by Greg Smith
“You done quite well, old man! Congrats!”
Step blushed.
“All this means nothing to Connie and I. We just want to be together.”
“Really?” Aleks smirked, abandoned the silly accent. “Well, you just take that trust fund away from your new bride and see how that works out for you. Absolutely no way you can provide for her the way she’s used to, Binyak. Not without Daddy’s trust fund.”
He gulped down the rest of his Scotch.
“It’s really not like that, Al,” Step retorted, a bit miffed by his brother’s skepticism.
Aleks waved a hand absently at Step.
“Hey. Binyak. Look, I don’t mean to rain on your parade,” he apologized, then assumed a sincere tone. “While I’m in a festive mood, thanks, in part, to the generosity of your new father-in-law, let me just take this opportunity to say thank you. For everything you’ve done for me. Seriously, Binyak. I could never be me without you.”
He tapped his glass against Step’s, tipped the drink to his lips, gave the glass a perturbed look after discovering it was empty. He took the opportunity to discard the uninhabited glass on a serving tray as it swept by on the upraised hand of a cute, tuxedoed brunette, substituted it with a glass of full occupancy. Inhabitants unknown.
He placed one arm around Step’s shoulder, whispered, “You know I love you, Binyak.”
Step was mildly surprised to see his brother being so sincere.
“What can I say?” he remarked. “I-I’m flattered, Al. I, uh, I guess the same goes for me. I couldn’t be me without you, either. Love ya, Binyak.”
The twins grabbed each other by the back of the head, pulled close to touch foreheads. They held the embrace momentarily, leaving unsaid what both were thinking. That it had been a rough few years. That Fate had put them through the ringer. That they had persevered. Together.
They were just separating when Connie emerged from the crowd of well-wishers, pulled Step gently away, stood by his side, holding one arm.
“Twin secrets?” she asked in mock jest. “Care to share?”
“It’s nothing, sweetie,” Stepan answered. “Just two brothers talking.”
“Oh, I thought twins shared everything.” Connie eyed Aleks teasingly. “Speaking of which, care to dance with the bride, Aleks?”
She fluttered her eyelashes in faux flirtation.
Aleks glanced questioningly at his brother.
“Go ahead,” Step permitted. “Better you embarrassing yourself out there than me.”
Aleks held a hand out to Connie, who accepted it with a demure curtsey. As they took to the dance floor, she commented on Aleks’s apparent self-assurance among the affluent.
“You seem very comfortable here, Aleks. Very much at ease. Unlike Stepan.”
“Well, these are my peeps.”
Aleks feigned aloofness, flashed a broad smile.
They both laughed. Connie moved close for the slow dance, pushed her pelvis against his. Aleks pulled away, didn’t want his new sister-in-law to notice that her husband’s twin had a semi-erection. She had, moved in close again.
“Oooh, Aleks,” she whispered in his ear. “Where have you been all my life? Where has that been? Don’t tell me I just married the wrong brother.”
Aleks was speechless. From the time they’d met, Connie had been playfully flirtatious. On the rare occasion they’d found themselves alone together, she’d been openly seductive. Aleks found her excitingly attractive, sexually provocative. And dangerously available. To his dismay, or perverse enjoyment, his erection grew harder. He pulled away.
Speak, Aleks, speak, he told himself. Say something, you big idiot.
“Oh, you know what they say,” he quipped. “Better to regret the things you’ve done than the things you haven’t.”
He wasn’t sure who’d said it, or even if the adage was apropos.
“Mae West,” Connie guessed.
Aleks shrugged.
Connie guessed again.
“Marilyn Monroe.”
“Lucille Ball, I think. Actually,” Aleks had suddenly remembered the unlikely source of the quote. “Among others, I’m sure.”
“Well, aren’t you clever,” Connie teased. “Always ready with something witty and sagacious to say.”
“Sagacious? Wow. That Barnard education is paying dividends.”
