“What are you saying?” Nicoli cried, her eyes widening in fear.
“That if he was part of this, Gnat could be in danger,” Marlene said. “Maybe the guys who paid to have Carlotta killed decide there’s too many people who know about it. Or maybe it’s one of the guys he was working with who starts worrying about one of his pals informing on him. There’s a saying in prisons that the only man you can trust with your secrets is the one who is dead and buried.”
Marlene knew she was turning up the drama dials, but it worked. Nicoli quit fighting it. “What do you want me to do?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“The first thing I need to do is determine if Gnat is even involved,” Marlene said. “If he’s not, we move on, and figure out what is troubling him. But finding out is step one, and I have some ideas on how to do that. What I’d like you to do is hire me as your attorney so that I have attorney-client standing to represent your interests while I’m investigating this.”
“I don’t have any money,” Nicoli said.
“You don’t need any, at least not for my services,” Marlene said. “I’m doing this for you and your child, as well as another woman and hers. And I do hope I’m wrong about Gnat.”
“I do, too,” Nicoli said sadly, then looked up hopefully. “What if all he did was drive?”
Marlene hesitated. She hated to dash all of the girl’s hopes, but she didn’t want to lie to her, either. “Maybe it would help at sentencing, especially if he cooperates with the police and the district attorney,” she said. “But I have to be honest with you: if he participated he’s still just as guilty of murder, in the eyes of the law, as the guy who pulled the trigger. A judge may take into account extenuating circumstances, or cooperation, but however you look at it, if he’s guilty, he’ll be going to prison for a long time.”
Nicoli hung her head and started to cry again. “Then my baby won’t have a father,” she sobbed.
Marlene reached for a tissue from the box on the coffee table and offered it to Nicoli. “It will be up to you to determine what sort of relationship to have with Gnat for you and your child if he goes to prison. In any event, it won’t be easy, and I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
Nicoli took the tissue and blew her nose as she continued to cry. “All right,” she said at last. “You can be my lawyer. What else?”
“If the time comes, I may need you to help locate him and this friend of his, Frankie, so that he can be brought in safely,” Marlene said. “Otherwise, I just need you to sit tight and please, don’t say anything to Gnat. It would just make it worse for him, and you, in the end.”
Nicoli sighed. “I won’t tell him. If he did this, he needs to pay for it. Otherwise the guilt would destroy him more than going to prison. Just promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Let me know if he gets arrested,” Nicoli replied. “He’ll be scared, and I’ll want to go see him when I can.”
Watching the poor girl try to be brave, Marlene felt tears spring to her own eyes. She smiled and patted Nicoli’s arm. “I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
11
WORD OF LVOV’S MURDER TRAVELED fast in Little Odessa. Before the Russian-language daily Novoye Russkoye Slovo newspaper could hit the stands with its front-page story about the gruesome double homicide at the home of “the respected businessman from St. Petersburg,” the patrons of teahouses, nightclubs, and butcher and fur shops along Brighton Beach Avenue already knew.
Rumors were rampant. It was a mob hit, maybe the start of a territorial war. Or Lvov’s lavish spending habits had caught up with him and somebody came looking for their money. But as the debates grew over borscht and blini, no one knew the truth.
Alexei Bebnev assumed Lvov had run afoul of one of the rival gangs, and his first reaction was one of extreme disappointment. The fat man had found him at the Rasputin nightclub on Avenue X the previous evening and had not only apologized for punching him in the eye, but had given him a new assignment: kill Frank DiMarzo and Gnat Miller.
“They’re not Russkiy and can’t be trusted like you and me,” Lvov had said when offering him the six-thousand-dollar contract. “Our mutual friend wants them silenced forever.”
Bebnev had not blinked an eye. He and DiMarzo weren’t friends anymore, and he’d never liked that sooka Gnat Miller. “It will be a pleasure to work for you,” he said with what he thought was a professionally casual nod of the head.
