Brighton Beach

by Robert I. Katz

  “No,” Reginald Rinear said.

  Everett Johns appeared worried.

  “No?” Moran said.

  “No,” Reginald Rinear said.

  “Sooner or later,” Barent said, “we will find the people responsible for the deaths of Mitchell Price, Steven Hayward and his wife, Marilyn Hayward. If it should come out that you refused to divulge information that could have led to the apprehension of said criminals, and possibly have prevented further crimes on their part, we will not hesitate in letting the public know of your involvement.”

  Reginald Rinear’s lips thinned.

  “This is a good deal,” said Barent. “You should take it.”

  Everett Johns sighed. “Give me a moment to confer with my client.”

  “Certainly.” Barent and Moran both rose to their feet. James was waiting for them outside the door.

  “Please come with me.” He led them to a small sitting room. “Can I get you some tea? Coffee, perhaps?”

  “Coffee would be good,” Moran said. “Cream. Two sugars.”

  “You, sir?” James asked.

  Barent glanced at Moran. “Black,” he said.

  James nodded and left. A few moments later, he re-appeared, accompanied by a young white woman wearing a maid’s uniform and pushing a cart. Under James’ watchful eye, the maid placed a pot of coffee, two cups, spoons, cream and sugar on the table. James and the maid both left.

  Moran poured a cup for Barent, then prepared his own and carefully sipped. “Yep,” he said. “It’s coffee, alright.”

  Barent looked down at his cup and shrugged. “The very rich are different from you and me, Harry,” Barent said. “But sadly, their coffee tastes much the same.”

  The door to the sitting room opened. “Master Rinear would like you to come back, sirs,” he said. They trooped back into the office, taking the coffee with them. Everett Johns greeted them with a huge smile. Reginald Rinear looked grim. “My client,” Everett Johns said, “agrees to your terms.”

  A weird dude, Barent thought. Reginald Rinear appeared just a tad embarrassed by his escapades into the seamier side of life. He seemed to be trying to cling to his view of himself as above the mundane cares and concerns of the quotidien world but seemed vaguely aware, somewhere deep inside, that shoving narcotics up his nose was not an activity that a respected member of the upper classes would ordinarily be doing. He was defensive.

  “I began using drugs in college,” Reginald Rinear said. “It was the thing to do at the time, and I have no doubt that it still is. Marijuana, a bit of cocaine.” He shrugged. “It was common at parties. Almost as much so as the wine, the beer and the hors d’oeuvres. A small pile of rolled joints, a silver tray, a small spoon, a container of white powder…” He shrugged again. “You simply weren’t one of the group if you didn’t participate. It was a rite of passage, as it were.” He blinked. “You know how it is.”

  Not entirely, no, but Barent could imagine. He gave an encouraging nod.

  “It seems so innocent, now,” Reginald Rinear said.

  “College was a long time ago,” Barent said.

  “Indeed. We have better drugs, today. Much better.” Reginald Rinear’s lips twitched upward. “The new ones…they’re like a symphony in your head, the sensation is almost indescribable.”

  “Where does it come from?” Moran asked. “How do you get it?”

  “You have to know somebody.” Reginald Rinear frowned. “And the somebody you know knows somebody else, who also knows somebody else, a chain of suppliers reaching across the ocean to God knows where.”

  Reginald Rinear made it all sound quite amazing and exotic but Reginald Rinear was telling him nothing that Barent didn’t already know. Marijuana and meth were the only drugs home grown in the US in large enough amounts to be significant. All the rest were imported, starting in Afghanistan or China or Mexico or a dozen other places. Unscrupulous men refined them or paid to have them refined. Not all of these were violent men. Many were businessmen simply looking for an opportunity, but somewhere along the chain, somebody had to smuggle it in, and the smugglers were almost always prepared to fight and kill, if necessary. And then these killers, or the people that the killers sold it to, had to find salesmen, people ingrained in the community, people who looked normal, people with weaknesses or simply down on their luck. Some of these were desperate. Some did it for the thrill. None of them had a highly developed sense of empathy or concern for their fellow human beings. And so you wound up with the kid in school who could get you a few joints or the salaryman at the next desk who happened to have a little bag of something extra stuffed in a back drawer, or the friendly neighbor down the block who you could go to in a pinch for your daily (or three or four times daily…) fix.

