by James Bruno
Wentworth brought up the rear.
"What do you want me to do, boss?" he asked.
Al faced a dilemma. No Ricky to be seen. He wanted somebody to share the table with him from his organization, if only to impress on Yakov that he headed a solid and united outfit. One elementary lesson he learned long ago was that you never, never betrayed any hint of weakness to your rivals or potential rivals. Those whose organizations exhibited cracks invited destruction.
Yet he had gone out of his way to keep Wentworth apart, on the clean, "legitimate" side of his affairs. After all, that was the reason he'd hired him.
A solution hit him like a lightning bolt. Keep Wentworth around till Ricky showed up. Ricky could be sloppy, but, in the end, he really never let his uncle down.
Al would keep the conversation on small talk until Ricky arrived. Then he'd quietly ask Wentworth to attend to other matters elsewhere.
Al put his hand on Wentworth's shoulder and spoke softly into his ear, "First of all, don't call me boss.
Chuckie, stick around for a few minutes. Have a drink.
Look important, but don't say much. I'll have something else for you to do later. Got me?" He winked. Wentworth gave a single nod. Ambassadors and generals used to do this to him. He knew how to be a good aide.
They took their seats. The wine steward promptly poured the Soave.
Al lifted his glass. "To old friends. Cent'anni! "
Forgetting protocol, he clinked glasses first with the Princess of Russia, as Al thought of Lydia.
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" Nazdaroviye," Yakov returned the toast. "May old friends find new business."
Al could see what was coming.
Wentworth followed orders and kept silent, except when spoken to. Al had introduced him simply by his name, leaving a question mark in the minds of the Russians as to his true position in Al's structure. Dimitrov glared at him intensely. Lydia sat directly opposite Wentworth. They smiled politely at one another.
The antipasto arrived. Marinated eggplant, oil cured olives, sliced prosciutto and salami, sardines, sun dried tomatoes and red peppers on a bed of romaine and arugula.
Al served his guests personally.
After some small talk, Yakov began, "Now, Al, I think you know what is on my mind. But first, I let you to talk about why we meet tonight. For example, some problems of supply--"
"Hey, you got problems, I got problems, everybody's got problems. Don't worry about it now. Let's have a good time. Mangia! " Al saluted them with another raised glass.
Yakov's face betrayed puzzlement.
Dimitrov, ex-fighter of the Hindu Kush and professional survivor of Russia's cutthroat mafia wars, squinted as if confused. His radar-like eyes coldly locked onto Al's face, minutely scrutinizing every move and gesture, studying him as a cobra does its prey.
Wentworth attacked the antipasto lustily. He and Lydia continued to exchange polite smiles.
"Your associate here." Yakov gestured at Wentworth.
"Mr…"
"Wentworth," he responded.
"Ah, yes. You are new," Yakov said knowingly. "Your duties include…?"
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Al interjected before Wentworth could answer. "Yeah.
Chuckie here's been with us, what, nine months?"
Wentworth
nodded.
"He's been working on special projects, haven't you Chuckie?"
"Ah yes. I see. And, so, where then is Mr. Ricky tonight?"
"Also working on special projects. He should be joining us real soon."
Dimitrov took it all in silently.
The two bosses reverted to talking about New York politics, conditions in Russia, the weather and other non-business-related matters. Al kept looking at his watch. Just where was that goddamn nephew, anyway?
Lydia's eyes kept meeting Wentworth's. He reciprocated. Each smiled faintly. Gentle wafts of a delicate perfume came his way, carried on invisible currents.
The next course, piping hot bowls of stracciatella soup, was served neatly by Tony's efficient men.
"You make me eat borscht. Now it's my turn to take revenge," Al joked.
Yakov maintained a jovial demeanor, but his impatience, mingled with confusion, was making itself felt.
Dimitrov definitely picked up that something was not quite right in the Malandrino camp.
Wentworth broke the ice with Lydia in a quiet side conversation.
"Do you speak English?" he asked.
