"Mr. Yevchev, they were out doing pick-ups. The other clubs. The escort places. All the rest. It takes a little time." Cavallari tried to re-focus the subject.
Yevchev couldn't be swayed.
"Do you think I do not know where my money comes from? You are not thinking with your head."
"No, no. I wasn't implying... "
"Shut up. Shut your fucking mouth. You say many things to me like I am a stupid man to you. But you, you are the one not thinking with a head."
Cavallari was confused by this. He expected full-on ferocity. That's what he trucked in himself. What he knew. He couldn't follow indirection.
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"What do I mean?" Yevchev's left hand had been picking at his goatee or impatiently tapping on a bottle throughout the encounter, but now he raised his claw and pointed it across the desk. The diamond bevel in his large watch seemed to pulse.
"I mean you are thinking with your prick." He circled his pinky finger. "With your tiny Sicilian prick," he accused.
Cavallari felt his head clamped. He briefly closed his eyes and winced.
"There is only one reason you are still alive. It is your tiny prick."
Yevchev continued.
"I will now tell you a thing. When it was the time that my people, strong Russian people of the earth, make the deal with your people, old tired Sicilians, for a piece of the action, we still do not trust you. A Sicilian would piss on his own mother and cut her throat for a little money. We do not trust you. We installed our own cameras in our clubs, okay? From the beginning."
The vise around Cavallari's head cranked tighter. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He'd already soaked through his undershirt.
"We keep you on because your people vouch for you. They call you 'loyal.' They call you 'no nonsense.' This sounds good to my people. We do not have to bring in new guys and set it up. It is already set up. This is good for us. Yet, we do not trust you."
Yevchev's eyes narrowed.
"What do you do with people you do not trust? You check on them. Watch carefully. What they do. For three years we watch you with our cameras. I have been pleased with what I have seen except for one thing. Do you know what that is, Dominic? The flaw?"
Cavallari's ears were popping from the build-up of pressure. Yevchev wasn't expecting a reply.
"This is what I have seen week after week. I have seen you on the first floor away from the office at the same time every weekend your two men are doing their pick-ups. I have seen you look around the room. You spend time doing this. Making your choice. I have seen you speak to the bartender. I have seen the bartender nod at you. Do you see where I am going, Dominic?"
Cavallari began shaking; his knees, his hands on his knees, and his feet. Yevchev kept on.
"Here is where. From our cameras, I have seen the bartender put a pill in a drink and give it to a shot girl. She takes it to someone, the one who is your choice, for free. He is different every week but always looks the same. Most of the time he accepts the free drink, and the girl goes off to sell her test tube shots. Yes, he always looks the same. He is young and his I.D. did not get checked at the door. He is with one friend. Maybe two. No more. He is pretty. What do I see next? I have seen you wait before discreetly directing him away from his friends. Through the dance floor and into the courtyard. Yes, Dominic. You leave my money in my safe with no protection because you are thinking with your tiny fucking prick."
Yevchev began to thunder. Tension also increased among the four outside the room.
"So, what do we do, Dominic? We put another camera in the little room where you take your pretty boys. I cannot watch this shit you do, so I make my guys watch it. Kostya and Pavel on the other side of the door. What do they tell me? I hear that you have a little prick and are a bad man."
Cavallari's inner organs were wrapping around themselves.
"We keep these videos, Dominic, so you cannot fuck us like your little boys. You are not in the ground right now only because we have video from early this morning. We have seen your second floor bartender enter your office, open my safe, and put my money in a big box for beer. We have seen your nigger bouncer look out for him. Both of them leave my club together. We see this. How do I first hear about my own club being robbed? Not from you. On the computer. Because you yell and make noise about it that is overheard by a reporter."
Yevchev paused and threw back a drink. He cleared his throat after having a second one.
"There are things I know. You did not help Clint Olson open the safe, but he opened it easily. He is now dead. Many stories are in the news by mosquito reporters about my club. They do not say my name. It will stay that way. Yes? It is time to find out things I do not know. How the bartender opened my safe. How we will find Hutch and my money. It is time for your fools to come in."
Cavallari tried to speak. "Mr. Yevchev, you don't... "
"Shut up. A man who cannot be trusted will only speak the truth by one method. It is how I find out the space between what you say and what you do." He called out, "Kostya! Pavel! Bring them."
Johnny and Big T were already suffering from sore necks and backs after driving into a house a few hours earlier. Lack of sleep and a bad feeling heightened the aching.
The larger of the two Russians grunted across the hall and gestured to the others. All four rose together, the one called Kostya opened the door, and the Russians waited to follow the Sicilians inside.
Johnny and Big T entered with heavy steps, stopping a few feet behind the chair Cavallari was seated in with his back to them. They felt an exceptionally menacing presence in the room. The air conditioning was blasting and the shadows of Cavallari's lies were cast around the room. Kostya and Pavel fanned off slightly so they could see Yevchev while maintaining firm control over the two in front of them.
Yevchev spoke as a gracious host. "Dominic, your men have been waiting. They must be thirsty." He held up a sleek bottle with the bust of a man in profile pictured toward the top.
