The Boy From Reactor 4 (6 page)

Stairs creaked. The cat dove to the floor and skipped to the doorway, its tail vertical.

An old man sauntered into the kitchen and petted the cat. He was dressed in earth tones, with hair the color of ash. When
he glanced at Nadia for the first time, a light flickered behind his eyes. It gave him the overall appearance of a cigar that had been lit a hundred years ago and could never be extinguished.

“Hello. My name is Bodnar,” he said, in a coarse Ukrainian tongue.

“Mr. Bodnar,” Nadia said, rising to her feet. “Nadia Tesla.” Why had she stood up? Something about his carriage reminded her of her father.

He didn’t offer his hand, and Nadia didn’t offer hers. It would have been presumptuous. He was her elder.

“Call me Victor,” he said, motioning for her to sit down. “Please. Did Stefan offer you something to drink? Vodka. Would you join me?”

Nadia didn’t want to dull her reasoning, but it would have been rude to say no.

“Thank you,” she said.

He brought a bottle that was two-thirds full, sat down beside her, and poured two shots. They raised their glasses.

“
Na zdorovye
,” he said. He drank and swallowed in one motion, keeping his eyes on Nadia.

Nadia drank only wine but couldn’t afford to look like a weakling. She knocked back the shot and managed not to cough during the ensuing burn. She returned her glass to the table with a celebratory bang.

Victor smiled, revealing a mixture of decaying and gold teeth. “Don’t drink vodka much, do you?”

Nadia frowned. “I thought I fooled you. How could you tell?”

He chuckled. “I know things about people. So, Obon says nice things about you.” His eyes lit up. “I love young people. Indulge an old man. Tell me a little bit about yourself first.” Strangely, he glanced at her hands as he said this, as though he could have read her palms if she’d offered them.

“What would you like to know?”

“Where were you born?”

“Connecticut.”

“What was your father’s given name?”

“Maxim.”

“Maxim Tesla. Where was he born?”

“A city outside Kyiv. Bila Tserkva. Do you know it?”

“Yes. I know it. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Yes. One brother.”

Victor leaned back and folded his arms. “When you were a child, did you play with dolls or other girls?”

“Neither. Toy guns.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Whose voice from childhood do you miss the most?”

“My brother’s.”

He nodded and murmured his approval. “And if I offered you a clear conscience or ten dollars, which would you choose?”

Nadia considered the question. “That would depend.”

“On what?”

“On whether my brother and I were hungry.”

His lip curled upward.

The buzzer to the front door sounded three times in rapid succession.

Nadia said, “What can you tell me about the man named Damian?”

The cat popped its head out of its bed in the corner.

“Damian?” Victor said. The cat skipped over and jumped into his lap. “Yes. Obon mentioned you were interested.” Victor stared into the cat’s fur and stroked its back for a moment. “Damian was a thief. A notorious con man. He once stole the entire milk supply for Kyiv. He struck a deal with a mortician to buy the uniforms of dead militiamen in exchange for future payment. Then he and his friends dressed up like the local police and emptied the warehouse. Sold it on the black market for a fortune.”

A commotion broke out in the background near the front door.

“How did he die?” Nadia said.

“Poorly. He stole ten million dollars’ hard currency from an
apparatchik
who’d embezzled it from the government. When the little bureaucrat found out, he had Damian and his crew buried alive in hot asphalt. Never did learn what happened to the money.”

The huge man who’d let Nadia in appeared in the doorway. “Misha,” he said.

Victor frowned. The huge man walked away.

Victor asked more pointedly, “Why are you asking about Damian? Obon said you heard the name on the street in conversation. Whose conversation? On what street?”

“Oh. Um…”

Victor handed her the cat. “Excuse me for a moment. I have another visitor. It won’t take long.”

“Of course,” Nadia said. She placed the cat on her lap and petted it gingerly.

“Because I thought you might be asking for a different reason,” Victor said, poking his head back in. “I thought you might be asking because you found out his last name was Tesla. Because you found out Damian was your uncle.”

CHAPTER 11

M
ISHA
M
ARKOV BURST
into a grin as Victor approached. It was the arrogant grin of the carefree and immortal that Victor would like to pound on sight. A gold necklace large enough to double as a tire chain for his silly British truck jangled around his neck. A thin black jacket of the finest Italian leather hung off naturally muscular shoulders that had never seen an honest day’s work. Victor heard that women swooned in his presence almost as much as he did in front of the mirror.

“Thank you for coming, Misha,” Victor said in Russian. “But you’re early.”

“Of course I’m early. I’m early because I wanted some wisdom from my mentor.” He spread his arms out. “I love you so much. Come here, man. Give me a hug.”

Misha buried him in a hug. Victor suppressed a wave of nausea. His head didn’t even touch the kid’s chin.

“You all right?” Misha said after pulling away.

“Yes. I’m all right,” Victor said. Misha was still smiling, but more like a lunatic now. “The question is, are you all right?”

Victor looked around for Stefan but couldn’t find him. He had to be around the corner, in the living room.

“I am fucking awesome, Victor. Awesome.” Misha moved to Victor’s side and wrapped his arm around his shoulder. “Actually,
I’m early because I wanted to show you something. Come into your living room with me for a minute.”

