Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (48 page)

That evening, after Ned left work, he was surprised to see Semyon's car parked outside his apartment building. Semyon was sitting inside and appeared to be asleep. Ned tapped on the window close to where his head was pressed against it and was shocked that Semyon had drawn a gun and pointed it at him for a second or so.

After he realized what was going on, Semyon apologized and asked to be invited in. Ned accommodated him but did not appreciate his friend's constant patter about how shitty and low-rent all of his possessions were.

When they were finally both sitting down, Semyon told him that Roman was having second thoughts about him and would have to meet him.

“So I've heard,” Ned answered.

Semyon smiled. “This is serious, man,” he said. “Roman is key, he's important, you have to do this.”

“Or what?”

“You will lose your job,” he answered. Then after a long pause, he added, “At the very least.”

Ned chuckled mirthlessly. “Okay, let's go meet Roman.”

“Okay, I'll put together a meeting in the next few days and you can take a couple of days off work . . .”

“A couple of days?”

“Yeah, Roman is in New York—Brooklyn,” Semyon said. “It'll be an overnight trip.”

Ned didn't think getting time off from Hawkridge would be a problem, but keeping it a secret from Dave would prove harder. He thought about it for a second, and realized the best way to stay out of trouble would be to limit Semyon's involvement. “Well, I have two conditions.”

“You are in no position to make conditions.”

“Too bad,” he said. “The trip is not over a Friday—and I drive.”

Semyon laughed. “The Friday thing is fine. I don't want to ruin a weekend, either,” he said. “But I am not riding in your piece-of-shit car and I don't want you driving mine.”

“We can rent one. Do you have any cash?”

Semyon shrugged and pulled a roll of twenties as thick around as a coffee mug and showed Ned. “Some, but there are lots of things to do in New York.”

Ned had Semyon pick him up at Hawkridge at eleven o'clock on Monday morning. He did not feel like hearing Semyon drone on about how bad his place was again so he waited outside. Semyon had rented an immense SUV, and looked like he hadn't quite managed to learn how to navigate it in tight traffic just yet.

Ned took the wheel and told Semyon he was surprised there was no loud music playing. Semyon looked annoyed and muttered something about satellite radio.

By the time they got on I-95, Semyon had already started his now-familiar chattering. He was complaining about Ludmilla's brother. He was an obese alcoholic who had always given Semyon a hard time for not being Russian, and now he is demanding that they sponsor him for a Green Card. “Fuckin' Russians,” Semyon muttered in what Ned noticed was for his benefit because it was in English. “Think they know everything.”

Ned snorted. “You work with Russians, your wife is Russian, I sometimes think I'm the only non-Russian you know.”

Semyon smiled and looked bemused. “No, there are a few Uzbeks in Dearborn who get together every once in a while,” he said. “You would like them, much nicer people than Russians.”

“So who's this guy we're going to see . . . Roman, is it?” Ned asked even though he knew the man's name.

“Yeah, Roman,” Semyon said. “He's not too bad. Likes to show off his money and that's okay with me because I love it when someone else is paying.”

“Yeah, but who is he? Why do I have to meet him?” Ned asked. “Haven't you guys checked me out enough already?”

Semyon put on something of a pensive pout. “Roman did not become who he is by trusting people he does not know,” he said. “I know you are trustworthy, Grigori knows you are trustworthy, but Roman, he likes to do things his way. And you had better—as you people say—play ball.”

Ned wanted to ask what Semyon meant by that, but didn't feel like being threatened again. “But why is Roman so important?”

Semyon sighed. “I am under orders to let you know as little as possible,” he said with what Ned recognized as pretended anger. “Why can't you just be happy shipping packages and making lots of money?”

“I am,” Ned replied. “But I'm the one who has to meet and impress this guy, so I'd like to know a little about him to prepare.”

Semyon made a big show of knitting his eyebrows and sighed audibly. “Okay, okay, but you tell nobody what I am about to tell you,” he finally said. “Grigori was a good Communist. He worked in the Russian embassy in Romania for years and years, and when things started to change there in the 1980s, he made a lot of money selling exit visas to people who wanted to get out of the country. By the time Ceauşescu and his wife were shot, Grigori was already a rich man.”

“Ceauşescu?”

“Yes, the communist leader of Romania who was shot by his own people in 1989,” Semyon continued. “After he was gone, the whole country went wild.”

“And Grigori left?”

“No way! Grigori was way too smart for that,” Semyon said, as though Ned had said something too ridiculous to even warrant an answer. “He was by that time a very rich man in a very poor and disorganized country, so he could have whatever he wanted. He bought a bunch of factories—but he put them in his brothers' names because it would look bad for a party member to own so much property and because many questions would be asked back in Moscow.”

“So Russia was still communist at that point?”

“Yeah, for a little while,” Semyon said. “So Grigori had to continue at his job selling visas while his brothers set up the factories.”

“And that's how he met the Swede?”

“Yeah, even before Ceauşescu was killed, Romania encouraged trade with other countries and the Swedes were the first ones in . . . they usually are,” Semyon said as though that addendum was supposed to be significant to Ned. “Grigori just kept getting richer and richer, and when the communists fell in Russia, he came back to Moscow and made some even richer friends.”

“Richer?”

“Yes, how can I put this? Grigori drives a most expensive Mercedes-Benz, his friends back in Russia have a custom-built Lamborghini for a few weeks until they get bored of it and then get something else,” he said. “You should see their houses, they are palaces. Truly.”

“And Roman is one of them?”

