by Alex Archer
“No one harbored ill feelings toward Maurice.” Yelena dismissed the idea immediately.
“Was anyone jealous of him?”
“Jealousy is a natural condition for people, don’t you think? There is always someone who covets what another has. Can I think of anyone who would do such a thing to Maurice? No. Again, I would have been to the police.”
“I was also told that Benyovszky kept company with known criminals.”
At that, Yelena sat back and looked more serious than ever. “Who would tell you such a thing? Those nephews of Maurice? They are no-goodniks. You should know you cannot trust them.”
“Maurice had a criminal history.” Annja had seen it for herself. None of it had been more than robbery, and there hadn’t been an incident in years. “Yegor and Demyan told me that Maurice sometimes hung with those people from the old days.”
Still uneasy, Yelena ran a hand through her hair. “Some of those men are friends with Maurice, da. They would not have killed him.”
Annja kept her voice steady. “Whoever killed Maurice was someone he knew, Yelena, and someone who would take someone else’s life. If there were no personal reasons to kill Maurice, then his death had to be the result of theft. There is an article missing. Maybe more than one. We haven’t been able to finish a proper inventory of his things yet.” She paused. “Can you name someone Maurice knew who would do such a thing to him?”
“Of course not.”
“Then I need to talk to someone who can name a person like that. Give me the name of someone I can talk to about Maurice who might know who killed him.”
Yelena crossed her knees and leaned forward. She looked nervous as she smoothed her dress. “Perhaps you are right.”
“I’m hoping I am.”
“But you must understand, these men you are talking about, they are very dangerous men. Men who have killed. Men who would not hesitate to kill again.”
“Do you think men like that will talk to the police?” Annja knew the answer before she even asked the question.
“No. Pride alone would keep them from communicating with the police. These men are still Russian, you understand? They may have lived in New York for thirty or forty years, but in their minds they are still Russian. They will trust no one.” Yelena shook her head and shrugged. “Not all of them are immediately dangerous. Perhaps there are a few you may speak with.”
“If I could get those names, I would appreciate it.”
“You may wish to thank me after you meet them.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Do not automatically believe this is true.” Yelena hesitated a little longer and Annja waited her out. Talking to the Russian criminals might be a dead end, but she had nothing else to pursue at the moment. “Let me tell you about Leonid Klykov…”
Chapter 11
At first glance to the casual observer who was passing through the neighborhood, the small neon sign over Buba’s Bar looked like it had been misspelled, but Annja knew it was supposed to be Buba, which was the diminutive of “bubbala,” or “bubeleh,” and not Bubba’s Bar. The Yiddish term was used to address older women with fondness. Originally it had referred to midwives and grandmothers in Slavic cultures. It was also used as a term of endearment.
Waiting for traffic on the street corner where the cab had let her out, Annja had to smile. Grandmother’s is a den of inequity. Who knew?
The redbrick building stood four stories tall. The bar occupied a small space between a florist and a falafel shop. A faded green awning stuck out over the sidewalk, creating a narrow ribbon of shade in the noonday sun. The small windows offered only a peek inside the place, and much of that space was taken up by handmade signs advertising specials.
When the light changed, Annja hit the crosswalk. On the way over in the cab, she had pulled up a quick background of Leonid Klykov on her tablet. Back in the 1970s, Klykov had gotten arrested for a number of things, and finally took a nine-year fall for racketeering. According to the reporter who’d covered the case, business had gone on as usual for Klykov and his old life was waiting for him when he finished his sentence.
Annja knew Bart would not be happy if he found out what she was doing, but she felt certain she could get in under the radar on the visit.
When she stepped through the front door of Buba’s, the warmth of the bar gusted over her, carrying the smells of beer and borscht and fresh bread. She stood there and just enjoyed the bread smell, realizing how hungry she was.
Small tables crowded the tiny floor space at the front of the bar. A few stools lined the bar, and a large-screen television, apparently the only modern convenience in the place, hung on the wall in one of the darkened corners. A horse race was in progress, the shrill ring of the starting gate opening echoed throughout the bar and the thunder of hoofbeats and the excited banter of the announcer followed it.
Several old men sat at the tables. A few younger men sat in the corners of the bar and watched with the hard eyes of wary bodyguards.
An old, bald bartender in a prim shirt and tie wiped his hands on his waist apron and came from behind the bar. He put on a nice smile and his heavy cologne arrived before he did.
“May I help you?” His English was good enough, but heavily accented.
“I’d like to speak with Leonid Klykov if I could, please.”
The bartender hesitated, letting Annja know one of the old men was probably Klykov, but she hadn’t a clue which one he would be. Yelena had offered very little in terms of a description, and the most recent photographs Annja had found of the man on the internet were from the 1980s. Klykov stayed out of the public eye.
One of the bodyguards stubbed out a short black cigarette in a tray at the bar and came over. He was almost six and a half feet tall, broad shouldered and wearing his black hair cut nearly to his scalp. Edges of tattoos showed above the collar of his turtleneck. He wore a shoulder holster with a semiautomatic snugged under his left arm.