Misha guided him into the living room. Stefan sat in Victor’s reading chair, surrounded by three of Misha’s men, sportsmen who took chemicals to make their bodies bigger. Their right hands were buried beneath their black leather jackets.

Tara, the sweet child in a family way, sat on the couch to their left. An eggplant-colored bruise surrounded her left eye, which was barely open.

A vice clamped down on Victor’s lungs.

“You see?” Misha said to Victor, pointing at Tara’s eye with his free hand. “That is what happens to an ungrateful whore who talks about me behind my back. And now,” Misha said, looking at Tara, “I want to show you something, too, bitch.”

Something flashed before Victor’s eyes. The back of Misha’s hand?

Victor toppled toward the floor. His cheek stung. Had that bastard just hit him? Was he going to fall all the way to the ground? Couldn’t he stop himself? Stefan was watching. Tara was watching. Oh, no. Not in front of her. He would look like…such a fool. He had to catch himself. He had to do something. Do something—

Victor crashed to the carpet. His vision blurred. His hip groaned. He tried to right himself and fight. Get up and fight. A spasm shot through his back. He winced and fell back to the carpet.

Tara screamed.

“Shut up,” Misha said.

Stefan shouted. One of Misha’s men pulled his gun out and pointed it at him.

Misha straddled Victor. “You gave her your personal guarantee she wouldn’t get hurt? Who the fuck are you to give my woman a personal guarantee?”

Misha reached down and slapped Victor in the face. Open palm. Once, twice, three times.

Victor’s nose burned. His eyes teared. Stefan swore in the background.

Victor searched his memory for a more embarrassing experience. Something his father had done to him? No. Something in the
gulag
? No.

“Old man, you make me so crazy,” Misha said. “I let you keep a piece of your old businesses. I want to show respect for the old ways. I want to keep up the traditions. But you? Look what you make me do.”

Misha sighed and threw a handkerchief onto Victor’s lap. Victor tossed it aside. Misha offered his right hand, but Victor stood up under his own power.

Victor kept his eyes to the ground, unable to make eye contact with Tara or Stefan. After taking a few seconds to regain his composure, he pulled his own handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped his eyes, and smoothed his hair.

He looked around for the other man he’d invited. He, too, would be party to the dispute Victor would try to resolve. “Where is Amazov?” Victor said.

“In his car,” Misha said. “With his men.”

“Invite him in. The three of us—to the courtroom. Everyone else—out.”

“You old-timers,” Misha said, shaking his head with admiration. “You are tough as fuck.”

“A man should never let personal animosities stand in the way of business.”

“And fucking brilliant.”

“Because eventually business gets out of the way of personal animosities,” Victor said under his breath.

“Sorry. What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Misha, grinning again, slapped Victor on the back. “Okay, Old School. Let’s do this thing.”

CHAPTER 12

N
ADIA STOOD IN
the kitchen cradling the cat, head swirling from the vodka and Victor’s revelation. Her father had told her he had a brother who died as a child, but they had never even discussed his name. If this Damian was, in fact, her deceased uncle, it might explain why the man posing as Milan had called her. She felt a strange tug, as though she had lost something she never even knew she had.

“Is everything okay?” she said when Victor returned. “I heard a sound. As though someone fell.” His eyes looked puffy, his face flushed. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Sometimes people in the community call me to help resolve disputes. This was a family matter, and things got a bit emotional. For all of us.”

Nadia handed him the cat. “Perhaps I should go.”

“No, no. That matter is completely resolved.”

“Are you sure Damian’s last name was Tesla?”

Victor placed the cat on the floor. “Your parents didn’t tell you about him?”

“My parents didn’t talk much about their past. They put all their energy into molding my brother and me into their vision for the next Ukrainian American generation. My father did tell
me he had a brother who died at a young age. He never talked about him. But then, he never talked about anything.”

“That’s no surprise. Damian was a thief.”

“I’d like to know more about my uncle. But…if this isn’t a good time…”

The cat darted around Victor’s legs in a perpetual figure-eight motion.

Victor said, “I have two guests with a business dispute they’ve asked me to help resolve. It’ll only take ten or fifteen minutes. Would you like to have a seat and wait?”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Victor rubbed the stubble on his chin and studied Nadia for a moment. “Actually, you know what? Why don’t you come in with me as an observer? You might find it interesting.”

“Oh. Really? I don’t know…I don’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense. You’ll be my guest. A business went bad. Restitution is demanded. It’s a simple matter. It won’t take long. Verdicts are quick in my courtroom.” He winked.

Victor led her upstairs to a stark room with a small wooden table and five chairs, three on one side and two on the other. Two men sat on one side with an empty chair and plenty of space between them. Neutral ground. A manila folder lay on the table in front of the empty chair.

Victor motioned at the two empty chairs facing the men. Their eyes undressed Nadia as she sat down beside Victor.

Both looked her age. One was well built, with lush lips and a chin carved from granite. Worth a kiss, but ultimately too pretty. A show dog. The other was stout, with curly hair, pugnacious cheeks, and a day’s beard just past noon. A wolverine. Too menacing.

Diamond-crusted watches glimmered around their wrists. Black leather spilled into their laps.
Avtoritet
. Young, rich, powerful, and irreverent crime lords. The Show Dog looked Ukrainian
or Russian—he had to be Misha. The Wolverine looked Georgian or Chechen. Ethnic distrust probably had exacerbated fallout from their business venture.