  Sometimes, of course, the farmer, the supplier, the manufacturer, the smuggler, the hard-eyed killer and the local entrepreneur were all part of the same huge organization. If enough money were involved, even the government, or multiple governments along the transport chain, would take its cut and give its unofficial blessing before sending the product on its way. So it was with Afghanistan and China today, with Colombia and Mexico in the not-so-distant past.

  Barent gave Reginald Rinear an encouraging nod. “I understand,” Barent said. “But where did you get it, you personally?”

  Rinear hesitated. “You mentioned Steven Hayward. He was one of them. He has an associate, a man named Andrew Fox.”

  “Did either of these men ever come to you, or did you go to them?”

  “Most often, a group of friends would get together. Either Hayward or Fox would bring it.”

  “It’s good to have friends,” Barent said. Not exactly anonymous, but this was a common model. There was safety in numbers. It all felt more normal, less exposed, though of course, this safety was an illusion. A crowd of people in the living room while a few friendly transactions took place in the den would not protect you if the police decided to raid the place. And more people meant more people who might be able to identify you.

  “This is good,” Barent said. He glanced at Moran, who smiled back. “Give me all the details you can remember. I want to know everything.”

  Chapter 15

  “I am concerned,” Sergei Ostrovsky said.

  Ilya Sokolov, Sergei Ostrovsky’s principal lieutenant, frowned at him. “I think that you should be. I am concerned as well.”

  Sergei Ostrovsky suppressed a smile, though in truth, there was little about this situation to smile about.

  Sergei Ostrovsky was sixty-seven years old, a feared and venerated figure in the Russian community, and even more so in the sub-community that existed on both sides of the law. He had been a Major in the Intelligence Directorate (GRU) prior to the dissolution of the USSR before offering his services, as so many of his colleagues had done, to the rising tide of organized crime. Despite his history, however, Sergei Ostrovsky regarded himself as a voice of moderation and good will. Sergei Ostrovsky had a sense of proportion. He only killed when he had to…or when he was ordered to do so.

  “This latest venture,” Sergei Ostrovsky said, “may not be worth the cost.”

  Ilya Sokolov said nothing.

  “You do not agree?”

  “You rule men because they understand, deep inside themselves, that your wisdom, judgment and strength are greater than their own,” Ilya Sokolov said. “They will stay loyal only so long as they believe that your will is iron and your word unbreakable. They will not follow a leader they consider to be weak.”

  And that, simply stated, was the problem. Action had been taken, not against himself, but against their ally, Javier Garcia, and by association, against their joint venture.

  “And what do you advise?” Sergei Ostrovsky asked.

  Ilya Sokolov hesitated.

  Sergei Ostrovsky gave a small, disgusted laugh. “Steven Hayward was in the employ of Javier Garcia. Despite our probably temporary alliance, the affront is to him, not us. Would you recommend that we offer our as
sistance?”

  Ilya Sokolov frowned. He said nothing.

  “Exactly,” Sergei Ostrovsky said. “Asking for our help, even accepting our help if we were to offer, would make him look weak. Javier Garcia cannot afford to look weak.”

  Sergei Ostrovsky leaned back in his chair. He raised a cup of tea to his lips and took a sip, then set the cup carefully back on his desk. “This adversary has chosen to remain hidden. He is fearful. This is wise of him. He should be fearful.”

  Ilya Sokolov gave a small smile. “Javier Garcia is a dangerous man to play games with.”

  Sergei Ostrovsky shrugged. “What do our contacts in the police have to say?”

  “The perpetrators are unknown to them. They are not natives of New York.”

  “Set up a meeting with Garcia,” Sergei Ostrovsky said. “Let us hear his thoughts on this matter. We will offer our condolences and our aid. He will, no doubt, refuse, but we should offer. We should take care to present a united front in this matter.” Sergei Ostrovsky smiled. “One never knows who might be watching.”

  Ilya Sokolov bowed his head and walked from the room. After he left, Sergei Ostrovsky sipped his drink and gave a long, tired sigh. He was getting a little old for this. Maybe it was time to go down to Florida and sit on the beach. The whores in Miami were said to be beautiful and skilled.

