CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by Lawrence de Maria

  This section of Rosebank, once almost exclusively Italian, with a sprinkling of Jewish delis and bakeries, now had businesses run by more recent immigrants. I passed a Korean nail salon flanked by an Indian restaurant and a Pakistani convenience store. Across the street was something called the Somali-American Social Club, where a tall man in a white dashiki stood outside smoking. Probably didn’t want to light up inside near the explosives. Two doors down, Gottleib’s Bakery, a local institution for 80 years, still held the fort. If World War III broke out, I was pretty certain it would start here.

  Inside the Red, patrons were two-deep at the rail keeping three bartenders hopping. All the tables in the front and back rooms were occupied and I pushed my way to the bar. The front room had dimpled tin ceilings that tended to amplify and redirect noise. In fact, because of an acoustic anomaly, something said at one end of the bar might be heard clearly at the other end. Of course, most conversations were lost in the mix of babble, but people still tended to be discreet. If you wanted to ask for a quick blow job in the car, or you were a city councilman asking five large in cash from a contractor who needed a zoning variance, you might as well put it on cable. The half-oval bar ran the length of the front room and had a dark green leather border matched by the upholstery of high-back swivel stools. A large silver trophy depicting a crouching man with his hand swept back occupied a place of honor next to the register. Its nameplate read “R. Kane.” Underneath that, “1973 Tri-State Handball Championships.” A third line said “Second Place.”

  Roscoe Kane, 60 pounds past his handball prime, lumbered over. I reached in my pocket, counted off $500 and put it on the bar.

  “Take me off the books.”

  “Business picking up?”

  “I’m being optimistic.”

  Reaching behind the register, Roscoe pulled out a beat-up marble notebook of the type your mother bought for your first day of school. He laid it on the bar, flipped some pages, picked up a pencil and crossed something out. He took $420 from the pile and put it in the cash drawer. At the same time he reached down into a cooler, lifted out a bottle of Sam Adams Light, twisted off the cap with one hand and slid it down to me. Ex-handball champs don’t lack for manual dexterity. He put the notebook away. I knew that dozens, maybe hundreds, of similar notebooks had served the same purpose since the Red Lantern, one of the oldest taverns in the city, opened its doors back when the Kings Rifles garrisoned Staten Island.

  Roscoe put some bar nuts in front of me and said, “Glass? Lunch?”

  “No, and yes,” I said through a mouthful of nuts. “Two eggplant heroes to go.”

  I took a long draw on my beer. It was ice cold. Not too many people drank Sam Adams in the Red, let alone Sam Adams Light, but Roscoe kept in a stash for me. It was the only light beer I’d ever had that didn’t taste light.

  I said, “Is it true that the Algonquins ran a tab in here?”

  “Never. Bastards stiffed us.”

  “Yeah,” one of the regulars at the bar snorted, “and this place hasn’t bought back a drink since.”

  As I sipped my beer, I turned to scan the opposite wall, which was covered floor to ceiling with tally sheets for the 1,400 people in the football pool. The alphabetically-listed entrants were a democratic cross section of the populace, including just about every elected and appointed official, several judges, a smattering of assistant district attorneys, college professors, scores of cops and half the hoods in the borough. The sheets were taken down after the Monday night games and updated by the three elderly Italian ladies who also ran the kitchen. No one questioned their cooking or their accuracy.

  I felt a blast of chilly air. The bar’s cheerful hubbub eased a bit and one of the other bartenders said “shit” under his breath. I turned as Arman Rahm and a fire hydrant entered the bar. The fire hydrant’s name was Maks Kalugin and had more bullet holes in him than Emperor Maximilian.

  CHAPTER 2 – THE RUSSIANS

  It wasn’t quite the parting of the Red Sea, but people moved out of their way as Rahm and his bodyguard moved toward me. My five-shooter suddenly seemed inadequate.

  “Stolichnaya, no ice,” Rahm said, slapping a betting slip on the bar. “Maybe Washington Red Sox win this week and I get them all, hey Rooscoo, my friend? Just wait until I know how to spread the punts.”

