by Greg Smith
“Maybe Ilya kills you all now, da?” he chortled.
The large body guards moved in. One held Step, who struggled uselessly against the Russian thug. Two clung tentatively to Oak. The large man looked as though he could shrug them off any time he wanted.
Griggor stared defiantly at Ilya.
“Let them go,” he admonished the Russian with a bored tone in his voice. “This one, he does not take your monies, hey? He tells you truth. It is twin brother who takes monies. He is dead from nine one and one. This one has nothing to do with this, hey? And yet, he pays you one-half millions of dollars for brother’s sins. This big man, he is just some friend who makes bad decision to come here with us tonight. We need driver. He has car.”
He remained fearless.
“Do what you will with me, hey? Let them go.”
“No! Griggor…don’t!” Step shouted. He turned to face the Russian. “I’ll pay you more,” he blurted. “One million dollars, Ilya! Just let him go. Please! Let Griggor go!”
The Russian regarded the tall Albanian like a parent chastising a child.
“You have not earned right to call Ilya by first name, Albanskiy,” he sneered. “Gypsy is not for sale. Ilya is done here.”
He flicked his hand in an effeminate wave. He’d grown bored with the evening’s activities, was ready to go home to his Persian cat.
“Five hundred thousand dollars. U.S. cash. Two days,” he said, ending further discussion.
The thugs had released Step and Oak, approached their Romanian hostage. Step ran to the old man’s side
“Do not worry for me, Stepan Bag-guh-duh-sarian. It will not be so bad for me,” Griggor whispered to him. “Tell Nadia Dragos sends his love.”
Griggor turned to the big Russians, held his hands out as though to be handcuffed. Two of the thugs grabbed him roughly, one by each arm. Step watched helplessly as the man who had become his friend was led away. Without turning back, Griggor raised one arm over his head, waved good-bye. The Russians tucked the Romanian into their car, followed him inside, drove away.
“Nooooo!” Step screamed, as the car sped away. “No! No! No! Fuuuuuck!”
Oak gently grasped Step’s arm.
“Let’s go, Step,” the large man whispered. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”
“But…Griggor…”
Step thought he would never see Griggor Alexandru alive again. He was wrong. Two days later, he would almost wish it had ended this way.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 59
Wins Stanton stared across his wooden desktop at the man his daughter had chosen to marry. Against her father’s will. Against her mother’s will. Now, Connie was dead. Her husband was in trouble, needed his help. Wins contemplated how much his son-in-law’s trouble was going to cost him.
It had been the Kimber .45 caliber handgun in Oak’s glovebox that had led Step to his father-in-law.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
Driving away from the meeting place in Oak’s Jaguar, Step desperately wondered what he could do to save Griggor.
“Now I need to get my hands on a million dollars. Half a million for my own life. Half a million for Griggor’s,” he babbled nervously. “And I only have two days.”
Oak had somehow gotten his hands on a flask, took several quick sips. He offered the flask to Step, who refused the drink.
“Guess I’m gonna have to rob a bank,” Step lamented, voicing one of the infeasible possibilities racing through his mind.
He pictured himself pulling off the fantasy bank robbery. A masked Oak beside him.
“If that’s the case, you might wanna borrow what’s in the glove compartment there,” Oak said.
Curious, Step opened the glove box, reached beneath the assortment of paperwork inside. His fingers wrapped around the grip of a handgun. He tentatively pulled the weapon out.
“What the fuck you doing with this?”
“It’s not Saturday night, and that’s no Saturday night special,” Oak grinned. “But, say hello to my little friend!” he quoted the famous line delivered by Al Pacino as Tony Montana in Scarface.
Step examined the gun. It was stainless steel. A Kimber .45 caliber. Manufactured in Yonkers. According to the data etched into its sleek metallic finish. The name Jack T. Jackson was engraved along the barrel.
“Easy with that pardner,” Oak warned.
“Who’s Jack T. Jackson?” Step asked, making certain to point the gun away from Oak.
