by John Charles
“Are you hurt? Were any of you shot?” the SWAT guy asked me.
“No, we’re fine, but Agent Moore is hurt.”
I looked up at the large beam from the bird in the sky as it trained on the rooftop, searching for Viktor. It would be impossible for him to hide or get away now.
As the SFPD chopper flew around in circles, I couldn’t help but wonder what the holdup was. Why weren’t they storming the building and rushing to the top of the roof? It was only seconds ago that he was firing on the van. How hard can it be to find a guy on a rooftop? Shit, we all knew where he was. Just get the hell up on the goddamn roof. Better yet, shoot at him from the helicopter. It felt like I was in a dream and everybody was doing the opposite of what they should be doing and then to top it off, moving in slow motion. It was the worst.
I looked over at Tav. He didn’t look any better then he had in the van. He sat in the back of a black-and-white hugging Ralphie. His eyes were still on hiatus. I messed up. I knew it. He knew it. It didn’t matter that this had nothing to do with my side ventures with the Russians. It didn’t matter because here we were, once again. I swear, if we get through this, I’m done. It’s over.
And then I heard two words crackle over the radio that said otherwise.
“He’s gone.”
Shortly after I heard those two words, we were ushered to a waiting ambulance and taken to UCSF Medical Center to get looked over. A couple of hours later, Sokolov arrived at the hospital. “Darby, how are you doing?”
“I’m fine. What about Viktor? Did he get away? I heard someone say he’s gone.”
The big man took a deep breath. His defeated eyes shifted away, then back on me as he exhaled. “He got away.”
I had already known what his answer would be. But until I heard it, until it was deemed true, I had hope—hope that I just might be wrong. But now all hope had fled my body, leaving me deflated. Why me? Where are my lucky days? Shit never goes right for the Darb. “How did he get away? I don’t understand. You guys had him surrounded. You even had a helicopter.”
“I know it looks impossible, but Viktor’s last move was firing a couple of rounds into the van. The barrel of the gun was hanging out over the rooftop. We all thought he was still there. Sometime between his last shot and when the helicopter showed up, he escaped.”
“Where is he now?”
“We believe he left the country.”
“He got through all the checkpoints? Just like the ghost he is, huh?” My voice was bitter; I couldn’t help it.
“Look, I know this is not what you want to hear. It’s not easy taking this guy down. This is the closest anyone has gotten.”
Good effort. A lot of good that does me. I knew the big man wasn’t to blame. But still I couldn’t help but feel like I’d been left to fend for myself again.
88
Teleco reached out and did what they could for us. They gave us some time off from the company to get ourselves together. They even provided professional counselors to talk to.
We camped out at Tav’s mother’s house in Palo Alto. It was good to be away from the media circus that followed the shoot-out. No one knew we were there except Detective Sokolov and the head of human resources at Teleco, Linda Sawyer. That didn’t last long.
We had gotten a taste of the media frenzy at Hillary’s funeral and it wasn’t fun. Being mobbed by twenty or so reporters all shouting questions in an attempt to get a reaction was insane. I mean, it was a frickin’ funeral, for Christ’s sake. You’d think they would have backed off. Now I understand why people have bodyguards.
Speaking of funerals, hers was the first funeral I had attended that was newsworthy enough to be on TV. It was a huge ordeal. Over a thousand people attended. Granted, most of them were Teleco employees. Still, she had probably 250 friends show up. I honestly had no idea how popular of a girl I was dating. The number of flower arrangements on site was massive. There must have been close to fifty of them. The largest were placed around a sixteen by eighteen portrait of Hillary, a beautiful picture I had taken of her at the Cliff House with the sun setting behind her.
Oddly enough, there was very little family. A sister who lived in Ohio flew out and there was an aunt who lived in San Jose. I knew her parents were both deceased. It was weird. Hillary was one of the most popular people I knew. I just assumed she had a big, popular family as well.
The huge showing definitely helped me feel better. Because of the events that happened that night, Hillary’s death didn’t hit me fully until two days later. I was a complete mess. I couldn’t help but feel like I was responsible. I gave her the key. Sure, the whole Viktor thing wasn’t my fault, but still––I gave her the key.
I was beginning to think I was destined to be alone. Obviously I was dangerous to be around. Tav’s pleas did not go unnoticed either. He was right. Had I not been in business with the Russians, I would never have been in that neighborhood and seen that flier about dating Russian women and Hillary would be alive today.
Tav and I were sitting up front with what little there was of Hillary’s family on folding chairs. My only request was that the funeral be held outside, at the gravesite.
I leaned over toward Tav. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
In front of us was Hillary’s coffin. It was solid mahogany with hand rubbed stain and satin finishes, courtesy of Teleco.
“It’s the rock star of coffins,” he said.
Just then, the stench of Harold caught my nose. I didn’t have to look far to spot the hog man. He had waddled to the front, opposite us, his eyes locked on the coffin. He can’t be having a moment. He was blackmailing her. He must have known their rendezvous wasn’t the real thing. Yet there he stood, a hint of sadness hanging on his jowls. We’ll have a truce for today. But come tomorrow, it’ll be back on.