“See what I mean?” the blond retorted. “But it was Wellesley. Not ‘Barnyard,’ as we Wellesley snobs call it.”
She squinted her eyes thoughtfully, gazed toward the ceiling.
“‘Non Ministrari sed Ministrare.’”
“‘Not to be ministered unto, but to minister,’” Aleks translated.
Wellesley’s Latin motto.
Connie regarded him with astounded admiration. She secretly wished it had been Aleks at the fund raiser that night instead of Step. That it had been Aleks who’d slipped the ring on her finger earlier that day.
“How do two brothers, twins no less, grow up in the same world, yet end up worlds apart?” she questioned pensively.
Aleks was quick to come to his brother’s defense.
“Believe me, Step can hold his own.”
It was Connie’s turn to be clever.
“Seems to me, you’re the one holding Step’s own.”
Again Aleks had been rendered speechless by his stunning new sister-in-law. Though it was fun to flirt with Connie, he had to think of a way out of what he felt was becoming an inappropriate situation.
“You know what? I could use another glass of that Scotch your father has been so generous in sharing.”
Though disappointed playtime was over, Connie decided to let her mouse believe he’d escaped of his own cunning. They left the dance floor. Aleks managing to somehow hide his erection. Relieved it had diminished. Connie wondering when she would have the opportunity for another tete a tete with the twin brother she hadn’t married.
True to her word, upon returning from their honeymoon in Spain, Connie encourage Step and Aleks to pursue their dream.
Their nest egg had grown to nearly two million dollars. Fortunes had been made with far less funding. They actually didn’t need anywhere near that much money to establish their business. Knowing, however, that rich people liked to do business with other rich people, the brothers wanted to maintain assets that would convince potential investors they were successful at what they did. Confident enough to put their own money where their mouths were.
They spent a month meeting late at night two or three times a week to formulate their business plan, outline a schedule. That arrangement worked for Step, but left Aleks with too much time on his hands. He was anxious to move forward. He also realized his brother would never find the time to devote to the development of their business while still working for Wins Stanton. He and Connie conspired to force Step’s hand. Connie assured her husband that she didn’t mind using her trust fund to support them while the new business took root. Step begrudgingly acquiesced, resigned his position at WJS.
Wins Stanton, though disappointed about losing his best analyst and proprietary programmer, was surprisingly supportive. He had a well-established client base, wasn’t the least concerned about gaining a competitor. The plain truth was, Wins didn’t think the twins had the necessary resolve to succeed. Didn’t believe they’d last through the third quarter. He wished the brothers the best of luck, told Step there would always be a place for him at WJS & Associates.
“As long as you’re still married to my daughter,” he added with a wink, a smile and a handshake.
The twins hammered out the final details of their business plan while sequestered in Aleks’s apartment for three days. Subsisting on pizza, beer, Chinese take-out. Though reticent at first, Step admitted he found the time refreshingly reminiscent of their days at NYU. Aleks was happy to have some “Binyak time.” The brothers had been living separate lives for some time, had grown apart. Their three days together served to restore their twin ties.
In
the spring of 1998, Aleks and Stepan Bagdasarian leased space on the eighty-ninth floor of the World Trade Center’s North Tower. They commissioned an architect to design a suite with twin offices separated by a reception area. It was a no-brainer to adopt the two-headed Albanian eagle as their company logo.
A/S/B Financial opened for business on the heels of the economic prosperity of the ’90s and a surging stock market. Only to fall victim to speculative trading practices, the dot-com bubble…and one brother’s greed.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 46
Thursday October 18: Day 37 post-9/11
Griggor no longer believed the tall stranger Nadia had taken in had had anything to do with the Twin Towers. Beyond possibly having worked there. Possibly with his twin brother. If he even had one. Ever since Alex had revealed he had a twin, the old Romanian had been troubled by thoughts that he may be schizophrenic. He believed it was possible Alex had invented the brother. That Binyak was actually an alter ego. The Alex persona, the stronger of the stranger’s two personalities, had come forward, while the stranger’s true identity had taken a passive role. Having done something he was ashamed of, his true personality was in hiding. Even to the extent of remaining nameless.
