"Hemorrhoids. Come on--what's your name?"
"Irv." He advised me, "Call me Gomp."
"Why?"
"That's my name. Irv Gomprecht. People call me Gomp."
"Okay, Gomp. Sixty bucks."
"I don't have a car."
"You have two hundred cars. Pick one." I assured him, "You can listen to the game on the radio."
Gomp looked me over, silk shirt and all, and decided I was a man to be trusted--or Mafia--and he said, "Okay. But we gotta move fast."
I threw three twenties on the counter, and he snatched them up, then picked a key off the board, saying, "This guy ain't used his car in two months." He added, "Needs a run."
Anyway, within a few minutes I was in the passenger seat of a late-model Lexus sedan, and Gomp was driving up the ramp. He confessed, "I do this for the old people once in a while, but nobody never paid me sixty bucks."
"You're making me feel stupid, Gomp."
"Nah. I just meant I usually--hey, whaddaya doin'?"
"Tying my shoes."
"Oh..."
I stayed below the dashboard and felt the car turn right onto 72nd Street. I waited until we stopped at the light on Third Avenue before I sat up.
I looked in the sideview mirror and didn't see any of the usual makes or models that the Task Force used. It would be really funny if Lisa Sims was on this detail and she busted me. Maybe not so funny.
Gomp asked me, "You live in the building?"
"No." I volunteered, "I live on East Eighty-fourth." I put out my hand and said, "Tom Walsh."
Gomp took my hand and said, "Good to meet you, Tom."
"My friends call me tight-ass."
"Huh?"
God, I hope the FBI interviews this guy tonight.
With that in mind, I asked him, "Are you a surveillance cop? FBI?"
He thought that was funny and said, "No, I'm CIA."
Not funny, Gomp.
The light changed, and he continued on 72nd, while tuning in to the Mets game. He asked me, "Are you Mets or Yankees?"
"Mets," I lied.
Gomp was an old New York icon, accent and all, and I realized there were fewer of them every year, and I was missing the old days when life was simpler and stupider.
Within a few minutes we were at the corner of Lexington and 68th Street, and I said, "I'll get out here."
He pulled over and said, "Anytime you need a ride, Tom, look for me in the garage."
"Thanks. Maybe tomorrow. Urologist."
I got out of the car and descended the stairs to the Lexington Avenue subway entrance. I consulted the transit map, used my MetroCard at the turnstile, and found my platform.
For Manhattanites, Brighton Beach is somewhere this side of Portugal, but the B train went there, so that's how I'd get there.
The train came, and I got on, then got off, then got on again as the doors closed. I saw this in a movie once. In fact, some asshole I was following five years ago must have seen it too.
To make a long subway ride short, less than an hour after I'd boarded the train, I was traveling on an elevated section of the line, high above the wilds of Brooklyn. I recalled taking this line from my tenement on the Lower East Side to Coney Island when I was a kid, when Coney Island was my magic summer kingdom by the sea. I remembered, too, spending all my money on arcade games, rides, and hot dogs, and having to beg a cop for subway fare home.
I still don't handle money very well, and John Corey still screws up, but now the cop I go to when I need help is me. Growing up is a bitch.
I got off at the Ocean Parkway stop and descended the stairs onto Brighton Beach Avenue, which ran under the elevated tracks. After all this escape-and-evasion, and a long subway ride, Boris had damned well better be alive and at his nightclub--or at least in his apartment, which wasn't too far from here. The good news was that if the FBI had been following me, they'd still be at the 68th Street station trying to get their MetroCards in the turnstile. And if an NYPD detective from my surveillance detail was following me, I'm sure I'd have picked him out.
I haven't been to Brighton Beach in maybe fifteen years, and then only a few times, with Dick Kearns and the Russian-American cop named Ivan who'd been born here and who knew the turf and spoke the language. Of all the interesting ethnic enclaves in New York, this is one of the most interesting and least touristy. I'd say it was real, but there was something unreal about the place.