“It’s okay, Semyon. I got this.” The newcomer’s accent was mostly out of the Bronx with a hint of Slavic. His dark eyes were hard, and he smiled like a predatory beast as he ran his eyes over Annja.
Annja waited for his eyes to meet hers again. “You’re not Leonid Klykov.”
He smiled again and held out a hand. “Gimme your purse.”
“I’m not carrying a purse.”
That confused the guy for a minute, and it made a couple of the old fellas in the back crack up.
“That’s right, Georgy. You get her straightened out.”
Georgy waved with his free hand. “Gimme the backpack.”
“Why?”
“Because I said.” He lowered his voice and put more threat into his words.
“No.”
Cursing, Georgy reached for Annja’s backpack strap. Annja captured his arm, rotated it and pulled to get him to bend forward, then she spun sideways toward him and threw an elbow into his face. Georgy stumbled back and reached for his pistol, but Annja got there first and pulled the weapon free. He growled at her and tried to grab her. She backed away and kicked him in the crotch. When he stumbled, she spun to the side and slammed the pistol into the back of Georgy’s head.
Already unconscious, the big man fell face-first toward the tiled floor. Before he hit, Annja held up the 9mm at chest level, pressed the magazine release and worked the slide to eject the bullet, then dropped them. Gun, magazine and bullets all hit the floor just a heartbeat after Georgy.
Several of the other bodyguards had weapons in their hands at that point, all of them aimed at her.
Annja kept her hands up at shoulder level. “I just came here looking for Leonid Klykov. I didn’t come here to be manhandled.”
A group of four old men in the back started laughing out loud and pointing at the bodyguard on the floor.
“Hey, Leonid,” one of them hooted, “I think you are paying Georgy too much.”
An old man with neatly cut gray hair and a short goatee frowned. He was short and had a small pot belly. His dark green eyes remained focused on Annja. He wore a light brown suit that didn’t advertise wealth, but Annja knew from how the suit fit it had been tailored. He rolled a toothpick in his teeth.
“What do you want with Leonid Klykov?” the man asked.
Annja remained standing where she was but she put her hands down at her sides. “To talk.”
“About what?”
“Maurice Benyovszky.”
The man nodded. “That is a sad subject. Why would you want to talk about that poor man?”
“I’m trying to find out who killed him.”
The man shrugged. “Why? Even if you find the killer, Maurice Benyovszky will still be just as dead.”
“Something was stolen from him.”
“Ah.” The man nodded. “So this thing that was stolen belonged to you?”
“No.”
“Then what is your interest in this endeavor?”
“If I find the thing that was stolen, then I’ll probably find Benyovszky’s killer.”
“Again, Maurice will still be dead.”
“But the property that was stolen can be returned to its rightful owner.”
The old man lifted his eyebrows. “Someone hired you to do this thing?”
“No.”
Lifting a hand to his face, the old man scratched at his goatee. “I do not see why you would trouble yourself in this matter.”
“Can you help me, Mr. Klykov?”
Klykov picked up a glass of beer at his elbow and sipped. “Nor do I understand why you would trouble me.”
“I was told you were Benyovszky’s friend.”
“That would be between me and Maurice, and no business of yours.”
“Mr. Klykov, if you know anything about Benyovszky’s murder, I would appreciate your help.”
“You are police. I don’t help police.” Klykov turned his back to her and lifted his beer once more.
“I’m not the police.” Annja started to take a step forward. Frustrated, she decided she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Unfortunately, the other bodyguards still had their weapons in hand and flipped off the safeties. She froze. “Please, Mr. Klykov. If you can help, I wish that you would.”
One of the other men at the table leaned forward and whispered into Klykov’s ear. The old Russian gangster listened, then reached under his jacket as he turned to face her.
Annja’s heart sped up as she thought maybe Klykov was going to deal with her himself.
But the old man only pulled out a pair of glasses and slipped them on. He blinked at her, then smiled broadly. “You are Annja Creed! The chaser of monsters in history!”
Feeling somewhat relieved, but still not certain how everything was going to turn out, Annja smiled and nodded. “I am.”
“Come! Come!” Klykov waved her over to his table. The other men shifted around to make room and one of the bodyguards brought over an extra chair after the old gangster ordered him to. The guns were also put away.
Annja slipped out of her backpack, placed it beside the seat and sat.
“I love your show.” Klykov smiled hugely. “I save them all on my DVR and watch them.”
“That’s awesome.” Annja felt awkward sitting there and didn’t know what to do about it. “Did you know Benyovszky?”
“Maurice? Sure, sure. For a long time. He was one of us.” Klykov motioned to the bartender. “Semyan. Get the lady something to drink.”
Annja asked for a water with lemon. “Did you know about his business?”
“I did. Maurice was very industrious, very knowledgeable about old things.”
Annja took her phone out, thanked Semyan for her drink when he placed it on the table and pulled up a picture of the elephant. “Can you tell me anything about this?”
Klykov adjusted his glasses and peered at the image. “It’s an elephant?”