“My ex-father-in-law. Note the emphasis on ‘ex’. The gun came with the car. Which came with the divorce. All of which is a convoluted way of explaining how I come to be in possession of a firearm once owned by the former L.A. Rams defensive end. Anywise, that’s all ancient history. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I was still married to his daughter.”
Step had carefully returned the gun to its home inside the glove box, casually flipped the door shut. Oak’s words registered, eliciting an immediate glimmer of hope.
“Oak! You’re a fucking genius!” Step suddenly exclaimed.
The image of Wins Stanton had popped into his mind. Wins Stanton shaking his hand, wishing him luck on his new venture. A/S/B Financial. Wins Stanton saying, “As long as you’re still married to my daughter.”
If anyone could get their hands on a million dollars quickly, it was that fucking WASP, Winsy. Step wondered where he stood with his in-laws.
˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜
“We assumed you’d died with our daughter,” Wins stated. “We believed you’d died in each other’s arms.”
“That’s a very romantic notion, sir. But I’ll be honest with you. Connie and I, we, uh…we didn’t have an ideal marriage. It wasn’t just her. It wasn’t just me. It was us. Or, rather, a lack of us. Uh…I can’t say we ever even loved each other.”
Wins sipped at his glass of Scotch before speaking. Step had noticed the man who was still technically his father-in-law hadn’t offered him a drink.
“Gwensy and I have been married for forty-eight years,” Wins said proudly. “We fell in love as juniors in college. We’ve never fallen out of love.”
“That’s extremely admirable,” Step brown-nosed. He paused a few seconds. “If I may, sir?”
With a slight nod, Wins gave Step permission to continue.
“My brother Aleks made a terrible mistake, sir. A horrible misjudgment of character.”
Step wasn’t sure how much detail to provide, suddenly opted to work the sympathy angle.
“Did you know my brother’s fiancée was killed by a Russian gangster? They were practically newlyweds. Twenty-four years old. This Russian punk, the son of a gangster, ran Jills down with his car.”
Wins seemed as shocked at the revelation as Step had hoped he would be.
“Aleks was devastated. I was devastated. It was much later that he accepted money from a Russian mobster they call ‘The Butcher of Balabanovo.’ Of course, at the time, he didn’t know the Russian was a gangster. And he didn’t know about the name. He was working through an intermediary.”
Step didn’t think his father-in-law needed to know Aleks was laundering the money, decided he’d pitch the story in terms Wins Stanton would understand.
“He’d promised this Russian a significant ROI, then promptly invested in a host of dot-coms. Companies that were destined for failure. They performed well, at first. One by one, they all tanked.”
“The dot-com bubble has hurt all of us,” Wins concurred.
“Now, the Russian wants his money back. Or he wants Aleks dead.”
“But, you told me Aleks is dead,” Wins corrected. “He and Connie were in the office that morning.”
The grieving father suddenly switched the topic.
“Did you know they found her car in an underground parking garage? What was left of it? They were able to trace the license plate, contact us. They…they never found her.”
“Aleks’s body
was never recovered either, sir. They were both…
Pulverized, Step thought, but didn’t say the word aloud.
“Our beautiful daughter!”
Wins almost broke, composed himself, took a drink from his glass of Scotch.
“She was waiting for you, wasn’t she? In the office that morning? You had brunch plans perhaps?”
“Something like that, sir. It wasn’t unusual for us to meet for brunch. I, uh…I don’t really remember where I was. If I was running late. If I had a client meeting. I’ve been dealing with some amnesia issues.”
“Amnesia?”
“My memory’s slowly coming back.”
“I see.”
“Getting back to my situation, sir.”
Step waited for Wins to refocus his attention before continuing.
“As I’ve already mentioned, the Russian wants his money. One million dollars. Or he wants my head on a plate.”
“Did you tell this Russian that Aleks is dead?”
“He doesn’t care, sir. Aleks. Stepan. Doesn’t matter to him. He lives by a code. There must be blood.”
“Seems a bit…barbaric.”
