Condemned (33 page)

Seven months after his departure from Kiev, Uri contacted Sascha from Brighton Beach. He told him that there was work in America, that the boss they were working for in Russia was now bringing the product to many old customers who had moved to the United States. Sascha obtained a Visitor's Visa to America, then, with a forged birth certificate and other documents, he obtained an American Green Card—which is really pink—and joined a rotating crew of couriers, each making approximately one trip every two months to bring rock heroin from Romania to Brighton Beach. For Sascha it was like the old days again, only better, because the American police didn't know who any of them were, what they were doing, and could not even speak or understand their language.

There were as many carts as there were cars on the road to Brasov; the carts were pulled by spindly, narrow horses. People in the flat fields on either side of the road were cutting wheat with hand tools. All their clothing was dark colored, coarse, the women wore kerchiefs on their heads.

“Christ, this is so fucking old-fashioned,” Sascha exclaimed aloud.

“You said something?” said the driver.

“Nothing, nothing.”

“You speak good Romanian.”

“I lived here for a while.”

“Vacation?”

“Seeing some old friends for a couple of days,” said Sascha.

Sascha felt the hundreds in his pocket again. He had been planning a jewelry store robbery in Queens, when Uri called and said that the Americans decided, after the meeting at the restaurant near the Yankee baseball park, to go into business with them, to finance a new operation of their own. In the future, Sascha was sure, he would be able to swap some of his end of the heroin trade for the American cocaine.

“I stop for gas,” said the driver, pulling into a fuel depot at the side of the road. On the way, so far, they had passed no gas stations. This depot was the single place to buy fuel on the road from Bucharest to Brasov. Old trucks of every description were in line, punctuated by cars, cabs, and all sorts of vehicles. Some people took tin-pails from their trunks, and made their way to the front of the line, to fill the pail with fuel while one truck pulled away from the pump and another rolled up. Then they carried the pails back to their vehicles and funneled the gas into their tanks.

“This is a joke. Can't you pay somebody to let you go up to the front of the line,” Sascha said to the driver. “I don't have time to wait like this.”

“It is a joke, for sure,” said the driver, “a bad joke. But it is also for real.” He opened his door and walked up the line, speaking to a man in charge of one of the pumps. He gestured toward the car, had a further conversation, and walked back. “It's okay. I told him I had an American businessman, going to Brasov. He said come ahead. I have to pay him something, of course.”

“How much?” Sascha took some Romanian money out of his shirt pocket, careful not to spill any of his white powder.

“Twenty lei.”

That was roughly two dollars, Sascha calculated. “Here, here's thirty. Take the rest for yourself.”

“Thanks, Boss. It's nice being a big shot from America, no?”

“Not bad, not bad at all,” Sascha said with a grin.

Later that evening, Sascha sat at a table in a mountain inn near Poiana Brasov, a vacation area in the mountains a few kilometers outside of Brasov. Igor Fabusayvich sat across the table from him. Igor was young, with a fat, round face and slicked back hair. They were both drinking Bull's Blood, a Hungarian red wine, as they waited for the food they had ordered—roast bear. Music was being played by walking musicians in gypsy costumes.

“Any song?” the violinist of the group said in Russian, bowing.

Sascha shook his head. “Anything you play, I'll like,” he said indifferently. “When are we supposed to meet your man?” he said in to Fabusayvich.

“Soon.”

“Here?”

The violinist, still standing at the table, smiling toward Sascha, began to play soulful gypsy music. An accordionist backed up the violin with flourished chords. A dark-haired woman in Gypsy costume dramatically tapped a tambourine against one hip. Sascha carefully removed some bills from his shirt, stuffing a bill into the violinist's jacket pocket. The musicians played louder, faster.

“That's great, great,” said Sascha impatiently, affecting a smile. “Please, can you play someplace else?”

The violinist, continuing to play, bowed and moved toward another table. The others in the group followed.

“Yes, he'll be here,” Fabusayvich replied to Sascha's hanging question.

