by Greg Smith
“No can do.”
Step remained remarkably calm in the face of the brewing tempest.
“Let me put it this way, my friend. I have two legitimate claims. I know your company is going to pay. You know your company is going to pay. However, circumstances beyond my control require that I secure funding in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars immediately.”
Having slipped into full negotiation mode, Step defaulted to a formal conversation style that would have sounded pretentiously artificial under different circumstances. He wore it like a well-tailored suit.
“So, when I asked what you can do to accelerate the process, I presumed you understood me to say, ‘What do I need to do in order for you to accelerate the process?’ As in, ‘How much will it cost me to get my money now?’ Capeesh?”
Oak glared at him.
“I’m a Polack, not a Ginny,” he snarled. Then he brightened. “But you’re speaking my language, which is green, paisan. I may be able to procure your money within the week.”
Step looked down momentarily, took a deep breath, looked up with a grimace on his face.
“Not gonna work, big guy. I need those funds immediately. At the very least, I need an advance in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars right away.”
Oak erupted.
“What the fuck? You show up out of the blue with the news that my best friend is dead and you want to file a claim for his life insurance. Oh, and your wife is dead, as well. No bodies. No proof of death. No problem, I say. 9/11 and all that. Everybody’s bending over backwards for all you victims.”
The large man’s enormous face was turning red with exasperation. Step sat stoically as Hurricane Kowalski raged.
“Your claim is for three million dollars.”
The large man finger-punched a hole in the air between them for each of the last three words. He then repeated the words. And the finger-punch gesture.
“Three (jab) million (jab) dollars (jab). And you want it yesterday?”
Slowly, calmly, Step shook his head.
“No. I want it Friday. And I only need five hundred thousand now. I can wait for the rest.”
“What the fuck could you possibly need a half a million dollars for that you can’t wait?”
The tempest had subsided somewhat, curiosity acting as a calming agent.
“Oh, that’s an easy one, big guy,” Step said facetiously. “I need five hundred thousand dollars to pay a Russian named Ilya the Butcher of Balabanovo the money my twin brother, Aleks – your best friend – took from him. I need to pay this Ilya the Butcher so he doesn’t give me a Ukey smile. Which, in case you’re unfamiliar with Russian mafia slang, means having a Ukrainian slit your throat from ear to ear.”
Oak had listened, dumbfounded.
“What the fuck? Aleks stole a half million dollars from some Russian named the Butcher of…where?”
“Balabanovo,” Step answered. “That’s insignificant.”
He waved a hand, dismissing the statement.
“‘What the fuck?’ is about all you got right, ya big, dumb Polack. Aleks didn’t exactly steal the money. The Russian – actually a Ukrainian – gave it to him. To launder. Aleks invested the money. In dot-com companies. When the dot-com bubble burst, those investments tanked.”
Step had never understood his brother’s impatient urge for the quick return. The fast buck. Time and diversification the keys to a solid plan for financial stability.
“I told him to stay away from those dot-coms,” he sighed.
Oak gaped wide-mouthed. The large man was flabbergasted by the news that his best friend had been laundering money for the Russian mafia. He opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a bottle of something amber and alcoholic, took a swig. Then another. He offered it to Step, who refused at first, reconsidered, took the bottle, drank quickly.
“The Russian mafia doesn’t accept such things as market bubbles,” Step explained. “They wanted their money cleaned. Now they want it back. Or they want retribution. There must be blood. That’s their code. Doesn’t matter if it’s Aleks’s blood…or mine.”
“But…Aleks is dead,” Oak stated with some difficulty, drank from the bottle again.
Step understood Oak’s confusion.
“The Butcher doesn’t care. Or he might not believe I’m not Aleks. In any event, I can’t take the chance of being mistaken for my brother. As ironic as that may sound.”
Oak was smart enough to work Step’s plan out for himself.
“So, you collect three million in insurance benefits. You pay the Russians their half million. And you still walk away a rich man.”
Step didn’t say anything. He could spend the million from Connie’s policy with a clean conscience. However, he was still disturbed about collecting on his twin brother’s policy.
