Worth The Risk

by Richard Gustafson

  He sighed, got up, and walked across the street to the truck. It was hot, and he was thirsty. An ecstatic bottle of soda on the side of the truck, spindly arms waving wildly, beckoned him.

  He lined up behind several teens who boisterously ordered food and drink. He stood back a few feet and watched what they were doing, since he hadn’t ordered before from somebody who didn’t speak English. The large Russian man in an extremely dirty, formerly white t-shirt behind the counter most likely didn’t speak a word of it.

  The kids took their food and moved to concrete tables set permanently on the grass by the river, several feet from the truck. Nick stepped up and pointed to a rack of hot dogs slowly spinning behind the man. He held up one finger and somewhat self-consciously said, “One hot dog, please.”

  The man narrowed his eyes and held up his hands in the universal sign of confusion. Nick tried again, pointing more strongly. Nothing.

  He heard shuffling and knew the people behind him were witnessing the scene. He pantomimed the shape of a hot dog with his hands and heard a giggle over his shoulder.

  Face burning, he thought about the happy hot dog on the truck, just a few feet to his right. He slapped the painted metal hog dog and raised his finger again, but the cook just glared at him.

  Laughter floated up from the kids at the tables. He glanced over and saw them looking at him. He waved to a tall, lanky kid with most of his dog left to come over, but the kid just grinned and shook his head. Nick motioned again. The kid turned away and the teens laughed again.

  Frustrated, Nick marched over to the group and grabbed the hot dog out of the startled teen’s hand. Seconds later he was back in front of the cook. He shook the tube of questionable meat in the man’s face and said “Adin,” which he knew was Russian for one.

  The man sighed, turned, and started to put a hot dog together for Nick. Nick turned, walked back to the group of kids, and tossed the hot dog to the teen. The boy caught it awkwardly and stared at Nick, who said “Spasiva” with a glare.

  He paid and grabbed the dog and drink silently. He was disgusted, but also relieved he had food and drink in hand. He considered it a victory, even though the trophy might shorten his life.

  He turned and came face-to-face with a grinning, dark-haired woman. She was next in line but her attention was on him, not the man behind the counter.

  “You handled that well,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to end up with a hot dog or not.”

  Nick was still disgusted. “He’s an idiot,” he said.

  “No, he’s not,” she replied. “Boris just doesn’t like people who can’t speak Russian.”

  “You know him?”

  “Oh, sure. I come here often. Hold on.” She turned to Boris, flashed him a bright smile, and ordered lunch in fluent Russian. The cook’s demeanor changed instantly. Without a glance at Nick, he laughed and said something to her in a loud, booming voice. She laughed in return and glanced at Nick, who groaned.

  “What did he say?” Nick asked.

  She grabbed her lunch, cheeseburger in a paper basket in one hand and bottle of cola in the other, and walked towards a table with him. She giggled again as she told him, “Boris just said he thought you were going to eat that poor kid’s hot dog.”

  Nick grunted. “I would have, too, if Boris hadn’t given that dog up!” She laughed again.

  He found himself warming to her. She was younger, probably late 20s, with black hair cut in bangs that ended just above her eyes, giving her a punkish appearance. Like most Russians, she wore long pants even in the middle of summer. Their habit annoyed Nick because it meant he had to wear jeans, too, or risk sticking out as an American, but he had to admit jeans looked pretty good on her.

  “Mind if I join you?” she asked.

  Nick motioned to a table. “Sure, have a seat. Minya savoot Nick.” It felt good to be able to air out one of the few Russian phrases he knew.

  Her eyes lit up. “Ahhh, so you do know a bit of Russian! I’m impressed. You should’ve said that to Boris. Maybe he would’ve given you your lunch sooner.”

  Nick glanced over at the food truck. “Sour old man,” he muttered at he glared at the dancing meat on the side of the vehicle. “He shouldn’t have such a happy looking truck if he’s going to be so grumpy.”

