The Con Man's Daughter

Chapter 14

Wednesday

4:45 P.M.

Eddie left his car at the marina and drove with Matty Boland to Brighton Beach. They parked on Coney Island Avenue, near the entrance to the construction site where, thirty-four hours earlier, Eddie had lost Lukin's killer. The only thing he knew to do at this point was find Sergei Zhukov, and he needed help. He needed the feds fully in the mix. But finding Sergei would be the easy part. Eddie understood the futility of trying to get a hardened Russian criminal to confess. The word hardened didn't do these guys justice. Decades of frigid weather, deprivation, and sanctioned cruelty had forced them to develop a level of toughness and cunning beyond anyone's ability to understand.

"The biggest mistake you can make," Eddie said as they walked down Brighton Beach Avenue, "is to underestimate how smart Russians are. You've never gone up against people this slick. If you don't understand that, they'll play you like a mandolin."

Eddie set the pace on the crowded street, eating up sidewalk like a man on a mission. He realized Boland claimed he was trying to find Kate, but his eyes were on a different prize. Boland wanted to talk about the big picture: cartels, wiretaps, and worldwide crime. He needed to concentrate on finding a single redhead in a twenty-block haystack.

"Where the hell are we going in such a hurry?" Boland said.

"Part of our bargain. We're going to school."

"This must be gym class," Boland said. "But seriously, I don't need any more education."

"You want an informant? Then keep up with me."

The clock was coming up on sixty hours since Kate had disappeared. Eddie had no idea if the FBI task force had held up their part of the bargain. They said that every known home, business, and vodka joint connected with Borodenko had been checked out. Checked out how? Eddie wanted to know. A drive-by with the window rolled up? Eddie needed to do something to keep their hearts and heads in the game. He knew that if they lost direction, they'd drift back to working whatever case they'd abandoned sixty hours ago. If he got them someone on the inside, they'd owe him those hearts and heads.

"Say you were a car thief in Moscow," Eddie said. "You steal a brand-new car. How do you make money on it?"

"My first day in class, a quiz already. Okay, probably can't ship it out of the country. I'll say you cut it up and sell the parts. Weather that bad, parts business has to be good."

"Forget parts."

"So I'll find a buyer. Some guy's yak dies and he needs dependable transportation. I sell him the stolen car."

"Wrong again. In a country where people wait for years for a car, you'd never get it by the apparat. The government will know it's stolen."

"I give up. What's the answer?"

"You ransom it back to the owner," Eddie said.

"Ransom the car back. Like a kidnapping."

"Exactly. Kidnapping of cars and people is far more commonplace in Russia than it is over here. My point is this: You need to think differently. These people find angles and ways to make money you can't even imagine."

They pushed their way through the crowds bargaining with street merchants under the peeling brown paint of the el tracks' supports. Past the Payless shoe store, the Primorski Restaurant, and the KFC.

"I'll give you the key to understanding all this," Eddie said. "The one thing you definitely need to know: The Russians are all about money. Stop the money, you stop them."

"Sounds like the American way."

"I'm not talking about the honest buck. Vorovskoi mir means it's a thieves' world. Many of these people understand no other concept of earning. Maybe in another two generations, but not yet. They don't trust anyone but themselves. Not our government, our legal system, or our business practices."

'They trust it enough to steal from it," Boland said.

'That's right. They understand that: not invest in it, but steal from it. Okay, I already told you the answer to this one. What's the easiest way to become a millionaire in this country today?"

"Marry a Republican fund-raiser."

"The answer is to rip off Medicare or the insurance companies. See that Laundromat over there? They have hundreds of mailboxes for rent. Brighton Beach has more rental mailboxes than any neighborhood in the city. You'll find rental mailboxes in restaurants, grocery stores, and gas stations. Anonymous mailboxes are the lifeblood of the scam artist."

"I don't have to open a clinic?" Boland said.

"You don't even have to buy an aspirin. It's simple. All you need to acquire is the Medicare ID number of a doctor who's going into research, or abroad for an extended period. Not a big problem-all you need is an administrative contact in any hospital. Next, you write Medicare, requesting a change of address for that doctor. You change it to one of these post office boxes that you've rented. After that, it's easy to get the Medicare numbers of a few hundred senior citizens. Offer a free chest X ray, or free blood pressure screenings. Free anything. Once you have those numbers, then you can proceed with the bogus billing. You never see another patient, and the millions start to flow. It will take them six months to a year to send an investigator around. By then, you're back in Russia, set for life."

"Look for me out in the Hamptons."

