A young girl that Val knew to be the baker’s daughter appeared at the table. “Coffee?” she asked.
Val glanced at Sergey’s cup. “Do you have Turkish?”
She shook her head. “But I have beans from Turkey. I can make an espresso.”
Val waved her suggestion away. “Never mind. Just bring me another of these pastries. To go.”
After she left, Sergey lowered the newspaper. “To go? You are in some kind of hurry today, brother?”
“The pastry is for Pavel. He is driving me today and he is hungry.”
“He doesn’t come in to pay his respects to his father?”
Val shook his head. “He should not hear what we speak about this morning.”
Sergey raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “Of course. But someday, he must learn it all.”
“Someday,” Val said. “But not today.”
“No,” Sergey said. “I suppose it is too soon for him.”
“His time will come.”
Sergey watched him for a few moments, then motioned to the newspaper. “It never surprises me,” he said.
“What is that?”
“These Americans,” Sergey said. “They love the violent movies. The Godfather movies, the Rambo. But then a few criminals get shot, men that they would like to see go far away anyway, and what do they do?” He flicked the newspaper with his fingers. “They cry and wring their hands like women. I don’t understand it.”
Val shrugged. “Americans are different.”
Sergey snorted. “They are weak.”
Val didn’t agree, but he was not going to argue with Sergey. Americans had their soft spots, but it would never do to underestimate them. Throughout history, they’d always seemed to have the snarl when their backs were put to the wall. Maybe the 1990s generation would be different, but Val doubted it.
“Anyway,” Sergey continued, reaching for his coffee, “tell me what you are here to tell me.” He sipped his coffee and watched Val.
“Your main operation is moving forward perfectly,” Val told him. “It is the other complication that I am worried about.”
“The bookkeeper,” Sergey grunted. He tore off a piece of his pastry and tossed it into his mouth. “When we find him, I would like him taken apart a piece at a time.”
“I believe he has gone to the police,” Val said. “In fact, I see no other option for him.”
Sergey pressed his lips together. “Then we have very little time.”
“True.”
“This is bad, Valeriy.”
“I agree.”
“He knows too much.”
“I know,” Val answered. “But that may work in our favor.”
Sergey scowled. “How?”
“It may give us a little time.”
Sergey plucked another piece of his pastry. “I am afraid I don’t understand, little brother,” he said.
“Oleg wants revenge,” Val explained. “But he is not stupid. That is why he went to the police. It was his best opportunity for revenge.”
“I know that,” Sergey snapped. “Tell me how this may help us.”
The baker’s daughter approached the table and set a wrapped pastry next to Val. He reached into his pocket, peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her. “Keep the extra,” he told her. “Buy a music CD or something pretty for yourself.”
She blushed and thanked him. Val waited until she had walked out of earshot to speak again. “Once Oleg thinks it out, he will start to wonder what is beyond his revenge. What comes after. And once he considers that, he will slow down. He will tell the police very little. He will want to make the best deal for himself. All he has for leverage is the information he knows. So he will wait.”
Sergey looked at him, considering. After a few moments he nodded his head. “You may be correct. But what if he wants revenge too much to wait?”
“He is too smart for that.”
“What if the police give him the greatest deal right away?”
“They won’t.”
“What if they do?” Sergey pressed.
He is like a scared woman sometimes, Val thought. These are the times that it shows he was never a soldier.
“I heard a saying here in America,” Val said. “It goes, ‘What if grasshoppers had machine guns?’”
Sergey’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What does this mean?”
“If grasshoppers had machine guns, the birds would not fuck with them,” Val said.
There was a long moment of silence, then a large grin spread across Sergey’s face. “I see. This is funny.” He made a gun with both fingers and pantomimed a machine gun burst. “Ba-ba-bah. No more birds. Good.”
Val returned his smile. “I have a cousin who works on a janitor crew that cleans at the police station. I will ask him to listen and look. Maybe we can find where Oleg is.”
“Good, good.” Sergey said. He picked up his coffee and took a drink. “And raise the reward.”
“You are too generous,” Val said.
Sergey waved his words away. “It breeds loyalty.”
Val reached for the pastry, but Sergey put his hand over it. Val looked up at him. “You had something more?”
Sergey nodded slowly. “Yes. I am not so sure about your idea when it comes to insulating me.”
“It is for your protection,” Val said. “And Marina’s.”
“Perhaps,” Sergey said. “But life is risk. I still plan to attend the summit you will be arranging soon.”
“I advise against it,” Val told him.
“I know. But sometimes, the soldiers need to see that their general is in charge. That he is brave and will join the battle with them.”
Val didn’t reply right away. By the time he arranged the summit there would be little danger of battle. The men in attendance would already be defeated. The meeting would be more like a Roman triumph parade than a battle. “It is, of course, up to you,” he finally said.
“I know.” Sergey picked up his paper and went back to reading.
Val took the pastry and left the bakery. The anemic dinging sound as he swung the door open irritated him, but he made an effort to conceal it.
Sergey was only making sure Val knew who was in charge. He was only making a point. That’s why he wanted to change Val’s plans. That’s why he had been so dismissive of him. It was classic gangster leadership behavior. He was seeking to assert his dominance over Val. To show him who was the alpha wolf.
A very old Russian saying sprang to Val’s mind, drowning out his injured pride: ’Tis a hard winter when one wolf eats another.
Val smiled and opened the car door. He tossed the bakery bag to Pavel.
“Thanks, Uncle,” Pavel said. He unwrapped it and took a large bite. “Where next?”
“Take me to my coffee shop,” Val told him. “We’ll wait there for things to be finished.”
“Sure,” Pavel said. He took another huge bite, started the car, and headed north.
Val looked out the window and smiled. It might be summer, but Sergey was in for a very hard winter.
1240 hours
Esteban Ruiz walked down Nettleton Street, proudly displaying his brown handkerchief. He wore it as a headband. His closely cropped hair didn’t absorb much sweat, so flying his colors that way had an additional benefit. He also wore a white wife-beater and baggy dark blue denims. Sturdy brown boots and a.25 auto in his pocket rounded out his ensemble. No one would doubt who he was. Not just a gangster, but a Dean Avenue Diablo.
If Esteban smiled much, that thought might have coaxed a grin to his lips. Hell, he wasn’t just a Diablo, he was the Diablos. That was him. Numero uno. El Jefe. El Capitan. The Boss. Call it what you will, in English or Spanish, it meant the same thing.
He ran his crew and he ran West Central.
The sun beat down as he walked along the wide sidewalk. He was headed to the Broadway Food Store to get something cold to drink. Maybe some Gatorade for now and some cerveza for later. He could have sent Pepe or Luis, but he wanted the time alone. And he could have driven the short distance to the store, but he wanted to do the kind of thinking that only seemed to work for him when he was walking.