  She laughed again. Nick decided he liked her laugh. “Oh, he’s harmless. My name’s Anya, by the way.” She wiped her hand on a napkin and stuck it out. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Anya,” he said as they shook. “So you’re Russian?”

  “Da.”

  “Your English is excellent. Where did you learn it?”

  “Thank you,” she said around a mouthful of burger. “My father made sure I learned English when I was a kid, and I’ve been to England several times with him, once for several months.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “I did! Although, well, we had to leave rather quickly the last time, and I’m not sure we’ll go back.”

  Nick raised his eyebrows. “That sounds like an interesting story!”

  She sighed. “It is, but you’ll probably never hear it. Papa’d kill me if I ever told anyone.”

  They ate their meal in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the barges make their way along the Don. The sun was high but it was just starting to get hot. It would be another glorious day in Rostov.

  “So, what brings you to Russia?” Anya asked as she took a sip of coke. She wiped the bottle on her cheeks to cool them.

  Nick remembered Lauren’s advice. “I’m here on business.”

  She looked at him a long time, then said, “Liar.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Anya smiled. “Yes, you could be here on business. But I think you’re here to adopt a baby.”

  Nick sighed. “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re trying to blend in,” she answered. “Trying to dress like a Russian, being here on your own. Businessmen seem to like to, how do you say, flaunt their watches and nice clothes. You look normal.”

  “Thank you, I guess.”

  “Where’s your wife? With your child?”

  Nick took another bite of hot dog before answering. The tube steak was actually pretty good, although he assumed a large part of that had to do with how hungry he was. It was spicier than a normal dog. He didn’t plan on having too many more, but this one wasn’t bad.

  “No,” he answered. “She went back to the states.”

  Anya’s eyes widened. “Why would she do that? Doesn’t she like Russia?”

  “She likes Russia fine,” he said. He explained the whole ten-day rule and how she would spend time with their son while he waited to retrieve their daughter. When he talked to Americans he used the word “rescue,” but he refrained from phrasing it that way to Anya.

  Anya was astonished. “So you have to wait for ten days to get your daughter, even though the paperwork is complete?”

  Nick shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s completed or not but yes, I’m here for another week. But you know, I’m looking forward to exploring your town and Nonna’s heritage.”

  Anya’s eyes flashed and she slapped one hand on the table. “Well, you must let me show you around then! I’ll play your tour guide.”

  Nick wasn’t so sure that was a good idea, with her looking so cute in her jeans. On the other hand, there were many things she could tell him about Rostov that he could pass on to Kelli and Nonna when he returned. A week with Anya would most likely pay dividends to his baby girl as she grew up. Maybe they’d even correspond later in life so she had a connection back to her homeland.

  He knew he was just talking himself into it so he could spend time with Anya, but decided to go with it anyway. He had no interest in dallying and was sure he could handle himself if she got the wrong idea.

  They finished their meal and walked around by the river for over an hour, Anya giving him a history lesson on Russia in general and Rostov in particular.

/>   “The Nazis first came in 1941,” she said as she swung an arm out over the Don. “But it was in the winter and they were only here a week. Our army attacked and pushed them back, and this is as far as they got.” She sounded proud.

  “Was your family here then?” Nick asked.

  She nodded. “My grandmother was, yes. My grandfather had been forced into the army, so she hid in a house with her sister until the fascists left. When the Hitlerites came back later, she went east with her sister until we threw them out for good.”

  “That must’ve been tough,” Nick said.

  “Yes, it was. She used to tell lots of stories about it. We’re a tough family, though, especially the women. It takes more than the German army to push us around!”

  Nick laughed. He liked her already.

  Nick had long since lost his bearings when Anya brought them back to a familiar road. She pointed to the west. “Your hotel is that way,” she said. “It’s several kilometers, I hope your feet are not worn out.”

  “Nah, I’ll be fine,” Nick said. “I’m just getting started.”

