by Greg Smith
Once in America, the Russian immigrant quickly entangled himself in protection and extortion rackets. Was soon terrorizing other criminals. Taking over their illegal activities and territories. It didn’t take the ruthless mobster long to establish his own empire. Earning a reputation for brutality along the way. Throwing people off roofs had become The Boar’s calling card.
Twenty-two years of age, Sergei Muskolov towered over his father, having inherited his height from his fashion-model mother. That alone created a rift between father and son. Viktor had harbored sentiments of envy against the boy ever since Sergei had reached puberty and grown taller than his short, stockily-built father. As an adolescent, the boy became an increasingly persistent thorn in Viktor’s side. As a young adult, he proved to be even more ruthless, more merciless, than his father. While Viktor tolerated most of Sergei’s antics, there were two things he would not tolerate. Stealing from a comrade. And ratting one out. In the summer of 1994, Viktor believed his son was guilty of the latter.
Thinking he could outwit them, Sergei had agreed, under immense pressure and with no other apparent option, to cooperate with authorities who were investigating his father. He’d turned state’s witness in exchange for immunity from prosecution. Sergei believed the investigation was targeted against his father’s alleged illegal operations, not against Viktor Muskolov himself. The younger Muskolov’s arrogance, combined with his overestimation of his ability to control the situation, precipitated the event that resulted in both Muskolov’s deaths.
When a cop on Viktor’s payroll tipped him off about Sergei’s arrangement, The Boar went berserk. As was his penchant, he dropped the informant off the roof of a building. He then put out word that he wished to speak with his son.
“Wuzzup?”
Sergei walked into Viktor’s office without knocking, plopped down in a leather chair. Viktor didn’t immediately acknowledge his son’s presence. He continued to peruse the magazine he was reading, making a point of holding it wide open, turning it to view the centerfold.
“Yo, rapist of my mother. I’m here. What gives?” Sergei said loudly, insolently.
Knowing full well he’d been conceived during an act of violence, Sergei refused to call Viktor “father” or “dad.”
Viktor lowered the magazine, glanced at his son. Sergei wore a white satin athletic outfit with maroon and gold trim. A baseball cap that looked too large for his head was cocked to one side. He wore gold chains, gold rings, a gold watch. Viktor thought his son dressed like a ghetto nigger. He didn’t approve of Sergei’s lifestyle. The way he dressed, his music, his friends. His lack of a work ethic. He despised the boy for it.
Looking at his son, aware of his haughtiness, his disdain, Viktor felt his anger welling up, fought to control it. He went to the door, peered into the hallway, summoned two of his bodyguards.
The Boar whispered their orders. The large men walked into his office, grabbed Sergei by the arms, pulled him to his feet.
“What the fuck!” the startled Sergei cried.
Viktor backhanded his son, knocking the baseball cap off the boy’s head.
“Motherfucker!” Sergei screamed.
He fought against the two large men, though mostly for show. The scrawny Sergei had no hope of escaping.
“Shut the fuck up, Sergei,” Viktor told him.
The Boar strode purposefully ahead as his henchmen followed, dragging the indignant Sergei along. They walked to a stairwell, climbed to the top floor. Out on the roof, Viktor dismissed the two bodyguards. He needed no help handling his son.
“What the fuh–?”
Viktor stopped Sergei’s protest with a punch to the midsection that took the wind out of the boy.
“You work against me with Feds?” Viktor said, his anger growing. “The fucking Feds, da?”
His face was red. He spit as he spoke. Sergei seemed relieved that that was all his father had on his mind.
“I-I can explain that.”
Viktor cut him off with another jab to the midsection. This one sent the young Russian sprawling.
“There is nothing to explain. You are disgrace to Muskolov name. You embarrass me.”
“It’s not…whu…what…you think,” Sergei managed to say, sitting up, sucking air.
“Is not what YOU think, Sergei!”
Viktor roared, grabbed the boy by the legs, pulled him to the edge of the building. He soon had Sergei dangling over the lip. Six stories above the ground. He intended only to frighten his son.
