead.”

“I just don't know.” He still hadn't moved his hand off my arm. “I mean, Pop always dealt with—”

“Look, Pop did things one way, and he dealt with all these cats his age who did things a certain way, but we're a new generation. That means our way of doing things is going to be different, and the cats we deal with are gonna be our contemporaries. You feel me? Sometimes you have to be willing to change things up.”

“If you say so.” A look of solidarity passed between us as we got out of the car and walked past the group of men staring at us.

I led Orlando a few doors down into the Baklava Bakery. Olga, the woman who had probably held court behind that counter for the past forty years, stared hard as we entered. An older Russian man who looked to be hiding a shotgun, with a scowl that said he was not afraid to use it, stood up from his rear corner seat, blocking the entrance to the back room and making sure we now saw the shotgun. He didn't hide his displeasure at seeing us. Neither did the customers who filled the small tables situated around the room.

I turned to Olga. “I need to speak to Boris.”

“He is busy,” the old man barked in a thick Russian accent, expecting that to send us scurrying back out the door.

I ignored him, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. I placed it on the counter and looked directly at Olga. “You must be his mother, Olga. He speaks very highly of you and your meat pies.”

“How do you know my son?” she asked as the hundred-dollar bill disappeared into her apron.

“We spent some time Upstate together. He said if I ever needed to speak to him, I should come here. Can you please tell him that Vegas Duncan is here to see him?”

“Wait here,” she ordered and then turned and walked to the back of the shop. She whispered in the old man's ear, and he slipped into the back. Olga returned to the counter, and we ordered the sour cherry baklava and some caramel cakes, more to stay busy and not look like two pussies while we waited.

By the time we finished paying for our goods, the old man returned and directed us to the back. We left our pastries on the counter and followed him through the back door, into a room where there were at least five sets of tables filled with men playing cards.

The old man pointed at another door, where we found Boris. He was working in a converted storeroom barely big enough to fit all three of us. Orlando glanced at me, and I knew what he was thinking right away. Boris did not look like a person who could help us out of our current situation. He had no idea who Boris and his family were.

“Vegas Duncan.” Boris spoke with a deep Brooklyn accent, his Russian almost non-existent, since he'd spent the majority of his youth in America. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We've got a huge fucking problem, man. I need you to speak to your uncle and have him call off his dog.”

“I've heard. Things have not been good for the Duncans,” he remarked. “What I don't understand is how your problem with Brother X is our problem.”

“Our families have known each other a long time. Your uncle and my father have done business for a long time. You and me have done business recently and made a lot of money,” I reminded him. “That relationship could come to an end if things keep going the way they have been.” I had to explain it in economic terms he would understand—and the only terms he would truly care about. His help was necessary to the future of my family's business, but he wouldn't care about that unless he understood how our future was intertwined with his.

He settled in behind his desk. “What are you asking, Vegas?”

“That you and your people align yourself with us.”

“That's asking a lot.” Of course I knew it was, which was why I had chosen to have this conversation in person in the first place.

“I was told this is an issue amongst Blacks,” he continued.

I wasn't surprised by his comment. No one, no matter how gangster, is going to jump into someone else's battle unless he thinks it's going to benefit him in some way. The good thing, though, was that he hadn't come right out and said no. I just had to explain the stakes to him in terms he understood.

“X's men burned up three million dollars' worth of weed that was supposed to be allocated to you and your people. He burned your shipment to the ground, Boris.”

His eyes narrowed to angry slits. Boris was one of the biggest marijuana wholesalers in the country. Clearly word had gotten back to him about our warehouse fire.

“Still think it's only amongst us Blacks?”

“Are you saying we will not receive a shipment this month?” He studied me closely, our history right there on the table. I could tell that he was weighing all his options in his mind. I needed to give him one more reason to see the advantage in siding with the Duncans.

“I'm saying that we're going to take care of our friends first—the people that are aligned with us, not those who are sitting on the sidelines while a psychopath tries to take down our family and our business.”

“This is a big decision, not one that I can make on my own.” It was not a definitive answer, but at least now I knew what side of the fence he was leaning on. “I just want to know what your terms are.” It was always about money.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

 

 

By the time Orlando and I exited the bakery, things were a little better.

“That wasn't their shipment that burned in that warehouse. That was our reserve,” Orlando said as we crossed the street.

“Oh, it wasn't? You should have told me that while we were in there.” I laughed, patting him on the back. “I'm sure Boris would have wanted to know that.”

Orlando looked at me with the same admiration he had for me as a kid. “I like your style, Vegas.”

“Our style, little brother.
Our
style.”

“Now what?” Orlando asked, showing me that he trusted me.

