Red rain 2.0 (25 page)

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tion. To the east are the long streets of row houses, front lawns the size of a large blanket, backyards slightly larger and all ending in alleys. Walk down any of them for a while, you'll pass at least one place that's a gangsta crib.

"This was all whitie turf until the seventies," Dog says. "Working class, gettin' old. A few black families who're doing well move in 'cause they want their kids in a safe neighborhood, all the whities move out. Then my own people fuck it up, the schools get bad, the place ain't so safe anymore. I lived a while over on Old York Road, in a row house my daddy bought from a white man who'd just retired. I
watched
everything turn to shit."

"Same old same old," I say. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Russian mob definitely takin' over the dope business down here. Popped caps on six more gangstas who didn't want to get down with them in the last week. I got an undercover guy in a crew. Anything happen to him, I'll cap you for rattin', 'cause nobody, not even dudes on my team, know about this undercover but me. It stays that way, dig it?"

"Fuck off. Who do you think you're talking to?"

"Yeah, I think I know, but man, what I've seen, you
never
know."

"You got any doubts here, stop talking. I'll go back out to where I stay."

"Stay chill, man."

"Like I said, Russians I capped out there. Made guys, if the Russian mob's got old-time mafia-style shit like that."

"Uh-huh."

"Their boss called me back tonight. Dude named Vassily. He thinks I'm in his line of business."

"Uh-huh."

"I've been invited to Brooklyn tomorrow. He wants to talk."

"Uh-huh."

"Will you please stop saying uh-huh, man! It's getting on my nerves."

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"Hunh."

"That's better. So, you want to ride up to Brooklyn with me, in a nice fast car, see what you see?"

"Uh-huh."

"Think you can find the intersection of York Road and Seminary Avenue? Give you a hint, it's outside the city line, just north of the Beltway. I'll be driving by about seven
a.m.
If you're there, I'll give you a ride."

"Goin' to where the shit goes down, am I? Uh-huh."

"Later, Dog."

Tuesday morning, early. Take the TT slow through the York Road-Seminary Avenue intersection. Dog, on the southwest corner, sticks his thumb out like a hitcher. We're going in.

"First time I been in a city where I feel conspicuous," Dog says. We've been parked on Brighton Boulevard for maybe a half hour, and he's talking for the first time since we got here. Mostly he's just been staring.

"Yeah? How come?"

"How come? How come? You blind or something? You seen any people of color anywhere around here? You seen any niggers, besides us?"

"What's this 'us'.shit? Only one I see is you, Dog."

"Nothin' but white folks. Young, old, tall, short, fat, skinny whities, all of 'em givin' us bad looks, man. What kind of city is this? Shit."

"They probably think we're New York cops, man. Everybody in this 'hood is Russian. Call it 'Little Odessa,' I heard. Ever meet any black Russians?"

"Fuck no. That why they used to call the old country White Russia, am I right? Like they needed to spell it out?"

"Not exactly. Think they called it that because of the snow. Lots of snow there. Snow you can't even imagine."

"You really funny, man. I feel like I'm stuck in a blizzard, all these fuckin' flakes blowin' by me."

"I could drop you down in Bed-Stuy. That's where all the homies stay. Problem is, when I come to pick you up later, you wouldn't be there. A meat wagon would've collected your body already. Killed in the head, dig it?"

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"What the fuck you know about this New York City? Shit, trouble you had gettin' us here, I know it's your first visit."

"Some dudes I was tight with in the service, they were from Bed-Stuy. They said it was a bad 'hood."

"And you believed their jive? Probably they just actin' bad."

"Oh, I seen them do some things. They weren't
acting."

"Uh-huh," Dog grunts.

"Now don't start in with that again. Makes my head ache."

"Hunh."

