Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

Fortune, Valeriy mused. They’d chosen the Pacific Northwest to avoid the epicenter of Russian organized crime in Brighton Beach, New York. Those Russians were largely Muscovites who had emigrated in the 1970s, using their Jewish ethnicity as a pretext to request asylum. Of course, Brezhnev had only been too glad to rid the Soviet Union of them. Valeriy wasn’t sure if that was more because they were criminals or because they were Jews, but he supposed it didn’t matter. They’d done well in America, but they were a tight group. Once the Soviet Union disintegrated, so did some of the solidarity within the criminal networks. Now it mattered if you were Russian, Ukrainian, or Georgian. So they came instead to the Pacific Northwest, away from the established families. Someplace not as grand, but unspoiled. There was plenty of opportunity in River City, but no one had made a fortune yet. That was going to change, and soon.

Marina emerged from the kitchen with a pair of wine glasses. She handed the half-full one to Val, keeping the glass with just a splash inside it for herself. “I’m going to bed soon,” she explained. “A little wine helps me sleep. A lot gives me terrible dreams.”

“What could you have to dream terrible about?” Val asked. “You have a wonderful life.”

“Yes,” Marina agreed, dropping into Sergey’s seat, “and my bad dreams are about losing it.”

Val turned up his mouth and shrugged. “Very little chance of that,” he told her.

“I didn’t say it was a rational fear,” Marina answered playfully.

Val raised the wine to his nose and sniffed. One of the things he had learned from Sergey was to appreciate the beautiful things in life. Val refused to dwell on hedonistic thoughts during most of his life, but between Sergey and his sister, he’d slowly learned to appreciate certain things in the moment. Wine was one of those things.

“What do you smell?” Marina asked.

“I’m not sure,” Val said. “Black cherry? And a little vanilla, perhaps.”

She smiled and sipped her own wine.

Val did the same. He was rewarded with a rich, velvety sensation. Black cherries and a hint of vanilla exploded across his palate. He swallowed and held the wine up to the light.

“It has a nice color, doesn’t it?” Sergey’s voice came from the doorway. He held a glass of his own and wore a thick blue robe. He walked toward his seat, which Marina vacated only to slide onto his lap after he sat down. “It’s a pinot noir,” he explained, “from right here in Washington.”

Val nodded slowly. “Perhaps we should invest in a winery someday.”

“Perhaps someday,” Sergey agreed.

The threesome fell silent, sipping quietly and enjoying the easy presence of each other. After Marina finished the last of her wine, she rose and kissed Sergey on the corner of his mouth, whispering something into his ear.

“I will,” Sergey answered.

Marina crossed to Val and kissed him on the cheek. “Pavel loves spending time with you, Valera. Thank you for being such a wonderful uncle.”

“It’s my honor,” Val answered. “He’s a fine young man.”

Marina gave his arm a squeeze, bid them both good night, and left the room.

Once she was out of earshot, Sergey eyed Val. “It is a bit late, little brother.” The chide was softened by the term of affection.

“Too late for family,” Val agreed, “but not for business.”

Sergey chuckled. “Very well. What is the business?”

“I spoke with the technician. Everything is in place.”

Sergey’s chuckle faded. His mouth tightened. “So the bookkeeper will be taken care of.”

“Yes.”

“Good. When a man begins to have doubts, that is bad enough. But for him to steal from his own people? His family? The ones who stand shoulder to shoulder with him?” Sergey shook his head in disgust. “ Stukatch. No death is hard enough for such a man.”

“I believe you will find this a hard death,” Val said quietly.

“As it should be. And what is the danger to us?”

“Evgeniy says there will be none,” Val answered. “Of course, every one of our people will know what truly happened. It will send quite a message, Sergey.”

“Beat your own and others will fear you,” Sergey said, quoting a Russian proverb.

Val shrugged, conceding the point. Sergey liked to use proverbs to make his point, but Val had to admit that he was usually right. Sergey was an excellent tactician. Fortunately for Val, he was not such a wonderful strategist.

“Is that the only news?”

“No,” Val replied. “I gave Dmitri the parts for the Kalashnikovs. He is making the transition on them now.”

“Good. I had heard that Black Ivan was arrested, though. How were you able to get the parts?”

“His wife gave them to me.”

“What did they arrest him for?”

Val suppressed a smile. He knew that Sergey was fully aware of everything that had happened at Ivan’s apartment, including the charges against the man. This was merely a ploy to see how well informed Val kept himself. Sergey made sure to test his lieutenant every so often.

“Spousal assault,” Val answered. “But that charge won’t hold. Elena is refusing to cooperate. The more serious charge is for assaulting the woman police officer who responded.”

“How is it that he was arrested?”

“Two more cops came to her rescue,” Val said. “Three against one.” He considered a moment. “Well, two.”

“I’m surprised Ivan lost that fight,” Sergey said, taking a healthy sip of his wine. “He is very strong.”

“I think perhaps he gave up in order to avoid further problems. But I won’t know until he is released.”

“Perhaps,” Sergey answered, staring at the glass of wine. “What about the other package?”

“I was able to get that from Elena, as well. It is already in distribution.”

“Who is handling that?”

“Andrei.”

Sergey nodded his approval. “Then all is well, little brother.”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“And here we sit in the calm before the storm.” Sergey sipped again.

“Yes.”

“It’s a peaceful feeling, isn’t it?” Sergey asked. “To know what is going to happen next? It is comforting.”

“Yes,” Val agreed, “it is.” He smiled and raised his glass. “To the coming storm.”

Sergey raised his own glass, and they drank.

Valeriy leaned back in his chair, enjoying the calm, the wine, and his own secret knowledge.

Plans within plans within plans.

Sunday, July 13th

0117 hours

“Let’s get a burrito before they close,” Battaglia suggested.

“Taco Shack is open twenty-four hours, goombah,” Sully told him.

Batts made a face. “Taco Puke? No, I mean Guillermo’s.”

It was Sully’s turn to make a face. “You want to talk about smell? That place used to be a Chinese restaurant. You know that, don’t you?”

“So?”

“So, I can still smell the Szechuan in there. The tortillas taste like soy sauce.”

“You’re dreaming,” Battaglia said. “Guillermo’s has the best burrito in town.”

“Every time we go there, three things happen.”

“One thing happens,” Battaglia said. “I get a good burrito and ain’t hungry anymore.”

Sully shook his head. He removed his right hand from the wheel and held up a single finger. “One, you eat one of those huge freakin’ burritos.”

“Duh. That’s why I go.”

Sully raised a second finger. “Two, as soon as we get back in the car, you crash in the passenger seat and fall asleep.”

“Like anyone gets any sleep on graveyard anymore,” Battaglia argued. “This isn’t the ’60s.”

“Three,” Sully said, ignoring him and flicking a third finger upward, “you get horrible gas and fart up the car like crazy.”