Yeah, well I’m dealing with a guy they call “The Butcher,” Winsy. Wake up and smell the blood.
“Let me cut to the chase, sir. I need a million dollars by midnight tomorrow to buy my life. I don’t have the money. A/S/B Financial is insolvent.”
Wins didn’t flinch over the amount. He was more shocked by the violent nature of Step’s predicament. He continued to sip at the Scotch as he mulled over Step’s words.
“I just need a short-term loan, sir. Just until the, uh, the insurance money comes in. That’ll only be a matter of a few days.”
“This Russian can’t wait a few days?”
“This Russian isn’t known for his patience, sir.”
Wins fell pensive.
“Let me see if I understand this correctly. Your brother – Aleks. Your brother took this Russian’s money. He invested it in dot-com stocks. The investments soured when the dot-com bubble burst. All the money was lost. Now, the Russian wants his money back. He’s mafia, I assume. Aleks was laundering his money.”
Step should have known his father-in-law would realize the truth. Wins Stanton wasn’t a stupid man.
“I really don’t have any choice in the matter, sir. The money doesn’t mean anything to me. Whatever your terms, I’ll pay them.”
“How much insurance is there?”
Step hesitated, but couldn’t think of any reason to lie at this juncture.
“Three million dollars.”
Step knew Wins would want to know how much his daughter’s life had been worth.
“Two million from Aleks’s policy, a million from Connie’s. Double indemnity clauses on both. Whatever you want, Wins. Name your terms.”
He knew he’d taken a chance of alienating his father-in-law by referring to him by his first name. But he needed Wins to consider him a close colleague.
“I’ll lend you the money, son,” Wins finally said. “I once told you I’d do anything for you – as long as you were still married to my daughter. I’m a man of my word.”
Step tried not to show how relieved he actually was.
“I assume you require cash?” Wins asked as though he was asking Step if he wanted fries with his burger. “Let me warn you. If you get ripped off, you’ll still be responsible for the debt. I’m no Russian gangster, but I have my ways. If you cross me, I’ll make certain you never earn an honest dollar in New York City again. Or Boston… Philadelphia… Chicago…”
“I understand, sir.”
Wins exited the room, left Step alone for several minutes. When he returned, he held what Step could only describe as a leather doctor’s satchel. Wins held the bag open to display the bundles of cash inside. Step was astounded by how little space a million dollars actually took up.
“No need to count it. It’s all there. One hundred parcels accurately bound into packets of ten thousand dollars each.”
Step reached to shake his father-in-law’s hand. Wins Stanton looked at the proffered hand. Without accepting it, he handed Step the satchel, turned his back, walked away.
It was the last time Step would see his father-in-law.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 60
Step couldn’t mask his nervousness as he and Oak awaited the Russian’s arrival at the desolate meeting place along the East River. It had been Oak who’d commented about how appropriate it was to meet the weird Russian on Halloween night.
“Fucking guy gives me the creeps,” the large man noted.
“Fucking guy gives everybody the creeps,” Step corroborated.
The two days without Griggor had been unbearable. Step had been tormented with images of the old Romanian tied to a chair while the Russians mercilessly beat him senseless.
His imaginings weren’t far from the truth.
Headlights finally appeared in the dark and the black sedan materialized. The first Russian body guard emerged like a behemoth, surveyed the scene, apparently found it safe. Almost as one, the other doors opened. Two additional brutes appeared, both as large as the first. One of them held the door as Ilya climbed out of the vehicle. The odd Russian was dressed exactly the same as he had been at their first meeting two days earlier. Like some hackneyed movie villain, he held a white cat in his arms, stroked the animal’s head as he stood waiting.
Step wondered what had happened to the fourth bodyguard. Was he hospitalized? Dead? Disappeared?
Perils of the trade.
“You have Ilya’s money, da, Albanskiy?” Ilya hissed.
Step walked forward, presented the satchel containing five hundred thousand of the million dollars Wins Stanton had loaned him.
“Five hundred thousand dollars. U.S. Cash. As agreed.”