  He sighed again and shrugged. A wistful fantasy. Young lions wished to rule the pride. Old lions knew that the burden of kingship can never be put down.

  No, Sergei Ostrovsky thought. Here I am, and here I remain.

  At least the Security up here was serious. Arnaldo Figueroa recognized one or two of the men at the station outside the Unit, cops moonlighting for a few extra bucks. Also, of course, the newly reconstituted official police guard. You had to have a pass to be admitted, in case Paris Hilton or Kim Kardashian chose to spend a few days getting an anonymous nose-job or tummy-tuck. At the moment, however, the Unit was almost empty, a couple of D list celebrities that Arnaldo Figueroa vaguely recognized from some reality TV shows.

  Rehab was going well. His hand was getting stronger. He still limped, but he could toddle across the room without assistance. He was still clumsy but he could hold a knife and a fork and cut his own food. Not much of a triumph, in the normal course of things, but Arnaldo Figueroa cherished it.

  “How are you, Arnie?”

  Kurtz was a guy Arnaldo Figueroa felt comfortable with. Not quite a cop, but almost. Kurtz had the look, the look of a guy who watched his surroundings, not suspicious exactly, but aware of everyone and everything that went on around him. Arnaldo Figueroa had heard stories about Kurtz. He wasn’t sure he believed them.

  Wordlessly, Arnaldo Figueroa held out his left hand, clenched it into a fist, then spread the fingers.

  “Nice,” Kurtz said.

  “When am I getting out of here?”

  Kurtz looked down at the chart in his hands, considering. “You still need rehab,” he said, “but that can be done as an outpatient. Let me talk to the neurosurgeons.”

  “Great.”

  Kurtz smiled. “A few more days, probably. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  “Great,” Arnaldo Figueroa said again.

  “How do I look?”

  Lenore always asked that and the answer was always the same. “You look terrific,” Kurtz said.

  “Good enough to impress the other wives?” Lenore grinned.

  “Yeah, and the husbands, too.”

  Lenore gave a tiny snort. “They’re a lot easier.”

  Sean Brody was the Chairman of the Department of Surgery at the School. He was hosting a “small” get-together. As a chairman, Brody always seemed to feel an obligation to impress the troops with the quality of the food, if not the entertainment. Tonight, Brody had stressed, would be ‘casual.’ Kurtz wore a button down shirt, no tie, with a blue blazer. Lenore wore a green skirt with a matching blouse, which did nothing to hide her impressive figure.

  Unexpectedly, Donna Ryan was one of the guests. Steve Ryan’s unfortunate demise was still only a few weeks in the past and Donna still seemed subdued, hardly a surprise. She was accompanied by a large guy, probably about her own age, who wasn’t saying much and frankly, seemed a little out of place. The two of them were sitting on a couch, each with a drink in hand. The guy watched the crowd, hovering at Donna’s side. She stared at the carpet.

  “Huh…” Kurtz said.

  Lenore pursed her lips.

  “That’s Arkady Lukin,” Lenore said. “Her cousin.”

  Kurtz frowned. “Cousin?”

  “Second cousin. Or is that second cousin once removed? I can never get that straight. Anyway, his mother is Donna’s mother’s first cousin.”

  Arkady Lukin had dark, hard eyes. He looked around with a flat, level gaze. He wore tailored gray pants and a black sweater. There was a sizeable amount of space around the two of them. The guy just looked intimidating.

  “You want to say ‘hello?’” Kurtz asked.

  Lenore frowned, then glanced at Kurtz’ face and slowly smiled.

  “Sure,” she said.

  The two of them wandered over to the bar, where Lenore grabbed a glass of white wine and Kurtz made himself a Bloody Mary. They greeted a few people, said hello to Sean Brody and his wife, Mary, and slowly made their way across the room. “Donna,” Lenore said. “How are you?”

  Donna Ryan gave a brittle smile. “A little better,” she said. “It helps to get out.” Arkady Lukin stared at Kurtz, who blandly smiled back.

  Kurtz held out his hand. “Richard Kurtz.”

