Manny's mouth hung open for a second before he reacquired his normal aplomb and its accompanying sneer. The sneer had a violent edge to it. "Smart guy, huh?"
"I've asked around a bit." With as much casualness as he could muster, Alex placed the soap on the metal tray on the wall. "I suggest you do your homework, too." He stuck out his hand. "Alex Konevitch. Have one of your boys look me up on the Internet."
"Already did that," he said, ignoring the hand. "You're rich, Konevitch, filthy rich. You ripped off hundreds of millions. I'm impressed. That's why we're having this little mano-a-mano. Question is, are you also generous?"
"We seem to have a tense problem, Manny."
"Maybe my English is not so good. What's that mean?"
"A bunch of former KGB goons stole my money and my businesses. The little that was left was seized by the FBI. I was rich, and now I'm broke."
Manny did not appear overly pleased with that response. He pushed his face within an inch of Alex's. "I'm not a man you want to lie to."
"Believe me, I know that."
Manny looked ready to whip out whatever was inside his pocket. "Yeah? Then you better-"
"Slow it down, Manny. Think about it. A man with hundreds of millions, would he be here, in this rotten excuse for a prison? This is America, land of the free and the brave, of all the justice you can afford. The rich boys are all eating steak and getting nice tans in the federal country clubs. I'm here, with you. Put two and two together."
Rather than respond to that, Manny glanced at the man standing to Alex's left, a large, hairy monster named Miguel. Physical appearances aside, Manny was the muscle, Miguel the brain. They had been longtime compadres in Cuba, arrived on the same miserable little boat, and for almost two decades had shared a cramped, smelly cell on the second floor. Manny had the top bunk and stayed out front. He did the bullying, the enforcement, bought off the guards, and terrified the other gangs. Miguel slept on the bottom, and spent most of his time in the library thinking up schemes and scams. It was he who researched Alex's background after the guard tipped them off. And it was he who devised this coarse plot to shake Alex down.
After a moment, Miguel leaned forward and butted in. "Were you really the cashbox behind Yeltsin?" Not a word about that had been mentioned in any of the many articles about Konevitch Miguel had read on the Internet.
Sensing the sudden shift in power, Alex turned and faced Miguel. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
"But maybe not, eh?"
"You're perceptive. After all, look where it got me," Alex replied, shrugging indifferently, as if he'd be as happy here, among these men, as lounging with a bunch of gorgeous ladies in skimpy bikinis at a Caribbean resort. He was nearly gagging on indifference. "The same former KGB thugs who stole my money put me here."
"Why they put you here, man?"
"They want me back in Russia, where they can get their hands on me, or dead."
"That right?" Miguel leaned his large bulk against the wall and thoughtfully twisted the small goatee at the end of his chin. With that admission this tall Russian had just made a fatal slip. A dozen questions suddenly popped into Miguel's mind. Would the Russians pay to have this guy whacked? Who did Miguel and his friends have to contact? How much was Konevitch worth dead? That was the big question.
Maybe the situation still held possibilities.
Alex was beginning to feel awkward. He was naked, vulnerable, and dripping wet. Who knew what they had hidden in those pockets? Any one of these three brutes would happily slit his throat and casually watch his blood spill down the drain. He reached over and shut off the spigot. "Mind if I get a towel and dry off?" he asked.
"Why not?" Miguel grunted and winked. "Who's stopping you?"
Alex began edging around him, carefully, in the direction of the towel room. "What do you want with money, anyway?" he asked over his shoulder. "You're in prison, what good does it do?"
The Cubans followed about a step behind. "Don't you know anything?" Miguel answered, wondering exactly how much this Russian, dead, might be worth. "Money's everything. Inside the joint, outside-makes no differences. Good lawyers, cigarettes, dope, smuggled-in girls, even guards."
Alex seemed to consider that a moment, then, rapidly changing the subject, asked, "Have you ever heard of AOL? America Online?"
Manny and the third, unnamed man exchanged puzzled looks. Totally clueless. Miguel thought he might've heard of it, a hazy recollection at best. But in an effort not to appear dumb, he produced a knowing nod. "Sure. What about it?" he asked, as if he could write a textbook on the subject.
"It's the new thing, an Internet company that's making money hand over foot. The stock could easily quadruple in the next few years, maybe more."
Miguel turned to his colleagues. "Advice from a hustler who ripped off millions back in Russia. Does this guy think we're stupid, or what?"
"You're forgetting something. I also made hundreds of millions."
This got a slight nod. He'd read that on the Internet.
"Point is," Alex plowed ahead, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist, "you're losing out. The stock market's on a tear. You're trying to squeeze a few dollars from losers on the inside. The easy money's outside, the big money. It's perfectly legal and above board."
"Cons in the joint ain't allowed to buy stock," Manny chimed in angrily, as if that ended the discussion. From everything Miguel had told him about this Russian, he had been expecting the once-in-a-lifetime payday all convicts live for. Manny had lain awake on his bunk the night before, sweating in the intense heat, dreaming of the money and what he could do with it.
Like the rest of the Mariel Boys, Manny had an appeal for release grinding its way through the courts. They had collectively pooled their resources to hire a lawyer, a distant third cousin of one of the gang. The cousin offered an impressive discount, bragged about his many legal victories, and made lots of rowdy promises. He turned out to be a total loser. Between booze and gambling, Mr. Loser lost track of their paperwork with disturbing regularity; the only thing he turned out to be good at was consistently missing the deadlines for filings.
Mr. Loser had to go.
Miguel had asked around until he found the perfect mouthpiece. Mr. Perfect was a cutthroat from Miami who billed four hundred an hour and produced miracles. He was owned by the Colombians, a gaudy loudmouth who had earned quite the reputation for keeping their killers, mules, and pushers out of jail. Legal mastery was part of it; knowing which judges and prosecutors to help with their home mortgages and kids' college bills, the larger part. In his spare time, he was allowed to freelance as much as he wanted.
It was an outside shot, at best. Mr. Perfect was quite expensive. The billable hours would pile up. The case could drag on for years. And for such a large group, a band of thugs who definitely had not distinguished themselves as model prisoners, the bribes would be mountainous.
Mr. Perfect, though, was their only hope. The Cubans talked endlessly of walking out the gate and retiring in a small, lazy southern Florida town. Life would be so good. They would muscle their way into a few strip clubs and pawnshops, drink cerveza from dusk to dawn, cavort with the strippers, and put the ugly old days behind them.
Alex kept a close eye on Manny, who looked angry and frustrated that their mark turned out to have shallow pockets. He grabbed another towel and began briskly rubbing his hair. "You mean you can't invest under your own name," he corrected Manny in an even tone. "Have a lawyer handle your money. They represent you, they can't blow the whistle. It's in their oath."