Ed Dee - The Con Man's Daughter

"Say you were a car thief in Moscow," Eddie said. "You steal a brand-new car. How do you make money on it?"

"My first day in class, a quiz already. Okay, probably can't ship it out of the country. I'll say you cut it up and sell the parts. Weather that bad, parts business has to be good."

"Forget parts."

"So I'll find a buyer. Some guy's yak dies and he needs dependable transportation. I sell him the stolen car."

"Wrong again. In a country where people wait for years for a car, you'd never get it by the apparat. The government will know it's stolen."

"I give up. What's the answer?"

"You ransom it back to the owner," Eddie said.

"Ransom the car back. Like a kidnapping."

"Exactly. Kidnapping of cars and people is far more commonplace in Russia than it is over here. My point is this: You need to think differently. These people find angles and ways to make money you can't even imagine."

They pushed their way through the crowds bargaining with street merchants under the peeling brown paint of the el tracks' supports. Past the Payless shoe store, the Primorski Restaurant, and the KFC.

"I'll give you the key to understanding all this," Eddie said. "The one thing you definitely need to know: The Russians are all about money. Stop the money, you stop them."

"Sounds like the American way."

"I'm not talking about the honest buck. Vorovskoi mir means it's a thieves' world. Many of these people understand no other concept of earning. Maybe in another two generations, but not yet. They don't trust anyone but themselves. Not our government, our legal system, or our business practices."

'They trust it enough to steal from it," Boland said.

'That's right. They understand that: not invest in it, but steal from it. Okay, I already told you the answer to this one. What's the easiest way to become a millionaire in this country today?"

"Marry a Republican fund-raiser."

"The answer is to rip off Medicare or the insurance companies. See that Laundromat over there? They have hundreds of mailboxes for rent. Brighton Beach has more rental mailboxes than any neighborhood in the city. You'll find rental mailboxes in restaurants, grocery stores, and gas stations. Anonymous mailboxes are the lifeblood of the scam artist."

"I don't have to open a clinic?" Boland said.

"You don't even have to buy an aspirin. It's simple. All you need to acquire is the Medicare ID number of a doctor who's going into research, or abroad for an extended period. Not a big problem-all you need is an administrative contact in any hospital. Next, you write Medicare, requesting a change of address for that doctor. You change it to one of these post office boxes that you've rented. After that, it's easy to get the Medicare numbers of a few hundred senior citizens. Offer a free chest X ray, or free blood pressure screenings. Free anything. Once you have those numbers, then you can proceed with the bogus billing. You never see another patient, and the millions start to flow. It will take them six months to a year to send an investigator around. By then, you're back in Russia, set for life."

"Look for me out in the Hamptons."

"And we haven't begun to scratch the surface yet," Eddie said. "Ever hear the word hidtrost?

Boland repeated the word and asked if it was Russian street slang. Eddie didn't know if it was slang or not.

"The Russians refer to hidtrost as a secondary intelligence. It's the con man's intelligence. It's not common sense, or education. It's the way the scam artist's mind works. The ability to read between the lines. It's more respected than traditional intelligence among the Russian criminal element. In the old country, ripping off the government is a badge of honor. The only way to make a buck. They grow up seeing con men and hustlers making big money."

"Plus, it fits neatly into your contention that the Russian criminals are harmless schemers."

"Not harmless," Eddie said. "I never said harmless. My complaint with your approach-excuse me, the FBI's approach-is that you want to emphasize the Russian mafiya , the organizatsiya . You want a hierarchy you can put on a chart on the wall. That's wasting everyone's time; it doesn't exist. These people don't trust any big organization. They're not going to form one."

"You're wrong there, Eddie. They're a hell of a lot more organized than you think."

They walked past the crowds swarming the fruit stands, and the people selling pastries and sweaters.

"See that woman in the doorway?" Eddie said. "Old woman, with the backpack. She's selling prescription drugs."

"Prescription drugs?" Boland said.

As they passed the woman, she could be heard whispering to passersby, in a raspy voice, " Lekarstvo, komu, lekarstvo ?"

"She's saying, 'Medicine, who wants medicine?' " Eddie said. "The supply varies. They usually have some antibiotics, Valium, kidney medicines; OxyContin is big now. Dilaudid. Viagra is always a seller. Twenty-five codeine-laced aspirin will cost you around five bucks."

"Stolen prescription drugs."

"Not stolen. Mostly smuggled in from Russia, Bulgaria, Switzerland, wherever they can get it in bulk. That old woman works for a guy I'll point out to you. He usually hangs around the travel agency, recruiting people, or he's in the Samovar sucking up the vodka."

"How about heroin or coke?"

"I don't know that firsthand. What I do know is that they've been bringing ecstasy in by the trunkful. This same guy who hangs out in the Samovar also recruits Hasidic Jews to smuggle ecstasy. He tells them they're carrying diamonds."

Eddie looked in the window of the travel agency. It was covered with handwritten posters, mostly in the Cyrillic alphabet. English signs listed fares to London and Berlin. Out of place was a poster of a tanned couple on the beach in Jamaica.

"He's not here," Eddie said. "He's in the Samovar. One thing before we go in. The legitimate businessmen are not going to go against Borodenko. You're going to have to hold their feet to a big fire. Borodenko is their krysha. Krysha means 'roof,' their protection. Like the old mob protection rackets. Same thing, only in Russian."

Eddie led Boland into a bar where a gaudy chandelier dominated the center of a room it was way too big for. The decor was a dingy glitz, the woodwork trimmed in peeling gold paint. The place was more than half-filled in the late afternoon. The heavy-lidded bartender took his time getting down to them. He was too busy admiring his unshaven profile in the mirror behind the bar, a cigarette with the filter torn off dangling from his lips. Only death deters tough guys from smoking, Eddie thought.

"Lexy," Eddie said to the bartender. "Meet my friend Desmond Shanahan from the FBI." Lexy grunted and gave a minimum nod. "From this day forward, Lexy Petrov will say that happy hour doesn't start until Eddie Dunne and Desmond Shanahan come through the door."

Eddie ordered a diet cola for himself and a Stoli on the rocks for Boland. Boland raised his eyebrows at Eddie, wondering why the hell he was talking so loudly and who Desmond Shanahan was. Eddie called Lexy over and whispered to him. Lexy whispered back, then turned away.

"What did you ask him?" Boland said.

"I gave him a chance to help me find my daughter. He told me to go fuck myself. Now the prick is fair game."

Lexy set their drinks down. Small bowls of caraway and sunflower seeds were spread around the bar.

"Lexy Petrov and I used to be friends," Eddie said, speaking a little louder. A few heads at the bar turned his way. "Lexy once told me he has ten occupations. Isn't that interesting, Desmond? Busy, busy man, our Lexy. He told me many things in the days when we drank together as friends."

The tables were half-filled. Eddie recognized most of the customers' faces. He knew the waitress Ludmilla very well.