Condemned (64 page)

“That can't be—”

“Don't tell me what can be and what can't be, boy,” Money said from deep down in his throat. “I'm telling you what is. Mr. Red was killed by Russians, and they were the Russians that you were planning things with, planning to take over when Mr. Red was dead, and me in jail.”

“No—”

“Don't be saying
no
to me,” Money growled through gritted teeth, pulling Awgust's face close to his own again. “I don't like people saying
no
to me when they ought to be saying
yes
, ought to be saying the
truth.
I should put a cleaver down the middle of you soon as look at you, you filthy, treacherous dog.…”

“No, please Money—listen, the Russians don't mean nothing. It's all a set up.”

“I'm listening.”

“The D.E.A. is right on top of them, ready to suck them up,” Awgust said quickly, “leaving everything in place for The Brotherhood—for you, for the rest of us.”

“You mean for you. I'm going straight to the Can. Your friend Anton's goin', too. You caused all of this, 'cause you have no balls. None. Never did. You was the snitch Mr. Red was talking about, the one who helped them plant the bug in the Sporting Club, right?”

“I didn't—”

“You're lying to me again, Awgust, and I'm getting mighty impatient. You was the snitch, right?”

“I—”

“Right?” Money ground his face hard against Awgust's, his eyes boring deep into him. “Right?”

“All right, all right. Yes. All right, yes. I didn't think it would go this far.”

“Of course you did, you miserable dog. You knew exactly where this was going. Now I'm going to the joint for the rest of my life, and Anton, too, everybody. And Mr. Red is dead. Mr. Red is dead, you, you nigger bastard. You helped people kill Mr. Red—”

“I didn't know anything about that—I swear,” said Awgust.

“Your swearing don't mean too much at this point,” said Money. “The Russians killed Mr. Red, they were working with the Man, the D.E.A. This couldn't have happened without the D.E.A. helping. Who are the people at the D.E.A. that you been cooperating with?”

“Who are they?”

“You repeating what I'm saying? Don't repeat me. Answer me.”

“The main D.E.A. man is named Becker, Michael Becker. He's the one been pulling my chain, making me do all kinds of shit, otherwise—”

“He didn't have to pull that chain very hard, dog. You always were perfidious, Awgust. Otherwise what, Awgust? Otherwise the Man he would lock you up, like you helpin' him lock all of us up? Is that what
otherwise
is?”

“Look, look, the Man is looking to clean up the Russians, that's what he's really interested in. He's looking to clean up the Russians. He's going to let everything else stay in place here, everything. The Brotherhood can still go on. There'll be enough to take care of everything, take care of him, the Man, take care all our things, your Grandma, Anton, his family. I'll be here to take care of our end.”

“I bet you will—after you set the whole thing up. What do you think about that, Anton?”

Out of the shadows further back in the alley, Anton Taylor said: “I think it's about the lowest, most miserable, mother fuckin' thing I ever heard.”

“Anton?—” Awgust gasped.

“Don't say a word to me, not a word, you miserable, low life, piece of rat shit nigger.” Anton's anger rose like a storm. He knocked over some trash barrels as he lunged forward toward Awgust.

“Back off, Anton!” Money commanded fiercely.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Money—but that—”

“All in due time, Anton, all in due time. There's only one way out of this alley, and I'm standing in it. There's only one way Awgust gets out of this here alley alive. He has to agree to help find the people responsible for killing Mr. Red, nail the wolves in government clothing that killed Mr. Red, If he don't, well, if he don't I can't tell what'll happen.”

“Leave him to me, Mr. Money” said Anton.

“Not yet, Anton. He's got work to do.” Money took a cleaver out from a leather sheath under his jacket. He clanged the cleaver against the brick wall of the alley. “You know what that is, don't you, boy?”

“Jesus, Money—”

“Don't be calling the Lord into this, Awgust. This is just me standing here, me and my blade. Now which it going to be? You want to help nail the people responsible for killing Mr. Red, or you want to die right where you stand?”

There was silence in the darkness.