“I’m buying my life for five hundred thousand dollars,” he concluded.
Oak lip-wrestled the bottle, won the battle, drank deeply before setting it down on his desk.
“Can you trust them? They could take your money and kill you anyway.”
“That’s a very strong possibility, Oak.”
“Obviously, you don’t deal with them face-to-face. This isn’t the 1930s, Step. And it isn’t the movies. You get a bank account number. You have the funds transferred. Just as we’re doing with your payout. You never have to see this Butcher guy.”
“You know as well as I, we can’t do that. It’s a Bank Secrecy Act violation for one. At the very least, that would generate a Suspicious Activity Report. Most probably a Currency Transaction Report, as well. It would certainly get the attention of the Financial Intelligence Unit and the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, to say the least.”
Oak was impressed by Step’s knowledge of the law regarding bank transactions. He wasn’t certain everything Step had said was accurate, but didn’t have the facts to challenge any of it.
“It’s even more complicated than that,” Step added. “Apparently, this Russian – The Butcher – wants to hear me say it wasn’t me who took his money. He wants to look me in the eye when I say it. Easy enough, actually. It wasn’t me. It was Aleks. I really knew nothing about this. It’s just…”
“So many things can go wrong,” Oak worried.
“So many things can go wrong,” Step echoed.
Oak drank from his bottle once again, surrendered it to Step, who sipped before repeating his request for the advance.
“What can you do about the five hundred thousand, Oak? Can I get an advance? A loan? Fuck the interest rate. I’ll pay whatever I have to. It’s all found money anyway. I don’t really have many options.”
Oak disagreed. He felt Step had one very obvious option.
“Just take the three million dollars and get the hell outta Dodge,” the large man advised. “Walk away, man. Three mil? With your investment expertise? That could take you anywhere.”
Step couldn’t fathom the idea of leaving New York City. He’d spent his entire life there. Had never wanted to be anywhere else. He had another reason for wanting to remain in his hometown. Didn’t want to bother the large insurance agent with the details of an unrequited love interest.
“What do you have keeping you here?” Oak argued. “Aleks is dead. Connie’s dead. Your parents are both gone. You could work from anywhere. Hell, you don’t have to work.”
“New York City is all I’ve ever known, Oak. I’d rather just pay the Russian off. Get on with my life.”
He ran his hands nervously back and forth along his long thighs.
“The meeting is set for Monday night. If I blow it off, who knows what this Butcher will do. Things might go bad for Griggor.”
“I could go with you. Confirm that you’ve filed the claims. Vouch that the money is coming. That it’s gonna take some time. I mean, this Russian has waited this long. What’s another few days? Or a week? He’s lucky you’re willing to pay as it is.”
“That might help. But I gotta warn you, Oak. This could a
ll go sour. It could be dangerous.”
“The guy would have to be crazy to pass up half a million dollars.”
Step looked at the large man.
“Griggor says the Russian is evil. That he’s insane. So, the guy is crazy. We’ve gotta hope he’s greedy, as well.”
• • • • •
CHAPTER 58
At dusk three days later, Step paced nervously in the assigned meeting place. A desolate stretch of grassland along the East River. Griggor and all six feet eight inches of Oak Kowalski stood nearby, the large man leaning casually against his Jaguar.
A black sedan rolled into view, stopped a few yards away. Four very large Russians emerged, followed by a slender man with an almost girlish figure.
“Who’s the scrawny guy?” Oak whispered. “Tell me that’s not–”
“Ilya Klymenko, Butcher of Balabanovo,” Griggor finished. “Do not judge book by cover, hey?”
It was hard to believe such an odd, slightly-built man could have such a wicked reputation. Ilya Klymenko was not pleasant to look at. Bulgy eyes, bad teeth, sparse hair, a wispy mustache. His bodyguards were another story altogether. Large men. Thick-necked men. Men with bent noses and cauliflower ears. Dressed in black, the four of them formed a protective wall around their queer-looking leader.
