The Devil_s Garden

by Richard Montanari

  Falynn remained silent, but Michael could tell she knew what he was getting at.

  “Then one day my father installed a light in that closet. I kept that light on for the longest time. Months and months. Then one day I realized that, if there ever was a monster in there – and I’m still not convinced there wasn’t – the monster was gone. Monsters can’t stand the light.”

  Michael turned to look at Falynn. His fear was that he had put her to sleep with his admittedly ham-handed analogy. She was listening, though. She was still curled up in a ball, but she was listening.

  “If you testify tomorrow, you’ll be shining a light on Patrick Ghegan, Falynn. He will be exposed, and everyone will know who and what he is. If you testify we’ll be able to send him away, and he won’t be able to scare anyone or hurt anyone ever again.”

  Falynn did not look up at him. But Michael saw her eyes shift side to side, saw the wheels begin to slowly turn.

  Michael glanced back out the window. A few minutes passed, minutes during which Michael realized he had taken his best shot, and failed. He envisioned this broken young girl sitting on the witness stand, devastated by the murder of her father, adrift on an ocean of sorrow, unable to say a word. He saw Patrick Ghegan walking out of the courtroom a free man.

  “Everything is so ugly.”

  Michael spun around. The sound of Falynn’s voice was so foreign, so unexpected, Michael thought for a moment it had been in his head.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Falynn shrugged. Michael feared for a moment that she was going quiet again. He crossed the room, sat near her on the couch.

  “What’s ugly?” he asked.

  Falynn picked up a magazine, began plucking away at the mailing label at the bottom. “Everything,” she said. “Everything in the world. Me.”

  Michael knew she was saying this to get a reaction, but when he looked into her eyes, he saw that she believed it in her heart. “What are you talking about? You’re a pretty young woman.”

  Falynn shook her head. “No I’m not. Not really. Sometimes I can’t even look at myself.”

  Michael decided to go for it. He had to. “Trust me on this. Except maybe for the hair, you’re very attractive.”

  Falynn looked sharply up at him. When she saw the smile on his face she laughed. It was a glorious sound. After a few moments – moments during which, consciously or unconsciously, Falynn Harris ran a hand through her hair – she turned silent again, but Michael knew the wall had fallen. He let her continue when she was ready.

  “What’s… what’s going to happen in there?” she finally asked.

  Michael’s heart galloped. It always did when he made a breakthrough. “Well, I’ll go into the courtroom with Mr Feretti and we will present any applications we might have – scheduling, legal, stuff like that. The judge might have an evidentiary ruling. There won’t be a jury or gallery for this. After that’s over, the jury will be seated and the trial will begin. After the opening statements you’re going to be sworn in, and I’m going to ask you questions about what happened that day. About what you saw.”

  “What will I have to do?”

  “All you have to do is tell the truth.”

  “Is he going to be there?”

  The “he” of course was Patrick Ghegan. “Yes he is. But he can’t hurt you. All you have to do is point him out once. After that, you don’t ever have to look at him again.”

  The truth was, Michael would rather have Falynn look directly into the eyes of the jurors. He knew that teenagers – especially teenaged girls – could either be the greatest witnesses or an absolute nightmare. Falynn’s strength was how innocent and vulnerable she looked, her soulful eyes. Michael knew that John Feretti was going to have his hands full trying to break this witness – a young girl who had seen her father murdered in cold blood.

  “We’re going to put him somewhere he can never hurt anyone else again,” Michael added. He was, of course, hoping for more than that. The DA was going to ask for the death penalty in this case. It was not the time to bring that up, however.

  Falynn stared out of the window a few moments. “Do you promise?”

  There it was, Michael thought. He had faced this moment before, specifically with the families of the employees murdered in the basement of that QuikBurger. He recalled Dennis McCaffrey standing before those men and women and making them a promise – the promise of finality, the promise of justice for their loved ones. Michael and Tommy had stood shoulder to shoulder that day and backed the DA’s pledge. It was a promise that nearly cost Michael his life. It was the Patrescu brothers who ordered the car bombing, the attempt on his life he had miraculously survived. In a twisted sense, the madness of that act had brought Michael his greatest joy: Abby and Emily and Charlotte.