End of conversation. No need for any. Dog got the whole story on me and Vassily coming up the New Jersey Turnpike. Wasn't easy for me to start, but he needed to know if he was going to be in on this with me. It took my mind off the crap I was seeing all around me. I spent most of my life in small, clean, pretty places, like Camp Lejeune and around Parris Island and Quantico. Some ugly strips nearby, but short ones. Even the worst parts of Baltimore seemed small and relatively clean compared with the disgusting sprawl you hit miles south of Newark and stay in for an hour or so. I don't know if New York metro ever ends. Maybe it just stays ugly all the way to Boston. I don't know how so many people can live in this shitpile. They must be like fuckin' dung beetles. They must feed off it. Makes me feel sick.

I watch the crowds moving along this boulevard. They look normal enough. Like Dog'd said, short, tall, fat, skinny and white. Some ugly, some pretty. Some dressed with style, some slobs. No beggars, no gangsta kids. Only thing that's off at all is that almost every shop sign is in Cyrillic. I look to see who's packing. With some training, it's pretty easy to tell if a man's carrying a weapon. Man with a pistol walks a little funny, subtle but clear once you know what to look for—a slight list to the weapon side, a different way of holding the arms, a reflex pat every now and again, unconscious, no matter if it's shoulder-holstered, side-carry,

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tucked in the belt behind the back. I haven't seen anyone yet I think is armed. Only a couple of beefy guys in leather jackets who look like they should be, or want to be.

Sharp rap on my window. See a flash of blue cloth in my peripheral. Figure it's a uniformed patrolman, going to give us some static. Out of state plates on the TT, sitting here for a long time. Reason enough. Hit the button, the window glides silently down. "Any problem ..." I start to say, still looking straight ahead.

"Out, out! We go across street, little brother, we eat, we drink vodka, we talk. Only who is this with you? I am not expecting anybody else."

"My partner," I say, getting out of the car. Vassily wraps me in a bear hug. The fuck is so strong. I see he's got one man in back of the TT, another just behind Dog's window, real close.

"No trust? You can't come alone?" Vassily whispers in my ear. "You gotta bring this blackie?"

"No trust? You got backup around my car? Is that any way to greet your brother?" I reply, also in Russian. Then I imitate his English. "Shooter you are not trusting, Vassily my friend? Making me sad, this not trusting."

He breaks the embrace, laughs, nods to his men, lays an arm on my shoulder. "Be happy," he says. "I am a little nervous after Baltimore trouble, that's all. Please don't take offense."

I tell Dog to get out of the car. Vassily's man backs away to let him. The five of us go over to the Palace, where another man swings open the service door from the inside. He moves to pat us down, but Vassily halts him by holding up a big palm.

"Don't bother," he laughs. "Shooter's armed, I know for sure, the blackie too. It doesn't matter." Then, to me: "What you got there under your arm? Glock 17?"

"Plastic toy like that? You should know better, Vassily."

He grins. "Okay, I'll guess. HK .45, military issue. And you'll say to me 'Vassily, 9 millie is pussy round.' Still the

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same Shooter. You're like me, the same. Remember what we do with the phosphorous grenades that night? I know you do. One great night, yes? Ah, you know, sometimes I miss these things."

"Not me. You want some more, you know plenty of places to go. Half-a-dozen countries in Africa, for starters."

"No, no. Is not same there. Not civilized. Blackies running around in jungle? All the time everybody switching sides? Anyway, now I want to have peaceful life, make a little money, get laid every night. Normal life, you know? I love this place! America I love."

Dog's lost, standing there flanked by four Russians, not understanding one word. "Can we go to English, Vassily? My partner?"

"Sure thing. I lose my manners. Come, come."

Vassily leads us through the club. Lots of red velvet on the walls, carpet so thick it's like walking in beach sand, huge crystal chandeliers hanging high above, chairs around the tables gilded and gaudy. But it smells like somebody's sour breath on the morning after. A cleaning crew is working on that, spraying and vacuuming and wiping tables and chairs with Pledge or something.