The Butcher was also dressed in black clothing. A black fedora. Black pants. Black mock turtleneck. A black suitcoat, draped over his shoulders. He wore charcoal gray accessories. Gloves. A scarf. He carried a black cane with a silver bear’s head knob.
Ilya looked across the ten feet or so separating the two groups, focused his attention on Step.
“So, Albanskiy, we meet again, da?” the odd-looking slender man said.
There was something sinister about the strange man. Step was immediately intimidated. He wondered if the man had a speech impediment or if he hissed purposely. Either way, the unnerving sound complemented the Russian’s creepy appearance. Summoning what courage he could, Step looked the man directly in his dark, nearly black, eyes.
“I’ve never seen you before,” he told the hissing Russian.
“Nyet?” Ilya seemed surprised. “Because you look very much like tall Albanskiy who took Ilya’s money. Ilya sat in your office. We spoke. Of Eva. And her…holiday.”
An evil smirk played at the corners of the Russian’s too-thick lips.
Step had no idea who Eva was. Obviously someone his brother had known. He also wondered who Albanskiy was. The Russian’s name for Aleks perhaps?
“I don’t know any Eva. And I’ve never done business with you,” he said honestly. “It wasn’t me who took your money. It was my brother. Aleks. We’re identical twins. He may have pretended to be me. I don’t know.”
“Bliznets (twin),” Ilya hissed, nodding as though he accepted Step’s explanation. “Identichnyye bliznetsy (identical twin), da?” he giggled girlishly.
The Russian seemed amused by Step’s apparent impudence. He stared at the tall man with faked puzzlement.
“So, you are khoroshiy bliznets? Good twin?” Ilya said amiably, before turning more serious. “Tell Ilya how you did not take his money, khoroshiy bliznets. Tell Ilya how it was zloy bliznets – evil twin – who took money,” he chuckled.
Though fearful, Step maintained eye contact with the Russian.
“I’ve already told you. I’ve never seen you before. I’ve never done business with you. I didn’t take your money. It was–”
“Bliznetsy, da,” Ilya interrupted. “Zloy bliznets.”
“Yes. It was my brother, Aleks.”
Step glanced nervously toward Griggor for encouragement. He had some difficulty maintaining his composure while standing face-to-face with the intimidating Russian.
“I…uh…I hope you believe me, Mr….uh…uh...sir. I wish to make restitution. To, uh…pay my brother’s debt. I’m very sorry he stole from you. He’s dead, you know.”
The Russian pulled at his upper lip as though considering his next move.
“Ilya believes you, Albanskiy,” he said, the admission seeming to surprise even Ilya himself. “Ilya believes you are khoroshiy bliznets. He does. Still…”
As the slender Russian uttered the last word two of his henchmen stepped forward, grabbed Step by the arms, forced him to his knees. One of the men grabbed Step’s hair, yanked his head back, exposing his throat. Oak made a move forward and Ilya’s men immediately reached their hands inside their coats as though reaching for guns. Griggor held an arm out to stop the large man from attempting something stupid.
“There must be blood,” Ilya giggled.
In a single swift move, he turned the bear-head knob on his cane, releasing a shiny knife blade from the opposite end. He waved the cane through the air near Step’s neck.
Step felt the nick of the blade, but couldn’t see the lone drop of crimson seep from the tiny wound, begin its snail crawl down his neck.
“Ilya,” Griggor called out calmly. “Kill Albanskiy and you never see your monies, hey?” he warned.
Griggor knew the Russian was aware of that. He also knew the psychopath often acted without considering consequences. It wasn’t a matter of emotions that controlled the Russian’s actions, rather a lack of any emotional connection.
Griggor’s interference only agitated Ilya, who glared at the old Romanian sullenly.
“I told you, gypsy, there must be blood. Khoroshiy bliznets, plokhoy bliznets (Good twin, bad twin), it does not matter to Ilya.”
“Albanskiy blood, it is expensive, then, hey?” Griggor suggested, with mock surprise. “One-half millions of dollars for just five liters.”
Ilya seemed to reconsider. At his almost indiscernible nod, his thugs released Step.
“Ilya is only making his point. When does he get his money?”