Her cheeks reddened and dimpled ever so slightly with a gentle smile and responded in a voice which was neither high nor very low in pitch. "Yes. I studied English for twelve years. I love English. More than French." She spoke as much with her expressive eyes as with her mouth.
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Goose bumps erupted across Wentworth's skin.
"And
I
love America!" she added.
Wentworth's scalp tingled.
The door swung open, banging against the inside wall.
In sauntered Ricky, dressed in a loud, silk turquoise suit, shirt open to reveal a nest of dark hair. Over this he wore a bold camel hair coat with a huge curved collar.
Al's eyes shot at his nephew, reflecting anger and surprise, but tempered with relief. Looks like a stinking pimp, Al thought.
"Hey, sorry I'm late everybody," Ricky offered with no further explanation. He took a seat next to his uncle.
With a slight nod from Al, Wentworth excused himself.
A similar gesture from Yakov excused Lydia. Ricky cast a lingering leer over Lydia. The two went downstairs to wait in the restaurant lounge by the bar.
"Now we get to business, yes?" Yakov asked.
"Yes," Al said. "We got some problems we need to iron out. For some reason, this is the season for problems. But with my Russian friends, these are few."
Yakov nodded assent. "Only three years we have done business together. In three years we make more money together. Every year, all of us at this table, we have become richer. Druzhba i brastvo, friendship and brotherhood -- but not communist kind!"
Al chuckled.
"Yakov, I want to raise an issue of m.o.--"
"What?"
"Modus operandi. The way we do things in our organizations. You know, habits, practice. That kind of thing.
"In any case, this incident at the pier a little while back."
"Yes. Teamsters man who cannot mind his own business."
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"Yeah. The guy was a jerk, had no business butting into our affairs."
"Now he is no longer problem," Yakov interjected self-contentedly, brushing his palms together to indicate that, like a ball of lint, Max Chesny was easily disposed of.
Ricky started, only to be caught by an impatient signal from Al to keep quiet, an act lost on neither Yakov nor Dimitrov.
The diners fell silent suddenly as Tony's waiters removed the soup dishes and served steaming plates of cavatelli lightly covered in a heavily garlicked green pesto sauce. The silence persisted as Al's beloved fried calamare and a fine red Bordolino, personally selected by Al, were served. Long experienced with Pironi's special clientele, with their eccentric need for strict privacy, the headwaiter whispered to Al that he would be on call at the bottom of the stairs.
Al cocked an ear toward the door, listening intently as the waiters shambled down the steps. Satisfied that privacy was ensured, he fixed his sight on Yakov's face.
"Look, I know that in Russia it's Wild West time, that anything goes and everybody's out for himself. The place has just opened up. Nobody's on top and there are no codes of conduct.
"It used to be that way in this country too. Back in the
'20s and '30s people were machine gunning each other in the streets. They talk about how some cities are 'dangerous'
today. You should've seen Chicago back then. My old man used to tell me
about Luciano and Capone and all those old gangsters. How they could buy any politician, judge, cop. And how they let their temper get the best of them, then go out and chop their enemies down -- shoot them, beat their brains out, set 'em on fire, throw 'em out windows, or off a bridge with cement overshoes. Those PERMANENT INTERESTS
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were crazy times. But it was Prohibition. After FDR
repealed Prohibition, those wiseguys who didn't behave themselves went to jail, like Capone. The rest of them grew up."
Yakov listened carefully and nodded.
"Today, some of those old ways have come back. Drugs take the place of Prohibition. And it's the Salvadoreans, the Asians, the Colombians who are cutting each other, and innocent people too, to pieces. There's no rules. As a result, there's chaos. And chaos is not only bad for life expectancy, it's also bad for business."
"So, Al, you are telling me that in our line of business we can all be gentlemen."
"I didn't say that. What I'm saying is that we who are more established learned from our past mistakes. We have a code, rules--"
"Al, I admire your success. We all have much to learn.
Yes. Let me tell you two stories of my experience. In bad old days, under communists, I knew a young man, his name, Oleg Korataev. We belong to gang called Valiulins.
