Brighton Beach

by Robert I. Katz

“Why? Because you’re curious?”

  “Yes, actually,” Kurtz said.

  “Why?”

  Yes, genius. Why? Kurtz cleared his throat. “I had a very small family. My mother died when I was very young. It was just my father and me. I’ve always wondered what growing up with a large family was like.”

  She gave him a doubtful look, then shrugged. “When you’re young, you tend to take it all for granted. It’s just the way life is. They’re always there, the aunts, the uncles, the cousins, not necessarily appreciated and sometimes even disliked, but they’re still your family and you can’t choose your family. It’s comforting, in a way, knowing that all these people exist who have at least some minimal interest in you and your life, being a part of something larger.” Donna shook her head. “And then you grow up and you don’t see them quite as often. And then Aunt Galina dies and a few years later, Uncle Boris passes away and then, suddenly, you hardly see them at all. You find that the current generation doesn’t have the same interests, the same allegiance, as their parents did. It’s sad. I hardly ever see most of my cousins, anymore. We’ve drifted apart, but I was always close to Arkady.”

  “He seemed very protective of you,” Kurtz said.

  Donna smiled wistfully. “Kids sometimes gang up on other kids. They’re uncivilized little beasts, most of them, until they get older, and sometimes not even then. I was always the bookish sort. Most of my cousins were more rowdy. Some of them picked on me. Arkady always defended me.”

  “Picked on you how?”

  “The usual baloney. Steal my books, hide my pens, unravel my braids when my back was turned. None of them meant much harm. I suppose they would tell you that they were just having fun.”

  “What does Arkady do for Rugov?”

  “He’s a financial analyst, like me.”

  “Does he ever talk about the deals he’s involved in?”

  Donna blinked at him. “Not at all. That would be highly unethical. Our clients have an expectation of confidentiality. We wouldn’t stay in business very long if we violated that expectation.”

  “But Arkady, unlike you, did not seem to be the bookish type. He seemed very fit.”

  “He is fit. Arkady was all-state in track and field. He threw the shot-put and the javelin. He also wrestled.” Donna shrugged. “Ability at athletics is not incompatible with having an excellent mind.” She pursed her lips and examined the width of Kurtz’ shoulders. “You should know that.”

  A point, Kurtz thought. A definite point. “And did Arkady have an excellent mind?”

  “When he was young, he had little interest in school. He was smart but his grades didn’t reflect it. Somewhere along the line, he grew up.”

  “Tell me about his family,” Kurtz said.

  Donna frowned. “Arkady’s father runs a store that specializes in men’s clothing. He’s successful. His mother stayed home and raised the children. He has one older brother, Vasily. Vasily was born in the old country, a few years before his parents emigrated. His sisters are Olga and Natasha, both younger, both born here. Vasily was always getting into trouble when he was young. I believe that he spent some time in a juvenile correction facility. Olga and Natasha are both pretty girls. They’re interested in fashion, makeup, partying and not much else.”

  “I remember Olga and Natasha,” Lenore said. “They don’t have three brain cells between them.”

  Donna shrugged.

  “I don’t recall much about Vasily,” Lenore said. “He never seemed to be around.”

  “I don’t know,” Donna said.

  And that was that. They chatted for a few more minutes and then took their leave. In the car, on the drive back to Manhattan, Kurtz was silent. Lenore let him think for awhile and then said, “Did you get anything useful out of that discussion?”

  “Hard to say. I’m forming more of a picture of the guy. Will that lead to anything?” Kurtz sighed. “Probably not, but you never know.”

  Lenore smiled. “There are things that Donna didn’t want to say. Arkady was protective of Donna when they were kids but Donna was just as protective of him. Arkady had a tough time of it in school.”

  Kurtz glanced at her. “How so?”

  “Because Arkady is gay.”

  Kurtz blinked. “Really…”

  “Really,” Lenore said.

  “Hey, come on in.”

  Holding a large gin and tonic in his left hand, Alan Saunders smiled blearily at his friend, Reggie Johnson, and held the door open. Reggie Johnson nodded to the woman at his side. “This is Alicia.”