89
It was a day or so after the Hillary’s funeral that I found myself in the familiar place of having to explain myself to Tav. I had once again endangered his life, even Ralphie’s.
Tav and I had hunkered down in the den. It was one of the few places in his mother’s house that afforded us a little privacy. Avigail Woo-Kaminsky didn’t like going in the den since that’s where Tav’s dad, her ex, had spent a lot of time.
“This is the second time, Darb,” Tav said as he held up two fingers. “That’s one too many. Hell, it should’ve never happened the first time.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Shut up. I’m not done. I know you’re going to say that the first time was a mistake and you’re to blame for it and that this second time had nothing to do with the local Russians, that Viktor was a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time… Well, I don’t buy that.”
“I’m not trying to get out of anything here, Tav. What happened happened.”
“Right. So now what?”
He was right, yet again. This was Tav’s second almost-got-killed moment. Most people would tell the person who keeps doing this to them to take a hike. Not Tav. He was a true friend, but for how much longer? Was this all worth it? Did I need to keep targeting the gangs? Could I remain a heavy if I went legit? Could I be happy as a bottom feeder?
“I don’t know, Tav. I’m going to grab a soda. Want one?”
Tav nodded and I left for the kitchen. The hallway was a shrine to Tav and every stage of his life. Looking at all the pictures brought back a lot of memories. I had spent a lot of time at Tav’s house when we were kids. I had known him since we were seven. “Best friends 4eva,” we would write on our arms with markers.
I hadn’t seen Ms. Kaminsky in a while. She was the same except for the aging, though she still had signs of beauty from her youth. She was Jewish, born and raised in the Bronx. If there was one thing that stood out about her, she was talkative—non-stop from the moment you entered her house or met her. She could talk about anything, this woman. She had opinions and loved to air them. Probably why she divorced Tav’s dad, Albert Woo. He was a quiet man by nature, a Buddhist. Tav an
d I still debate how the two ended up married.
When Tav was eight, they went through a nasty divorce filled with spite that spawned a lifetime of hatred for each other. He split his time between his two parents while growing up. They both saw shared custody as an opportunity to dump on the other’s religion. Tav was taught to embrace and hate Buddhism and Judaism at the same time. This probably explains why he often mimics other people. He has no idea who he is. Remarkably, unlike his parents, Tavish stood at the height of six feet, three inches.
Tav’s five-foot one-inch Jewish mother hated his five-foot two-inch Buddhist father. Bastard is what she would often refer to him as. The feeling was mutual with Mr. Bastard. To him, she was the Hairy Bitch.
Six months before they divorced, she reduced her wardrobe to a tiny, two-piece bikini that hung low on her hips. She had a healthy thatch down below and it was clearly on display along the sides of her white bikini bottom. I couldn’t help but stare at her crotch whenever I came over.
She walked around the house, the yard, the beach, the 7-Eleven, the PTA meetings—pretty much any place that let her get away with it—in this bikini. She loved it when Albert had friends over or she ran into one of his co-workers around town. Humiliation was her weapon of choice.
I gave Tav his soda and we both sat in silence, slurping, until we heard the chow bell holler.
“Tavish! Darby! Lunch is ready.”
Tav’s mom loved cooking for us. The amount of mothering that went on was ridiculous. We tried to let her know it wasn’t necessary, but eventually we gave in. It made her happy. Why fight it?
“So, what now?” Tav asked. He wasn’t going to let this conversation end.
“What do you mean, ‘What now?’” I asked.
“What happens? Does everything go back to normal? I mean this Viktor guy got away. He’s still out there.”
“I know.”
“So long as you’re in this business, you’ll invite this into your life and those around you.”
“Invite what?”
“You know… Elements of the underworld, crime, thieves, killers…”
“I need time to think. We’ll talk more, later. Okay?” I offered Tav my arm to pull him up from the beanbag he had been sitting in. “Come on. Your mom is waiting on us.”
After lunch, Tav and I started making plans for our escape. We could no longer take the mothering and the constant feeding. It was all too much. Even Raphie, with his voracious appetite, looked full. It was time to return to The Vic. The plan was to tell Tav’s mom we were hitting the clubs and then not return, letting her know we were too tired for the drive, so we went back to my place.
Tav stood up and, like a seasoned newsman, informed me he had to float a couple of logs down the stream and that it might be a while.
“Wait. Before you pollute the place, let me take a piss first.”
“I can’t. Gotta go. Use the other toilet.”
I was afraid you would say that.
The other toilet he was talking about was the one inside the master bedroom, Ms. Kaminsky’s room. Even though Tav was my best friend, I never did tell him what happened the last time I went in there. It was too embarrassing.
90
Moscow, Russia
The steaming kettle on the stove alerted the apartment that its job was finished. The Tea Maker put down the newspaper. The article on the front page was about a Russian gangster raising hell in San Francisco.
The Tea Maker switched the stove off. He opened the box of loose-leaf tea and put a pinch into each teacup. The rest of the Elders would be here soon, any minute. A knock on the front door pulled his attention away from the tea.
