James Baldwin: Burn Artist

In line with his fixation on the 1950’s, Rodya’s office was a shrine to muscle cars and Elvis. His pride and joy was his jukebox collection, three of which were installed in his office. He went straight to the largest of them, a rainbow arch of neon and gleaming chrome, and affectionate patted the side of the machine before he began to dial in his music of choice.

“Tell it to me straight, Alexi,” he said, his back facing me. “Slava's going to die, isn't he?”

I took the edge of my seat across from his desk, folding my hands in my lap. They felt strange after their brief exposure to the air, cold and furry. I rubbed them against one another to try and bring them back to normal. “It's possible. This curse is quite a serious piece of magic. Powerful. Sustained. I can't imagine it is going to do him any good if it is activated.”

“Will your sorcery help?”

“The talisman may soak some of the impact. I lay a tracking spell over the curse,” I said. “There's no way to un-make the curse now that it's embedded in his… life-force, I guess you could say. It's like a virus. Once you've caught it, you caught it. If there is a way to tear it free, I don't know it.”

Needle touched to vinyl, and the minimalistic strains of Heartbreak Hotel filled the small room. Rodya turned it down to background level, and then plopped down into his desk chair with a sigh, tipping his head and leaning back.

I cleared my throat. “With all respect intended, Avtoritet… why was Slava hit?”

“Good question,” he said.

“You know who might have done it.”

“I might. But I'm not talking about this without a drink.” Rodion spun around on his chair and straightened up. I watched unhappily as he set out two glasses taken from a drawer, and poured me half a glass of Borovička , a horrible juniper spirit that looked and smelled like turpentine. Cheap liquor had a nauseating acrid, violet smell, a synesthetic odor that the juniper did nothing to help. And I had to drink it. I could turn down a drink from anyone else in the Organizatsiya, but Rodya was the penultimate authority.

“To good health, and no more fucking curses.” He raised his glass, and I suppressed a grimace as I did the same and took a reluctant sip. My Avtoritet threw back half the glass before he came up for air.

“Now, I don't know for sure, but I'm about ninety percent convinced that I know who did this.” Rodya's boar eyes gleamed above his ruddy cheeks as he leaned forward, drink in hand. “If I am right, though, this is a pretty big job. And if you breathe a word of what I'm about to tell you to anyone – anyone – I'll kill you myself. You understand?”

“Perfectly,” I said, leaning back. “My discretion is absolute, Avtoritet. Give me a quick rundown.”

“Right. So, at the beginning of the year, we adopted this little pharma business by name of CelGen,” he said, setting his glass down. “It’s one of those stupid little yuppie start-ups; they research anti-aging drugs and shit like that. Guy that heads it up is named Jacob Maslak. He's from San Fran, originally, and he heard about us from guys I know over there. He came to me and borrowed some money from us to get this thing off the ground. He got a board together, did prospect reports and everything. Made a big song and dance about it.”

“I see.”

“When it was time to claim on his loan, of course the asshole can’t pay me back. Seven hundred and fifty K, Alexi.” Rodion sneered, and rolled his eyes as he lounged back into the chair again. “I talked to Lev and Vassily about killing him or roughing him up, but Vassily had a great idea. Really great. He said that instead of trying to shake him for the money he doesn’t have, we turn CelGen into a pump and dump. The company went to shit within a year and their stocks are worthless, pennies on the dollar, but the anti-aging thing is easy to sell to people with money. Vassily said that we loop in our brokers, pay them off to hype the stocks until they’re up like two-fifty, three-hundred percent, and then we cash out. We front half, Maslak fronts half – way less than what he owed me – and the proceeds go to us and the brokers to cover this idiot’s loan and interest.”

Inwardly, I smiled. It was exactly the kind of clever, bloodless solution that Vassily would suggest. Outwardly, I kept my business face on. “And is Maslak now getting cold feet?”

“Worse than that,” Rodion said. His eyes were black with manic intensity. “The little son of a bitch is trying to threaten us. Says he’s got new scary friends who will help him cut and run unless we split him half the money. We’re talking three, four million dollars here… the rat hasn’t even paid back his original loan, and he wants two million and change? Fuck him.”

“Guy has chutzpah .” [14] A Yiddish word for audacity. Ballsy. I had another tiny sip of Borovička. It was like drinking pine-scented toilet cleaner. “Too much chutzpah for his ongoing health, I presume. Do you want him buried?”

“I want my fucking money. You need to convince him to stay in the deal. I want you to scare the piss out of him, and I want him to know that he’s dealing with people that can kill him any way we want. Guns, explosions, magic. I want him to feel like there’s nothing he can do that’s going to keep him safe from me. But I want him alive.”

Pressing my lips together, I looked down as I considered my options. “I can do it. If it comes to putting out a contract, is it an open or an exclusive deal?”

“Exclusive if you think you can pull it off.”

I was almost insulted. “Of course I can. What’s the pay for the scare?”

“Ten K,” Rodion grunted. “Plus commission when we cash out.”

I really wasn't happy about working on commission, but at the same time the money that the management paid me for larger, messier jobs had to come from somewhere. I made a show of thinking about it, and then nodded and spread my hands.

“Alright,” I said. “Expenses paid?”

Rodion grinned, flashing a mouthful of gold teeth. “Of course. What kind of man do you think I am?”

A conflicted, bombastic man who forbade me from standing up to my father because it makes him uncomfortable . “A generous employer,” I said. “When do you need it done by?”

“As soon as possible.” he replied. “I'd prefer that it was done before Saturday.”

Saturday? As in, three days from now? I frowned. “I'm sorry, Avtoritet, but if you want a major spectacle to occur before Saturday, you're going to have to pay me more than ten thousand dollars. At least fifteen, plus commission to cover the risk. An operation on Saturday means I only have a day for reading and planning, maybe one for surveillance, and one for the operation.”

“You're a tough man, Alexi Sokolsky,” he said. “So tell you what. I'll agree to that provided I pay you only half up front, and the other half once the job is done. If the job is done before my birthday party on Saturday. You lose three grand per day, every day after that.”

I nodded. “Agreed. Write me down his details, and I’ll start tomorrow. Home and work address, everything.”

“I’ll leave it on Nic’s desk. Go join the others and have some fun for the time being, eh?” He smiled pleasantly – as pleasant as a hammerhead shark in human form ever could be described as pleasant – and we shook hands and kissed cheeks. I stood and let myself out of the office, followed by the voice of the King as he crooned his way through Suspicious Minds.

Fun, he said. If I was lucky, Vassily hadn’t taken up the opportunity to party in the nightclub… but when I reached the security office, I saw that my fortunes had failed me. He and the other men who’d been in the office were still gone. That meant they were in the front of house: specifically, the bar and the center stage.