by Frank Zafiro
“That’s pretty organized,” Browning said. “And impressive.”
“It’s more than impressive,” Chisolm said. “It takes training, experience, and balls. You have to be ready for anything.”
“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” Browning quoted.
Chisolm nodded emphatically. “Exactly. In this case, you got DeShawn here, who didn’t come outside right away because he was checking on his cousin. So he’s not in the kill zone when they open fire. He gets a good look at them after the first volley.”
“He was a little bit outgunned, it sounds like.”
“Sure he was. But that’s not the point. The point is, what do these guys do? When things don’t go as planned?”
Browning considered a moment. “They stay calm. They continue to fire. And they stick to their plan.”
“And they get away,” Chisolm added, smiling. He pulled his pen from the dirt and wiped it clean. The two men stood, both ignoring the crackling sounds of the other’s knees. “See, Ray? You’re as smart as I figured you were.”
Browning snorted. “We’ll see.”
“Detective Browning?”
Both men turned to see a man of about thirty years old in a suit. Chisolm recognized him immediately.
“Payne?” he asked, surprised.
Payne gave him a contemptuous look. “It’s Agent Payne,” he corrected, flashing his credentials. “FBI.”
Chisolm raised his thumb and forefinger to his face and rubbed his tired eyes. Memories of a younger Maurice Payne riding in his training car danced in his head. He recalled the weak, mush-mouthed commands, all the fumbling, the constant mistakes.
“FBI,” he muttered. “Great. I don’t need this headache.”
“The agency is working in conjunction with your chief of police to address the issue of Russian organized crime in River City,” Payne announced. “I expect full cooperation from you on this matter, Detective.”
Browning waited a beat before offering a clipped “Of course.”
Chisolm opened his eyes and sighed.
Payne turned his gaze to Chisolm. “That goes for you as well, Officer Chisolm.”
Chisolm chuckled. “How long have you been waiting to say that?” he asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Payne answered, but Chisolm could see the spiteful delight dancing in his eyes.
“Sure you don’t,” Chisolm said. He nodded at Browning. “If you need anything, let me know.” Then he turned to leave.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Payne asked.
Chisolm kept walking.
“I’m talking to you, Officer,” Payne yelled after him. “Come back here!”
“My shift’s over,” Chisolm said, not bothering to turn around. “And I don’t answer to you.”
When he reached the yellow crime scene tape, Ridgeway lifted it for him. He gave Chisolm a rare smile. “Have a good sleep, Tom,” he said.
Chisolm returned the grin and jerked his thumb in Payne’s direction. “Oh, with him in charge, I imagine I’ll sleep like a baby.”
0843 hours
Anthony Battaglia slid his house key into the lock and paused to gather himself. He’d stopped for beers again after work. With B.J. He’d promised himself he’d only have one, but before he realized it they’d each had three. Both had done a good job of keeping up pretenses that the sexual tension wasn’t there, while at the same time doing nothing to dispel it. Battaglia wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Well, you’re not gonna figure it out standing on the porch.
He closed the front door behind him as quietly as possible. He figured Rebecca would be awake, but it was summertime and they let the kids sleep in. He tossed his keys onto the table next to the door and wandered into the kitchen.
Rebecca sat at the breakfast bar, reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. She looked up when he walked in. “Busy night?”
Battaglia shrugged. “There was a shooting near the end of shift.”
“Was it bad?”
“It was a gang drive-by,” Battaglia answered. “They unloaded on those guys with assault rifles.” He reached out and took a bite of Rebecca’s toast. “Killed four.”
Rebecca lowered the newspaper. “Four?”
“Yep.”
“That’s horrible.”
“It wasn’t horrible when it was one?”
“It was,” Rebecca said, “but… four? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of something like that happening here before.”
Battaglia yawned. “I don’t know if it has or not.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. He hoped she didn’t notice the beer on his breath. “I’m heading to bed.”
“Okay,” she said behind him. As he neared the doorway, she asked, “It was bad enough you needed beers after, huh?”
Battaglia looked over his shoulder and shrugged. “Yeah, a couple of us from the platoon had choir practice after shift. Why?”
Rebecca gave him a warm smile. “It’s not a problem, babe. But I’m here if you want to talk to me, too, okay?”
Guilt washed over him. He clenched his jaw and swallowed. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
Battaglia nodded. “Well, good night, then.” He turned to go.
“Babe?”
“Yeah?”
“I finished a new poem last night. I left it on the nightstand for you.”
“Great,” Battaglia said with an enthusiasm he didn’t feel.
“This one’s a little darker, but I think you’ll like it.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“So let me know what you think?”
“Sure.” He cleared his throat. “Can I read it when I wake up, though? I’m bushed.”
“Of course. Get some sleep.”
“All right. Thanks.” He turned to go again.
“Babe?”
“What?” he asked, a bit sharply.
Rebecca’s expression turned slightly hurt, but she didn’t acknowledge his tone. “I love you,” she said. “That’s all.” After a moment she added, “Good night.”
Battaglia nodded and turned away.
He climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Frustration and guilt burned in his chest as he took every step. Once in the bedroom, he kicked off his boots and peeled his clothing off. He ignored the sheet of paper on the nightstand, written in Rebecca’s flowing script. Instead he flopped into the king-sized bed and hoped that the beer and the long night would lower the curtain of sleep on him right away, but the wheels of his mind started turning.
He shouldn’t be thinking about B.J. Rebecca was a good woman. She was his wife. The mother of his children.
Battaglia sighed into his pillow. All of that didn’t matter. It wasn’t the same anymore. Rebecca just didn’t… excite him. And she made him feel stupid. She’d taken to reading a lot of different books. Some were poetry or stories, other times it was history or philosophy. He asked her why and she said it was for entertainment. To expand her mind.
For entertainment, Battaglia would just as soon watch a shoot-’em-up movie or catch a ball game. As far as mind expansion went, the only thing he equated that with was drug use. And there wasn’t a cop alive who thought that was okay.
The quiet hum of the air conditioner filled the dark room. He could almost hear the rustle of the paper on the nightstand. He thought about B.J. to drive away the sound. Her laugh. Her eyes. The smell of her hair when she’d brushed up against him. The feel of her lips when they’d grazed his cheek.
“Jesus,” Battaglia murmured.
He was going to have a hard time getting to sleep this morning.
1020 hours
“You did well, my brothers,” Val told the assembled group in the deserted auto shop. “The TV stations are reporting four kills. I am pleased.”
Val noticed the way each man stood ramrod straight in his presence. He noticed the subtle reaction of pride when he praised them. He allowed himself a flutte
r of satisfaction—these were now truly his men. No longer Sergey’s, but his. That would matter later on. It would be critical. Plans within plans within plans.
“The van?” he asked Yuri.
Yuri smiled, showing the rot of his blackened teeth. “At the other shop on Market Street. By noon, it will be in pieces. Then I will transport those pieces to the salvage yard.”
“Good. Any piece with a VIN on it must be destroyed.”
Yuri nodded. “I understand.”
Val turned to Black Ivan. “You are ready for the next move?”
“Da.” The large man stood even straighter. “We’ll give the burros the same thing we gave the chernozhopyi this morning.”
“This one must be quieter,” Val said. He motioned toward Mikhail, the smallest man in the group. “He is good with the knife, no?”
Mikhail glanced at Ivan. Then he removed a large folding knife from his pocket and snapped the blade into place with a flick of his wrist. Without looking down at the knife, Mikhail spun and twirled the black blade adeptly. He swayed his arm back and forth as the knife danced in his hand. The motion reminded Val of a hooded cobra. Then, just as quickly as he started, he stopped, the knife poised to strike.
“He is good,” Ivan said simply.
“Then you know what to do,” Val said. “And do it soon.”
“It will be so.”
Val met the eyes of each man, his demanding gaze a mixture of threat, trust, and pride. Then he turned and left. He slid into the passenger seat of his green BMW.
“Go,” he told Pavel.
Pavel turned down the music on the stereo and drove north. “Where next?”
“I am to meet your father at the bakery on Hamilton Street.”
“Good,” Pavel said. “I’m hungry.”
Val didn’t speak. He ignored the mindless tune on the radio and turned over the morning’s events in his mind. The execution by his men had been nearly flawless. The remaining Crips would be shell-shocked from the attack. Once the next stage of Sergey’s plan was completed, Val was sure that they’d be ready to deal their way out of any further problems.
That left the bookkeeper. He’d put the word out to everyone he could think of regarding Oleg. There was a substantial reward for anyone who came forward with information on the traitor. Of course, he didn’t need to tell anyone that there was an equally substantial penalty for anyone who hid Oleg or helped him in any way.
If he were Oleg, where would he run? Certainly not home to Ukraine. With all of the business and family connections there, it would be tantamount to walking into Sergey’s living room.
He couldn’t go to any of the cities in the U.S. that had a heavy Russian population. The result would be the same—someone would see him, and whether they had the word that Val wanted him or not, the knowledge of his whereabouts would eventually find its way to someone who did. It wouldn’t take long for the promise of cash or the fear of a visit from Black Ivan to result in a phone call, and that would be that. Oleg was not stupid. He had to know this.
Where, then? Val frowned. It was a difficult proposition for him to consider, because he himself would never run. He might lie low for a brief time until he was ready to exact his vengeance, but flee like a coward? Never.
He didn’t think Oleg was a coward, either. He would want revenge for those three beloved bodies that burned up in his home. How best to accomplish that?
Val stared out his window as the businesses on Nevada Street flashed past. Several blocks of mini strip malls were filled with niche businesses from ceramics to used music to pet grooming. He smiled as they passed a small Russian grocery store. The bold lettering of the Cyrillic alphabet on the red sign above the door gave him some measure of satisfaction.
We are gaining a true foothold here, he thought. We are making it home.
Oleg may not have been a coward, but he was no soldier, either. There was no way he could successfully come after Sergey with guns and force. Oleg was smart. He had to know that wasn’t possible. So how best to exact his revenge?
