Tragic (13 page)

Then the rug got pulled out from under him when he heard the news of Lvov’s murder. He could hardly believe his bad luck, but then his cell phone rang. He nearly dropped it when he looked at the caller ID and saw the name Marat Lvov. Then hope began to grow; perhaps the rumors weren’t true and Lvov was still alive.

“Hello?” he managed hesitantly.

“Lvov is no longer with us, or didn’t you hear the news?” a familiar voice answered.

“Who is this?”

“We met once before,” the voice said. “I’m calling to let you know that the project mentioned to you by Lvov is still necessary. Do you understand me?”

“
Da,
yes,” Bebnev answered, encouraged, recognizing the voice as belonging to “Joey.” “
Bez bazara.
No problem.” Then a thought crossed his mind. “But how will I get paid?”

“Do you remember where we first met?”

“Yes.”

“After you’ve done the job, meet me there at the alley, nine o’clock, and we can settle our bill,” the man said. “If you do the job.”

“Good,” Bebnev replied. “I am told you admire my work.” He waited for an answer but the phone was already dead.
Doesn’t matter,
he thought,
everything is working out. Who needs Lvov?

Late that afternoon, he took a bus to the Red Hook neighborhood and walked to the house where Frankie DiMarzo lived with
his parents. He whistled an old Russian children’s song, one he’d picked up long ago in the orphanage, as he climbed up onto the porch of the home and knocked. He looked at his watch, the watch he’d taken from one of his “victims” the night he shot Vince Carlotta. Four o’clock. Plenty of time to kill two pussies and meet with his new boss, Joey, in Hell’s Kitchen at nine.

Frankie opened the door and scowled when he saw who was standing there. “I told you we’re through, get the . . .” he said before shutting up when Bebnev shoved a gun in his face.

“What do you say now, tough guy?” Bebnev said, forcing Frankie to step back so that he could enter the house and close the door behind him.

“Frankie?” an elderly woman’s voice called from upstairs. “Who is at the door?”

DiMarzo looked at Bebnev, who leveled the gun at his forehead. “Just a friend, Ma,” he said. “He’ll leave in a few minutes.”

Bebnev smiled and nodded as he motioned for DiMarzo to walk into the living room.

“What the fuck do you want?” DiMarzo said quietly.

“I want you to call Gnat and tell him to come over,” Bebnev said.

“Why?” DiMarzo said suspiciously.

“Because we’re going to go for ride together.”

“Fuck that. You’re going to shoot us.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Bebnev said. “Or maybe I shoot you and then go shoot nice old lady upstairs.”

“Leave my mom alone, you son of a bitch,” DiMarzo said. He started to move toward Bebnev but stopped when the Russian pulled back the hammer.

“Sit down and call,” Bebnev said, pointing to the couch. “And do not tell him I am here or I shoot your mother in the stomach and make you watch her suffer.”

Glaring at Bebnev, DiMarzo called Miller. “Hey, Gnat, can you come over?” he said. “I got something we need to talk about.” He hung up the phone. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

They sat silently for a minute before DiMarzo shook his head. “Why you doing this, Alexei?”

Bebnev grinned and waved his gun at his former friend. “Someone is worried you and pansy friend Gnat have big mouths.”

“Me and Gnat?” DiMarzo said incredulously. “You’re the one who was popping off at the bar. I ain’t no snitch.”

“You are not Russian and can’t be trusted,” Bebnev said. “No one at the bar knew what I was talking about or cared; they were all
Russkiy
and my brothers.”

“And after you kill us, you think these guys that are paying you are going to let you live?”

Bebnev frowned at the question but then shrugged. “You don’t understand. I am professional killer. These guys admire my work.”

DiMarzo scoffed. “They’re using you, just like they used all of us.”

“You are not important,” Bebnev replied angrily. “Now shut up.”

They again fell silent as ten, and then twenty minutes passed. “Where is Gnat, the little
sooka,
” Bebnev snarled at last. “If you somehow warned him, your mother is going to die, and maybe I will do some things to your sisters.”

Before DiMarzo could answer, there was a knock on the front door. “Answer,” Bebnev said, getting up, “but remember, I am behind you and your mother is upstairs.”

When DiMarzo opened the door, Miller was standing on the porch. “I’m sorry, Gnat,” Frank said and opened the door farther to reveal the gunman standing behind him. “I guess we’re going for a ride.”