He, I and another man, Sasha Graber, we work together to make money. We smuggle radios, cameras, ladies underwear, anything that Soviet people want but cannot get because stupid communists don't let them. We have friends then in KGB and police and city government. We pay them, they turn blind eye. We don't get rich, only communists get rich. But we do okay.
"In 1992, we send Oleg to America to set up network.
Then we send Sasha. We call Oleg, ' Oleg Grozny' -- Oleg the Terrible -- because he was powerful and made people do what we want. Oleg was boxer. He also was good with knife."
Yakov nodded in Dimitrov's direction. "But Dimitrov is better with knife. No, best." Yakov devoured the 112 JAMES
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calamare, washing it down with glass after glass of Bordolino.
Al recalled how Yakov and the other Russians went through bottles of vodka without even getting dizzy much less passing out. Wine must be like water to them.
"If somebody does not pay debt on time, we send Oleg.
He always came back with the money.
"Sasha, on other hand, we call him 'Alexander the Diplomat." Russian gangs have troubles, they fight each other, we send Sasha. He is, how do you say, smooth talker. Everybody trust Sasha. He negotiates peace treaties
-- like Andrei Gromyko.
"So, these men do very, very well in Brooklyn, also they go to Chicago and Toronto. Sasha even has night club --
right in Brighton Beach.
"One day, no money comes in. They collect 'insurance'
money from shop owners and pay eighty percent to me at end of month. So, I call Oleg. No answer. I call Sasha.
Sasha says, 'Oh so sorry, boss, but we quit. We now on our own. Bye, bye. And he hangs up phone.
"Few days later, Oleg Grozny gets one bullet to back of his head near subway station. Not much time later, Mr.
Sasha dies on street in Moscow. Forty bullets from machine gun to his chest. Then, we find third rebel, young man named Yanik, here in Brooklyn. He gets four bullets in face. Police find body in garbage dump later."
Yakov again brushed his palms together. "No more problem for us.
"Second story. Mr. Naum Reichel, not friend, not with our organization, but competitor, again here in Brighton Beach. He becomes very bold, very arrogant, very stupid.
He tries to make Russian restaurant owners to pay protection money to him. This is not approved by us.
Madame Boronova tells us about this man. Then we learn PERMANENT INTERESTS
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that he and his little punk helpers begin to sell heroin in neighborhood.
"Next thing to know, Mr. Naum Reichel is walking on Brighton Beach Avenue and two men shoot him in chest and stomach. But these men are young and green, not Afghantsi like Dimitrov. They shoot badly. Mr. Naum Reichel lives.
"But shortly after, in Berlin, another man, a Russian, is beat up very badly. So bad that doctors say his face requires many operations and he will be ugly forever. He also loses spleen. This man is Simeon, brother of Naum.
"Mr. Naum Reichel lives, but he knows that old business days are past. He goes away to open flower shop in Pittsburgh.
"In all these cases, police ask questions of Russian people. They talk to witnesses. They investigate. But nobody sees nothing. Nobody knows nothing. FBI advertises for stukachi, informers, in Russian-American newspaper. But nobody calls them.
"Point of story, Al, is this: fear is stronger than persuasion. Gentlemen lose. Bad guys win. We Russians, we understand this. This is our history. At pier, we protect our interests and your interests. We guarantee that nobody bothers us again. Not Teamsters. Nobody."
Yakov accentuated this last remark with a half-salute of his wine glass before gulping the contents.
"You're all nuts!" Ricky blurted.
He was checked by a look of sharp rebuke from Al.
"My dear Ricky," Yakov continued. "Your mafia is almost finished. Little by little, the authorities destroy you.
Even Gambino family is no more. John Gotti – he was a mere peacock. Pathetic. You lose because you become soft, like rest of American society. At the same time, FBI 114 JAMES
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becomes more tough. Now mafia exists only in movies.
This will not happen to us."
Al sat back, contemplating the Russian, and drummed his fingers on the table. The tap-tap-tap of his fingertips was the only sound in a room as silent as a crypt. And the others remained as still as corpses.