  She glanced at him coyly. “Then perhaps you are strong enough to come back tonight and see me. I work at a very nice restaurant.”

  “Which one is that?”

  “The Café Olymp, down the block. Have you ever seen it?”

  Nick shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, to tell you the truth.”

  “Two stories, white columns in the front. It’s a fun place. I’ve worked there for years. We have some of the best steaks in the city. Corn fed beef from the Ukraine.”

  He licked his lips. After the hot dog, steak sounded great.

  She noticed and laughed. “You must come. I’ll personally serve you one of our best steaks from the back room.”

  Nick nodded. A good steak, conversation with Anya, and half a town away from Sergei. It sounded like just what he needed.

  Chapter 8

  Lately Dmitri felt as if he were in the middle of a video game, one of those violent ones his enforcers played. Things kept coming at him from all directions, demanding his attention. Nothing was trivial, and if he didn’t deal with an issue in a timely manner, it would grow until it swallowed him up.

  And his damn stump hurt. Late afternoon was typically the worst for him. He had to move around all day, dealing with crisis upon crisis that needed his attention, so that by dinnertime the lotion he applied liberally to where the stump met his prosthesis had worn down. On a slow day he would take fifteen minutes to remove the leg and give his body a break, but lately the days hadn’t been slow.

  It seemed everybody wanted a piece of his pie.

  He’d spent nearly twenty years marking his territory. He started out selling videotapes on a street corner, but his interests quickly led him to a profitable career dealing drugs. He never took them himself, of course, because drugs dimmed your instincts and your desire, and Dmitri was nothing without his instincts and desire. But he had no problem helping others overcome their desires. Or at least change what they desired.

  Dmitri had grown up in a poor family, with three brothers and a sister in a small flat that usually contained his father, drunk in a chair by the window. His mother supported the family as best she could by constantly cleaning up other peoples’ messes, but her pay barely provided the basics.

  Unlike his siblings, who made do with what they had and didn’t think much about it, Dmitri knew he was poor. In those days, prior to Gorbachev, the rich people were generally out of sight. But Dmitri saw families who had enough to eat, who had clothes to wear, and toys to play with. He pledged to himself that one day he’d be rich. And his family, especially his drunken father, would get none of it. When he made enough money to survive on his own from his videotape sales, he moved out of the flat and severed ties with his family. None of his family members came after him, begging, which annoyed him even more.

  It was a natural progression from drugs to prostitution. As people used more and more of his heroin and cocaine, they came to him in crisis, broke, willing to barter anything. The poor ones came first, since they had fewer assets to draw against. Initially Dmitri traded his drugs for gold watches, rings, or bracelets at an obscene exchange rate. After that came family heirlooms. Gradually his wealthier clients began approaching him on their knees, willing to give up more gold, cameras, even cars in exchange for drugs.

  Many of those trophies now adorned a wall in Dmitri’s office. Dmitri liked to stand in front of the wall and just stare at them. Gold, diamonds, jewelery. It reminded Dmitri where he came from. And it was worth a fortune. Probably the most expensive wall in Rostov, Dmitri thought.

  Dmitri’s wealth grew dramatically during those years, making him richer than even he thought he would ever be. But he kept pushing, looking for new revenue streams. He knew he’d never be satisfied.

  Eventually his clients began to run out of material goods to barter. They came to him more desperate, more pathetic than ever. He reminded them they still had one thing left to give, especially his female users or the wives or sisters of his male clients. And so prostitution provided another avenue to the riches Dmitri coveted.

  The growth of his prostitution business led Dmitri to hire several large, discreet men to function as his pimps. As his empire grew, Dmitri moved some of the larger and more menacing men into a new job: protection.

  His phone rang. Dmitri sighed and glanced at the caller ID. He pressed a button and said, “Yes, Boris.”

  “I’m having trouble with Anton,” Boris, one of the enforcers, said. His voice was low and hurried. He was a man afraid to give bad news.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’m, uh, requisitioning the furniture you requested. He’s not cooperating.”