  “Yes,” he said, before he could think about it any more. “I promise.”

  Falynn just nodded. She worried the edge of the magazine in her hands. After a few moments, she looked up. “How long does it all take?”

  “Well, that depends on a few things,” Michael began, his heart beginning to soar. It was that old feeling, the feeling that the wheels of justice had just engaged, and he loved it. “The first part of the trial begins tomorrow. He has his lawyer -”

  “And you’re my lawyer.”

  At that moment Michael thought about trying to explain it all to her. He considered explaining how, when a person is a victim of a homicide, it is the state of New York that advocates for the victim, not a single person.

  But all he could see was that face. That sad angel’s face.

  “Yes,” Michael Roman said. “I’m your lawyer.”

  SEVEN

  Aleks walked the city. From 38th Street and Park Avenue he headed south a few blocks and began to wind his way toward Times Square, passing many landmarks he had only read about. The vaunted Madison Avenue, the Empire State Building, Macy’s, Herald Square, the stately, magnificent New York Public Library.

  The city both dazzled and beguiled him. This was the center of the world. He wondered what effect a place like New York had had on his daughters, and what it would take to reverse such influence.

  He knew that all he had to do in a place like New York City was walk down a street, alerting his senses to the aromas, the sounds, the sights, the rhythms. Before long he would catch the tail end of a conversation in Russian, Lithuanian, German, Romanian. He would ask after places, seeking the world beneath the world. It did not take long.

  In a place called Bryant Park he found a pair of young Russian men who said they could help him find what he was looking for. For a small fee.

  They played their games, took their stances, asserted their manhood. Eventually Aleks, who played the thick foreigner for them, got what he wanted.

  Thefirst bar was call Akatu. It was a dirty, narrow place on West End Avenue in the Sheepshead Bay section of Brooklyn, a place smelling of old grease and sour tobacco. The tavern was half-full at midday, had a parochial feel to it, as if strangers were not welcome, or at the least needed to be watched. Aleks understood. When he entered, he sensed all eyes on him. Some conversations halted.

  As he made his way to the rear of the bar, there were two husky men talking softly, blocking his path. They did not move as he approached, holding their small piece of ground, as violent men will do, forcing Aleks to skirt them by, hugging the wall. One man was thick-waisted and muscular, nearly Aleks’s size. He looked bloated, muscle-bound only, perhaps pumped from a just-finished workout. The other was shorter, also solid, but more likely the one to be carrying a weapon. He wore a cheap and oversized wool blazer in the too-warm bar. Aleks walked around them, giving them their territorial due. For the moment.

  Aleks ordered a Russian coffee and a shot. As he put his hands on the counter, pushing forth a twenty, the barman saw his tattoo, the mark of the vennaskond. The man looked confused for a second – the mark was not nearly as well known as the Russian vory – but his face soon registered the truth. T
his was a man to be reckoned with. Aleks saw the bartender nod to the two men behind Aleks, and in the mirror he saw them give him some room.

  Aleks asked a few questions of the bartender, letting on just enough to get the answers he sought, but give away nothing. After a few moments of conversation he discovered this man could not help him. But the bartender did have the name of a bar and another man who might be able to help.

  The bartender excused himself, moved a few stools down, poured a refill to an older, bottle-blond woman who smoked unfiltered cigarettes and read a Russian newspaper. Her lipstick was the color of dried blood.

  By the time the bartender returned, Aleks’s twenty had turned into a fifty, and the big man in the black leather coat was gone.

  The liquor remained untouched.