I walked east along the avenue and checked it out. Lots of cars, lots of people, and lots of life on the street. A guy was selling Russian caviar from a table on the sidewalk for ten bucks an ounce. Great price. No overhead and no middleman. No refrigeration either.
I got to Brighton 4th Street and headed south toward the ocean, which I could actually smell.
The people on the street seemed well fed. No famine here. As for how they were dressed... well, it was interesting. Everything from expensive suits, such as I was wearing, to fake designer clothing, and lots of old ladies who'd brought their clothes with them from the Motherland. Despite the balmy weather, a few guys wore fur hats, and a lot of the older women wore babushkas tied around their heads. Also, the air was thick with unfamiliar smells. Did I take the subway too far east?
About now, I was wondering if this was a good idea. I mean, it seemed like a good idea when I thought about it back in Manhattan. Now I wasn't so sure.
My first concern was that I might be screwing up a good lead. It's okay to do that when you're on the job and things just go bad. But when you're in business for yourself, if you screw up an investigation, a fecal storm will descend on you so fast, you couldn't dig your way out of it with a steam shovel.
My other concern, which was not really a concern, was that Asad Khalil might be on the same mission as I was tonight. I certainly didn't need help in dealing with Khalil, mano a mano, but it's always good to have backup in case you're outnumbered. On the other hand, if Khalil was alone, then I wanted to be alone with him.
As I approached Brightwater Court, I could see the lighted entrance to Svetlana in a huge old brick building with bricked-up windows that ran a few hundred feet back to the boardwalk.
I continued past the building and onto the boardwalk, where I saw, as I'd expected, a boardwalk entrance to Svetlana.
I also noticed a cloud of gray smoke outside the nightclub, and if I looked through the smoke I could see tables and chairs, and lots of men and women puffing on cigarettes. It's good to get out into this healthy salt air.
I went over to the railing and looked out at the beach and the Atlantic Ocean. It was a little after 10 P.M., but there were still people on the beach, walking or sitting in groups, and I'm certain drinking some of the clear stuff from Mother Russia. The night, too, was clear and starry, and a half moon was rising in the east. Out on the water I could see the lights of cargo ships, tankers, and an ocean liner.
JFK Airport was about ten miles east of here, on the bay, and I stared at the string of aircraft lights heading into and out of the airport. One of the things that still sticks out in my mind after 9/11 was the empty skies--the lights and the noise stopped, and it was very eerie. I remembered the night when I was standing on my balcony and I saw the first aircraft I'd seen in four days. I was as excited as a kid from Podunk who'd never seen a jetliner before, and I called Kate out to the balcony and we both stared at the lights as the lone aircraft made its descent into Kennedy. Civilization had returned. We opened a bottle of wine to celebrate.
I turned and looked up and down the long boardwalk. There were hundreds of people promenading on this warm, breezy evening, and I saw parents pushing strollers, families walking and talking, groups of young men and women engaged in pre-mating rituals, and lots of young couples who one day would also be pushing baby strollers.
Indeed, it was a good world, filled with good people, doing good and everyday things. But there were also the bad guys, who I dealt with, and who were more into death than life.
I slipped off my wedding band--
not so I could pass as single to the babes at the bar, but because in this business you don't give or advertise any personal information.
I took a last look around to be certain I was alone, then I walked across the boardwalk toward the red neon sign that said SVETLANA.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
How can I describe this place? Well, it was an interesting blend of old-Russia opulence and Vegas nightclub, designed perhaps by someone who had watched Dr. Zhivago and Casino Royale too many times.
There was a big, horseshoe-shaped bar in the rear with a partial view of the ocean, and a better view of the patrons. I made my way through the cocktail tables and squeezed myself in at the bar between a beefy guy in an iridescent suit and a bleached blonde lady who was wearing her daughter's cocktail dress.
Most of the male patrons at the bar were dressed in outfits similar to mine, so I was not in a position to be critical.