Oak attempted to speak, got only two words out before Ilya cut him off.
“We need–” was all the big Polack managed to say.
“Let khoroshiy bliznets tell Ilya,” the Russian commanded.
“Uh…I need a week,” Step stammered. “Six, maybe seven days.”
“Ilya gives you two,” the perturbed Russian allowed. “Two days.”
When Oak attempted to protest, Ilya cut him off again, this time with a quick motion across his neck and a short “sh” sound.
“A half million dollars. Two days,” Step muttered, nodding his head in agreement.
“Da. Two days. Same place,” the Russian hissed. “Bring cash only.”
He dismissed Step with a slight wave of his hand. The tall man rejoined Griggor and Oak. As the three started to move toward Oak’s Jaguar, however, the Russian thugs blocked their path.
“Not Romanskiy,” Ilya’s voice announced from behind. “He stays with Ilya.”
Step glanced Griggor’s way for intercession, shook his head almost unperceptively to indicate he didn’t think Griggor should go.
“That’s unacceptable,” he protested, turning to face the Russian.
Ilya had finally tired of negotiating with the good twin.
“Enough! You are in no position to debate Ilya’s terms, Albanskiy. You do not decide. Ilya decides. Gypsy stays!”
The Russian glared toward Griggor, who remained facing away, his back to Ilya.
“Ilya wishes to discuss death of good friend Viktor Muskolov. We have two days to talk, da?”
Again, the Butcher of Balabanovo discharged his girlish giggle.
Though Oak was totally in the dark about what was transpiring, Step had an inkling. He’d had his suspicions about the Muskolovs’ deaths, had thought Griggor may have been involved. Apparently, The Boar and The Butcher had some connection.
Arkady, Griggor had immediately deduced. He sees me at building that day.
At that moment, the old Romanian realized his fate had been sealed. He slowly turned to face the odd-looking Russian, regarded Ilya with contemptuous defiance. Ilya eyed Griggor with equal displea
sure. So that Step and Oak wouldn’t understand, the old man spoke Russian. His attitude and tone had both changed, from forced pleasantness to stern rigidness.
“What is there to talk about, Ilya?” the Romanian said boldly in Ilya’s native tongue. “I confess. I killed Viktor. I killed his son, Sergei, as well.”
If Ilya was surprised by anything, it was the Romanian’s audacious honesty. The old man must have known his confession meant certain death.
“I shot Viktor in the forehead. I threw Sergei off the roof,” Griggor continued, still speaking Russian.
Step understood nothing Griggor said, recognized only the names of Viktor and Sergei Muskolov.
“Afterward, I dropped the pistol next to the boy’s body. Police say father and son killed each other. But it was I, Dragos Vasilyev, who sent them both to hell!”
Dragos Vasilyev? Who’s Dragos Vasilyev? Step wondered when he heard the unfamiliar name.
Ilya approached the old Romanian, reverted to speaking English.
“Why do you do such a thing, gypsy? Why do you kill Ilya’s good friend, Viktor Muskolov?”
Despite Ilya’s proximity, his unpredictability and the fact that he’d already shown he possessed a weapon, Griggor boldly held his ground, answered, also speaking English.
“Viktor, he is monstru. He deserves to die.”
Ilya thumped his chest with a fist, the normally manly action looking awkward and effeminate as he performed it.
“Some say Ilya is monster. Does Ilya also deserve to die?”
“Maybe da, maybe nu. It is not for this Romana to decide,” Griggor answered.
“But for Viktor, you decide, da?”
“Da!” Griggor shouted. “Viktor, he is animal! He is beating up women! Young girls. Da, I decide! I decide I have enough of Viktor Muskolov. Omsk Boar.”
He spat on the ground near Ilya’s feet as he mentioned Viktor’s name.
Step and Oak were stunned, and impressed, by the old Romanian’s valor and passion. Griggor wasn’t the least bit daunted by the Butcher of Balabanovo. The old man’s lack of fear was something the Russian wasn’t accustomed to dealing with. Unsure how to proceed, he looked from the three adversaries to his henchmen, back to the three foes.