Back in his office, we sit around a table on velvet-covered sofas and overstuffed chairs. One of Vassily's guys pours Stoli into shotglasses, passes them around. Vassily stands, holds out his glass, shouts "Good health!" in Russian and we all shoot the vodka. There's plates of black bread, pickled vegetables, hardboiled eggs, caviar, smoked sturgeon on the table. "Eat something. Eat," Vassily urges. I put a spoon of Beluga on a piece of toast, savor it. The others help themselves to this and that. Except Dog. There's nothing visible on his face, but he's giving off a bad vibe. I begin to think big mistake, bringing him here. But Vassily extends his hand, and Dog takes it. "So, you are partner of my old friend here? So then you are my friend also. How do they call you?"

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Dog returns the shake, manages a smile that looks real enough. "Dawg," he drawls.

"Hah!" Vassily laughs. "You Americans, this I love. These crazy names. Crazy I like."

"So, comrade," I say. "What's happening?"

"Hey, no 'comrade' shit, Shooter. You make me think you some kind of fucking Communist or something." All the Russians laugh.

'Nah, it's never been the same since Stalin died."

"Before any of us got born, thank God." Vassily smiles. "Okay. I stop with the joking. What's happening, you ask. Up here, good. Everything very, very good. Now, as I told you, I'm building some little business other places. Baltimore place, for one. Only I got some troubles."

"Such as?"

"Blackie gangs. Crazy wild, these fucks. They are not businessmen. We got to liquidate some. No trust. Bang."

"Ah, my friend, you owe us already but you don't know it," I say. Vassily looks puzzled. "My partner, he's got an experienced crew. Finds himself in a little war with these young punks, these imports from LA. The fucks who trouble you."

"So? Please to explain," Vassily says.

"Put it this way. At first we didn't know it was you guys, just Russians down from New York, taking over from the Italian mob."

"Those fat shits! Old, tired and lazy," Vassily says and nods.

"But Dog figures Russians are the next thing. He figures he can do business with Russians. So he lets you get rid of the gangbangers."

"Lets us? This is not my impression."

"Why do you think it's been so fuckin' easy? Why do you think somebody, for instance, just gave your guys that address on Thirty-fourth Street?"

"Hah! Hah hah! Damn god, Shooter. It
was
easy. Made me wonder a little. Da, da, da. So now I see." Vassily spasms

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with laughter, then stabilizes. "So you still like to play, little brother. You still like the action. Hah!"

"Never mind that," I say.

"Well, thank you for the help, Mr. Dog. But outside the city, rich kids everywhere, what a market that can be, correct? We go in very gentle, very careful. Boom. Fucked up. My starter gets caught, little stupid. I send three guys, more experienced. Stupids too. Decide maybe they make a little money for themselves behind my back. They make a stupid deal, going to rip some fuck off. Big surpise! He's a cop, they kill him, cops kill them. What you phone me about, Shooter. Ahh," Vassily shaking his head, "fault all their own. I spit on their corpses, the mess they leave me."

"So maybe you need some local partners?"

"So maybe local partners I need. Guides, you know? Like in Sarajevo? Any interest you got in that?"

"Not as guides. I'm not walking point up the mountainside."

"So you not gone crazy after all," Vassily concedes, grinning. "Is reasonable, this attitude. For certain."

"You understand 'joint venture'?"

"Sure."

"How are you shipping now?"

"Not bulk. Quick drive down when demand is there."

"Okay, think about this. Get some bulk down there, Dog and me will buy it, let it sit awhile. We'll put your guys together with Dog's lieutenants. When the time comes, flood the city and the county. If we leave little signs it comes from a local stockpile, but nobody knows exactly where, the cops will think it's coming in by ship direct to Baltimore. They won't see a trail back to here."

"Clever boy, Shooter. But for the county, the rich kids?"

"They hate downtown. Won't go there. Somebody brings something nice to them out there, nobody gets scared, nobody gets burned? Pretty quick they'll all be wanting a taste. You've been trying that yourself, so I know you've figured