Semyon laughed. “No, no, no, Roman is like Grigori, but the bosses like him better, so he is in Brooklyn, while Grigori is stuck in Detroit. He is also very jealous of Dimitri in Los Angeles.”

Ned smiled. “So if I am Grigori's employee, why do I have to pass Roman's inspection?”

“Because Wilmington is officially in Roman's territory—east coast, you know,” Semyon said, as though explaining the situation to an obstinate five year old. “Grigori is only getting away with it because it was such a smart idea and because Roman is getting a generous allowance. But nothing happens until Roman gets on board—and he won't be until he meets you.”

They had been driving for hours and had passed by Philadelphia, Camden and Trenton and were traveling at exactly the speed limit through small-town New Jersey when Semyon pulled out his now-familiar bottle of vodka. Ned was so shocked he almost swerved into a car passing him on the left. After recovering with much screaming from his brakes and tires, Ned asked Semyon, “What the fuck are you doing? You can't just open up a bottle of vodka in the front seat of a moving car! We could both go to jail.”

“What? Really? I knew you couldn't drink and drive in this country, but I'm not the one driving.” He sounded very sheepish by the end of his statement.

Ned, still shaking his head and unable to blink, took the next exit. They eventually ended up on the outskirts of a nice little town called Lawrenceville where Ned stopped at a gas station that had a convenience store attached. “You fill up the tank,” he told Semyon. “I'll be back in a sec.”

Ned returned with some snacks and other items and put them in the back seat. He pulled a large bottle of spring water out of the bag, uncapped it and poured it on the ground. Semyon looked at him quizzically. His face changed dramatically when he saw Ned grab his vodka bottle and pour most of it into the water bottle. Semyon smacked him on the back and thanked him, calling him “buddy.”

It was smart, he thought to himself, to reduce the risk of getting caught by the cops, and to keep Semyon happy and talking. Ned had seen him pout and sulk for long periods when deprived of what he wanted (which was usually vodka), and wanted him to provide more information about his new associates.

Back on I-95, Semyon was taking lusty swigs from his water bottle and chewing on some of the beef jerky Ned had bought him. Then he started up the conversation again without being asked. “Ah, Roman's okay,” he said. “He's just careful is all.”

Ned just nodded. Then when he realized Semyon would not continue without any prodding, he asked, “So, Roman is like Grigori? He gets his money from his factories?”

Semyon erupted into gales of laughter. “Grigori makes nothing from those factories these days!” he shouted. “Do you think those stupid Romanians and Bulgarians can keep up with millions of Chinese who will do the same work for a few grains of rice or to stay out of a prison camp? No, his factories make tiny amounts of money, but they give Grigori and his brothers legitimate companies—and it keeps the workers happy, so there are no more revolutions.” He started laughing again, and when he stopped he sounded deadly serious. “No, Grigori makes his money other ways,” he said. “Roman, too—just much more. It's all import/ export—import money and export . . . whatever.”

“Whatever?”

Semyon took a very long and serious look at Ned. Then he started laughing again. “Why are you being like this? You already know about the heroin in the coils. You are part of it.”

“I put that together, but it kind of freaks me out a bit. Does anyone even do heroin anymore? Isn't it, like, something from the sixties or seventies?” Ned sincerely believed that; his experience trafficking drugs with the Sons of Satan had convinced him that pretty well everybody of a certain age smoked marijuana or hashish, but there was little profit in it; the real money was in cocaine and, to a lesser extent, methamphetamine, but the availability of crack had tended to erode those markets.

Semyon looked shocked. “Are you nuts?” he said. “Heroin users are everywhere. Their habit is evil. Always they come back for more, more, more.”

“Really?”

“Yeah!” Semyon was quite adamant. “Hey, how much do you get for gram of coke?”

Ned had to do some quick calculations in his head. He had primarily been a distributer who passed coke from his bosses to dealers as a buffer against prosecution, but he knew Semyon was interested in the retail not wholesale price. Eventually, he said, “It depends on where you are and the purity of the product, but one hundred dollars if the market is good, sometimes less.”

“Ha! Heroin is double that easy—and the market is always good,” he shouted. “And since we get it from our people, we don't pay what you pay the Colombians and Mexicans for coke. The profit margin is huge—it makes selling coke look like selling goat meat on street corner.” Ned accepted that simile as something of particular meaning to Semyon.

“Well, I like the sound of that,” Ned said. “Is that how Roman got connected?”

Semyon shook his head. “He was not involved in heroin trafficking until the big guys started encouraging him,” he said. “He made his big money in auto parts, but is better known for women.”

“Women?”

“Yeah, women. You know—sell them?”

“Sell women? You mean like prostitution? He was a pimp?” He laughed.

“This is problem with Americans—the way the rest of the world works always has to be explained to them,” said Semyon who was putting on his dopiest-looking face for added effect. “Not a pimp like you have here—some big black man with his stick and his ‘hos.' No other country is as stupid about prostitution as America is. Even in places where it is officially illegal, it is always tolerated—except, for some reason, here.”

“So if the cops are looking the other way, how does a guy like Roman make any money?” Ned asked with genuine curiosity. “Doesn't something have to be illegal for you to make any real money off it? I mean, you might pay twenty dollars for that bottle of vodka, but a sixteen-year-old kid would pay a hundred for the same bottle, right? That's how it works.”

Semyon nodded and laughed. “But Roman is not a pimp, just like his boss is not some guy selling heroin on street corner. He is an
exporter
.”