Even though Money had said in advance that he wasn't going to harm Awgust, at least not with Sandro around, he was just going to scare Jesus out of him, this was getting too real. Money clanged the cleaver against the wall again. “Answer me, you sniveling rat!”

“What do you want me to do?” said Awgust softly.

“One thing you ought to know. Everything you said is on tape, right, Mr. Luca?” said Money.

“That's right,” said Sandro's voice from the same area of the dark alley where Anton stood.

The threats Money made to Awgust, the entire scenario, was part of the plan that Sandro had hatched with Money so that everything could be recorded, so that the people responsible for Red could be made to account.

“So you go on and tell Mr. Luca what this Becker said.”

“You're telling me that Michael Becker told you that if you helped him clean up the Russians, he'd let you and The Brotherhood continue doing drug business?” Sandro asked.

“Not by myself,” Nichols said softly.

“Who else was going to be in on it?”

“He wanted a piece,” said Awgust.

“Who wanted a piece,” pressed Sandro.

“The Man.”

“What man,” demanded Money. “Speak plain.” He clanged the cleaver against the wall again.

“Becker—he was going to be in on it.”

“What about them Russians that got Mr. Red? How did that get put together?” Money said harshly.

“He did that. Not me. His men brought Mr. Red into the woods. I couldn't be telling his men what to do.”

“But the Russians, they were friends of yours, not his, right?” said Sandro.

“I might of known them—”

“Don't start none of your weaslin',” said Money. “They was your friends, right? You were the one that arranged all that with them, right?”

“I only introduced them. I didn't send them to do nothing.”

“You just introduced the people who killed Mr. Red to the people who brought Mr. Red to the slaughter,” shouted Money, spittle flying from his mouth. He started to raise the cleaver, shaking with fury.

“Money, Money,” shouted Sandro, “we need Awgust, we need him, if we want to get this Becker. Don't do anything …”

Money was panting, the cleaver raised in his hand. “Mmm, mmm, mmm, you right, Mr. Luca. Don't worry. I be all right. I be all right.” He was blowing air, trying to cool himself down. He turned around, put his hands on his hips—one hand still holding the cleaver—breathing more slowly. “I'm okay. I'm okay,” he said, more to convince himself than to reassure Sandro. He turned back to Awgust. “Let me tell you what you're going to do,” he said softly, directly into Awgust's face. ‘You going to trap this Becker. You're going to help take him down, understand?”

“How'm I gonna do that?”

“Mr. Luca'll tell you how. You listen to what Mr. Luca tells you, and you listen good, because if there's something wrong with your ears, I'll slice them off your head, sure as God is my judge.”

“I'll do whatever you say. You know I didn't mean—”

“Don't say another word, nigger, not another word. Get this filth out of my sight before I forget myself,” Money said to Sandro. ‘You go with him, Anton. Don't hurt him. They'll be time enough for that. You listen to everything Mr. Luca tells you, hear?”

“I will. I will.”

‘Vasily's' : August 29, 1996 : 10:45 P.M.

Beneath the elevated rail lines on Brighton Beach Avenue, hewn from white marble, a stylized outline of the onion topped minarets of St. Vasily's Cathedral of Moscow, with a matching, stylized rendering of the name ‘Vasily' stretched over the street entrance of the brightly lit restaurant. Named, in part, after the dramatic pink and red onion shaped minarets of the cathedral in Moscow, and, in part, after its owner, Vasily Marcovich, this was the newest of the Brighton Beach party clubs.

It was Friday night, and the restaurant was filling with an ebullient crowd of partygoers. Sandro saw Tatiana near the wide door that led to the main dining area. She was speaking with the Maitre'd. When she saw Sandro, she smiled, motioning him to go to the bar, that she'djoin him momentarily.

The large interior of the restaurant was a room of pink and white marble, accented by gold. Rows of long tables covered with pink table cloths filled the floor. Pink and white balloons floated over each table on the ends of strings that were tethered to miniature replicas of St. Vasily's Cathedral. Along one long side of the room, there was a large stage where a band was playing lively Russian music.