Val resisted a sigh. He’d known the answer instinctively all along, but had wished it weren’t true. He’d hoped that even though Oleg had betrayed Sergey, he wouldn’t go so far as to betray his entire people. But his hope had been a vain one. There were no other possibilities. Oleg had gone to the police.
Val supposed that this made things easier, in a way. He could focus his efforts on finding information, casting his nets around the police station instead of a wider area. But it also accelerated matters. He had to find a way to get to Oleg before the bookkeeper gave them too much. Every hour counted.
Pavel signaled and pulled into the small parking lot outside the Russian bakery. He turned off the car and released his seat belt. Val reached across and stopped him. “Wait here.”
Pavel scowled. “But I’m hungry.”
“I’ll bring you something.”
“Maybe I want to see my father,” Pavel suggested.
Val turned a cold, hard glare onto his nephew. “Then stay home for dinner tonight instead of running around with your imbecile friends. But for now, you wait in the car.”
Pavel pouted but said nothing.
Val went inside. Sergey was seated in the corner with a newspaper, sipping coffee and nibbling a pastry. He didn’t look up when Val sat across from him. Val checked the masthead of the newspaper. It was the local paper of record, the River City Herald. The much smaller Russian-language weekly sat at his elbow.
A young girl that Val knew to be the baker’s daughter appeared at the table. “Coffee?” she asked.
Val glanced at Sergey’s cup. “Do you have Turkish?”
She shook her head. “But I have beans from Turkey. I can make an espresso.”
Val waved her suggestion away. “Never mind. Just bring me another of these pastries. To go.”
After she left, Sergey lowered the newspaper. “To go? You are in some kind of hurry today, brother?”
“The pastry is for Pavel. He is driving me today and he is hungry.”
“He doesn’t come in to pay his respects to his father?”
Val shook his head. “He should not hear what we speak about this morning.”
Sergey raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “Of course. But someday, he must learn it all.”
“Someday,” Val said. “But not today.”
“No,” Sergey said. “I suppose it is too soon for him.”
“His time will come.”
Sergey watched him for a few moments, then motioned to the newspaper. “It never surprises me,” he said.
“What is that?”
“These Americans,” Sergey said. “They love the violent movies. The Godfather movies, the Rambo. But then a few criminals get shot, men that they would like to see go far away anyway, and what do they do?” He flicked the newspaper with his fingers. “They cry and wring their hands like women. I don’t understand it.”
Val shrugged. “Americans are different.”
Sergey snorted. “They are weak.”
Val didn’t agree, but he was not going to argue with Sergey. Americans had their soft spots, but it would never do to underestimate them. Throughout history, they’d always seemed to have the snarl when their backs were put to the wall. Maybe the 1990s generation would be different, but Val doubted it.
“Anyway,” Sergey continued, reaching for his coffee, “tell me what you are here to tell me.” He sipped his coffee and watched Val.
“Your main operation is moving forward perfectly,” Val told him. “It is the other complication that I am worried about.”
“The bookkeeper,” Sergey grunted. He tore off a piece of his pastry and tossed it into his mouth. “When we find him, I would like him taken apart a piece at a time.”
“I believe he has gone to the police,” Val said. “In fact, I see no other option for him.”
Sergey pressed his lips together. “Then we have very little time.”
“True.”
&
nbsp; “This is bad, Valeriy.”
“I agree.”
“He knows too much.”
“I know,” Val answered. “But that may work in our favor.”
Sergey scowled. “How?”
“It may give us a little time.”
Sergey plucked another piece of his pastry. “I am afraid I don’t understand, little brother,” he said.
“Oleg wants revenge,” Val explained. “But he is not stupid. That is why he went to the police. It was his best opportunity for revenge.”
“I know that,” Sergey snapped. “Tell me how this may help us.”
The baker’s daughter approached the table and set a wrapped pastry next to Val. He reached into his pocket, peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her. “Keep the extra,” he told her. “Buy a music CD or something pretty for yourself.”
She blushed and thanked him. Val waited until she had walked out of earshot to speak again. “Once Oleg thinks it out, he will start to wonder what is beyond his revenge. What comes after. And once he considers that, he will slow down. He will tell the police very little. He will want to make the best deal for himself. All he has for leverage is the information he knows. So he will wait.”
Sergey looked at him, considering. After a few moments he nodded his head. “You may be correct. But what if he wants revenge too much to wait?”
“He is too smart for that.”
“What if the police give him the greatest deal right away?”
“They won’t.”
“What if they do?” Sergey pressed.
He is like a scared woman sometimes, Val thought. These are the times that it shows he was never a soldier.
“I heard a saying here in America,” Val said. “It goes, ‘What if grasshoppers had machine guns?’”
Sergey’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What does this mean?”
“If grasshoppers had machine guns, the birds would not fuck with them,” Val said.
There was a long moment of silence, then a large grin spread across Sergey’s face. “I see. This is funny.” He made a gun with both fingers and pantomimed a machine gun burst. “Ba-ba-bah. No more birds. Good.”