“I ain’t going nowhere with him,” Miller replied and started to back away.

“Please, Gnat,” DiMarzo said. “He’s going to shoot my mom if we don’t do what he says.”

“That’s right, pussy,” Bebnev said, grinning. He put the gun in the pocket of his coat but kept it trained on the other two men. “Let’s go.”

For a moment, Miller looked like he might still take his chances
and run. But he saw the pleading look in DiMarzo’s eyes and nodded. “What the fuck, I don’t even care anymore.”

As they started to leave, DiMarzo called out. “I’m going out for a little while, Ma,” he yelled and then choked up as he added, “I love you. Tell Pops I love him, too.”

“Okay, Frankie,” the old woman yelled back. “Have a nice time with your friends.”

When they got to Gnat’s car, Bebnev ordered the other two into the front seats while he got in the back. He took his gun back out of his pocket and placed it against Miller’s neck. “Drive,” he said.

“Where?”

“Fountain Avenue and Flatlands.”

“The landfill?”

“That is good guess,” Bebnev answered.

DiMarzo and Miller fell silent. Gnat turned on Fountain Avenue, a major north-south arterial through Brooklyn with the south end where they were heading comprised of toxic landfills and odorous swamps. More germane to the situation they found themselves in, it was infamous as a dumping ground for bodies by various mobs over the years including Murder Incorporated in the 1930s, the Gambino family in the 1970s and ’80s, and, more recently, the “immigrant” mobs led by the Russians.

The sky was growing increasingly dark and snowflakes were falling when they pulled up to a fenced-in landfill. A sign on the gate declared that the landfill was permanently closed and warned trespassers of toxic dangers.

“Lock is broken,” Bebnev said to DiMarzo. “Get out and open. Do not try to run or first I shoot Gnat and then I go back to your home and shoot your ma and pops. And I rape your sisters before I kill them, too.”

“Fuck you, Bebnev,” DiMarzo said. “Someday you’re going to pay for this.”

“Maybe,” Bebnev said, then laughed. “But you first.”

DiMarzo got out of the car and opened the gate. After he got
back in, Bebnev directed Miller to drive to a secluded spot surrounded by mounds of half-buried refuse, scraggly trees, and swampy grasslands. “Far enough,” he said. “Get out.”

As the two friends marched ahead of Bebnev, DiMarzo turned to Miller. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Gnat,” he said.

Gnat smiled. “It’s okay, Frankie,” he said. “I got myself into this; nobody made me do it.” He was quiet for a moment, then added, “Tell you the truth, I’m kind of glad it’s over. It’s been like a ton of bricks piled on top of me. I can’t sleep. I’m a ball of nerves. I even hit Nicoli for no good reason. I was a real shit to her and I wish I could have told her one more time that I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” DiMarzo said. “The money wasn’t worth it. I hate what this is going to do to my ma and pops. I guess they won’t have to worry about their no-good son anymore. I hope they can forget about me.”

They reached a small clearing. “Far enough,” Bebnev ordered. “Get down on your knees.”

With the moment of death at hand, Miller and DiMarzo sank to the ground. “You were a good friend, Frank,” Miller said.

“You were, too,” DiMarzo replied, his voice husky.

“Hey, you pussies, you want to kiss or something before I shoot you?” Bebnev said with a laugh.

“Burn in hell, you ugly son of a bitch,” DiMarzo said. “Jesus forgive me for my sins.”

“Jesus forgive me for my sins,” Miller repeated after him.

DiMarzo looked up at the snowflakes that fell and wondered if there was any chance he’d get into heaven and see his family again. The sound of vehicles on nearby streets and water traffic on Jamaica Bay seemed unusually loud as he waited for the shot.

Instead, something behind them crackled with a blue flash, which was immediately followed by a yelp and a thud. The air smelled of electrical discharge. “You can get up,” said a thick, heavily accented voice behind them.

When they realized the voice did not belong to Bebnev, the two
friends turned and saw a very large man standing over the body of their would-be assassin, who lay twitching on the ground. The big man leaned over and yanked the prongs from the Taser he held out of Bebnev’s back and then put the weapon in his coat pocket.

DiMarzo recognized their savior as the man with the scarred face he’d seen at the Little Odessa club when Bebnev met with Lvov. “Wow, thanks, man,” he exclaimed. “Boy, are we glad you showed—”

“Shut fuck up,” the big man interrupted. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number. “Is done,” he said into the phone and hung up.