Anyway, my attire notwithstanding, I don't think I look particularly Russian, but the bartender said something to me in Russian--or was he a Brooklyn native and did he say, "Whacanigetcha?"
I know about six Russian words, and I used two of them: "Stolichnaya, pozhaluista."
He moved off and I looked around the cocktail lounge. Aside from the slick suits, there were a lot of guys with open shirts and multiple gold chains around their necks, and a lot of women who had more rings than fingers. The no-smoking law seemed to be observed, though there was a steady stream of people going out to the boardwalk to light up.
I heard a mixture of English and Russian being spoken, sometimes by the same person, but the predominant language seemed to be Russian.
My Stoli came and I used my third Russian word. "Spasibo."
The bartender asked, "Runatab?"
"Pozhaluista." Can't go wrong with "please."
I could see the restaurant section through an etched glass wall, and the place was huge, holding maybe four hundred people, and nearly every table was filled. Boris was doing okay for himself. Or Boris had done okay for himself before Asad Khalil cut off his head.
At the far end of the restaurant I could see a big stage where a four-piece band was playing what sounded like a cross between "YMCA" and "The Song of the Volga Boatmen." The dance floor was crowded with couples, young and old, plus a lot of pre-teen girls dancing with each other, and the usual old ladies out on the floor giving the hip replacements a workout. In fact, this scene looked like any number of ethnic weddings I'd been to, and I had the thought that maybe I'd crashed a wedding reception. But more likely this was just another night at Svetlana.
I should say, too, for the sake of accurate reporting, and because I am trained to observe people, that there were a fair number of hot babes in the joint. In fact, I seemed to recall this being the case the last time I was at Rossiya with Dick Kearns and Ivan.
Anyway, the lady next to me, who might have been one of those hot Russian babes fifteen years ago, seemed interested in the new boy. I could smell her lilac cologne heating up, and without sounding too crude, her bumpers were hanging over my Stoli, and they could have used a bar stool of their own.
She said to me, in a thick accent, "You are not Roosian."
"What was your first clue?"
"Your Roosian is terrible."
Your English ain't so hot either, sweetheart. I asked her, "Come here often?"
"Yes, of course." She then gave me the correct pronunciation of "spasibo," "pozhaluista," and "Stolichnaya"--I was stressing the wrong syllables--and made me repeat after her.
Apparently, I wasn't getting it, and she suggested, "Perhaps another voodka would help you."
We both got a chuckle out of that, and we introduced ourselves. Her name was Veronika--with a k--and she was originally from Kansas. No, Kursk. I introduced myself as Tom Walsh, and I briefly considered giving her Tom's home number. Maybe later.
I bought us another round. She was drinking cognac, which I recalled the Russkies loved--and at twenty bucks a pop, what's not to love? And I couldn't even put this on my expense account.
Anyway, recalling Nietzsche's famous dictum--the most common form of human stupidity is forgetting what one is trying to do--I said to her, "I need to see someone in the restaurant, but maybe I'll see you later."
"Yes? And who do you need to see?"
"The manager. I'm collecting for Greenpeace."
Veronika pouted and said, "Why don't you dance with me?"
"I'd love to. Don't go away."
I told the bartender, "Give this lady another cognac when she's ready, and put it on my tab."
Veronika raised her glass and said to me, "Spasibo."
The tab came, and I paid cash, of course, not wanting any record of this on my government credit card, or on my Amex card, where I'd have to explain Svetlana to Kate.
I promised Veronika, "I'll see you later."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
I made my way through the cocktail lounge and into the restaurant. It really smelled good in here and my empty tummy rumbled.
I found the maitre d's stand and approached a gentleman in a black suit. He regarded me for a moment, decided I was a foreigner, and addressed me in English, asking, "How may I help you?"
I replied, "I'm here to see Mr. Korsakov."
He seemed a bit surprised, but he did not say, "Mr. Korsakov had his head cut off just last night. Sorry you missed him." He asked, "Is he expecting you?"