  The restaurant chatter noise had returned to its normal level. Genghis Kahn on horseback would only arouse passing notice during football Friday.

  “It’s the Washington Redskins, you dumb commie bastard, and the term is point spreads,” Roscoe growled, picking up the slip. Normally dour at best, he now looked like he was sucking a lemon.

  Rahm laughed; being insulted by Roscoe was a rite of passage and sign of respect in the Red Lantern, which served all comers and had a clientele as diverse as the cantina in Star Wars, except that it was human. With the possible exception of two thugs sitting down at the end of the bar. Kalugin spotted them, nudged his boss and said “Carlucci.”

  “Soviet Union dead long time, Rooscoo,” Rahm said. “We capitalists now, although I do share your wealth when I win pool. And I like to buy my friend here a drink, welcome him home.” He looked at me. “What you say, Alton?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Stoli and Sam Adams. Détente on a bar stool. Roscoe brought the vodka and poured it into two glasses. Kalugin was on duty and not drinking. Rahm and I clinked.

  “Za Zdrovia,” he said.

  “Spasibo.”

  We knocked them back. Prepped by the beer, I felt a warm glow. I’d be happy to have another. A hard-drinking friend of mine once told me he often wondered why he was so fond of liquor, considering how bad he felt after a bender. “Then I have a drink and I remember why.” I’d have to be careful. The consulting shrink at the VA hospital in Dyker Heights in Brooklyn said I was still combat-stressed and in danger of abusing alcohol. I told her my leg hurt less after a couple of drinks. She looked at me for a long minute and then prescribed some pills. Turned out they go pretty well with booze.

  Roscoe refilled our glasses. Kalugin kept his eyes on the two men at the end of the bar, glancing at the front door every time it opened. Short, bald and brutish, with a mashed nose and cauliflower ears, he had the weathered visage of a peasant with piles and could have been anywhere from 40 to 80. He was wearing a pea coat and turtleneck, both black, as were his pants and hobnailed boots. Rahm, on the other hand, was elegant in a dark brown Ferragamo shearling jacket, heather green crew sweater, designer jeans and Italian suede boots. Tall, slim of waist but broad through the shoulders, he had slicked-back dark hair and high-cheekboned, chiseled features. He looked like a Czarist cavalry officer from a 1920’s silent film. I said as much.

  “And you look like someone who shops at Goodwill,” he replied, in perfect English.

  “I’m painting my office.”

  “Or vice versa,” he said, looking at my hands and signaling for two more vodkas.

  “Arman, I was sorry to hear about Stefan.”

  Stefan Rahm, older brother and heir apparent to the family “business,” had been shot to death by assailants unknown almost a year earlier as he stepped from his car in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, after reportedly visiting a mistress. The Carluccis were on the very long list of suspects that included other ethnic mobs. I never liked Stefan. But a brother is a brother.

  “Thank you, Alton.”

  We clinked glasses again.

  “Stefan” I said.

  “Stefan.”

  The Carlucci wise guys were staring at Rahm, as were two women Assistant District Attorneys at a nearby table, one of them an attractive blonde. The women’s glances did not seem to be purely professional. Rahm ignored the men and stared boldly at the women. Then he raised his glass to them. One quickly turned her head. The blonde didn’t. She smiled and raised her glass before going back to her meal.

  “Gorbachev here hit 15 out of 16 the second week,” Roscoe said, pouring two more vodkas. “Wouldn’t know a point spr
ead from a beaver spread. Didn’t even have to split the four grand with anyone else.”

  “Hey, Roscoe, the booze is flowing like molasses over here,” one of the regulars on our end of the bar groused. “You retire or something?”

  “Hold your water, I’m coming,” he said as he shuffled off, mumbling, “Washington fucking Red Sox. Jesus.”

  Rahm was about my age. He had inherited his brother’s portfolio and served as “cabet” – counsel – to his father, Marat Rahm, the head of the borough’s Russian “Bratva,” or brotherhood. Marat was not your typical mob boss. Highly educated and reportedly also a former intelligence agent for the Russian GRU, he recruited talent from outside his natural ethnic circle.