Finally, Al shifted in his seat, leaned forward, and said,
"This is what I propose, Yakov. From now on, if you want to carve your enemies up like Thanksgiving turkeys, or to pump ninety-nine bullets into somebody's face just to prove a point, go ahead. As long as they have no connection to me or my organization. But if you want to do a job on somebody of mutual interest, you consult me first.
Agreed?"
Yakov took a moment to absorb this, lightly rubbing his lips with a thumb and forefinger. "Yes, okay. You still are angry for what we did to your traitor friend, Mortimer, yes?"
"Christ, Yakov. You don't just go around cutting out the guts of officials, much less an American ambassador.
Morty had it coming, like I said before. Ricky was going to take care of him, in our own way. We would've brought him down without killing him. Would've wrecked him politically and financially. He would've been horseshit to all his muckedy-muck friends in politics, Wall Street, his home town. We were going to circulate pictures we have of him with little girls down in Mexico. Through some friendly reporters, we were ready to expose his links to drug traffickers. Hell, he would've ended up blowing his own brains out. We could've made it happen. We're experts."
"Risk of revealing connection with us was too great,"
Yakov said bluntly.
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"Bullshit. Listen to me my Russky friend." Al's jugulars pulsed. He held an index finger straight to Yakov's face. "This is my country. You have no right going around pissing all over it. Mortimer was yellow and he was greedy. You got it right. But he might have come back to us. The information tap that your asshole buddies in the KGB, or whatever it’s called now, couldn't get enough of might have resumed. We would've tried to blackmail the son of a bitch again. If that failed, then we were going to make a train wreck of his life."
Al whispered to Ricky to get the waiters to serve the next course. Ricky went quickly downstairs where he found the headwaiter dutifully standing by. The latter scampered off to the kitchen.
Turning to go back upstairs, Ricky caught a glimpse of Wentworth and Lydia in the lounge engaged in animated conversation. He went over
.
Studiously ignoring Wentworth, Ricky put on his best Brad Pitt smile and bent down toward Lydia, placing one hand on the back of her chair.
"Hi. Miss…Lydia was it?"
"Puchinskaya. Lydia Yekatarina Puchinskaya," she replied formally.
"Lydia. Pretty name. Can I buy you a drink, Lydia?"
He abruptly signaled a waiter to come over.
"As you can see, Mr…Prick? I have already something." She tapped her glass of Gimlet."
"Rick. It's Rick."
"Oh," she giggled. Her face flushed. She turned innocently toward Wentworth. "I thought you said that he was a prick? I do not know this word. Is it a funny one?” Wentworth stifled a laugh. Ricky was not amused.
"Butt out Wonderbread!"
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The headwaiter tugged at Ricky's sleeve. "Mr.
Malandrino wants you, like right now, Mr. Laguzza."
"Yeah. Okay." His eyes bored through Wentworth, who returned a defiant Marine's gaze.
"One word of advice, Lydia. Stay clear of poor white trash Southern crackers. We got better in this country."
Turning to Lydia, he added, "You need anything --
anything -- call me. I can make things happen in this town." He handed her one of his legitimate business cards and hurried back upstairs.
"Did I say anything wrong?"
Wentworth burst out laughing.
Ricky re-entered the upstairs dining room. There was a chill, a low-grade tension in the air. They were silently into their vitello francese -- veal in a butter-lemon sauce. As Ricky took his seat and fixed his napkin on his lap, Al furtively jerked his chin upward and put an index finger together with a thumb in the Sicilian gesture for "What gives?!" Ricky shrugged and commenced to eat.
Amid the chomping, slurping and gulping, the only voice to be heard was that of Jerry Vale crooning "Amore, Scusami" over the music sound system.
"The other thing I wanted to bring up," Al broke in without warning, his attention fixed on his plate, "is how come the supply of junk has suddenly dried up? It's been, what Ricky? A month, two months? A lot of people rely on us for a dependable supply. We've always been noted for offering a quality product for a good price on a reliable basis. Lately, we haven't been living up to our reputation.