“Yes, it’s an elephant.” Annja felt her hopes dwindling.
“Then I can tell you it’s an elephant.”
“Maurice never mentioned it to you?”
“Maurice mentioned lots of things. He would talk all day, that one, if you let him.”
One of the other men, a man with a smile made crooked by an old scar along his jaw that pulled his lips down, chimed in. “This is the elephant Maurice was talking about last week. The one he said was going to make him a lot of money.”
Annja turned her attention to the speaker. “Do you remember anything else Maurice said about the elephant?”
The man gave the question some thought and stroked his scarred jaw. “He said it was an old elephant and he was gonna make bank on it.” He shrugged. “That’s all I got.”
Stymied, Annja sipped her water and tried to think of her next course of action. All of her leads had dried up. She wondered if Bart had discovered anything new.
“Tell me something.” Klykov ran a finger along his nose. “How was Maurice killed?”
“You don’t know?”
Klykov burst out laughing and the other men joined him.
“This is trick, da?” the old gangster asked. “You try to entrap me?”
“No. I just thought you might have heard.”
“No. Only Maurice, his killer and the police know how he was killed. That news has not reached the street or been on television.”
Annja speculated if telling Klykov and his cronies that information would affect Bart’s case.
“She is being careful, this one,” the scarred man said. “She is very smart.”
“Obviously she is smart,” Klykov said. “She has a television show.”
“Just because you have a television show doesn’t mean you are smart,” one of the other men said. “Look at some of those crazy reality shows. All my nieces and nephews watch them. They are not so smart on those shows, and they are not so smart in their lives.”
“Well,” Klykov said undaunted, “Annja Creed is smart.” He flicked his gaze back at her. “Tell me how Maurice was killed.”
After another, briefer, hesitation, Annja described the means by which Benyovszky was murdered.
“Ah.” Klykov leaned back in his chair. “Someone Maurice knew. Someone who likes to use a hammer in his kills.” He pursed his lips. “Would you like to know who this malefactor is?”
“Yes.” Excitement thrummed through Annja’s body.
“Then we must work out a trade.”
“A trade?” She thought for a moment that he was kidding her, but then she saw that he was deadly serious.
“Of course a trade. I am not going to do this thing for free. I have my reputation to think of.”
“What do you want?”
Chapter 12
Georgy took the box from the delivery guy who brought it into Buba’s. The delivery guy stood there looking annoyed. Georgy wasn’t in a good mood either. He’d woken up and discovered he was the butt of the other bodyguards’ jokes, kind of like Rudolph at the reindeer games, as one of the bodyguards had put it.
“Georgy,” Klykov called from the table. “Do not be a cheapskate. Pay the man for his troubles.”
Frowning, or maybe grimacing because he still had a large bump on the back of his head that an icepack hadn’t much helped, Georgy held the box in one hand and fished money from his pants pocket with the other. He gave the money to the deliveryman, who promptly made himself scarce.
“If you learn how to tip faster,” one of the other bodyguards called out, “maybe you’ll be in practice to pull your gun faster.”
Georgy snarled an oath at the man while the othe
r bodyguards cracked up. Annja tried to hide her own smile. She’d actually been having a great time listening to the bodyguards rag on Georgy, and soaking up the stories Klykov and the other gangsters told about their misadventures back in the day. All of the old men were good storytellers. As it turned out, crime was a lot funnier than she’d ever imagined. And strangely enough, she thought Roux and Garin would have fit right in with the old gangsters.
Annja shoved aside the remnants of her meal as Georgy placed the box on the table. Klykov had insisted on ordering from the falafel place next door after Annja had inquired about getting something to eat. He had paid for everything and the meal was good.
Taking out a knife, Georgy flicked the blade open with his thumb and slid it along the wrapping tape.
“Back, back,” Klykov said, pushing the big man aside. “I’ve got this.” He stood and reached into the box, hauling out Chasing History’s Monsters T-shirts and Blu-ray collections. He parceled those around to his friends, grinning happily.
Annja still couldn’t believe the old gangster had demanded television swag for his information. All of the items were easily attainable from the show’s website. She waited till all of the items were distributed, including a T-shirt to Georgy, who actually seemed pleased but tried to hide it.
“All right,” she told Klykov. “I’ve held up my end of the deal. Do you know who killed Maurice?”
“Sure, sure. I knew as soon as you told me about the hammer. Maurice knew only one man that would kill him like that. It was Pavel Onoprienko.”
The name didn’t mean anything to Annja, but she typed it into her tablet PC after she asked how to spell it. The scar-faced man, his name was Pitor Serov and he was a grandfather to four little girls whose pictures he loved to show off, leaned in and gave her the correct spelling. Klykov hadn’t known.
“How do you know it was Onoprienko?” Annja got immediate hits on Pavel Onoprienko, known also by his sobriquet Pavel the Gavel. The reason for that followed almost directly.
“Because Onoprienko has a history of killing with hammers.” Klykov frowned as though troubled. “He is a deeply disturbed man. Would you like me to take you to him?”