Knowing his father’s fondness for dropping people off buildings, Sergei believed he was about to die. He pleaded for his life.
“Please! What the fuck? I’m begging you!” he yelled, flailing his arms. “Don’t do this! I-I haven’t told them anything!”
His father’s angry red face glared at him.
“I’m your son, for fuck’s sake!”
Sergei’s mind worked desperately for a way out. He remembered the nine millimeter Glock he kept in his waistband, reached for it, only to find it wasn’t there. Viktor released one of Sergei’s legs, reached behind his back. He held the Glock up for his son to see.
“Looking for this?”
Viktor dropped the handgun toward Sergei, who somehow managed to trap the firearm against his chest. He fumbled it for a moment before securing it. Before aiming it at his father, pulling the trigger.
Viktor Muskolov lived only long enough to release his son’s legs, fall backward, hit the gravelly asphalt rooftop with a hole just off center in his forehead. Sergei lived about five seconds longer. The time it took for him to plummet six stories to the ground.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
“Cum e tata, e si fiul,” Griggor muttered, shaking his head slowly. “Like father, like son,” he translated for Aleks.
“Fuck them both!” Aleks said, with deep loathing. “That was nothing short of poetic justice. Karma. If you ask me, they got off easy. They should both be rotting in the darkest corner of the worst prison on Earth.”
Gherla, Griggor thought, conjuring up an image of the dark, dank tunnels beneath the institution in which he’d spent five years as the prison doctor in his previous life.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 49
Aleks wished the night with Connie had never happened. He felt he’d stooped to a new low. Sleeping with his brother’s wife. What had he been thinking?
Meanwhile, his sister-in-law sent him a present. With a wink and a grin, Aleks’s doorman, Charles, handed him the small gift-wrapped package when he arrived home the following day.
“A most bee-yoo-tee-full woman axed me to present y’all wit dis here present, Mr. Aleks,” Charles smiled, his teeth as white and pearly as Chiclets.
Aleks thanked him, slipped him a fiver as he accepted the package.
Once inside, he tore open the paper to find a gift box from Van Cleef and Arpels, the prestigious Manhattan jewelers. The handwritten card inside read, “Identical my ass!” Signed only “C.” Inside the box was a lapel pin featuring black pearl yin and white pearl yang inlaid in silver, each with a diamond in place of its center dot.
About the size of a nickel the piece of jewelry was simple, yet complex. Elegant, yet obscene in its sexual reference. Aleks couldn’t deny that he found the item appealing. However, it did nothing to camouflage the guilt he felt over caving to temptation. Sleeping with the beguiling Connie.
She contacted him regularly over the next couple of weeks. Asking when they could meet again. To discuss her “rainy day fund.” They got together a second time less than a month after their first venture into adultery. Again dining at La Caravelle.
“They know you well here,” Aleks commented, after the maître d’ had shown obvious recognition while seating them.
“The ironic thing is they assume I’m with my husband,” Connie laughed mildly. “They think you’re Stepan. If someone should ignore my icy bitch stares, dare to stop by and say hello, you can easily fool the
m.”
She seemed to revel in the deceitfulness of the situation. Aleks briefly wondered if the manipulative seductress was more turned on by the treachery itself. Or by him.
Connie had decided on an evening of aphrodisiacs. Oysters for an appetizer, an entrée of salmon and asparagus. All washed down with a fine pinot noir. Plenty of fine pinot noir. Aleks, however, was determinedly resolved not to fall prey to his sister-in-law’s web of seduction again. He steadfastly tried to keep the conversation on course. Connie simply wasn’t having any of it.
“Regarding your fund. You said you need to retain liquidity,” Aleks began.
“Oh, I’m liquid, Aleks, honey. I’m all squishy. You know that,” the attractive blond teased.
“Can we just focus on the reason we’re here?” Aleks responded sternly.
“You’re the reason I’m here, Aleks. I am focused. I’m so focused.”