“Hi,” said Tatiana, joining Sandro at the bar, “aren't you having anything to drink?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“I don't want anything right now,” she said. “I'm working.”

“Is your father here?” said Sandro.

“He's in the office. I told him you wanted to speak to him. He said to bring you down to the office when you came in. Come,” said Tatiana, taking Sandro's left hand in hers.

The office was not much larger than a long walk-in closet. On one end, there were stacks of menus, ashtrays, sample table cloths and napkins, various other supplies. On the other end of the room were two facing, wide shelves against opposite walls, used as desks. There were banks of telephones and fax machines, calculators, folders, more menus, notes tacked to walls with push pins, phone numbers written on the wall over the telephones.

“Hello, Sandro, how are you?” said Vasily, rising from a swivel office chair. He cheek kissed Sandro. “Sit, sit,” he said, taking papers from the seat of a second swivel chair.”What can I do for you?” The telephone rang. “Get that, will you, Kotyonok,” he said to Tatiana. She picked up the phone and began speaking to someone in Russian.

“I have some information about drugs in Brighton Beach or, more correctly, coming in through Brighton Beach. I need more information.”

“I have nothing to do with drugs, Sandro.”

“I know that. But I know that you know everything about everything in Brighton Beach. And I was just wondering if you might have seen things that would help me.”

“You're my lawyer. Everything is confidential, yes?” said Vasily.

“Even if it weren't, you have nothing to hide, do you?” said Tatiana who had finished with the caller and was standing behind her father's chair. She put one of her hands on his shoulder.

“No, of course not,” said Vasily. “Even I wanted to do something, this one watches me like a hawk. But just for the record, as you people say, I am not, in any way involved in drugs. Maybe I was, when we were in Leningrad, years and years ago. But now, nothing. This nose of mine is still sharp, however. I know what's what around here. Tell me what you want to know.”

“Someone, I don't know who, must have been bringing heroin into Brighton Beach. Then, some black people called the Brotherhood who deal in cocaine, decided to begin dealing heroin with Russians. And then, the blacks turned around and double dealt the Russians, first putting them in business for themselves, then selling them out to the D.E.A.”

Vasily began to nod his head.

“You know what I'm talking about?” said Sandro.

“Not yet, but the double dealing, that I know about. There's always an Eskimo around somewhere.”

“An Eskimo?”

“Just a Russian expression,” said Tatiana. “Russian people blame Eskimos for everything sneaky. Dad, the black man who was in Romanoffs with that old friend of yours, Uri, some nights ago, with some girls, and another guy, Sandro thinks that black one is involved in the dirty dealing with Uri.”

“Uri you have to watch. As soon as you started talking about drugs, my mind started to think about Uri. You say the black man he was with was involved with the Russians and heroin?”

“Yes,” said Sandro.

“Uri and I used to do things together in Leningrad. In fact, it was Uri who got me started in that dirty business. You remember how terrible things were when we lived in Leningrad?”

“Very well,” said Tatiana.

“Your mother, God be good to her, stood by me no matter how bad things were. We use to have to scavenge food from—”

“Don't, Dad. That's all over.” Tatiana rubbed her father's shoulders.

“Not so far gone that I don't remember,” said Vasily, his eyes focused over Sandro's head at something in the past, something long gone.

“Then Uri comes along. Plenty of dough from doing things from Tashkent. They needed someone to bring that filthy stuff into Leningrad. You know, Sandro, I might have done these things—and maybe, if I was again desperate, I would do them again.”

“No you wouldn't,” said Tatiana,

Vasily laughed. “Kotyonok is more than a warden.” He patted her hand on his shoulder. “She's a wonderful girl. You are very lucky that she likes you so much.”

“I know.”

“Anyway, what Uri was doing, he was doing with some very highly connected people, who are able to make things happen like no one else. Highly powerful, well organized American people.”

“Americans?”

Vasily nodded. “And they needed a Leningrad connection. That's where I came into the picture. And where I went out of the picture. Remember?” he said to Tatiana.

“If you are talking about the night we escaped, I shall never forget,” said Tatiana.