  The second place, a Russian restaurant on Flatbush Avenue, produced no results, other than to lead Aleks to a third place, a cafe in Bayview. It was a stand-alone brick building, dark and smoky, and when Aleks entered he was greeted by the hiss of the samovar, the sound of an old Journey song on the jukebox, and the shouts of men playing cards in a back room. He mind-catalogued the room: Four hard men around a pool table to the left, to the right, at the coffee bar sat a klatch of old-timers from the Ukraine. They nodded at Aleks, who returned the greeting.

  He asked about Konstantine. The men claimed to not know him. They were lying. Aleks had two more places on his list to visit.

  He turned, saw the REST ROOMS sign at the rear of the bar. He’d make a comfort stop first.

  As he walked the length of the tavern, Aleks sensed a presence. When he turned, there was no one there, no one following him.

  He continued, descending the steps. He found the men’s room at the end of a short basement hallway. He opened the door partially, flipped on the light. Nothing. The room remained dark. It smelled of dried urine and disinfectant. He opened the door fully, checked for the light fixture, and in that split second a shadow stole from the darkness like a spirit, a gleam of steel catching his eye.

  In the moment before the blade plunged towards his back, Aleks stepped to the side. The blade crashed into the drywall. Aleks shifted his weight, pivoted, slamming his left knee into the groin of his assailant, bringing a forearm down onto the hand holding the knife. The man grunted, buckled, but instead of hitting the floor he too shifted weight, exposing a second knife, this one a long steel filet. It was headed for Aleks’s stomach. Aleks grabbed the man by his thick wrist, powering back the arm. He slipped a leg between the other man’s legs and brought him to the floor. Before he could get the Barhydt out of its sheath the attacker slammed a fist into his jaw, momentarily stunning him.

  In a tangle of arms and legs, the two men crashed into the walls of the dark hallway, each seeking leverage. Moments later, Aleks brought a fist to his assailant’s jaw – three powerful blows that took away the fight. The man slumped to the floor.

  Bleeding from both the nose and mouth, his hands sore from striking bone, Aleks stood, steadied himself against the rotted plaster wall. He turned the man over, took one of the man’s arms in a scissor lock. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he looked at the man’s face.

  It was Konstantine. But it was not. The man had Konstantine’s broad forehead, his deep-set eyes, but somehow had not aged a day since he and Aleks had been in the federal army together.

  “Who are you?” Aleks asked.

  The young man wiped the blood from his nose. “Fuck your mother.”

  Aleks almost laughed. If he was in Estonia, and knew that there would be no consequences to his actions, he would have drawn his blade and opened the man’s throat, just for the insult. “I think you are not understanding the question.” He tightened his grip on the young man’s arm, exerted more downward pressure. If he wanted, he could simply apply the leverage of his full body weight, and the arm would snap. Right now, he wanted to. “Who are you?”

  The young man screamed once, a sharp growl, the muscles in his neck cording, his skin a bright crimson. “Fuck… you.”

  And Aleks knew.

  This was Konstantine’s son.

  They sat in a back room on the first floor of the tavern. With a nod of his head, the young man who had tried to kill Aleks just moments earlier had cleared the room of card players. They sat among cardboard boxes of alcohol, napkins, bar food. The young man held a bag of ice to his face.

  “You look just like him,” Aleks said. It was true. The young man had his father’s thick shoulders, broad chest, low center of gravity. He even had the crooked smile. Although Aleks had not known Konstantine at this young man’s age – perhaps twenty-two or three – the resemblance was nonetheless remarkable, almost unsettling.

  “He was my father,” the young man said.

  “Was.”

  The young man nodded, looked away, perhaps masking his feelings. “He’s dead.”

  Konstantine dead, Aleks thought. The man had survived the first wave in Chechnya. It was hard to believe. “How?”

  “Wrong place, wrong time. He took twenty bullets from a Colombian’s AK,” he said. “Not for nothin’, but the Colombian joined my father in hell not long after. Believe it.”

  Aleks remembered well Konstantine Udenko’s temper. He was not surprised.

  “Many times he showed me pictures of his baby son,” Aleks said. “You are Nikolai?”