Connie made a “V” with two fingers, pointed them at her eyes then turned her hand to point at him. Giggling girlishly, she drained her glass of wine, tipped it toward him for a refill. Aleks maintained a serious tone as he cordially poured the red wine into her empty glass.
“C’mon, Connie. Really. Can’t we please handle this like adults?”
“Aleks. Darling. Being an adult can be so…uninteresting,” the blond remarked flippantly. “If I wanted adult, I’d stay home with your brother. My dull, boring husband.”
Not one to sip her wine, take time to enjoy the sensory examination and evaluation of the grape, Connie drank the intoxicant as though it was water.
“What I want is you, Alex. You’re not boring. You’re anything but dull. You’re interesting. You’re exciting. I enjoy being with you. But, if you really want to be adults about it, fine. Here’s to being adults.” She raised her glass. “Consenting adults,” she added with a laugh before drinking.
Aleks reminded himself that he wasn’t falling for her seductive ploys.
“Connie, we can’t… I can’t…do this again.”
“You already did, Aleks, honey. Remember?” She wagged two fingers to remind him of the number of times he’d performed during their first tryst. “I, for one, am ready for round three.”
Aleks sighed.
“Did you ever want to set up this rainy day fund? Or was that just the bait? The enticement to lure me in?”
Connie pouted.
“I’m a bad girl. Do you want to punish me, Aleks? Spank me. Better yet, give me a good licking.”
She winked, giggled, knocked back the rest of her wine. She dabbed at her lips daintily with her napkin before dropping it on the floor.
“Oops. Dropped something.”
Bending over in her chair to pick the napkin up, she quickly slipped under the tablecloth, beneath the table. Aleks felt her hands touch his knees, run along his thighs to his belt buckle. Moments later, Connie slipped quickly and quietly back into her chair, dapped again at her lips with the napkin.
“Well,” she giggled. “Knock that off my bucket list.”
She saw her wine glass was empty, raised her eyebrows expectantly. When Aleks didn’t respond, she grabbed the bottle of pinot noir, began to pour her own drink. The last few drops trickled out. She pouted, set the bottle down.
“Order us another bottle, will you, darling? I’m off to the ladies’ room. Then, it’s your turn to slip under the table,” she commanded with a knowing look.
Watching Connie’s shapely behind hidden beneath her short sequined dress, Aleks was tempted to stay, await her return. But he’d already made his mind up.
Connie came back to the table minutes later to find her glass refilled. Aleks, however, was not to be seen. In his place, a handwritten note.
“Thanks for dinner. Hope you enjoyed desert! If and when you get serious about your ‘rainy day fund,’ you know where to find me.”
Fucking bastard!
Never mind that Aleks had left her with the dinner bill. She’d wanted his head under the table, between her legs. She tossed the last phrase of his message over in her mind.
‘You know where to find me.’
Could be an invitation.
The idea that Aleks could be waiting for her, naked in his apartment, appealed to her adventurous, sensual spirit. She quickly paid the bill, headed off to his place.
For his sake, he’d better be there! she thought irritably.
It took Connie less than twenty minutes to arrive at Aleks’s apartment. Charles was his usual cordial self as he admitted her with a tip of his hat.
Muttering some nonsense about a family emergency, she used her charm to coax the desk clerk, a man in his early thirties suffering from acute adult acne, into admitting her to Aleks’s apartment. She’d lied needlessly. One glimpse of her toned thighs and tight ass in the short sequined dress was all it took for the unsightly man to lose all sense of propriety.
You’d think they’d find more attractive employees for a place in this price range, Connie thought derisively as she followed Pimple Face from the elevator to Alek’s door.
Lower standards for the night shift, I suppose, she concluded.
She’d been in Aleks’s apartment once before, months ago with Stepan for a visit. It was a spacious place with a modern décor bordering on sterile. The bar was well-stocked. She poured herself a Bombay Sapphire. Glass in hand, she headed to the bedroom, turned back momentarily to grab the bottle.