On the other hand, Alex could be perfectly sane. Could have invented Binyak as a cover for whatever he was hiding. Binyak wasn’t even a real name. He was a generic twin, could easily be a figment of Alex’s imagination. Alex could blame the fictitious twin for whatever deeds he’d done he didn’t want to confess to.
What do I know, hey? I am no psychologist, the old man admitted to himself.
There was also the very real possibility that the stranger’s amnesia was genuine. That he was telling the truth. That he actually did have a twin brother. That they had worked together in an office in the North Tower. That he honestly couldn’t remember his twin brother’s real name. Had no more idea what had become of his twin than he did about his own circumstance.
The old Romanian wasn’t certain which of his theories was most plausible. Or why the stranger would bother going down any path of deception. Neither Griggor nor Nadia cared about the tall man’s past. As long as he presented no danger, they accepted him as he was. Nadia even believed he could be a hero. Or an angel.
Griggor, on the other hand, felt strongly that Alex wasn’t being completely honest. Something about the tall man’s proficiency with numbers teased at him. The irritating grain of sand continued to chafe.
He hides something, the old man maintained. That is certain.
The story of the fiancée’s death and Alex’s connection to the Muskolovs also fascinated the old man. Griggor knew of Sergei, the driver. Knew his father, Viktor, well. Russian mobster. Extortionist. Murderer. A violent man who had met a violent death. He remembered clearly the day he’d met The Omsk Boar. No more than a dozen years ago.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
He was at Luca’s Gym. Working out alone on the heavy bag. Paying little heed to the activity in the sparring ring that dominated the floor space. A loud howl of excruciating pain abruptly thundered through the room. Griggor looked up to see a smallish, bald-headed man standing in the sparring ring, gloved hands hanging down at his sides. The small boxer spit something at a large man who was slumped on the mat against a corner post. The small man’s mouth was bloody. The middle of the large man’s face bloodier.
The smaller boxer had bitten the large man’s nose off.
The small man calmly slipped through the ropes as another large man, this one with a stunned look on his face, held them apart. The small boxer tore at the tape on his gloves with his teeth, stopped biting at it only long enough to yell loudly, asking if there was a doctor in the gym.
Dracu Roosh, Griggor thought grudgingly, recognizing the bald man’s accent.
He bowed his head, walked forward, holding one gloved hand overhead.
“I am doctor, hey?”
He approached the ring, held both arms out so his gloves could be removed. The small man nodded at his large assistant, who promptly untied Griggor’s gloves.
“See what you can do,” the small man commanded. “If you cannot fix him, I will have him shot,” he deadpanned. “They shoot horses, da?” he added, erupting into laughter.
Several large men who had been milling about laughed at the small man’s joke. Griggor guessed they were his bodyguards. The small man was obviously in charge.
The injured man was helped into a training room, laid on a table. Someone had picked the fleshy pulp of skin that had been his nose off the canvass with a handkerchief, placed it on the big man’s chest. On this way to the training room Griggor had stopped at his locker to retrieve his medical bag.
“I need vodka,” he commanded, receiving only blank stares. “Dumnezeule! Is Roosha gym. Nu vodka, hey?”
A bottle showed up. Griggor poured the liquid down the large man’s throat, splashing the last few ounces directly onto the man’s bloody wound. It was the only anesthesia the big Russian would get. He screamed in pain, passed out. When Griggor was finished, he surveyed his handiwork. The big man’s face looked as though it had been pushed into a meat grinder.
“He was not pretty anyway,” a voice said from behind.
Griggor turned to see the small bald-headed man standing among his group of bodyguards. The top of the small man’s bald head barely reached the armpit of the shortest of the large thugs. He’d showered, was dressed in an expensive suit, reeked of aftershave.
