"Why?"
"Not that it's any of your business but I would say because I wish for opportunity to pursue my dreams, my work, and still eat."
Yvgeny pursed his lips. "Then it would not surprise you that many other peoples wish this same opportunity. But you are big, important professor of poetry, an artist, so they welcome you with open arms, give you a nice, well-paid job. Someday they let you become a citizen…lots of stories in the newspapers and on television about the great Russian poet who wanted to be an American. But is not like that for everybody who wants to come to this country, who wants this same opportunity. So my family business is to smuggle them here, find them work, give them hope…and for this you look down your nose at me and call me a gangster."
"I'm sure you don't do this out of the goodness of your heart," Alexis said.
Yvgeny chuckled. "No, you are right. We, I, am well compensated. Sometimes they pay in advance, or sometimes we take a little from their paychecks at a time."
"And the black market in Russia?" Alexis asked. "Aren't you a wanted criminal in Russia? How can our country push through proper economic reform so that poor people can hope for better times when crime bosses and smugglers own the politicians, the police, and even the military?"
"Yes," he said. "We smuggle goods into our country. But isn't that the American way? The law of supply and demand. People who make money should be able to purchase these things without passing through the gauntlet of politicians and bureaucrats, not to mention those police and military officials you speak of, all with their hands out."
"Oh, it is fine for you to talk about corruption," Alexis said. "But you just exploit people like any of them so that you can live in a fine house and drive fancy cars."
Yvgeny spread his hands. "Put it like that and I am guilty as charged. I prefer to think of myself as a businessman who provides a service and has a right to recompense. Is that not also the American way?"
"I think that's the same argument drug dealers use," Alexis sneered. "Addicted children demand their products and they are merely supplying that demand."
Yvgeny's eye flashed with anger. "Do not, brother, compare me with drug dealers. I do nothing to harm people unless they attack me or people I am responsible for. I do not deal in drugs or prostitution or force people to pay me so they can have a business. It is easy for you because you are desirable to look down your nose at people who would not be allowed to pursue these same dreams because they did not have your advantages."
"What about the American people, don't they have a right to control immigration?" Alexis asked.
Yvgeny shrugged. "Yes, and they do. Many more try to come to this country than arrive. If a boat or truck carrying my customers is caught, they are turned away. But they will continue to try to come. Some, like my grandfather, arrived at Ellis Island and were given papers that allowed them to live freely. Others come and are forced to live in the shadows as second-class citizens who do all the dirty jobs no one wants and are mistreated by employers who refuse to pay and threaten to call the immigration authorities. This country needs these people, they are the fresh blood and fresh ideas. At least I provide them with the documents to allow them to live openly, pay taxes, and know that their children born here are Americans."
Finally, both men seemed to have run out of steam. Yvgeny broke the silence first. "Come, let us discuss this some other day; perhaps you and Helena will join me for dinner at my house in the near future. But I did not come here to argue immigration policy. I came to offer my help as a brother. You are in trouble because of this woman's accusations, no?"
"That's my own problem. I'm taking care of it."
"It is your wife's problem, too. Perhaps you should think about what happens to her-three months' pregnant-if you go to prison or are deported."
"Leave my wife out of this."
"It is not up to me to leave her out of this. The difficulty will be getting you out of this. I may be able to help."
"What are you going to do, have the woman killed?" Alexis sneered.
Yvgeny laughed, but this time it was not as pleasant. "You watch too many American gangster movies, Alexis. I was thinking more along the lines of helping you disappear. You could start over again."
It was Alexis's time to laugh. "And what, work as a cabdriver or a day laborer?"
"There are worse things to be, Alexis," Yvgeny said. "One of them is a prison inmate. But if you insist on remaining yourself, perhaps you could go to a country where they would not extradite you to the United States."
"Yes, I hear Cuba is a wonderful place for Russian poets."
"They have nice beaches, a university…and I could help you with funds so that you and Helena and the child, my niece or nephew, by the way, could live in style."
"No, thank you," he said. "I have done nothing wrong. I will trust to the American justice system."
"The American justice system," Yvgeny scoffed. "There are many things to like about this country, but that is not one of them. I seem to keep having this conversation with my family, but the American justice system is as corrupt as anything in Russia. At least there, you know what prosecutors, defense lawyers, and judges are on the take because they all are. Here you roll the dice, or, if you have the money, you simply buy your way out of trouble. So if you will not accept my help to escape, how about my financial help to buy your American justice. And there are some things I have learned that might be of interest."
"There is nothing you could know that would interest me," Alexis said. "Quit trying to play the older brother that you never were."
"You know that is not fair, Alexis. We were separated as boys. I did not even know what happened to you until I was older. Then I tried to write to you but my letters went unanswered."
Alexis turned his back. "We are not brothers except that we share some blood. I didn't need you when I was growing up. And I don't need you now. In fact, I have a lawyer; you just met her, Marlene Ciampi."
"Well, I suppose you could do worse," Yvgeny replied. "She is as tough as an Afghani, and it doesn't hurt that her husband is the district attorney who must share the same bed with her."
"Glad you approve," Alexis said. "Now, I'd like you to leave, please."
"As you wish, brother," Yvgeny said. "If I can help, you know where to find me."
A minute later, Yvgeny Karchovski was back in his Mercedes. He leaned forward and pressed the intercom.
"Da, comrade," Milan Svetlov replied.
"Has the problem been taken care of?"
"Tonight."
"Good. Your brother?"
Milan looked at him in the rearview mirror. "Da. He sends his affection."
"A good man, your brother. As are you, Milan."
"Thank you, sir. So are you, sir."
That night was the weekly intramural "gangsters" basketball game at Auburn State Prison. The games were the brainchild of one of the counselors, who felt that the various gangs in the prison might be persuaded to work out their differences in a less-than-lethal way in the pursuit of athletics.
"A healthy way for them to take out their aggression and establish their pecking orders," he'd explained to the warden, who'd rolled his eyes. However, the counselor had been awarded a substantial grant-not all of which would find its way to the prison athletic fund-from some dumb bleeding-heart prisoners' organization in Washington, D.C.
The last game of the night was supposed to be between the Bloods and the Aryan Knights, but at the last minute the Knights bowed out, claiming that they were all suffering from food poisoning after eating the Turkey Surprise ("What's the surprise?" "That ain't no turkey, unless turkeys got tails and teeth") for lunch. They were replaced by a team composed of Russian gangsters.
As the game began, Lonnie "Monster" Lynd found himself pitted against the hulking Sergei Svetlov. Once he got over his nervousness, it didn't take long for Lynd to realize that Svetlov was no basketball player, and he used the opportunity to make up for the humiliation in the exercise yard. He grew so bold as to start talking smack.