Johnny and Big T replied with polite nervous denials in unison.
"I see you have manners, but please. I am offering. You must accept," Yevchev soothed.
Johnny and Big T fell over each other with their excessively formal refusals. These were men who picked their noses and scratched their crotches in public, so manners hung on them like fine drapes in a zoo.
"Hmmm. Maybe you think vodka is only a drink for Russians? That it will not sit well on your Sicilian tongues? It is wrong, this thought. I do not drink vodka because I am a strong Russian."
At this, Kostya and Pavel subtly turned their heads toward each other.
"No, no. Let me explain, so you can understand," Yevchev said. He set the bottle down and pointed at it.
"This is Chopin Vodka. It is made in Poland, a country of farmers. This man pictured is Chopin."
Yevchev mused.
"He was a famous musician from this same place. They are honoring their countryman. I do not know a fucking thing about Chopin, but that does not matter. This vodka from Poland is made of potatoes. It is the best. I am from Kirov Oblast. Potatoes are in my blood. My people have bled for potatoes. Many years ago. You must not deny my request. Please, which of you will drink first?"
To strengthen the gesture, Yevchev poured three fingers worth into a cut crystal glass next to his own.
Big T shrugged and stepped forward to accept. Pavel, who was behind him, pulled out a gun doubled in length by a long cylindrical silencer and watched intently. Both he and Konstantin, known as Kostya, exchanged firm glances.
Yevchev handed the glass to Big T, who threw it back and nodded in appreciation. There was no toast. Big T started to walk back to his spot but stumbled slightly on the edge of an expensive Persian rug when he saw Pavel's gun. He regained himself and squared his shoulders, especially so, when Yevchev ordered, "Turn around."
The Russian was now standing behind his desk, screwing his own silencer in place. He did this patiently and methodically. Yevchev breathed in and out loudly through his nostrils, stared at Cavallari, and finally let his thoughts take wing.
"You are the one with the flaw, Dominic, but you are worth more to me alive."
"Mr. Yevchev, we'll find the money, my men and I," Cavallari assured.
As if he'd heard nothing, Yevchev said, "It is a sad thing if the one responsible for the loss of my money is not held accountable. The fucking monkey Hutch is out there and must be found, but I cannot shoot you, Dominic. You will find my money. Your death would not look good now that you have brought attention to my business. How? By thinking with your prick."
Yevchev looked up in thought.
"Before you all arrived here, I had a question to understand. Who is the sacrifice for Dominic? Why should it be the one who is not afraid to step forward and drink from me? The other, the rude coward, is the sacrifice."
Johnny took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
"But then I thought, 'Sasha, these are Sicilians. They are all rude. They are all cowards. The sacrifice for Dominic is the one who is like Dominic.' I saw that clearly. The one who bends to pressure, who does not think with his head, who is ruled by his appetite, that one will accept the drink."
Johnny opened his eyes. Big T's mouth dropped.
"After my money is found, Dominic, I will chop off your tiny fucking prick. Even then, you are worth more to me alive. For now, though, I do not need you in a hospital."
Cavallari was both horrified and relieved. He moved his legs together in an unconscious shift of protection.
"Do you know what this means that I cannot chop it off right now and feed it to you? Instead, the one who accepted the drink is your sacrifice," Yevchev said.
With that, Yevchev and Pavel lit up Big T so that his large frame bounced around in a death dance. From the front. From the back. They both cleared out their magazines. Kostya took his own gun out for security, but Cavallari and Johnny didn't budge.
Yevchev delivered an unholy benediction to Big T, prone on the floor, while the Sicilians pled their own private desperation.
"Fucking piece of shit. You are nothing to me," the Russian seethed.
To Cavallari: "Two of my rugs are ruined. That is coming out of your pay. See, capitalism is a good thing."
To Johnny: "You will help this pervert return my money or the next blood is yours. Yes?"
Both men nodded the nod of assent that comes easily when you can feel a dead man's warm blood on your own skin.
Yevchev sighed.
"I am again trying to understand. This time you will speak the truth. First, how will you find my money?"
"We've got a bunch of NOPD officers working for us. Muckety-mucks too. Captains. Lieutenants. Hutch won't get far," Cavallari said in a shaken way. He could no longer feel his body around him.
"You will call me from the club and give me the tax information for your bouncer. My people can track his credit cards and his phone. Have you been to his house?"
"Yeah, but nobody at his place. Maybe a few leads. Nothing solid. Realize, my guys, uh, guy, almost had him."
"'Almost' is the talk of losers. I have all my money or none of it. I will not get fucked, Dominic. You see this guy, this muscle man."
Yevchev pointed at Johnny.
"He is the one to make a fist and punch. Or his foot to kick. He needs his fingers and his toes. It is only morning now. The time will come to use them."
The Russian's index finger moved to his left.
"You, Dominic, are different. You can do your job, run my business, and find my money while fingers or toes are broken. This is the question to ask yourself: 'How did my bartender open a safe easily?' Think carefully of this before you tell me. The pinky is best to start with. You are right handed, yes?"