"And we haven't begun to scratch the surface yet," Eddie said. "Ever hear the word hidtrost?

Boland repeated the word and asked if it was Russian street slang. Eddie didn't know if it was slang or not.

"The Russians refer to hidtrost as a secondary intelligence. It's the con man's intelligence. It's not common sense, or education. It's the way the scam artist's mind works. The ability to read between the lines. It's more respected than traditional intelligence among the Russian criminal element. In the old country, ripping off the government is a badge of honor. The only way to make a buck. They grow up seeing con men and hustlers making big money."

"Plus, it fits neatly into your contention that the Russian criminals are harmless schemers."

"Not harmless," Eddie said. "I never said harmless. My complaint with your approach-excuse me, the FBI's approach-is that you want to emphasize the Russian mafiya, the organizatsiya. You want a hierarchy you can put on a chart on the wall. That's wasting everyone's time; it doesn't exist. These people don't trust any big organization. They're not going to form one."

"You're wrong there, Eddie. They're a hell of a lot more organized than you think."

They walked past the crowds swarming the fruit stands, and the people selling pastries and sweaters.

"See that woman in the doorway?" Eddie said. "Old woman, with the backpack. She's selling prescription drugs."

"Prescription drugs?" Boland said.

As they passed the woman, she could be heard whispering to passersby, in a raspy voice, "Lekarstvo, komu, lekarstvo?"

"She's saying, 'Medicine, who wants medicine?' " Eddie said. "The supply varies. They usually have some antibiotics, Valium, kidney medicines; OxyContin is big now. Dilaudid. Viagra is always a seller. Twenty-five codeine-laced aspirin will cost you around five bucks."

"Stolen prescription drugs."

"Not stolen. Mostly smuggled in from Russia, Bulgaria, Switzerland, wherever they can get it in bulk. That old woman works for a guy I'll point out to you. He usually hangs around the travel agency, recruiting people, or he's in the Samovar sucking up the vodka."

"How about heroin or coke?"

"I don't know that firsthand. What I do know is that they've been bringing ecstasy in by the trunkful. This same guy who hangs out in the Samovar also recruits Hasidic Jews to smuggle ecstasy. He tells them they're carrying diamonds."

Eddie looked in the window of the travel agency. It was covered with handwritten posters, mostly in the Cyrillic alphabet. English signs listed fares to London and Berlin. Out of place was a poster of a tanned couple on the beach in Jamaica.

"He's not here," Eddie said. "He's in the Samovar. One thing before we go in. The legitimate businessmen are not going to go against Borodenko. You're going to have to hold their feet to a big fire. Borodenko is their krysha. Krysha means 'roof,' their protection. Like the old mob protection rackets. Same thing, only in Russian."

Eddie led Boland into a bar where a gaudy chandelier dominated the center of a room it was way too big for. The decor was a dingy glitz, the woodwork trimmed in peeling gold paint. The place was more than half-filled in the late afternoon. The heavy-lidded bartender took his time getting down to them. He was too busy admiring his unshaven profile in the mirror behind the bar, a cigarette with the filter torn off dangling from his lips. Only death deters tough guys from smoking, Eddie thought.

"Lexy," Eddie said to the bartender. "Meet my friend Desmond Shanahan from the FBI." Lexy grunted and gave a minimum nod. "From this day forward, Lexy Petrov will say that happy hour doesn't start until Eddie Dunne and Desmond Shanahan come through the door."

Eddie ordered a diet cola for himself and a Stoli on the rocks for Boland. Boland raised his eyebrows at Eddie, wondering why the hell he was talking so loudly and who Desmond Shanahan was. Eddie called Lexy over and whispered to him. Lexy whispered back, then turned away.

"What did you ask him?" Boland said.

"I gave him a chance to help me find my daughter. He told me to go fuck myself. Now the prick is fair game."

Lexy set their drinks down. Small bowls of caraway and sunflower seeds were spread around the bar.

"Lexy Petrov and I used to be friends," Eddie said, speaking a little louder. A few heads at the bar turned his way. "Lexy once told me he has ten occupations. Isn't that interesting, Desmond? Busy, busy man, our Lexy. He told me many things in the days when we drank together as friends."

The tables were half-filled. Eddie recognized most of the customers' faces. He knew the waitress Ludmilla very well.

"I don't know all ten of Lexy's occupations," Eddie said. "I do know he's a part-time leg breaker for a loan shark; plus, he sets up phony car accidents for insurance purposes. Oh, and he acts as a go-between in kidnapping cases. Some gangs in Russia specialize in kidnapping the families of wealthy Russian-Americans. Like the mother of that hockey star a few years ago. Lexy was the go-between. Little work, big profit. Lexy is going to be my go-between and help get my daughter back. And he will not even charge me. He'll do it because he loves me. And if he gets her back safely, I will not kill him."