  Alicia, a small brunette with red lips and a tiny, up-tilted nose, smiled. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  “Welcome,” Alan Saunders said. “Come on in and help yourselves.”

  Inside, most of the furniture had been pushed to the sides of the large living room. The music blared. Three couples were already dancing. A long table covered with cold cuts, sliced bread and mixed hors d’oeuvres had been set up along one wall. Another table on the opposite wall held wine, beer, various bottles of liquor and ice.

  “You want a drink? Something to eat?” Reggie Johnson said.

  Alicia shrugged. “I’m not really into this scene. Let’s get what we came for and hit the road.”

  Reggie grinned. “Sure,” he said, and turned to Alan Saunders, who had walked in behind them. “The man of the hour here, yet?”

  Alan Saunders wrinkled his nose. “He’s got somebody with him. They’re in the small office next to the den.”

  Reggie blinked. “Who’s with him?”

  Alan Saunders’ eyes skittered to the side. “He says he’s a bodyguard.”

  “A bodyguard?”

  “He just sits there. He doesn’t say much.”

  “He’s never had a bodyguard before. I don’t like that,” Reggie said. “I don’t like it at all.”

  “Me, neither, but if you want to buy what he’s selling, then that’s the way it is.”

  Reggie glanced at Alicia, who looked worried. “You want to do this?”

  “They’ve been here for over an hour,” Alan Saunders said. “There hasn’t been any trouble.”

  “Let’s do it,” Alicia said. “Fast.” She frowned at Alan Saunders. “And then let’s leave.”

  Reggie shrugged. He walked down a corridor, then turned left. Alicia followed. The door to the office was open. “Hey, there,” a man said. He was maybe thirty years old, wearing designer jeans and a long-sleeved pullover. He sat on a small sofa, a black carry bag at his feet. Another man, with light brown skin and black hair, sat next to him. This man looked at Reggie and Alicia, gave them a slight nod but said nothing.

  Reggie gave a tentative smile and pulled out a roll of cash.

  The first man smiled back. His eyes flicked to Alicia, who was staring at the cash. He smiled wider, opened the carry bag and pulled out a sandwich sized zip-loc bag half filled with white powder. He hefted the bag in his open palm and handed it over. Reggie gave him the money and carefully placed the zip-loc bag in his pocket.

  Both men had done this before. “Pleasure doing business with you,” the man said.

  Reggie grinned. “You bet.”

  They walked back down the corridor and into the living room, which was starting to get crowded. The music was loud. Three guys huddled in a corner, chugging back wine and discussing something that couldn’t be heard over the music. Four women were dancing together.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Alicia said.

  “Sure,” Reggie said.

  The door opened. A man walked in, followed by another, then three more. Two of them carried handguns in their fists. The others held rifles. Reggie blinked at them. The five men spread out, lifted their guns and opened fire at the crowd. Reggie felt both of his legs give way and he fell heavily. Alicia crumbled next to him. One of the gunmen put a couple of short bursts through the stereo system. The music stopped. Within seconds, everyone but the gunmen were lying on the floor.

  Three gunme
n calmly walked through the back of the room and down the corridor. A few seconds later, more shots rang out. The gunmen re-appeared in the living room.

  “Attention,” one of the gunmen said. Alicia was curled up near Reggie’s side, moaning. Reggie, both legs shattered, could hear him clearly.

  “Attention, please,” the gunman said again. He smiled. “With appropriate care, most of you will live. You should be grateful. If we had wished to kill you, all of you would now be dead. Consider this a warning.” He briefly surveyed the room and gave a small, satisfied nod. All five gunmen walked out.

  “A warning of what?” Barent said.

  Moran puffed up his cheeks and shrugged.

  The wounded had been bundled up and taken by ambulance to area hospitals. None of them were dead, though at least three had suffered so much blood loss that they were unlikely to survive. The two men in the back office, however, were very dead indeed, having been hit by at least ten bullets each in the abdomen and chest. Not the head. Whoever had done this had wanted the dead men to be easily identifiable.

  Curious that the carry bag full of white powder had also been left behind. A rival gang might kill a man to steal his very valuable stash of narcotic. The fact that they had left it in place was, presumably, a part of the message.