“Now we meet with the Italians. Tomorrow you're going to meet with the Jews, and I'm going to meet with the Asians,” I answered as we got into the car and headed to our next destination.

Elijah and I headed into the south entrance of Prospect Park around eleven o'clock in the morning, wearing dark glasses and baseball caps pulled low to avoid being recognized. Joggers, bikers, nannies pushing strollers, as well as older couples taking a morning walk, all parted like the Red Sea as Elijah and I came down the paved trail. We stopped for a hot dog at one of the vending carts, a treat I'd long missed being locked up. There was nothing like a good old-fashioned kosher hot dog, piled with sauerkraut, onions, and a good helping of spicy mustard, washed down with a grape soda.

We finished our hot dogs then continued down the path, finally stopping at a park bench with a view of the lake. Elijah stood behind the bench, his arms crossed in front of him. Looking at him, you might think he was standing guard, or you might think he was meditating by the water.

I sat down and finished off what was left of my soda, watching a dozen pigeons congregate in front of the bench. They raced to the seeds being tossed by the old man who had already been occupying the bench prior to our arrival.

“So you like feeding birds, huh?” I turned and asked Bernie, aka the Jew.

He threw another handful of seeds. The birds scurried about, chasing their late morning meal. “I love feeding these birds. It's one of the few comforts I have in life.”

I couldn't imagine something like feeding nasty, useless birds being one of life's comforts, but then again, who was I to talk? My best friends were rats. So, I just nodded and watched him throw more food to the pigeons.

After a while, Bernie said, “I hear LC Duncan is as good as dead.”

It was no surprise that this was why Bernie had asked me to meet him at the park. What else would he have wanted to discuss? It was becoming an obsession of his. I bet he even talked about the Duncans in his sleep.

“That's what I'm hearing,” I replied. “I have to admit, though, it's going to be hard to finish the job. They have that hospital guarded like a fortress.”

“Doesn't matter. From what I hear his days are numbered. We're still going to give you credit for that one,” Bernie said, not taking his eyes off his little friends. “As long as you make sure you take out Vegas Duncan. He was part of the contract.”

I didn't need reminding. A bad memory wasn't what was keeping us from handling Vegas.

“We're working on him,” I said, thinking how funny it was that I had set out with my red light aimed at Junior Duncan's head, yet every other Duncan seemed to be on death's menu.

“Good,” Bernie said, finally turning away from the birds to look me in the eye. “Because he's poking his nose around where he has no business.”

“He's elusive,” I said by way of explanation for the delay. “We've taken out two warehouses and burned a couple million dollars' worth of marijuana, hoping to smoke him out, but these Duncans . . . they keep staying in their fortress. We spot Vegas one minute, then the next minute he's gone. The guy's like a ninja.”

“I don't care if he's the President of the United States. You better figure it out and get him soon,” Bernie snapped. “He's dangerous. He's talking to people, aligning people against you. Against us.” By now Bernie was seething. He'd turned a deep shade of red. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, as if he'd been to anger management and was following his therapist's instructions to control his temper. “I'm not having this conversation with you again, Xavier. Next time we meet face to face, you know who will be there—and we both know you don't want that.” He threw one last handful of seeds and then shoved the bag into my hand before getting up and walking away.

Elijah sat down in the space Bernie had vacated, and we watched the pigeons finish off Bernie's offerings before Elijah spoke.

“Why are you always taking mess from that guy?”

I turned and looked at Elijah. “Bernie Goldman is just a puppet. I'm not afraid of him. It's the man he works for that scares the hell outta me. Trust me. We don't want to have to go before him.” I shifted my gaze out to the lake.

“So what's our next move?” Elijah asked.

The answer to that was simple: “We kill Vegas Duncan.”

“Yo, I need you to watch my back. Put on a suit and meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes.”

That was all Orlando had said when he knocked on my bedroom door forty-five minutes ago. Now we were in his Audi R8, pulling into the parking lot at the Kings Plaza Mall, and he still hadn't given me any more information. He'd never asked me to watch his back before, so I didn't want to rock the boat by asking too many questions. I was just glad to be there, and I figured I would wait to see what happened next.

He maneuvered the car to a remote spot, away from any other cars, and reached for the glove compartment.

“Why are we stopping here? Please tell me you didn't bring me here just to go shopping with you, O.”

“Patience,” he replied. How the hell was I supposed to be patient, I wondered, when Kennedy was dead, Pop was nearly dead, and poor Sasha was being held captive by some crazy Muslim freak who was out to get our entire family? Shit, I had run out of patience a long time ago, and I was starting to lose faith that my family would ever do the things we should have done already—the things we
would have
already done if it was the old days. With Pop in the hospital, it was like everything had fallen apart and no one knew how to handle a damn thing.