“There’s one other thing,” Lvov said. “Our friend wants to meet you again to pay you personally when the job is done. He likes your work, my brother.”
My brother. Bebnev had liked the sound of that and gladly threw down the multiple shots of good vodka that Lvov insisted on buying for them both. It meant he was in, part of the bratka, the brotherhood of Russian mobsters.
Then the rug got pulled out from under him when he heard the news of Lvov’s murder. He could hardly believe his bad luck, but then his cell phone rang. He nearly dropped it when he looked at the caller ID and saw the name Marat Lvov. Then hope began to grow; perhaps the rumors weren’t true and Lvov was still alive.
“Hello?” he managed hesitantly.
“Lvov is no longer with us, or didn’t you hear the news?” a familiar voice answered.
“Who is this?”
“We met once before,” the voice said. “I’m calling to let you know that the project mentioned to you by Lvov is still necessary. Do you understand me?”
“Da, yes,” Bebnev answered, encouraged, recognizing the voice as belonging to “Joey.” “Bez bazara. No problem.” Then a thought crossed his mind. “But how will I get paid?”
“Do you remember where we first met?”
“Yes.”
“After you’ve done the job, meet me there at the alley, nine o’clock, and we can settle our bill,” the man said. “If you do the job.”
“Good,” Bebnev replied. “I am told you admire my work.” He waited for an answer but the phone was already dead. Doesn’t matter, he thought, everything is working out. Who needs Lvov?
Late that afternoon, he took a bus to the Red Hook neighborhood and walked to the house where Frankie DiMarzo lived with his parents. He whistled an old Russian children’s song, one he’d picked up long ago in the orphanage, as he climbed up onto the porch of the home and knocked. He looked at his watch, the watch he’d taken from one of his “victims” the night he shot Vince Carlotta. Four o’clock. Plenty of time to kill two pussies and meet with his new boss, Joey, in Hell’s Kitchen at nine.
Frankie opened the door and scowled when he saw who was standing there. “I told you we’re through, get the . . .” he said before shutting up when Bebnev shoved a gun in his face.
“What do you say now, tough guy?” Bebnev said, forcing Frankie to step back so that he could enter the house and close the door behind him.
“Frankie?” an elderly woman’s voice called from upstairs. “Who is at the door?”
DiMarzo looked at Bebnev, who leveled the gun at his forehead. “Just a friend, Ma,” he said. “He’ll leave in a few minutes.”
Bebnev smiled and nodded as he motioned for DiMarzo to walk into the living room.
“What the fuck do you want?” DiMarzo said quietly.
“I want you to call Gnat and tell him to come over,” Bebnev said.
“Why?” DiMarzo said suspiciously.
“Because we’re going to go for ride together.”
“Fuck that. You’re going to shoot us.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Bebnev said. “Or maybe I shoot you and then go shoot nice old lady upstairs.”
“Leave my mom alone, you son of a bitch,” DiMarzo said. He started to move toward Bebnev but stopped when the Russian pulled back the hammer.
“Sit down and call,” Bebnev said, pointing to the couch. “And do not tell him I am here or I shoot your mother in the stomach and make you watch her suffer.”
Glaring at Bebnev, DiMarzo called Miller.
“Hey, Gnat, can you come over?” he said. “I got something we need to talk about.” He hung up the phone. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
They sat silently for a minute before DiMarzo shook his head. “Why you doing this, Alexei?”
Bebnev grinned and waved his gun at his former friend. “Someone is worried you and pansy friend Gnat have big mouths.”
“Me and Gnat?” DiMarzo said incredulously. “You’re the one who was popping off at the bar. I ain’t no snitch.”
“You are not Russian and can’t be trusted,” Bebnev said. “No one at the bar knew what I was talking about or cared; they were all Russkiy and my brothers.”
“And after you kill us, you think these guys that are paying you are going to let you live?”
Bebnev frowned at the question but then shrugged. “You don’t understand. I am professional killer. These guys admire my work.”