  The kid smiled. He looked even younger, except for the pink sheen of blood coating his teeth. “They call me Kolya.”

  Aleks sized up the kid. He had fully expected to see Konstantine again, to depend on his devotion to him, not to mention his animal strength and fox-like cunning. His son would have to do. He hoped the young man had inherited some of his father’s archness and strength.

  “My name is Aleks,” he said. He pulled up the sleeves of his coat, revealing his tattoos. Kolya saw the marks and went pale. It was like a cardinal realizing he was standing in front of a pope.

  “You are Savisaar! My father talked about you all the time, man. You are vennaskond.”

  Aleks said nothing.

  Kolya looked a little shaky for a moment, as if he might be ready to kiss Aleks’s ring. Instead he opened a nearby box, and extracted a bottle of vodka.

  “We’ll have a drink,” Kolya said. “Then I’ll take you to my shop.”

  Kolya ran a chop shop in the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn. Two garages, side by side, fronting an alley behind a block of stores on North 10th Street. Both had steel corrugated roll doors. Two men stood at the end of the alley, smoking, watching, cellphones in hand. Inside, the smell of motor oil and Bondo permeated the air. Beneath it, the sweet smell of marijuana.

  The crew inside the shop was five young men, black and Hispanic. The sound of hip hop droned from a cheap radio. Aleks saw no firearms displayed openly, but he recognized the tell-tale bulges in the waistbands of two of the men.

  The garages were cluttered with half-stripped cars, engine blocks, exhaust systems, bumpers and fenders, truck caps. Most seemed to be the low end of the high side – BMW, Lexus, Mercedes.

  They gathered in the last bay, one with a broken lift. Aleks, Kolya, and a young black man named Omar. Omar was tall, powerfully built. He wore his hair in short dreads. He also sported green camouflage trousers and shirt. In a city. For Aleks, this defined his dubious worth as a warrior.

  “So what do you think?” Kolya asked, offering a proud hand to the space.

  Aleks glanced around the garages, giving the question its due. “Not bad,” he replied. As much as he liked fine automobiles, he could never be involved in this end of the trade. Too dirty, too noisy, and the product took far too much space to conceal. “Do you make a living?”

  Kolya mugged. “I do all right.”

  The words came out a’ight, a pronunciation Aleks was beginning to hear more and more, a rasp on his sensibilities.

  “Most of the business out of here is legit,” Kolya added. “Fuck, we even do work for AAA.” Kolya laughed, Omar joined in. They bumped
fists. It was nervous laughter. They did not know what was coming, and had to establish the illusion of a united front. Whatever Aleks was bringing them could be good or bad. Kolya decided to jump in the fire. “So, what do you need?”

  Aleks glanced once at Omar, back at Kolya. “I need to talk to you alone.”

  Kolya nodded at Omar. Omar took a moment, sizing Aleks, as any man’s second would. When Aleks did not say a word, did not avert his gaze, the kid thought better of the challenge. He got up slowly and walked to the door of the office, stepped inside, closed the door. Moments later Aleks saw him watching through the grimy shop window.

  Aleks turned back to Kolya, spoke softly, even though the sound of the radio, combined with the sounds of metal cutting metal, was loud. “I need to find someone.”

  Kolya nodded, said nothing.

  “A man. He has an office in this place called Queens. Do you know it?”

  Kolya smirked, hit his cigarette. “Fuck Queens. This is Brooklyn, yo.”

  Aleks ignored the territorial hubris. “The man I need to see is a lawyer. His name is Harkov.”

  “Harkov,” Kolya said. “A Jew?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But he is Russian.”

  “Yes.”

  “And a fucking lawyer.”

  Aleks nodded.

  “And from Queens. Whatever you gotta do, I’ll happily do it for you. Three strikes, vend.”

  Young men, Aleks thought. He thought for a moment of Villem, the young man from the village back home. At this moment Villem was probably feeding the dogs, cleaning out their cages. If he were American he would be just like Konstantine’s son. Jewelry, brazen tattoos, attitude.