The short Russian reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of money, peeled five one hundred dollar bills off the roll, held them out to Griggor.
“You do not speak of this. To anyone. Ever. Hey?” the small man ordered.
“Da,” Griggor replied, ignoring the small, bald man’s obviously mocking use of the word “hey.”
The Russian held onto the money a moment, held Griggor’s gaze as well.
His eyes have no soul, Griggor thought. They are dead.
“Does good doctor have name?” the Russian asked.
“I am Grigore Alexandru.”
The Russian continued to hold Griggor’s gaze.
“You are not Russian.”
“Nu. Romana.”
Griggor wouldn’t break the small man’s stare. The Russian scoffed.
“I will not hold that against you, gypsy. You are good doctor. I sometimes need good doctor. We will see you sometime. Hey, gypsy?”
The bald Russian walked away without mentioning his own name, or offering to shake Griggor’s hand.
And I will not hold lack of manners against you, Griggor thought. Nor poor taste. Little man.
He pocketed the money. One of the gym trainers later told him the small Russian was Viktor Muskolov, “The Omsk Boar.” The trainer also informed him of Viktor’s reputation.
Griggor rarely saw the small Russian mobster in person after the day they’d met. However, he would witness the consequences of The Omsk Boar’s actions on many occasions. The Boar’s right-hand man, Arkady Muskolov, a slightly built, nervous cousin of Viktor’s known as “The Muskrat,” would show up at Griggor’s door with someone in need of a doctor. A doctor who would not ask questions, would not talk. More often than not, the person in tow was a man. In need of stitches. Or requiring a broken bone to be set. Mostly fingers, hands. The occasional arm. Or leg. Then, with some frequency, Arkady began bringing young girls. Usually just roughed up a bit. Sometimes with a little problem that needed to go away.
In time, Griggor was attending to the victims of Viktor’s son, Sergei, as well. He’d lost count of the number of Sergei’s bastard scions he’d prevented from coming into the world.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
It wasn’t a sad day when Viktor and Sergei met their respective demises. Griggor chuckled wryly at the memory of their deaths. He still hadn’t decided which version of the story he would share with Alex.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 47
&
nbsp;
Aleks believed his sister-in-law had an ulterior motive for encouraging Step to leave her father’s firm, go into business with his twin. He thought she had some axe to grind with her father. He was half right.
Connie Stanton always had an ulterior motive for her actions. She was manipulative, cunning, self-serving. Her primary goal to satisfy whatever whim she was currently entertaining. After marrying Step, returning from their honeymoon, that whim was spending more alone time with her new brother-in-law.
She’d been delighted when Aleks had sought her out before the wedding, enlisted her help in getting Step to agree to leave WJS. That Aleks had ignored her come-ons, remained focused on his quest to establish a successful business, had vexed her. She’d spent too many nights playing the unfamiliar role of the woman scorned.
She persevered, however. Spun her web. Ultimately, snared her prey.
Her ruse was simple enough. Lure Aleks into a one-on-one meeting using the mouthwatering bait he couldn’t resist. Money. That she wasn’t temptation enough incensed the hot-tempered Connie immensely. Still, she felt the end would justify the means.
And in the end, her quarry took the bait.
“Well yes, Stepan does handle all our financial issues,” Connie admitted as she set her trap. “But, c’mon, Aleks, a girl in my position would be foolish not to have something in reserve. A Plan B, so to speak. Stepan doesn’t have to know everything.”
Connie’s sexuality oozed shamelessly. Like honey from a beehive. Even over the phone. Every sentence, every phrase, carrying the potential for double entendre.
When Aleks didn’t answer immediately, she sighed.
“Look, guys have their secret stashes. A girl’s gotta have a little fun money, too. Think of it as an emergency fund, Aleks. For a rainy day.”
Aleks knew Connie was up to something more devious than setting up a fun-money account.
“How much ‘rain’ are we talking about?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out, Sherlock,” Connie responded coyly. “When we meet.”