  “Surprised to see you here at all, Arman, let alone in an NFL pool. And what’s with the Russian accent? You sounded like Sig Ruman in Ninotchka. You were born here, went to Columbia and Wharton, for Crissakes.”

  He laughed and leaned in to me, lowering his voice.

  “Played freshman football at Columbia until my mother found out. Was afraid I’d break my fingers and waste all my piano lessons. She had visions of me going to Carnegie Hall; being an American Van Cliburn. I just like to break Roscoe’s balls.”

  “Van Cliburn was an American.” I said.

  He gave me a wintry smile.

  “Funny how things work out. I don’t play much piano these days. I know more about football than these idiots. So I make an exception to my rule about never wagering on any sporting event where the participants have two legs. Besides, I love the food here.”

  The attractive blonde A.D.A. got up from her table and walked by, stumbling slightly into Rahm. He put out his hand to steady her and she took it.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “My pleasure,” he replied.

  As she headed past Rahm on her way to the ladies’ room, he opened his palm. In it was a slip of paper, with what looked like a phone number.

  “Not to mention that there are some high-class women in here,” he said, pocketing the slip. “Better than in our topless dives in Midland Beach.”

  Midland Beach was the center of Russian mob operations on Staten Island. Russian and Ukrainian immigrants, as well as political and religious refugees, had initially gravitated to Brooklyn, especially Brighton Beach. Perhaps it’s a Dardanelles complex, but I’d never met a Russian who didn’t want to be near the ocean, any ocean. There was a strong underworld presence in the Russian community, outgrowths of the “vor v zakone” – or “thieves in law” – gangs that gestated in Soviet gulags. Loosely organized murder-for-hire and extortion bratvas using “Moscow rules” killed indiscriminately. They soon evolved into various families, frankly emulating the Italian Mafia, or at least the Mafia portrayed in The Godfather. This cut down on the murders, but now Russians were enthusiastically engaging in prostitution, gambling, securities fraud, hijacking and drugs, as well as every sort of legitimate business, only some of which was designed to launder criminal income. For Brighton Beach Russians, mobsters and otherwise, the natural progression was to Staten Island. Presumably the next stop is that Nirvana of all emigrant Brooklynites – New “Joy-sie.” They had settled in Arrochar, South Beach and Midland Beach, and were slowly spreading along the Island’s southern shore. Rahm’s family ran most of the illegal activities on Staten Island not held by the remnants of the Mafia.

  “From the looks on their faces, you’re giving our friends over there indigestion,” I said, nodding at the two men staring at Rahm. “Not worried about them?”

  “Those two clowns? What can they do? Even the Carluccis know this is neutral territory. Besides half the people in here are cops.”

  I looked at the other Russian.

  “Still brought Quasimodo with you.”

  Kalugin had been Marat Rahm’s personal bodyguard. After Stefan’s assassination, Marat probably told him to stay close to his remaining son.

  Rahm shrugged.

  “It’s a long walk from the car.”

  Apparently even Russians didn’t double-park in front of the Red Lantern.

  Rahm’s eyes were still on the A.D.A.

  “You know, I’ve never fucked a District Attorney, at least literally.”

  “Aren’t you worried it might be a setup? She could wear a wire.”

  He looked at me. His dark eyes were mischievous.

  “I’ll do a full cavity search.” He leaned back against the bar. “I heard you were wounded in that Muslim shit hole. Roadside bomb?”

  “AK-47. Thanks for that, by the way. You guys left a few lying around after you skedaddled.”

  Kalugin growled, “How many times?”

  “How many times what?”

  “You shot.”

  “Twice.”

  “Pizda!”

  “Yoda just called me a pussy,” I said.

  “I was there,” Kalugin said. “In 1987. The 58th Motorized Rifle Division. Taliban shot me four times. And it was with one of the million fucking Kalashnikovs you assholes gave to the rag heads. Where you hit?”

  “Leg and side.”

  Pizda!”

  Two pussies is my absolute limit.

  “Potselui mou zhopy,” I said. Kiss my ass.

