Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (49 page)

“He exports women?”

Semyon made a big deal about pretending to pray for patience with Ned's stupidity. “Yes, every country wants as many prostitutes as you can supply, but in countries with good economies—America, Germany, Sweden, Israel—only desperate women will do it, and nobody really wants them. And in many other countries—Turkey, Greece, Arab countries—the women are just too ugly, so everyone wants Eastern European girls. They are white, beautiful, poor . . . it's a perfect combination to make money.”

Ned thought about what Semyon had said and thought back to his old girlfriend Daniela from Moldova. Although she refused to talk about it, Ned had come to believe that she had used prostitution as a way out of her native country. “Like Moldova?” he asked.

“Again with Moldova? What is it with you and that little asscrack of a country?”

Ned shrugged.

“But you are right, Moldova supplies a lot of girls,” Semyon answered, the sheen of surprise still on his face. “Not the prettiest girls around, but they are plenty eager to work. Poorest country in all of Europe, you know, even worse than Albania!”

“I think I've heard how this works,” Ned said. “A guy goes to small towns with a big car and fancy clothes and promises all the girls jobs as models and actresses in the West, but instead makes them strippers or prostitutes in America.”

Semyon shook his head. “No, no, no, very few come to America. Someone tries it all the time thinking they get rich, but it doesn't really work,” he said with a resigned shrug. “The girls learn English, run away, tell on their man. He goes to jail, they get a Green Card, maybe even citizenship through something called the witness detection program.”

“Witness
pro
tection program.”

Semyon smiled. “Yeah, in this country, you can tell on someone and the cops can take you away, give you a new name, a house, a job, even a Green Card, everything. It's crazy.”

“So where do they go?”

“Who?”

“The women—instead of America, I mean.”

“Oh, lots of places. The best method is to sell them to the Arabs who then sell them to Israelis, Turks, even Chinese,” Semyon said. “They actually go to some pretty bad places. But they are always happy to get away from the Arabs. They are some really cruel guys, full of hate.”

Ned changed the subject not just because he was thinking about his old girlfriend Daniela, but because he was approaching New York City. For someone who had never driven in a city with more traffic congestion than Wilmington, Delaware, and was piloting a gigantic SUV, it would take all of his attention just to stay out of serious trouble.

“Hey!” Semyon shouted. “Take the next exit.”

“To the Goethals Bridge? Headed into Staten Island?”

“Yeah, I have someone I have to see,” Semyon told Ned. “Drive to New Dorp. I'll guide you.”

Within a few minutes, they arrived at a small storefront establishment called The Tube Bar. From the outside, it looked nondescript with just its sign out front and a neon “Budweiser” sign obscuring the only window. Inside, it was little better. Dusty and greasy at the same time, the bar was simple with just a few tables and chairs, a pool table, a jukebox and a waist-high bar. Ned chuckled to himself that it looked like Moe's from
The Simpsons
. There were a few haggard-looking customers inside, and an older, very large man behind the bar yelling threats into an old-style wired telephone.

He hung up by forcefully smashing the receiver down. As he turned to Semyon and Ned, Ned was surprised at how big and solid the old man looked. He must have been a former boxer or wrestler, Ned thought to himself. He had a ruddy face twisted by years of anger, closely cropped gray hair with a few red patches and he was covered in Navy-style tattoos.

“I don't need your bullshit right now, Simon,” the old man shouted in what Ned thought was an almost impossibly scratchy voice. “Don't need it at all.” There was some murmuring from the bar's patrons, and a few stabs of laughter.

Semyon approached the old man, who had come out from behind the bar to confront him. Although he was well within the angry old man's punch radius, he didn't flinch. In fact, he had that same droopy disinterested face he always had on when he wasn't giggling. The older man was raging and pacing around in front of Semyon, but all Semyon did was look at him.

“Well then, Red,” he said quietly, “it would appear we have a problem.”

Most of the bar patrons had gotten out of their seats and surrounded the two interlopers by this point. Ned was not smaller than all of them, just most of them. They were muttering.

“Really?” Red said threateningly. “Fuck off.”

Semyon grinned broadly. “Red, my friend, you have me all wrong,” he said with a lightness and confidence that shocked Ned. “Red, Red, Red, you treat me like I'm a bad man, like I am the enemy, but I am actually your best friend in the entire world. And I can prove it.”

One of Red's tiny eyes opened wider as he lifted its eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? How?”

Semyon grinned again, then looked Red in the eyes. “Our mutual friend had told Vasilly to come and sort out your little problem,” Semyon said slowly, putting extra emphasis on the name Vasilly. “I decided that since I was in the neighborhood, I could save him a trip. But if we can't work something out, maybe Vasilly will come and you can deal with him.”

Red's face drained of color within a second, and Ned actually saw a glaze of perspiration form on his forehead before he could even react. Red stammered a little and then said: “Lemme get you a vodka, Simon, and what's your friend want? On the house.”

Semyon thanked him, and Ned declined politely. After pouring the vodka, he went into the back room. Semyon sniffed the vodka and poured it on the floor. “Cheap shit,” he said. The bar's other patrons sullenly returned to their seats.

Red returned with a paper shopping bag that had been rolled up at the top. He handed it to Semyon, who thanked him. “There is a little something extra in there for you too,” said Red.

“So kind,” Semyon said. “But it had better not be more of this shitty vodka or Vasilly can come down here and do his own work.”

Back in the car, Ned asked why Red was so scared of Vasilly.

“You don't want to know,” Semyon answered with a laugh. Then his face turned serious. “But promise me you will not cross him . . . Promise!”

“Okay, okay,” Ned returned. “I won't piss off Vasilly.”

“Smartest thing I have ever heard you say.”

