Don Winslow - California Fire And Life

It's not pleasant, this chicken chop. First they cut off your hands, then your arms, then your feet, then your legs, then your privates — and even though you're probably dead by then, they cut off your head just for a sense of aesthetic unity.

"It is major now, isn't it," Lerner says. "Congratulations. Mazel tov. Our brothers inside KGB informed us of your promotion."

Lerner demands the death penalty.

Fire up the old McCullough.

Shakalin gets to his feet.

He stands in front of Nicky and says, "Years ago, you took an oath to the Two Crosses. The Two Crosses protected you, nurtured you, took you from a miserable zek to riches beyond your knowledge. You came here as nothing and now you are a rich man.

"How do you thank us?

"You cheat us. You turn your back on us. You spit on our traditions and laws. You think you are too good for the Two Crosses, now that you are 'Nicky Vale.'

"And then we learn that you are a traitor. An informer."

He spits in Nicky's face.

Without turning around he asks the board for its verdict.

Guilty.

A huge surprise, Nicky thinks, seeing as they already have the chain saw out.

And realizes, Jesus, sweat is pouring down my back like a river. Shakalin asks what punishment should be rendered.

Death, death, death, death, death, death — right down the line.

Death by dismemberment.

"I validate the verdict and the sentence," Shakalin says, staring down at Nicky. "Burn in hell, Daziatnik Valeshin."

He calls back to his bodyguard, "Execute the sentence."

Lev starts up the $95 Home Depot Special of the Week and slices it through Shakalin's neck. His head topples to the floor just as Dani puts three silenced rounds into Tiv Lerner's face. Dani holds the gun on the rest of them as he unstraps Nicky. Lev puts the chain saw to one of the brigadiers' necks as Nicky says, "All in favor of my becoming pakhan, please raise your hands."

He's unanimously elected.

We're in America now, Daziatnik kindly explains when they're done pissing their pants. California, and things are different here. Different from Russia or Brighton Beach. Look outside and see the sunshine. Feel the warmth. Contemplate Natan Shakalin's head on the floor. Dig it, men, real estate is the Main Chance. Against the code, true, but the heart of the code is in making money, da?

Da.

And this KGB accusation is nonsense, but who cares anyway? Fuck the KGB. In case you missed it, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics is no more. The cold war is over. They're not the enemy anymore because they're out of business.

Which seems to be true. Nicky tested it out. Stopped sending money to Karpotsov. Stopped answering messages. Stopped sending messages. Just completely went off the radar screen. And what happened?

Nothing.

Nothing happened.

The vaunted KGB is impotent.

It's a new world order.

"You are all reborn in me," Nicky tells them over the buzz of the saw as Lev chops Lerner's body into readily disposable pieces. Nicky makes his speech. He's into it. Dude thinks he's Pacino in The Godfather. "I will remain pakhan for seven years, after which each brigadier will be free to start his own independent organization. I will use that time to completely legitimize my enterprise. I would recommend that you do the same, but that is your business.

"Parts of the old code are good and we will keep them. Other parts have served their purpose in the past but are now obsolete. I will have a family. I will have a wife. I will have children to inherit what I've worked for. How can we have a dynasty without heirs? Do we work to establish an empire that goes to the grave with us? That is foolishness. If anyone disagrees, speak now."

There is no sound but the saw.

"Then we're agreed," Nicky says. "I am restructuring the organization. Tratchev, seeing as how Tiv Lerner is no longer capable of performing his duties, you're promoted to the command of his brigade. You will do auto accident fraud exclusively. Rubinsky, your brigade will be auto theft. Schaller, arson and extortion. And brothers, reach out to other ethnic groups, the Mexicans, the Vietnamese, the white trash. Make them your operators. Insulate yourselves. I do not want to read about the 'Russian Mafia' in the papers or see your faces on television.

"I will keep my security cell. I loaned them to the late Natan Shakalin for a while — for purposes that should be apparent — but now I am taking them back. You will report to them, not to me. You will pay 20 percent — not 50 — to me and 10 percent to the obochek, which I will maintain and control. Make money and invest it in the economy. Your sons will be senators."

Nicky likes this last line. Came up with it when he was rehearsing this speech. Going over it and over it to maintain his nerve as he hoped that his plan would pay off. That his foresight in persuading Karpotsov to give exit visas to Dani and Lev would work the way they planned it. That Dani and Lev would stay faithful to the vows they had made to each other in prison.

You will join me in Paradise.

There is another promise to keep.

He sends for Mother.

In collapsing, cash-poor Russia, her exit is easier to arrange than a table at Wolfgang Puck's.

Their reunion is cold at first.

She's hurt, she's angry, she's bitter at the six years of separation. She barely speaks on the limo drive from LAX to Dana Point. She starts to brighten when they arrive at the gates of Monarch Bay and the guard trips over himself welcoming them in. She starts to positively warm when she sees the house.

"Daziatnik, it is barely furnished," she says.

"I thought you would like to do that, Mother," he says. "And I count on your taste. Anyway, it is yours."

"Mine?"

"Although I have kept a room for myself. If you find that acceptable."

She kisses him on both cheeks and then fleetingly on the mouth.

"It is acceptable to me."

Nicky separates himself from the Two Crosses. Except for his security cell, he never sees his lieutenants. Lets them run their operations, kick in the money to him. He's satisfied to manage the obochek and run his real estate investments.

And collect his furniture. He goes to his first auction with some of his new friends, just as a way to kill a cloudy January Saturday. Ends up falling in love. Not with any of the rich, svelte women he sees there, but with a George II dressing table that calls out to him, I'm yours.

More than that.

Calls out to him, I'm you.

And before he knows it, Nicky has his hand out and he's plunking down fifteen K on a big piece of walnut.

Which he loves.

There is love that passes and love that lasts. There is love that satisfies the body and the heart, and which is passing, and there is love that nourishes the soul, and which is lasting.

The furniture is the only thing that Nicky has ever found that nourishes his soul.

At first it was a class thing.

He bought it because he could buy it, because the ability to pay that kind of money symbolized his triumph over the ghetto. Because the purchase of art — as opposed to cars, or horses, for instance — gave him an entree into the world of the beautiful people. It made him not just one more real estate tycoon, but a man of culture, polish and, yes, class.

Nicky is too smart not to acknowledge to himself the truth of all that.

But in time — and not much time at that — it became more than a status symbol.

It became a true love.

Was it, Nicky wonders, the art itself? But that somewhat begs the question, doesn't it? Perhaps it was the purity of effort that a work of art represents, the genuine desire to create something that is truly beautiful. A purity of effort in such contrast to a corrupt world?

Or is it the beauty itself? Could it be that simple, he wonders, that I am irresistibly drawn to possess beauty? Engaging again in cheap psychoanalysis (Ah, I have become an American), it is not difficult to imagine that a boy raised in poverty would wish to own beauty if he could.