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."