DiMarzo scoffed. “They’re using you, just like they used all of us.”
“You are not important,” Bebnev replied angrily. “Now shut up.”
They again fell silent as ten, and then twenty minutes passed. “Where is Gnat, the little sooka,” Bebnev snarled at last. “If you somehow warned him, your mother is going to die, and maybe I will do some things to your sisters.”
Before DiMarzo could answer, there was a knock on the front door. “Answer,” Bebnev said, getting up, “but remember, I am behind you and your mother is upstairs.”
When DiMarzo opened the door, Miller was standing on the porch. “I’m sorry, Gnat,” Frank said and opened the door farther to reveal the gunman standing behind him. “I guess we’re going for a ride.”
“I ain’t going nowhere with him,” Miller replied and started to back away.
“Please, Gnat,” DiMarzo said. “He’s going to shoot my mom if we don’t do what he says.”
“That’s right, pussy,” Bebnev said, grinning. He put the gun in the pocket of his coat but kept it trained on the other two men. “Let’s go.”
For a moment, Miller looked like he might still take his chances and run. But he saw the pleading look in DiMarzo’s eyes and nodded. “What the fuck, I don’t even care anymore.”
As they started to leave, DiMarzo called out. “I’m going out for a little while, Ma,” he yelled and then choked up as he added, “I love you. Tell Pops I love him, too.”
“Okay, Frankie,” the old woman yelled back. “Have a nice time with your friends.”
When they got to Gnat’s car, Bebnev ordered the other two into the front seats while he got in the back. He took his gun back out of his pocket and placed it against Miller’s neck. “Drive,” he said.
“Where?”
“Fountain Avenue and Flatlands.”
“The landfill?”
“That is good guess,” Bebnev answered.
DiMarzo and Miller fell silent. Gnat turned on Fountain Avenue, a major north-south arterial through Brooklyn with the south end where they were heading comprised of toxic landfills and odorous swamps. More germane to the situation they found themselves in, it was infamous as a dumping ground for bodies by various mobs over the years including Murder Incorporated in the 1930s, the Gambino family in the 1970s and ’80s, and, more recently, the “immigrant” mobs led by the Russians.
The sky was growing increasingly dark and snowflakes were falling when they pulled up to a fenced-in landfill. A sign on the gate declared that the landfill was permanently closed and warned trespassers of toxic dangers.
“Lock is broken,” Bebnev said to DiMarzo. “Get out and open. Do not try to run or first I shoot Gnat and then I go back to your home and shoot your ma and pops. And I rape your sisters before I kill them, too.”
“Fuck you, Bebnev,” DiMarzo said. “Someday you’re going to pay for this.”
“Maybe,” Bebnev said, then laughed. “But you first.”
DiMarzo got out of the car and opened the gate. After he got back in, Bebnev directed Miller to drive to a secluded spot surrounded by mounds of half-buried refuse, scraggly trees, and swampy grasslands. “Far enough,” he said. “Get out.”
As the two friends marched ahead of Bebnev, DiMarzo turned to Miller. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Gnat,” he said.
Gnat smiled. “It’s okay, Frankie,” he said. “I got myself into this; nobody made me do it.” He was quiet for a moment, then added, “Tell you the truth, I’m kind of glad it’s over. It’s been like a ton of bricks piled on top of me. I can’t sleep. I’m a ball of nerves. I even hit Nicoli for no good reason. I was a real shit to her and I wish I could have told her one more time that I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” DiMarzo said. “The money wasn’t worth it. I hate what this is going to do to my ma and pops. I guess they won’t have to worry about their no-good son anymore. I hope they can forget about me.”
They reached a small clearing. “Far enough,” Bebnev ordered. “Get down on your knees.”
With the moment of death at hand, Miller and DiMarzo sank to the ground. “You were a good friend, Frank,” Miller said.
“You were, too,” DiMarzo replied, his voice husky.