  “A turf war?” Moran said.

  “Seems likely.”

  Joe Danowski, a Lieutenant on the Narcotics Squad, walked back into the office, took a look at the dead men and grunted. “Alejandro Gonzales,” he said.

  “What’s his story?”

  “The usual. In and out of prison, petty crimes, mostly. Marijuana. A little cocaine. He’s Mexican. We haven’t seen him around lately. I guess he graduated into bigger, if not better things.”

  “Sad,” Moran said. “All that education, wasted.”

  Danowski barely cracked a smile. “I don’t recognize the white guy.”

  “His wallet says he’s Andrew Fox. His partner was Steven Hayward, who recently had his head cut off. Also, Hayward’s wife.”

  Danowski puffed up his cheeks. “I’ve heard that.”

  “So, what do you think is in the bag?” Barent said.

  Danowski shrugged. “We’ll find out.”

  Javier Garcia was not pleased. “First the Haywards. Now this. Who were they?”

  Esteban Martinez frowned. He was worried. Esteban Martinez had started out as a typical young gang-member, but he turned out to have a head for figures. La Familia had found this talent to be useful. Esteban Martinez no longer carried a gun and no longer needed to involve himself in the more sordid aspects of their mutual business. Also, he had grown fat. Esteban Martinez was not looking forward to a war.

  “We don’t know.” Esteban Martinez hesitated. “They were white. They had no discernible accent. They could have been anybody.”

  “And yet they knew where the event was due to take place. They knew where Fox and Alejandro would be. It was a message, they said. A message.” He almost hissed it.

  Esteban Martinez winced. He cleared his throat and swallowed. Javier Garcia was clearly furious. Esteban Martinez had seen this aspect of his old friend and colleague only a few times, and not at all in recent years, but he knew that somebody was going to die.

  Javier Garcia glared at him. “You will find out who did this,” he said. It was not a request.

  Esteban Martinez sighed. “You know that the obvious candidate is Alexei Rugov. We have ended our distribution arrangement with his organization. He was not pleased.”

  “It may be Rugov and it may not. Perhaps we are meant to think that it is Rugov. In chaos, there is opportunity. Is this not so? Perhaps there are those who would benefit by a war between Alexei Rugov and ourselves. I will not attack the Rugov organization without proof that he is responsible.” He glared again at Esteban Martinez. “Find out.”

  Esteban Martinez nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I will.”

  Chapter 17

  Mrs. Shapiro’s voice sounded worried. “There is a man at the front desk, Doctor. He’s asking to see you.”

  Kurtz sighed. It had been a long, frustrating morning. First a gallbladder that had been more difficult than expected, then an unscheduled appendix in the ER that couldn’t wait. He had hurried back to the office and had been hoping for a little time to inhale a sandwich before his first patient. He stared down at the roast beef on rye that he had just opened, gritting his teeth. “Is it an emergency?”

  “He says it’s urgent.”

  “Urgent,” Kurtz muttered.

  “He says to tell you that his name is Vasily Lukin.”

  Slowly, Kurtz smiled. He folded his sandwich back up and placed it into the middle drawer of his desk, then opened the side drawer, pulled out a Sig Sauer P365, checked the slide, made certain there was a bullet in the chamber and gently placed the gun back in the center of the drawer, where he could reach it easily. Police surgeons were authorized to carry. Kurtz had only recently purchased the gun. Small, easily concealable, with a nitron slide and a ten-round magazine. A truly nifty little weapon. He left the drawer open.

  “Send him in,” Kurtz said.

  Vasily Lukin looked a lot like his brother. He was just as tall, a little leaner, with a hard face and glittering black eyes. He wore black pants and a matching black blazer with a telltale bulge under the left shoulder. There were tattoos on his hands. He stalked into the office, sat down in one of the two chairs across from the desk and stared at Kurtz.

  Kurtz smiled back. “Can I help you?” he said.

  Vasily Lukin continued to stare. The smile still on his face, Kurtz stared back. After a moment, Vasily Lukin frowned and looked away. “You are a physician,” he said.

  “That is correct.”

  “A surgeon.”

  Kurtz nodded.

  “Two nights ago, you paid a visit to Donna Petrovich.”