“Strange place to meet,” Sascha shrugged as the dinner plates were brought and set on the table.

“Not strange,” said Fabusayvich. “Good covering.”

Sascha shrugged again as he began to eat. “Mmm, good,” he nodded, savoring a bite of bear. “Tell me again. Everything is all set,
da
?”

“
Da
,” said Fabusayvich.

“How much does this stuff cost?”

“You paying?”

“For somebody else,
da.
I'm curious how much I have with me.”

“Each brick costs eleven, American.”

Sascha nodded. “The stuff, it's good?”

“Why you ask so many questions?”

“Just curious,” said Sascha. “I like to know what's going on.”

“Sometimes it's better not to know too much, you know?”

Sascha nodded. “Your people will hide it good, the stuff?”

“Nervous?” asked Fabusayvich.

“What for, I'm nervous?” said Sascha.

Fabusayvich shrugged now. “Have some wine.” He poured more of the deep red wine into Sascha's glass, then his own.

“I just want this thing to go right. You understand?” said Sascha. “I don't want to spend the rest of my days in some jail in this shit town.”

“Don't worry, everything is going to go right,” said Fabusayvich. “They do this all the time. They know what they're doing.”

“I don't want it to be just my luck that something goes wrong now.”

Later in the evening, now back in Brasov, Sascha and Fabusayvich sat at a table in a dim hotel bar, watching a magician do tricks with large, metal rings, hitting them together, making them connect, then disconnect, making a chain out of them, then individual rings again. Some men were sitting at the bar.

“Why the fuck are we watching this jerk-off magician?” asked Sascha.

“We're meeting here.”

“I thought we were supposed to meet at the lodge in Poiana Brasov.”

“That was just to check things out. Make sure there were no police following,” said Fabusayvich.

“Now we're being checked again, by this jerk-off magician?”

“No. This is where, tonight, we make arrangements to do the deal.”

“Here? You sure?” Sascha looked around.

“It's perfect: loud, public, no one will think that anything important is going on.”

Sascha shrugged. Now the magician was making candy on a tray disappear.

“I don't like this mystery shit,” said Sacha. “Let's get on with it.”

“Just sit quiet, it's okay.”

“Where are these smart people we work for? When do they get here?”

“They've been around us all night, watching. Wanting to be sure that everything is all right. Nothing wrong with being careful.”

Sascha rose. “I'm going to the men's. Where is it?”

“Over there,” Fabusayvich nodded toward a passage near the bar.

Sascha went into the men's room where, in a booth, after checking that there was no one else in the room, he snorted some of the white powder from the folds of the twenty dollar bill. He felt okay, he said to himself. He took a deep breath as he looked in the mirror, wet his hands, patted his hair, studied the mirror, buttoned, then unbuttoned the top of his shirt. He splashed cold water on his face, looking around for a paper towel. He had to go back into the toilet booth and take a few pieces of hard, coarse toilet paper to dry his face and hands.

When he returned to the table, the violinist from the lodge in Poiana Brasov was seated at the table with Fabusayvich.

“This is Georgi,” Fabusayvich said as Sascha sat. “You remember, from the lodge?” Sascha nodded.

“How was your trip?” said Georgi, smiling.

“So far—” Sascha shrugged.

“A little vacation back to the old days?”

“Something like that,” replied Sascha.

“You still have family in the Ukraine, yes?” said the violinist.

Sascha's eyes narrowed on the violinist, then he looked at Fabusayvich. “Everybody's got family. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Just a harmless question,” said the violinist.

“A harmless question,” repeated Fabusayvich.

“Nothing is harmless,” said Sascha. “The questions about my family are to remind me that if anything goes wrong, you people know where my family is. Don't give me shit,” he said to the violinist.

The violinist pursed his lips. “None of us know the other, and sometimes, the people from America …”

“I am not an American,” Sascha said sharply. “I am the same as you, doing what I have to do to make a living, only in the States.” Sascha's eyes had become steely, his mouth harsh. “Nothing is going to go wrong from my end. And, remember what I said, everybody has family. Everybody.”