“Hey, you pussies, you want to kiss or something before I shoot you?” Bebnev said with a laugh.
“Burn in hell, you ugly son of a bitch,” DiMarzo said. “Jesus forgive me for my sins.”
“Jesus forgive me for my sins,” Miller repeated after him.
DiMarzo looked up at the snowflakes that fell and wondered if there was any chance he’d get into heaven and see his family again. The sound of vehicles on nearby streets and water traffic on Jamaica Bay seemed unusually loud as he waited for the shot.
Instead, something behind them crackled with a blue flash, which was immediately followed by a yelp and a thud. The air smelled of electrical discharge. “You can get up,” said a thick, heavily accented voice behind them.
When they realized the voice did not belong to Bebnev, the two friends turned and saw a very large man standing over the body of their would-be assassin, who lay twitching on the ground. The big man leaned over and yanked the prongs from the Taser he held out of Bebnev’s back and then put the weapon in his coat pocket.
DiMarzo recognized their savior as the man with the scarred face he’d seen at the Little Odessa club when Bebnev met with Lvov. “Wow, thanks, man,” he exclaimed. “Boy, are we glad you showed—”
“Shut fuck up,” the big man interrupted. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number. “Is done,” he said into the phone and hung up.
A few moments later, a long dark sedan pulled into the clearing. Another man with a scarred face, wearing an eye patch, but not nearly as large as the first man, got out of the car. He walked up and clapped the big man on the shoulder.
“Well done, Anton, my friend,” he said, then toed Bebnev, who was starting to come to. “Get up, scum.”
“Thank you for helping us,” Miller started to say to the man with the eye patch.
The man returned the thanks with a look of scorn. “I am not here to help you,” he said. “I am here to help a friend.” He looked down at Bebnev, who sat up and rubbed his temples as if he had a splitting headache. “Do you know who I am?” he asked the Russian.
Bebnev looked up and as his eyes focused, his face turned into a mask of fear. “Da. You are Ivgeny Karchovski!”
“That’s right,” replied the man. “And so you know I will do what I say, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Bebnev replied. He looked down at the ground, unable to hold the other man’s eye contact.
“Then you and your not-so-good friends sit still while I discuss your fates with another. Is that understood?” he said looking at all three young men.
“Yes, sir,” they all replied.
Satisfied, Karchovski took out a cell phone and made a call. “Hello, my lovely friend. I am sorry to bother you but there was slight change of plans. My associate located Bebnev, who led us to the others before they all left in the red-haired one’s car. Apparent
ly the dogs are fighting among themselves and Bebnev was going to silence the other two, permanently.”
Karchovski listened for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, they are all unharmed. Fortunately, my associate was able to intervene shortly before I arrived.”
Moving behind Gnat’s car, he said, “The license plate number? Yes, is New York FPB eight-one-nine-six.” He listened a bit more and then, looking at the three younger men, said, “Perhaps I should question these dogs, maybe remove a finger for every lie? Only if they refuse to talk? Sigh, okay, we play by your rules, but you know I like to make examples of such as these. Tell my cousin there will be early Christmas present waiting for him in an Oldsmobile Delta 88 at the landfill at Fountain and Flatlands Avenues in Brooklyn. . . . You’re welcome, darling, glad to have been of service.”
The Russian gangster then turned back to the three young men. “Stand up and put your hands behind your back. Anton, there are plastic ties in the glove box of my car. Would you get them, please? And would you hand me your knife, please?”
“What are you going to do to us?” Miller asked, trembling as the bigger man whipped out a wicked-looking knife from a boot sheath.
“Do?” Karchovski answered then looked at his man and they both laughed. “I guess I am making citizen’s arrest!” He sat down on the hood of his car, and, removing an apple from his long wool coat, convincingly cut a slice with the knife and popped it into his mouth in one smooth motion. “Now, who wants to tell me truth about murder of Vince Carlotta?”
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