So, Boris was alive and here, and I replied, "I'm an old friend." I gave him my card, and he stared at it. I assumed he read English, and I assumed, too, he didn't like what he was reading--Anti-Terrorist Task Force and all that--so I said to him, "This is not official business. Please take that to Mr. Korsakov and I will wait here."
He hesitated, then said, "I am not certain he is in, Meester..." He looked at my card again. "... Cury."
"Corey. And I'm certain he is in."
He called over another guy to hold down the fort, and I watched him make his way toward the back of the restaurant, then disappear through a red curtain.
I said to the young guy who was filling in for the maitre d', "You ever see Dr. Zhivago?"
"Please?"
"The scene in the restaurant where the young guy shoots the fat guy--Rod Steiger--who's been screwing Julie Christie."
"Please?"
"Hey, I'd take a slug for her. I took three for less than that. Capisce?"
A group came in and the maitre d' trainee escorted them to a table.
So I stood there, ready to escort the next group to their table.
Meanwhile, I looked around the cavernous restaurant. The tables were covered with gold cloths on which sat vodka bottles, champagne buckets, and tiered trays filled with mounds of food, and the diners were doing a hell of a job getting that food where it belonged. The band was now playing the theme song from From Russia with Love, which was kind of funny.
The wall behind the stage rose up about twenty feet--two stories--and I noticed now that in the center of the wall near the ceiling was a big mirror that reflected the crystal chandeliers. This, I was certain, was actually a two-way mirror from which someone could observe the entire restaurant below. Maybe that was Boris's office, so I waved.
Three female singers had taken the stage, and they were all tall, blonde, and pretty, of course, and they wore clingy dresses with metallic sequins that could probably stop a .357 Magnum. They were singing something in English about Russian gulls, which I thought strange, and it took me awhile to realize they were saying, "Russian girls." In any case, they had good lungs. Kate would like this place.
I guess my attention was focused on the gulls, because I didn't see the maitre d' approaching, and he came up to me and said, "Thank you for waiting."
"I think that was my idea."
He had a big boy with him--a crew-cut blond guy with a tough face who wore a boxy suit that barely fit over a weight lifter's body.
The maitre d' said to me, "This is Viktor"--with a k?--"and he will take you to Mr.
Korsakov."
I would have shaken Viktor's hand, but I need my hand, so I said, "Spasibo," in Veronika's accent, but several octaves lower.
I followed Viktor through the crowded restaurant, which was like following a steamroller through a flower garden.
Viktor parted the red curtain with his breath, and I found myself in a hallway that led to a locked steel door, which Viktor opened with a key. We entered a small plain room that had two chairs, another steel door on the opposite wall, and an elevator. The only other item of note was a security camera on the ceiling that swiveled 360 degrees.
Viktor used another key to open the elevator doors and he motioned me in. I guessed that the steel door beside the elevator led to a staircase, and I noticed that the door also had a lock.
So, if I was Asad Khalil... I'd pick someplace else to whack Boris.
As we rode up, I said to Viktor, "So, are you the pastry chef?"
He kept staring straight ahead, but he did smile. A little humor goes a long way in bridging the species gap. Plus, he understood English.
The elevator doors opened into an anteroom similar to the one below, including another security camera, but this room had a second steel door--this one with a fisheye peephole and also a sliding pass-through like you find in cell doors.
Viktor pushed a button, and a few seconds later I heard a bolt slide and the door opened.
Standing in the doorway was Boris, who said to me, "It is so good to see you alive."
"You too."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Boris motioned me to an overstuffed armchair, and he sat in a similar chair opposite me. He was wearing a black European-cut suit and a silk shirt, open at the collar. Like me, he sported a Rolex, but I suspected his cost more than forty bucks. He looked like he was still in decent shape, but not as lean or hard as I remembered him.
Viktor remained in the room, and he took a cocktail order from the boss--a bottle of chilled vodka.
Boris poured into two crystal glasses, raised his glass and said, "Health."
I replied, "Na zdorov'e," which I think means "health"--or does it mean "I love you"?