Fabusayvich stared from one to the other of the two men, amazed at the turn of the conversation. The violinist smiled. “I like your eggs,” he said to Sascha.

“You shouldn't think that because I am now living in America, that I have become like an American woman,” said Sascha. “Now, can we arrange whatever we have to do for the deal?”

The violinist smiled. “You brought a package with you?” The violinist looked around as he rubbed his index finger and thumb together.

“I don't have it with me tonight. You have the … the musical instruments with you?”

“You should rent a car from the rental place on this card.” The violinist pushed a business card across the table toward Sascha.

“I like the way you people work. Each time it is different.”

“Naturally. Caution is part of our business. The car is being watched for two days now. In it you will find the musical instruments.”

“The car's not being watched by the police, I hope?” said Sascha.

The violinist laughed. “No. Our people are watching to see if the police are watching.”

“And how do you get what I have?” asked Sascha.

“Leave it in the car.” Sascha looked at the violinist skeptically. “If we thought we had anything to worry about,” the violinist said, “we wouldn't leave the musical instruments in the car.” He smirked. “Besides, it's a long walk from the departure gate to the plane.”

It was now Sascha's turn to smirk.

The Bank Café, Manhattan :July 28, 1929 : 3:45 P.M.

The Bank Cafe had, years before, been a small, local bank for the Kips Bay area of New York City. When it was merged into the larger Corn Exchange Bank, the branch was closed, its customers absorbed into another branch. The space was then turned into a restaurant on the street level, with a speak-easy up the interior marble stairway which led to what had been the executive banking offices.

In the kitchen area, which was at the back of the street level, Izzie Perlman and Sean O'Callaghan, two Prohibition Agents in civilian clothes, were seated at a small table which was ordinarily used by the kitchen help. The table was set with a linen tablecloth. Before the Agents, sat steaming plates filled with the chefs special of the day. The two men saluted each other with glasses of red wine.

At the same moment, on the mezzanine balcony above, Charlie ‘Lucky' Luciano sat at a table assiduously counting a large pile of currency. Greg Diamond sat at the table with Charlie Lucky. Victor Caiafa stood at the bottom of the stairs, casually talking with Marco Giordano. After the currency was sorted into seven vari-sized bundles, Charlie Lucky put rubberbands around each one. The four largest bundles he placed beneath a layer of tablecloths in a side board. He placed a napkin over two other bundles of cash on the table in front of him, picked up a Haig and Haig ‘pinch' bottle that was at his elbow, and filled two pony glasses. He raised his glass in salute to Greg Diamond and they both knocked the Scotch back neat. Charlie Lucky slid two crisp fifty dollar bills from the last of the bundles on the table, folded them, and slid the two bills down into his left vest pocket.

“Vic, Vic, come on up. Bring Marco, too,” Charlie Lucky called toward the stairway.

With Caiafa in the lead, the two men came up the stairs. Charlie Lucky motioned to two chairs at his table.

“Things are picking up real good,” said Charlie Lucky. He took a cigarette from a pack of Chesterfields on the table. Caiafa quickly picked up a box of matches from the table and lit Charlie Lucky's cigarette. Charlie Lucky slowly blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. He picked up the package of currency exposed on the table and handed it to Giordano. “This is for you and the Captain and the crew. You've been doing good for us. Keep up the good work because we're going to be making more trips starting next week. You have to keep everything in ship shape”. He smiled at his own clever remark toward Greg Diamond. “It's real important that the Captain is taken good care of. Understand? We need the bastard. Have a drink, Vic.”

Caiafa took the bottle of Scotch and filled four pony glasses on the table. Charlie Lucky motioned toward the glasses. “Drink hearty,” he said, knocking back his glass. The three others did the same.

“You understand what I'm saying about the Captain, Marco? Don't short-change him, okay? There's plenty for everyone.” Charlie Lucky cocked his head and nodded.

“That son of a bitch say I short changed him?”