The Tea Maker held the door open and welcomed the Oldest. The Youngest and the Unreasonable One followed behind him into the familiar apartment. Their meeting was arranged at the last minute because of some unexpected business that had come to the attention of the Elders. They each removed their heavy wool coats and their fur hats before making their way to the tiny table in the kitchen.
Sipping tea and munching on cookies, the Oldest spoke first. “How big is this problem?”
“Big…lots of attention in America,” the Tea Maker said. “American law enforcement is putting pressure on Russian government.” The Tea Maker pushed the newspaper across the table so the Oldest could see the article. He scanned the paper and nodded in agreement.
“We must lay low, cut back on the operations,” suggested the Youngest.
The Oldest nodded and raised the slightly trembling teacup to his lips. “How long?” he asked the Tea Maker.
“Hard to say. A few months.”
The Oldest drained the last of his tea and signaled the Tea Maker for more.
“Where is he now?”
“All signs say he has left America. Viktor will go to Belarus. This we know. He has many friends in this country.”
“And his operations?”
“They are still down. We have seen no effort to recover the business.”
The Oldest frowned and pushed his teacup away. He leaned back and folded his bony hands together. “Enough is enough, yes?”
The other Elders all nodded in agreement.
“You are aware they will protect him—his friends,” the Tea Maker said.
The Unreasonable One picked up his teacup. “Then they too will share the same fate.” He then downed the last of his tea.
The Oldest gathered his coat and hat, readying himself for the icy enemy whirling outside. He turned to the others with one last request. “Keep it quiet.”
The Tea Maker nodded and began making preparations.
91
A week later, the Tea Maker walked along the icy sidewalk, just southeast of Krasnaya Ploshchad – Kremlin, Red Square. He shuffled slowly along the walkway, not wanting to slip. The Violete, a striptease club friendly to the outfit, was his destination. A meeting had been arranged for eleven in the morning with a contact that could help deal with Viktor.
His mind raced as he prepared for the meeting. Taking care of Viktor would not be a simple task. He was very powerful and so were his friends. Still, Viktor reported to the Elders. They ran the outfit. And they had had enough of his disrespect for authority. Viktor had to go.
Bundled in a thick, knee-length jacket, the Tea Maker considered the task at hand as carefully as he could, but the numbing cold bit through his shoes, easily distracting him. It was too much. The Tea Maker took a shortcut down a tiny lane littered with dumpsters and debris. There was still snow on the ground, but it was minimal. It would be easier and faster this way.
For both men.
The Tea Maker had taken no more than fifteen steps into the lane when a bullet ripped through his right hamstring. He yelled out, half in pain, half in shock. He fell to his knees and began crawling toward the back door of the Violete. He didn’t have time to figure out what exactly happened, but he knew enough to realize he was already badly injured. He remained focused on the door, his safe zone.
The second bullet hit his left hamstring, leaving both legs immobile. The Tea Maker now lay flat on the ground, relying only on the strength of his forearms to pull him forward. It was the crunching of the snow that got the best of his curiosity. He stopped and looked back to see who had done this.
The minute his attacker came into view, the coldness of fear raced through his body. This was Death paying a visit and it would not be painless. The Tea Maker’s mouth hung open as he stared at the man behind him. Like a ghost, he had appeared from nowhere, a handgun equipped with a silencer occupying his right hand.
His attacker lifted the weapon and put a hot slug into each shoulder, taking away any hope the Tea Maker might have had of escaping. His attacker bent down next to him and lowered his scarf.
“You… How can it be?” the Tea Maker gasped.
Looking at him was Viktor Kazapov. His face was filled with one emotion—rage. The Tea Maker was confused. He began sorting through possible scenarios that could have led to this
outcome. His phone conversations, other meetings, his enemies… Any one of these could have spurred the leak or, worse yet, housed a mole. Who gave him up? How could Viktor have possibly known about this meeting… to hire Ghostface?
The barrel of the gun was shoved into the Tea Maker’s mouth, chipping a tooth in the process.
“You think you can hire me to kill my own brother, my twin, my likeness, my blood? You are sadly mistaken, old man.”
Twins! Ghostface and Viktor? With all his wisdom, the Tea Maker had never suspected, never considered this. The Elders had been outsmarted.
The hitman laughed at the old man. “You did not suspect such a possibility? No one does.”
Ghostface pulled the trigger repeatedly, delivering a favorite move of his. Then he finished it off by shoving a metal skewer through each eyeball. It had been a while since he had left his shish kebab calling card.
92
San Francisco, California
The visitor returned to 1634 8th Street around four in the afternoon. Carrying a bag of groceries in one hand, he ignored the row of mailboxes in the lobby of the apartment complex. Mailbox 401 was filled beyond capacity, the tiny door bulging.
After exiting the elevator on the fourth floor, the man entered apartment 401. He locked the door behind him and stood still, listening for anything out of the ordinary both inside and outside of the apartment. When he was sure there was nothing to worry about, he placed the groceries on the counter and removed his toupee and mustache. Boris Turov had once again served his purpose.
Viktor Kazapov decided not to flee the country; he had spent too much time outside Darby’s apartment and feared the borders were already shut. Better to stay put and ride out the circus. Fortunately for Viktor, Orlov was nice enough to lend him his apartment.