  I got off the bar stool. Might as well find out how my rehab program was working out, although I’d rather have tested it against someone who didn’t have the pain threshold of a mollusk. Legend had it that Kalugin once fell asleep in a dentist chair getting his teeth cleaned. Rahm said something sharply in Russian that I didn’t catch. Kalugin looked at me and smiled. The teeth cleaning had apparently been some time ago. Rahm patted my arm.

  “Ignore him, Alton. Reminds me of my grandfather. He fought the Germans. Nobody could tell him anything, either. Speaking of which, why did you go back? Didn’t you have enough the last time?”

  “Reserve unit was called up,” I said, sitting down. “I had a specialty they needed.”

  “What was that?”

  “Target.”

  Even Kalugin liked that.

  “Who order eggplant?”

  We turned to see an old Italian women, who would have given Kalugin a run for his money in the girth department, holding a paper bag. I took the bag from her and she gave me the bill, which I put on top of my remaining money on the bar. She looked Kalugin up and down, wiped her hands on her stained apron and snorted before walking away.

  “Lady killer,” I said.

  “Smells delicious,” Rahm said. “Glad you’re back in one piece. Again. Maybe we can shoot a few hoops some day. ”

  “But not at Cromwell,” I said.

  Cromwell Center was a huge city-run athletic facility where generations of kids played basketball on 20 courts and mostly stayed out of trouble. Until recently it had stood on a pier jutting into the harbor. It had suffered years of neglect from politicians while receiving the undivided attention of thousands of wormlike salt-water wood borers that gorged themselves on the pier’s pilings. Only the fact that it began listing slowly, giving people a chance to run for it, prevented a tragedy when it fell into the harbor.

  “So, you’ve heard about that,” Rahm said. “The new Yankee Stadium cost a billion dollars, and the city is falling apart.” He tossed some bills on the bar. “And they say I’m a crook. Well, I’ve got to go.” He put out his hand and I took it. “By the way, my great-grandfather was a Czarist officer. A Rahmanov. He shortened the name when the Bolsheviks won. Sounded too much like everyone Lenin and Stalin were shooting.”

  Half the restaurant watched them leave. As Rahm passed the blonde’s table they nodded imperceptibly to each other. I swiveled back to the bar to settle up my bill.

  “I didn’t know you and the Red Menace were such pals,” Roscoe said as he gave me my change.

  I thought that over. Just what were Rahm and I? I hadn’t seen him in almost two years. But we were certainly more than acquaintances. Our paths crossed frequently in high school and during college breaks, usually during pickup basketball games a
t Cromwell. After a game, we’d almost always wind up in the same gin mill.

  “He supplied me and my buddies with fake proof after they raised the drinking age to 21. Always had a stack of them handy.”

  “Somebody in Albany musta owned a factory turning out fake proofs,” Roscoe said. “Always changing the age on us. Couldn’t ever keep up.”

  “Who you kidding, Roscoe,” a guy next to us said, “You’d serve a fetus.”

  “Why not,” Roscoe replied. “I serve abortions like you, don’t I?”

  It is impossible to get the better of Roscoe in the insult department. The guy didn’t even try and Roscoe turned back to me.

  “So? You and the Russkie still close?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Could have fooled me. Rahm’s been asking about you for weeks.”

  ***

  The rain had picked up when I left the Red, so I hugged the buildings. I could never figure out why that worked. Halfway to my car, someone behind me said, “Hey, pal.”

  It was the two Carlucci guys. Both were sensibly wearing raincoats but their hair was already plastered to their heads. Both had mean, jowly faces.

  “If you stand near the buildings, you’ll get less rain on you,” I said.

  “What’s your business with Rahm,” the bigger of the two said. I had maybe an inch on him but he was well ahead of me in the Italian food department. I could have told him the truth: I had no business with Rahm. But maybe they knew something I didn’t. The world is discouragingly full of people like that.

  “Who wants to know?”

  It was lame but it was raining harder and the food was getting cold.

  “Me, asshole.”

  They both moved in on me.

  “You, asshole, me Tarzan.”

  That was marginally better.

  “He’s a fucking riot, Benny,” the other guy said.

  “I asked you a question, fuckwad. What did Rahm want?”