He then produced a brown leather briefcase.
“Another five hundred thousand for my Romanian friend. For Griggor. One million dollars total.”
Ilya tsked, responded in a bored tone.
“Ilya told you. Gypsy is not for sale.”
He grasped the satchel containing the five hundred thousand dollars, turned to go.
“I thought you might change your mind,” Step said nervously. “If you saw the money.”
He flicked the lid of the brown briefcase open, flashed Ilya a quick view of the stacks of money waiting inside. Ilya eyed him insolently.
“You wish to pay Ilya one half million dollars? For damaged goods?”
He giggled and his henchmen chuckled along with him.
The comment sent a chill through Stepan’s heart.
“Is…is Griggor still alive?”
Ilya erupted in a high-pitched girlish titter. He switched the cat to the arm holding the satchel, snapped his fingers with his free hand. One of the thugs opened the trunk of the black sedan, reached in, scooped a body out, tossed it on the ground.
Bound and gagged, Griggor grunted as he landed.
The thug helped the old Romanian to his knees. Griggor’s face was bloody, swollen, one eye battered shut. His nose was crushed, bent sideways. His lips were puffy, bruised. He straightened, thrust his chest out, held his head high, gazed in Step’s direction. Step proudly detected no fear in his Romanian friend.
“Griggor!” he shouted.
Though Step didn’t know it, Griggor stared blindly. The eye that was swollen shut had been his good eye. The other eye, the eye that had been temporarily blinded in a shooting mishap decades earlier, had been permanently blinded by the beatings from the Russians. It stared straight ahead, unseeing.
A bubble of blood slowly grew out of one of Griggor’s nostrils, popped.
“He is tough, this gypsy,” Ilya said. “He does not want to leave this life so quickly.”
The Russian eyed Griggor contemptuously.
“You’ll take the money? For Griggor’s life?” Step asked hopefully.
Ilya smiled, st
roked his cat, milking the moment, allowing Step to think there was some possibility of Griggor surviving the ordeal. Before calling out sharply.
“Arkady!”
A scrawny man appeared from the darkness. Neither Step or Oak knew where he’d come from. It was as though the Russian sedan was a clown car that could produce an unending stream of characters.
“Arkady Muskolov, Stepan Bad-guh–....”
The odd Russian stomped a foot like a frustrated teen-age girl at his inability to pronounce the Albanian name.
“Good twin,” he quickly settled on. “His Polack friend. Ilya does not know his name.”
He waved one hand about like an absent-minded band conductor as he made the introductions. Oak started to say his name, but the Russian cut him off.
“Ilya does not care,” he said with a bored tone. “Arkady, do you accept five hundred thousand dollars in exchange for life of gypsy who murdered your dyadya (uncle) Viktor and your dvoyurodnaya sestra (cousin) Sergei?”
“Fuck no! Is insult!” Arkady shouted.
“Arkady Muskolov,” Ilya proclaimed, obviously enjoying his role as emcee of his bizarre presentation. “Do you wish to avenge deaths of your dyadya Viktor and your dvoyurodnaya sestra Sergei?”
Arkady eyed the three outsiders, spat at Griggor.
“Da!” he shouted with contempt. “Da! There must be blood!”
Both Step and Oak realized things were about to go horribly wrong.
One of the mountainous thugs tossed something in Arcady’s direction. The small Russian sprung forward, snatched the object out the air. It was Ilya’s cane. With the silver bear head. With the shiny knife blade concealed in the opposite end.
Arcady twisted the head, brandished the walking stick like a sword. One of Ilya’s men quickly grabbed Griggor around the forehead, bent his head back, exposing his neck. As they had Step’s two days earlier. Watching with stunned horror, Step absently touched the spot on his own neck where Ilya had drawn blood.
Griggor didn’t struggle. Instead, he calmly began speaking in Romanian.
“Eu vin, Tatiana, dragostea mea. In curand vom fi din nou impreuna. (I am coming, Tatiana, my love. We will soon be together again.)