As soon as she entered the room, she sensed Aleks was there. Either sleeping or pretending to be asleep. She didn’t care which. She stripped, finished her drink, took a swig from the bottle, slipped beneath the sheet. Aleks stirred as she snuggled up to him, turned to face her. She pushed his head toward her breasts. He sleepily nuzzled an erect nipple. Connie sighed, threw her head back, continued pushing his head lower until she felt his tongue where she wanted it.
No pretending to sleep now, my prince.
Discussing her “rainy day fund” soon became Connie’s metaphor for arranging a sexual tryst with her brother-in-law. At first, Aleks would tell himself each time was the last. He couldn’t resist his brother’s wife, however. His sister-in-law was the most adventurous woman he’d ever met. She was insatiable, open to anything Aleks wanted. And she was devoted to her prince, as she called him.
Step, meanwhile, had no idea his wife was sleeping with his brother. He submissively accepted Connie’s refusals of his infrequent sexual advances, was ecstatic on the rare occasion she’d consent to sleep with him. When she did, usually only to keep Step from suspicion, she treated him like a subservient. Teased, tormented and demeaned him. Made him cater to her whims and desires. Often ridiculed his performance. Step found himself ruing the weakness in his character that allowed him to tolerate such emasculation.
Connie found Aleks a pleasant contrast to her servile husband. Like her, Aleks had a healthy sexual appetite, tending toward the ravenous…and experimental. Having a sexual affair with her husband’s twin brother wasn’t a problem for Connie Stanton. Falling in love with him and regretting the day she’d married the wrong twin, on the other hand, would prove to be problematic.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 50
Monday October 22: Day 41 post-9/11
As his memory slowly and sporadically returned, Aleks tried to maintain a patient composure. Now that he knew who he was, he needed to discover who he’d been. He knew there had to be records. A birth certificate. Social security number. Driver’s license. Not to mention A/S/B Financial transactions. Documents of incorporation. Tax records. A rental lease.
He had several obstacles preventing him from unearthing anything significant about his past, however. For one thing, he had limited information to go on. Basically, he just had his name. And the name of the company he owned with his brother. Another holdback was his limited research capability. His computer skills were honed for business and finance, not investigation. In addition, he had no known family or friends he could contact. Final
ly, he knew of no place he could go to obtain his personal records. He didn’t know where he lived. The office was gone. The eighty-ninth floor was gone. The entire North Tower was gone.
Every lead he had ended with the Twin Towers.
His past continued to be a question. As secret as the Illuminati. As secretive as...
What was it Nadia had said about Griggor? That he was Romanian Secret Police?
“Bag-guh…”
“Bag-DUH,” Aleks corrected. “Bag-duh-sair-ee-un. Aleks Bagdasarian. Aleks spelled A-L-E-K-S. Not A-L-E-X, as I’d thought.”
“Bag-guh-duh-sarian, hey? Sounds like it could maybe be Albanian name.”
Aleks didn’t bother to correct the old man for adding the extra syllable into their last name.
“They called me Bags for short,” he added. “Binyak was Badger. Nikki called us her Bagsman and her Badgerguy. Jills thought those names were juvenile. Jockish. She wouldn’t use either one.”
He chuckled at the memory.
Something Aleks had just said aroused a spark of a recollection in Griggor’s own memory. At the same time, sending a mild sense of dread through the old man. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what piece of information would have elicited such a reaction. He stalled by asking Aleks some routine questions while he attempted to work out what it was about the tall man’s story that had affected him.
“And Binyak, his name is…?”
“Still a mystery. I only remember that he was Binyak. Badger when we young.”
“You are remembering more, hey?”
“Quite a lot. Some you already know. Binyak and I got attended NYU. We got both our undergrad and graduate degrees there. Uh, you know what happened to Jills. I…I can’t remember when she was murdered. I, uh…I suppose I’ve blocked that out.
“Binyak and I were investors. We had our own company. A/S/B Financial. I think ASB must be our initials. ‘A’ for Aleks. ‘S’ for whatever Binyak’s actual name is. It must start with an ‘S’. ‘B’ is obviously Bagdasarian. I…uh, we…had an office in the North Tower. Binyak was there. When the Tower collapsed.”