  “Her name is Donna Ryan, now. She hasn’t been Donna Petrovich in a long time.”

  Vasily Lukin shrugged. “Her husband is dead.”

  “Yes,” Kurtz said. “He committed suicide.”

  “He was weak,” Vasily Lukin said.

  “Perhaps so,” Kurtz said, “but now he’s dead, and the dead can no longer trouble the living, so why are you here?”

  Vasily Lukin leaned forward in his chair. “You will stay away from Donna Petrovich.”

  “Will I?” Kurtz sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers together beneath his chin. Kurtz did not like Vasily Lukin any more than he liked his brother, which on first impression was not at all. Vasily Lukin seemed somehow to think that he was hot shit. Truthfully, Kurtz had not expected to have anything further to do with Donna Ryan after their conversation the other night, but he liked the idea of pulling Vasily Lukin’s chain. “Tell me, does Alexei Rugov know that you’re here?”

  Vasily Lukin stared at him.

  “Nothing to say? I expect not, then.”

  “You are foolish,” Vasily Lukin said. “You are more than foolish. Alexei Rugov is not a name that you should be speaking carelessly.”

  “No? Let’s see…how about Iosif Kozlov? Sergei Ostrovsky, perhaps? Are these names that I should be speaking carelessly? I was given to understand that Russian mobsters believe in discipline. The needs of the organization are paramount, and all that. What need is served by your visit here today?”

  Vasily Lukin narrowed his eyes, then shrugged, rose to his feet and stalked out of the office. Kurtz moved to the window. A few seconds later, he saw Vasily Lukin exit the building and get into the back seat of a black Mercedes sedan that was double parked on the street. Too far away to see the license plate, not that the license plate would tell him anything useful. The sedan drove away.

  Kurtz sighed and picked up the phone.

  “You said what?” Barent stared at him, incredulous.

  “The guy pissed me off,” Kurtz said, defensively. So okay, maybe he had been a little indiscreet.

  Barent stared at him, then let out a low whistle
and shook his head. “I always knew you were a loaded gun but this is seriously nuts.”

  “I don’t like it when mobsters try to tell me what to do.”

  “And this happens every day? That mobsters try to tell you what to do?”

  “It’s happened before,” Kurtz said. “It annoys me, and even once is once too much.”

  “So, what do you plan on doing, now? You’ve stuck your head into a hornet’s nest, not for the first time, I might add. And for what? What did you expect to get out of that idiotic conversation?”

  Kurtz had been asking himself the same thing. He shrugged.

  “Why couldn’t you have just told the guy that you had no intention of approaching Donna Ryan ever again? Why couldn’t you have just given him what he wants?”

  “But I don’t know what he wants.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know what he wants? He wants you to stay away from Donna Ryan. You do know that, right? Because he said so?”

  Barent’s voice, Kurtz noted, had gone just a tad high-pitched.

  But why did Vasily Lukin, or the organization of which he was a member, want him to stay away from Donna Ryan? Offhand, Donna Ryan didn’t seem like the sort of woman to interest Russian mobsters. “Alright,” Kurtz said. His voice sounded petulant even to himself. “Fine.”

  Barent let out a long, slow breath. “Are you carrying?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Kurtz said.

  “Great,” Barent said. “That’s just great.”

  “I’m a police surgeon,” Kurtz said. “It’s a dangerous job. Sometimes people threaten us.”

  “Yeah,” Barent said. “And sometimes they deserve it.”

  “This man was not what I expected,” Vasily Lukin said.

  Alexei Rugov sat back and pondered this. “How much does he know?”

  Vasily Lukin shrugged. “Probably nothing, or at least nothing that we care about. Your name is hardly a secret. Neither is that of Iosif Kozlov, nor Sergei Ostrovsky.”

  It was easy to kill people, Alexei Rugov reflected, and sometimes it was necessary, but killing people tended to have consequences, some of them unexpected and some unpleasant. Killing a physician, particularly a physician associated with the police was not a step to be taken lightly, not when Alexei Rugov’s name had already been mentioned. He and his organization existed in a delicate web of relationships and obligations and some things were simply not worth the cost.