  “Put him on.”

  A pause, a brief muffled conversation, then Anton’s voice on the other end of the connection. “Yes?” he said.

  “Anton, have you forgotten our agreement yesterday?” Dmitri said. He kept his voice quiet. He knew it got more results than yelling.

  “No, of course not, Dmitri. But your man wants to take my best pieces! I can pay you back easier if I can sell my furniture.”

  Now Dmitri’s voice rose. “Anton, I don’t give a fuck how you get the money, but you’ll pay me what you owe me! And you’ll forfeit what I say you’ll forfeit. Do you understand?”

  A pause, then “Yes, Dmitri.”

  “You love your wife, correct?”

  Another pause.

  “Yes, Dmitri.”

  “And you want her to be safe.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if you fuck me over, you’ll lose her! And not just her beauty!”

  Another pause while Dmitri looked over his notes. “You have a daughter as well,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

  Silence on the line.

  “She’s thirteen, if I remember right. You must be very careful, Anton. Some of my men like young girls. Right now I can control them, but if you don’t honor your agreement…” his voice trailed off, leaving the threat unspoken.

  Anton replied, voice soft and defeated. “Of course I’ll honor my agreement, Dmitri. Your man can take what he pleases.”

  “You are a wise man, Anton,” Dmitri replied. “I give my clients one do-over. You’ve had yours. From now on I expect you to keep your word.”

  Anton sighed, the sound loud on the line. Dmitri was not elated. He knew submission was inevitable. He disconnected the call and turned to the men sitting across from him.

  Maxsim and Sergei had heard everything, which was precisely the point. But the threats didn’t affect the two men as much as they would have affected most others, which was why Dmitri had plucked them off the street years ago.

  Sergei sat still, composed, staring at something over Dmitri’s head. Maxsim, however, fidgeted in his chair. He pounded his right fist into his thigh. Perhaps it was nerves, perhaps he was coming down. Whatever it was, Dmitri planned to ignore it for now. He ignored many things ab
out Max because the man delivered. Whatever gene drove fear in men was absent from Max, key when dealing with drug runners and other lowlifes who used his girls at the brothel.

  But it had its downside as well. Dmitri had to send men to clean up after Max killed somebody who offended him, who offended one of his men, or who was just in the wrong place. On the other hand, the number of offenders had gone down in recent years.

  “So, what happened at the club last night?” Dmitri asked.

  “Nothing we can’t handle,” Sergei said. He eyed his boss calmly. Despite having known him for several years, many things about Sergei were still hidden from Dmitri. Oh, he knew where the man lived, who he lived with, and whom to threaten if the man ever got out of line. He knew Sergei had gained a reputation for ruthlessness against rebels, which helped him gain a spot in Dmitri’s operation.

  What he didn’t understand was why the man was so damn calm. In periods of honesty to himself, Dmitri wondered if he really had as much control over the man as he thought. But so far it worked, and he could always shoot him and dump the body in the Don if he caused issues. It had happened before to similar types. So Dmitri wasn’t too worried. He was, after all, Dmitri.

  “I didn’t ask if you could handle it, Sergei,” Dmitri said. “I asked what happened. One of my men is in the hospital this morning, and that isn’t good for business.”

  “We’re shaking down a tourist who slept with one of Max’s whores,” Sergei replied. Max nodded vigorously, proud to be a part of it. “One of his friends wanted to get involved. He sucker-punched Vlad and then pulled a knife on me. We took care of it.”

  Maxsim’s right fist continued to pound on his thigh rhythmically. Dmitri assumed the man had used before coming to see him, which was annoying but not worth bringing up unless Max got out of hand.

  Dmitri knew it hadn’t happened quite like Sergei said. He knew the second American had put Vlad on the ground and then turned Sergei’s own weapon on him. This couldn’t be tolerated. It showed weakness.

  “Word around the club was that you were saved by a woman,” Dmitri said.

  Sergei stiffened.