9
Bobby Delery trudged back across the train tracks.
He was shaken up. While in Chicago, he'd pictured a far different life in New Orleans, definitely a far different arrival.
It was about to get worse.
As he was walking on St. Ferdinand back to the overpass where it all began, he saw cars up above driving across and heard lots of honking. He was tired and worn down, so his initial thoughts were anchored by fatigue and frustration. It wasn't until the next thought flashed through his mind that he started running.
Delery took the quickest way to the foot of the incline, under the overpass and along the parallel surface road. Up ahead was his car, parked where he left it, blocking the left lane. No NOPD or other vehicles were alongside anymore, and the lanes had been reopened. Cars were flying past and a tow truck was in the process of backing up to his bumper.
He yelled in advance, "That's my car!" and got to it as the tow truck driver stomped back to begin hauling it away.
"Man, what you thinkin?" the driver asked with disgust. "Can't park here. People got to get through."
"I know this looks bad, but I've been helping NOPD solve a case. They were all across here a little bit ago," Delery said. He wasn't sure what the law was in New Orleans, if his car could still be towed if he arrived in time.
The driver shook his head. "For real?"
Delery nodded. Cars were honking and immediately zipping past his car into the left lane too close for comfort.
"Shit. If that's how they do you, then you the one need help from the po-lice."
"I'm beginning to think you're right," Delery admitted.
"You know how this work, right? Once I got you up on my truck, you gotta pay to get your car back, even if I'm still parked right here. Your car ain't have to end up in no impound lot for them to fuck you over. Couple minutes, you woulda been stuck. $193 to get it down, my man."
"Motherfuckers. $193? They can't just call it $200," Delery burned.
"You got that right. This city sure will nickel and dime you. Listen, this just my job, alright. You still got your car. You good."
They shook hands.
Delery got in his car. No time to collect himself here.
"I didn't want to go there like this, but that's how it's got to be," he said.
Rather than taking the overpass, he turned sharply to the left and used the side access road as a U-turn back to Franklin. He made a right at the intersection, and after a few blocks, made another on Galvez. There was more blight than he remembered, but the area seemed about the same, all in all.
He kept his eyes on the left once he got near Alvar.
"It's still there, big as I remember," he said, looking at his old school, William Frantz Elementary.
When he got closer, he saw there was a sign in front with a name he didn't know. "Akili, that's odd," he said. Delery was unaware of a threatened closure before the flood and the events after, remediation from damage and charter schools entering the city.
His memory was instead threaded with his walk as a kid. Four blocks on the nose. Mama walked him there. A few kids had picked on him, but that was so far in the past. Mama told him they didn't understand, to ignore them when they said, "You don't belong here, white boy."
"She told me about the importance of this place," he said to himself.
He was taught in school that Frantz was the first one integrated in New Orleans, about a six year old black girl named Ruby Bridges getting escorted by federal marshals. Mama told him about authors like John Steinbeck coming to town to write about it, about the painting by Norman Rockwell showing Ruby, and that the Bridges family lived only a few blocks away on Johnson. "The city would've changed the school name, Bobby," she said, "but you keep the name if there's history. They only change the name if they want to forget the history."
The next few blocks were different than anything else he'd seen so far. Most houses seemed inhabited, certainly, but there
were also several empty lots with overgrown weeds. A couple newly built houses too, made to look historic.
Delery wondered if flooding in this area had come from the breached Florida Avenue Canal or the Industrial Canal. The first was an open one for pumping out water. The second a shipping canal connecting the Mississippi River to Lake Pontchartrain.
As he drove along, he saw people walking or driving, going about their Sunday routines. Many were dolled up for church, others getting by with a twinkle in the eye, some with an aimless look or one compounded by trouble or ailment, and a few with obvious evil intent toward the rest.
This was the Ninth Ward, the back part, or at least further back. Black New Orleans largely. One of the areas of town that many had never seen. Even fewer had been on the other side of the Florida Avenue Canal.
Delery remembered a wearying series of ongoing questions once students and colleagues in Chicago learned after Katrina that he was a native New Orleanian, especially when he'd mentioned that he'd lived in the Ninth Ward.
"Why weren't those people in the Lower Ninth Ward living on higher ground?" was one that required explaining that 'upper' and 'lower' were directional, not used geographically.
Even the simplest queries required a mini-lesson on the location of New Orleans between the river and the lake, as well as about the canals that ran through the city. There were exponentially more of them than in Venice, Italy. They were in place to pump rainwater back to the lake, if necessary.
The city had changed when he left with his dad in 1979, though. He'd never heard the term "Bywater" used as a kid, though it was one of the hot neighborhoods all over the international press now. Didn't make sense to him. Everyone in the city was by water. But, he bought into it too. Look where he was renting.
Despite the abandoned lots and having been away for over three decades, the neighborhood still felt familiar to him. Nowhere else does architecture look like that in New Orleans.
"I wonder what it's like across the Industrial Canal now. Fields of weeds? Many people back?"
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