Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

The baker’s daughter approached the table and set a wrapped pastry next to Val. He reached into his pocket, peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her. “Keep the extra,” he told her. “Buy a music CD or something pretty for yourself.”

She blushed and thanked him. Val waited until she had walked out of earshot to speak again. “Once Oleg thinks it out, he will start to wonder what is beyond his revenge. What comes after. And once he considers that, he will slow down. He will tell the police very little. He will want to make the best deal for himself. All he has for leverage is the information he knows. So he will wait.”

Sergey looked at him, considering. After a few moments he nodded his head. “You may be correct. But what if he wants revenge too much to wait?”

“He is too smart for that.”

“What if the police give him the greatest deal right away?”

“They won’t.”

“What if they do?” Sergey pressed.

He is like a scared woman sometimes, Val thought. These are the times that it shows he was never a soldier.

“I heard a saying here in America,” Val said. “It goes, ‘What if grasshoppers had machine guns?’”

Sergey’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What does this mean?”

“If grasshoppers had machine guns, the birds would not fuck with them,” Val said.

There was a long moment of silence, then a large grin spread across Sergey’s face. “I see. This is funny.” He made a gun with both fingers and pantomimed a machine gun burst. “Ba-ba-bah. No more birds. Good.”

Val returned his smile. “I have a cousin who works on a janitor crew that cleans at the police station. I will ask him to listen and look. Maybe we can find where Oleg is.”

“Good, good.” Sergey said. He picked up his coffee and took a drink. “And raise the reward.”

“You are too generous,” Val said.

Sergey waved his words away. “It breeds loyalty.”

Val reached for the pastry, but Sergey put his hand over it. Val looked up at him. “You had something more?”

Sergey nodded slowly. “Yes. I am not so sure about your idea when it comes to insulating me.”

“It is for your protection,” Val said. “And Marina’s.”

“Perhaps,” Sergey said. “But life is risk. I still plan to attend the summit you will be arranging soon.”

“I advise against it,” Val told him.

“I know. But sometimes, the soldiers need to see that their general is in charge. That he is brave and will join the battle with them.”

Val didn’t reply right away. By the time he arranged the summit there would be little danger of battle. The men in attendance would already be defeated. The meeting would be more like a Roman triumph parade than a battle. “It is, of course, up to you,” he finally said.

“I know.” Sergey picked up his paper and went back to reading.

Val took the pastry and left the bakery. The anemic dinging sound as he swung the door open irritated him, but he made an effort to conceal it.

Sergey was only making sure Val knew who was in charge. He was only making a point. That’s why he wanted to change Val’s plans. That’s why he had been so dismissive of him. It was classic gangster leadership behavior. He was seeking to assert his dominance over Val. To show him who was the alpha wolf.

A very old Russian saying sprang to Val’s mind, drowning out his injured pride: ’Tis a hard winter when one wolf eats another.

Val smiled and opened the car door. He tossed the bakery bag to Pavel.

“Thanks, Uncle,” Pavel said. He unwrapped it and took a large bite. “Where next?”

“Take me to my coffee shop,” Val told him. “We’ll wait there for things to be finished.”

“Sure,” Pavel said. He took another huge bite, started the car, and headed north.

Val looked out the window and smiled. It might be summer, but Sergey was in for a very hard winter.

1240 hours

Esteban Ruiz walked down Nettleton Street, proudly displaying his brown handkerchief. He wore it as a headband. His closely cropped hair didn’t absorb much sweat, so flying his colors that way had an additional benefit. He also wore a white wife-beater and baggy dark blue denims. Sturdy brown boots and a.25 auto in his pocket rounded out his ensemble. No one would doubt who he was. Not just a gangster, but a Dean Avenue Diablo.

If Esteban smiled much, that thought might have coaxed a grin to his lips. Hell, he wasn’t just a Diablo, he was the Diablos. That was him. Numero uno. El Jefe. El Capitan. The Boss. Call it what you will, in English or Spanish, it meant the same thing.

He ran his crew and he ran West Central.

The sun beat down as he walked along the wide sidewalk. He was headed to the Broadway Food Store to get something cold to drink. Maybe some Gatorade for now and some cerveza for later. He could have sent Pepe or Luis, but he wanted the time alone. And he could have driven the short distance to the store, but he wanted to do the kind of thinking that only seemed to work for him when he was walking.

He’d seen the news. Someone had shot up the local Crips pretty good. He figured it was a rival Crip set, or maybe an internal power struggle. Two things impressed him about the event, though. One was that someone had managed to get hold of fully automatic rifles, and that was some serious shit in these parts. While it was a little easier to get guns in the Pacific Northwest, it had also proved very difficult to get full auto pieces. So the fact that someone was able to pull that off, and with AKs, no less, well, that impressed Esteban quite a bit.

The more important thing that impressed him was the opportunity that it created for him and his crew. Whether this shooting was an internal struggle or a gang versus gang, four dead homies was going to hurt those Crips. On top of that, they’d be keeping their heads down, waiting for the next visit from those AK-47s. They wouldn’t be up for very much in the way of business. The Crips wouldn’t be in any sort of position to supply the demand.

Los Diablos could. But he had to think it through. If he moved in too quick or too hard, they might think he was behind that drive-by. That would result in all-out war between the Crips and Los Diablos. He didn’t want that. But maybe if they just crept in a little at a time. Just nibble and nibble while the others were fighting each other. If they came around eventually and wanted their piece back, Esteban could decide whether it was worth fighting for. Or he could negotiate. Hell, if he had to, he could just give it to them, though he doubted he would. Those mayates might get through whatever fight they were in, but they weren’t going to come out of it stronger.

Esteban crossed Broadway Avenue and turned left. He could feel the sweat running down the small of his back and was looking forward to something cold. Maybe he’d get a Pepsi. A great big cup, chock full of ice. That’d go down real nice.

Out of habit, Esteban cast his eyes left and right as he walked. The Crips shooting probably didn’t mean he was in any greater danger than usual, but it jangled his nerves just a little bit.

He didn’t see any cars that made him suspicious. A pair of kids rode bikes in the empty parking lot across the street. A block away, he could hear the noise of a basketball game at Dutch Jake Park. A short, thin man stood using the payphone near the door to the grocery store.

As Esteban approached the door, it swung open toward him. A kid no older than nine burst out, clutching a Slurpee in both hands. Immediately behind him came a smaller version of the same kid, maybe six or so. He carried the same size cup. The blue ice sloshed as he hurried after his older brother.