A few moments later, a long dark sedan pulled into the clearing. Another man with a scarred face, wearing an eye patch, but not nearly as large as the first man, got out of the car. He walked up and clapped the big man on the shoulder.

“Well done, Anton, my friend,” he said, then toed Bebnev, who was starting to come to. “Get up, scum.”

“Thank you for helping us,” Miller started to say to the man with the eye patch.

The man returned the thanks with a look of scorn. “I am not here to help you,” he said. “I am here to help a friend.” He looked down at Bebnev, who sat up and rubbed his temples as if he had a splitting headache. “Do you know who I am?” he asked the Russian.

Bebnev looked up and as his eyes focused, his face turned into a mask of fear. “
Da.
You are Ivgeny Karchovski!”

“That’s right,” replied the man. “And so you know I will do what I say, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Bebnev replied. He looked down at the ground, unable to hold the other man’s eye contact.

“Then you and your not-so-good friends sit still while I discuss your fates with another. Is that understood?” he said looking at all three young men.

“Yes, sir,” they all replied.

Satisfied, Karchovski took out a cell phone and made a call. “Hello, my lovely friend. I am sorry to bother you but there was slight change of plans. My associate located Bebnev, who led us to the others before they all left in the red-haired one’s car. Apparently the dogs are fighting among themselves and Bebnev was going to silence the other two, permanently.”

Karchovski listened for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, they are all unharmed. Fortunately, my associate was able to intervene shortly before I arrived.”

Moving behind Gnat’s car, he said, “The license plate number? Yes, is New York FPB eight-one-nine-six.” He listened a bit more and then, looking at the three younger men, said, “Perhaps I should question these dogs, maybe remove a finger for every lie? Only if they refuse to talk? Sigh, okay, we play by your rules, but you know I like to make examples of such as these. Tell my cousin there will be early Christmas present waiting for him in an Oldsmobile Delta 88 at the landfill at Fountain and Flatlands Avenues in Brooklyn. . . . You’re welcome, darling, glad to have been of service.”

The Russian gangster then turned back to the three young men. “Stand up and put your hands behind your back. Anton, there are plastic ties in the glove box of my car. Would you get them, please? And would you hand me your knife, please?”

“What are you going to do to us?” Miller asked, trembling as the bigger man whipped out a wicked-looking knife from a boot sheath.

“Do?” Karchovski answered then looked at his man and they both laughed. “I guess I am making citizen’s arrest!” He sat down on the hood of his car, and, removing an apple from his long wool coat, convincingly cut a slice with the knife and popped it into his mouth in one smooth motion. “Now, who wants to tell me truth about murder of Vince Carlotta?”

M
ARLENE LOOKED DOWN AT HER
cell phone lying next to her on the seat of her truck when Tchaikovsky’s
1812 Overture
ringtone began to play. According to caller ID,
PYOTR
, otherwise known as her husband’s cousin and mob boss, Ivgeny Karchovski, was on the other end of the line again.

It had been a busy day. After talking to Nicoli Lopez, she’d returned to the Crosby Street loft and placed two phone calls. The first was to ask Ivgeny if there was any word on the streets of Little Odessa that might tie into Vince Carlotta’s murder.

“Specifically, I’m looking for anything that might involve a young man, speaks with a Russian, maybe Eastern Bloc accent, possibly seen with two other young men, one with red hair, his name is Bill, or Gnat, Miller; the other has dark hair, looks Italian, goes by Frankie,” she said. “Maybe they’re flashing a lot of money. Or saying things.”

Marlene knew it was a long shot. As Ivgeny quickly pointed out, there were a lot of young men with Russian accents in Little Odessa. But it wasn’t completely a shot in the dark. She knew that the Karchovski family controlled some of the East River docks on the Brooklyn side for their “import business,” so something could have come up on the dockworkers’ grapevine. “Or maybe something
from your ‘other’ business interests—the guys I’m looking for may not have anything to do with the union or the docks—they could just be small-time criminals.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know any of those,” Ivgeny said with a laugh. “But tell me, this Russian, you suspect him of the murder?”

“Right now he’s just a person of interest. Can you help?”

Ivgeny paused, then said, “It is funny you ask me this as I am reminded of something an associate told me just this morning. But let me talk first to my associate again and see if there is more to story. I will get back to you soon.”