“You strapped?” he asked as he took out his gun and made sure it was loaded.

I nodded. Not that I always carried a piece, but Orlando had said I was going to be watching his back, so I'd strapped on a holster when I got dressed, just in case.

We got out of the car and headed into the mall, and that's when I started to worry. It didn't make sense that we were packing heat in a mall this size, especially one with wall-to-wall people. “Stay close.”

“You expecting trouble?” I was looking over my shoulder constantly, feeling totally paranoid now.

“Nope, but I'm ready if it comes my way,” he replied, not stressed at all. He stopped in the food court to order some meat on a stick. “You hungry?”

“Yeah, order me some chicken and rice.”

We took our food to the other side of the court and took a seat. Orlando dug into his meal, but I was too busy scanning the room, still trying to figure out what the hell we were really doing there. That's when a white man wearing a yarmulke and sporting a gray beard and Shirley Temple curls sat down across from us. Dude had to be at least eighty. He had two beefy bodyguard types sitting at a table next to us.

Orlando looked up from his plate and said, “Bernie. I got your message, so I'm here. What's so important?”

“Before we get to business, first let me give you my most sincere wish for your father's speedy recovery. He is doing better, I hope?”

“The same, but thank you for asking. We brought him home a few days ago in hopes that he might do better in familiar surroundings.”

Bernie nodded. “Well, I will pray for him. He has been a good friend over the years. Which brings me to you. Are you going to be a good friend, Orlando?”

“I hope so. This apple hasn't fallen too far from the tree. I'm very much like my father.” Orlando turned to me for confirmation.

“Uh-huh. He is,” was all I could say. I was too busy trying to understand what the hell was going on at this point. Like I said, I wasn't used to being included in this part of the family's dealings, so I had no idea who this white dude was or why he seemed to know all our business.

“Good,” he said to Orlando, “because we made you and your father a very reasonable offer before he was shot, and we haven't heard back. It's customary to at least get a reply, especially since I hear your brother Vegas is running all around town trying to recruit help when we offered our help from the start.”

“To be honest, Bernie, all I can say is I'm sorry. We meant no disrespect to you or your people.” A mother with three young kids had settled in at a nearby table, so Orlando leaned in and lowered his voice to keep our conversation private. “To be honest, I liked your offer. I liked it a year ago when you proposed it, and I liked it even more three weeks ago. I thought it was a win-win for all of us, especially with you offering to take care of our little Muslim problem in your most recent proposal. But as you know, Pop was against it.” He paused for a minute then added, “The crazy thing is that if he had agreed, he'd probably be sitting here talking to you instead of me.”

Bernie didn't disagree with Orlando's assessment of the situation. This really got me thinking. What was the proposal that this guy had made, and why had Pop not accepted it? And was this all somehow tied to him getting shot? Damn it, I hated being kept in the dark like this.

Bernie and Orlando kept right on talking as if I weren't there.

“Well,” Bernie said, “with LC's health situation being what it is, that should give you even more reason to accept our offer.”

“You would think so, but we have a saying in our family: A man has got to know his limitations. And me, I know mine—which is why, three nights ago with my blessing, Vegas was voted in by the family to run the . . . shall we say . . .
the less legitimate
side of our business. I am now second in command and CEO of our other businesses.”

Bernie did not look pleased. “What does that mean for our proposal? Should I be talking to Vegas right now?”

“No, Vegas asked me to speak to you because we have already established a relationship. And I trust that we can continue our relationship, but our answer to your proposal is still no.”

Forget “not pleased.” Bernie had gone past that straight to “pissed the fuck off.”

“We got a half billion on the table,” he said, barely restraining his anger.

I almost choked when I heard the amount. Orlando, on the other hand, stayed totally cool, like we were talking about pennies, instead of millions of dollars.

“I realize that,” Orlando said. “But I am only telling you what our family has decided.”

Bernie still looked pissed, but incredibly, he upped the offer even more. “Let's say we add ten percent. Will that get us a deal?”

I had to do a hell of an acting job to contain myself. I could not believe my brother was sitting here turning down more money than the gross domestic product of some small countries. What the fuck was going on here?

“I'll bring your offer back to Vegas,” Orlando said, “but no promises.”

“Make sure you do,” Bernie said with an edge to his tone, and then he got up. Before he left, he said, “And please make sure your brother knows we can help end this war and return your cousin.”

When Bernie was out of sight, I grabbed Orlando's arm and said, “What the hell did you just do?”

“I just turned down half a billion dollars.” His answer was matter-of-fact, but there was still some uncertainty in his tone. Then he expressed his true concern: “The real question is, at what price?”