Most of Brooklyn looked very much like Ned thought it would. First he saw graffiti-covered factories and warehouses, then a transition into tree-lined streets of closely packed row houses with cafés and trendy shops which, in turn, opened up into neighborhoods full of detached homes with fenced-in yards augmented by low-rise apartment buildings.

But Brighton Beach was something of a shock. Once Ned had passed under the elevated train tracks and into the neighborhood, he was surprised at how densely packed it was. All of the businesses and buildings—especially those under or in the shadow of the tracks—seemed to have been miniaturized. The streets were positively alive with traffic, and Ned had never seen so many people on the streets outside of a movie. The entire place was alive with all kinds of movement, both motorized and human.

But what really got to Ned were the signs. He'd seen some stores with Spanish signs in Wilmington, but every store here had its signs in Russian, complete with 3s and backwards Rs.

Semyon managed to stay sound asleep until Ned took a particularly sharp turn off Brighton Beach Avenue, jarring him. When they reached Brightwater Cresent, they came upon a huge public parking lot. Ned could see the ocean through his windshield.

“Park here!” Semyon barked.

“What?” Ned answered. “The GPS says it's three blocks from here.”

“Yeah, but you could spend your whole life looking for parking in this neighborhood,” Semyon said. “And it is tiny little New York blocks, not like what you have in Texas.”

“Arizona,” Ned said, lying.

“Same thing.”

When they got out of the SUV, Ned felt the refreshing salt breeze. The beach looked a lot like the ones he knew from Delaware and Maryland, but the waves were much smaller and the water had a darker, greener color, unlike the steel-blue Atlantic he knew from farther south.

To Ned's surprise, Semyon walked towards the beach. “I thought it was on Brightwater,” Ned said, running to catch up with him.

“That's just the mailing address, the front door is on the boardwalk.”

The boardwalk was nice and breezy and, as they walked down it just a short way, Ned could see a transition between a heavily Hispanic east side to an almost uniformly white west side. They passed some nice little restaurants with names like Tatiana's and New Odessa and Ned was surprised to see most of them advertising fresh sushi. They kept walking until they got to a patio for a restaurant called Café Whatever. It had a hand painted sign and a busy patio.

As soon as he showed up, about half the crowd (Ned identified them as likely to be the bar's “regulars”) greeted Semyon like an old friend. It took a few moments for Ned to recognize that they were all men. They all had dark hair and skin tones ranging from that of a blank page of photocopy paper to moderately tanned. They were all very hairy with thick eyebrows, and a few of the shirtless ones could be seen to be covered in tattoos. All were bedecked in far more gold than even the most vainglorious hip-hop artist would find tasteful.

They were all patting Semyon on the back or shaking his hand or at least waving. There was much conversation, and then someone in the crowd pointed to a table in the corner. Alone at it was a fat, red-faced man of about fifty. He was wearing nothing but swim trunks and a thick gold chain, and his upper body was covered in a series of intricate, but crudely drawn tattoos. He was passed out in his chair, with his chin buried in his fat neck. One of Semyon's friends—a big man who looked to be some sort of a leader or at least a favorite—said something in Russian to a pretty, thin waitress. Without any obvious acknowledgment of what the man said, the waitress picked up a can of Sprite from the outdoor section of the bar, brought it over to the sleeping man, opened it and rather dramatically poured it all over him. He sputtered for a moment, punched feebly into the air a couple of times, but never really woke up and, in fact, started snoring the moment he regained his comfort zone. The crowd started laughing uproariously.

As the laughter died down, the man who seemed to be in charge smiled at Ned and offered his beefy hand to him. “You must be our new friend, McGyver.”

Ned chuckled. “It's Macnair,” he said, shaking the man's hand firmly. “And you must be Roman.”

The man looked shocked. His eyes widened so much that his entire irises were visible. “No, no, no,” he said. “I am not Roman, I am his friend, Aleksei.” Then he said something to the crowd in Russian—although Ned could make out the word “Roman,” and everybody laughed. Aleksei then looked back at Ned smiling and invited him and Semyon inside. “First we eat, have a little relax,” he said. “Then we do business.”

It was darker inside and it took a moment for Ned's eyes to adjust. The bar had the same furniture inside as out and the walls were adorned with posters for all kinds of events Ned could not figure out. There was a small stage beside the bar, and a teenaged boy with a sloppy haircut and droopy wire-framed glasses was playing Lady Gaga songs on a Yamaha keyboard. He was dressed in a black suit with a pizza-patterned tie. Ned noticed that he had a cigarette in his mouth and beside him was a very full ashtray.

They got to a centrally located table that had two tough-looking guys at it. When Semyon got to them, he tilted his head quickly and made a clicking noise with his mouth. The two guys shot Aleksei a quick look. He did not acknowledge them and they grabbed their drinks and a half-eaten bowl of soup and left for the patio.

Since it was Ned's first time in a Russian place, Semyon ordered for him. Before long, he was given a bowl of red soup with a big dollop of sour cream in the middle, a plate of boiled dumplings with some kind of ground meat in them smothered in fried onions and a beer. Semyon and Aleksei both had big plates of what Ned guessed was sushi even though it looked more like simple chunks of raw fish than the intricate, rice-filled rolls he associated with the word. They both had large tumblers of what Ned guessed was vodka, although Aleksei's was red, almost like wine.

Ned complimented the meal, which he genuinely enjoyed. He asked Semyon what it was called and he told him something that sounded like “ber-nyeh-nyeh.” Ned repeated it, as best he could. Semyon smiled and corrected him, but this time the word sounded more like “bru-nummy.” Ned tried that. Frustrated, Semyon pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote “pelmeni” on a napkin. Ned laughed.