  “This is my cousin,” Donna said, “Arkady.”

  Arkady Lukin looked at Kurtz’ outstretched hand, seemed to think it over, then reached out and enfolded it in his own. Quite a grip, Kurtz thought. You could tell a lot from the way a guy shook hands. This guy, for instance, thought he was tough. Looking at the width of his shoulders and the depth of his chest, he probably was tough. And he liked to let people know it. His grip was strong, strong enough to hurt. Kurtz grinned at him and squeezed back. Arkady Lukin blinked. After a few moments, they both let go.

  “And what do you do?” Arkady Lukin asked. He had a deep voice with no accent.

  “I’m a surgeon,” Kurtz said. “You?”

  Arkady Lukin grinned. “Business.”

  “Arkady works for the Rugov Corporation,” Donna said.

  Kurtz blinked. “Alexei Rugov?” he said.

  The two women stared at him. Arkady Lukin gave a long, slow smile. “You’ve heard of him? Few people have.”

  “Yes,” Kurtz said. “I’ve heard that he’s wealthy.”

  “This is so,” Arkady Lukin said.

  “Tell me, what exactly does your business do?”

  “Rugov is a holding corporation, much like Berkshire-Hathaway, or Bain Capital. We own bits and pieces of other businesses.”

  “That sounds like it might be lucrative.”

  Arkady Lukin nodded. “We have found it to be so.”

  Kurtz grinned. “Also, risky.”

  Arkady Lukin shrugged. “There is no gain without risk. The larger the risk, the larger the potential gain.”

  “If you know what you’re doing.”

  “As you say, Alexei Rugov is a very wealthy man. He knows what he’s doing.” Arkady Lukin gave a cold grin. “The people who work for him do so as well.”

  Kurtz found that he had nothing to say after that. He nodded and after a few pleasantries, he and Lenore wandered away. “What was that all about?” Lenore asked.

  Kurtz imagined that Arkady Lukin’s eyes were boring into his back. The space between his shoulder blades itched. He twitched uncomfortably. “Nothing, probably.”

  Lenore rolled her eyes. “Let me get another glass of wine.”

  The party passed uneventfully. The food was good, the company congenial, the conversation, if not exactly entrancing, was at least not boring. Kurtz opined on the Knick’s awful past season and dreadful prospects for the future and agreed
that the Yankees hopes for another title were at least reasonable.

  David Chao was there, hovering near Carrie Owens side. Donna Ryan and Arkady Lukin left early, which somehow lightened Kurtz’ mood.

  On the drive home, Lenore said, “I once read a comment that sounded very cynical to me, and very sad. Possibly truthful, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “Something to the effect of, ‘You show me the most beautiful woman on Earth and I’ll show you a man who’s tired of sleeping with her.’”

  Kurtz blinked. “Oh?’ he said cautiously.

  “What do you think of that comment?”

  So many choices, Kurtz thought. So many ways to go wrong. “Isn’t beauty supposed to be in the eye of the beholder?”

  She frowned at him. “Excellent attempt at deflection, boychick, as Cousin Sylvia would say. That may or may not be so, but it isn’t exactly answering the question.”

  Kurtz sighed. “What exactly is the question?”

  “Is the charge going out of our relationship?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I want to know what you think.”

  “Alright,” Kurtz said, “I think that we’ve been fucking like bunnies for nearly two years now and I’m not tired of it, yet.”

  “It just seemed to me that we’ve been doing it a little less than we used to.”

  They used to do it three times a day. After living together for over a year and being married for two months, it was down to ten times a week, not that Kurtz was counting. “Maybe a little,” Kurtz conceded.

  Lenore frowned and said nothing.

  They drove in silence for a little while, then Kurtz said, “What brought this on?”

  “I bought some new lingerie.” Lenore smiled. “I was thinking of trying it out.”

  “Oh,” Kurtz said. Crisis averted. He breathed an inward sigh of relief. “That’s a good idea.”

  She smiled wider. “I thought you would say that. I just wanted to be sure.”

  Barent glowered at him. “You want to know what?”

  Kurtz sighed. He had been afraid that Lew would react this way. “What do you know about Alexei Rugov?”