Boland laughed nervously. "Cool down," he said.

"Cool your ass," Eddie said.

"Show them the sketch you made of the guy who killed Lukin," Boland said.

Eddie ignored him. He'd already realized the sketch was useless. The only way the sketch would work was if they came across a desperate junkie, a scorned woman, or a cop who knew him. The Russians wouldn't turn in one of their own to the police. As far as the Russians were concerned, all the sketch would do was alert the bad guy that someone had seen his face.

"Help me out here, Lexy," Eddie said. "Tell me why someone would kidnap my daughter. I have no big money. It must be something personal. Desmond points out it may have been someone I offended. I don't know. If I offended you, Lexy, how would you handle it?"

"I'd come after you," Lexy said, taking a quick check in the mirror.

"Exactly, that's what a man does. So it must be true what you told me… that Yuri Borodenko is a faggot. We're talking about a faggot here."

"That's subtle," Boland said.

"Viktor," Eddie said, looking down the end of the bar. "Viktor, Lexy says Borodenko is a faggot. You agree? By the way, I was telling my FBI friend about your im-ported-drug business. Lexy explained to me how it works. Incidentally, your girlfriend, outside there, needs a new backpack. Little pills are falling out."

"Let me pay for these drinks, and then we'll hit the bricks," Boland said.

Eddie snatched Boland's money off the bar and shoved it in his shirt pocket.

"We are among friends, Desmond," Eddie said. "We do not pay for anything in here, right, Ludmilla?"

"You're being an asshole," the waitress said. "No wonder someone punched you in the eye."

"Pretty, Ludmilla. Worried about my eye. Ludmilla means 'loved by all,' and she lives up to that name. Lexy told me she is the queen of the bait and switch. Ludmilla puts on her worst clothes and heaviest accent, then goes around to little independent jewelers and tries to get them to buy a necklace she claims was in her family for generations. I don't know where the hell she got it, but it is valuable. She tells them some story about it belonging to Anastasia-remember that movie with Ingrid Bergman? But the jewelers can see that the necklace is valuable, and poor Ludmilla doesn't know its value. She says that she desperately needs the money to get back to Russia. The jewelers are greedy; Ludmilla always laughs about that later. Greedy bastards, serves them right, trying to screw her with their lowball deal. Poor Ludmilla accepts the deal; she has no choice. Always for cash. Then she screws them with an imitation. My friend Lexy Petrov told me all about it."

"Why don't you get the fuck out of here," Lexy said.

"Why don't you throw me out?" Eddie snapped.

"Easy, easy," Boland whispered.

"How's the vodka?" Eddie saidl

"I could have used a triple," Boland said.

"Lexy," Eddie yelled. "Another vodka for Desmond. Another vodka I won't pay for. Hey, speaking of vodka, what's the name of that fat guy who comes in here? You know, you told me he buys grain alcohol from some dis-tiUery in Missouri, then smuggles it into Russia in bottles labeled as witch hazel, and then he relabels it and sells it as vodka. What a great scheme. I'll think of his name later. So many fine entrepreneurs drink in this fine bar."

The fine bar was emptying out quickly. More stools were empty than occupied now. People in the dining area began putting their coats on. Plates of thin potato pancakes, others with Russian herring, and bowls of cold borscht were abandoned. Someone turned the sound system way up.

Eddie put his arm around the man on the stool next to him, a balding young man with a Fu Manchu mustache. "I always forget your name, my friend," Eddie said. "I'm sorry for that. But I would vote you as the top new scam artist on the scene." The young man drained his glass quickly and stood up. "He's being shy, Desmond. Lexy told me all about this young man. He smuggles Russians across the Canadian border into Maine. When someone contacts him, wanting to be brought to this country, he and his pals go into Canada through the woods of Maine. They meet the family, then lead them across the border, through the same woods. But here's the funny part: When they bring the family in, they are armed to the teeth, automatic weapons, extra ammunition, grenades, gas masks. Why such heavy weapons, you ask, when one could sneak across that border armed with nothing more dangerous than a pirogi? That's the point. It's all showbiz. All an act, so they can charge their fellow countryman the high rate-ten thousand dollars apiece-for a stroll through the woods."

The restaurant door opened and closed at a faster rate. Eddie had succeeded in clearing the place out. He turned around and saw the table in the corner had suddenly been abandoned.

"Come over here, Desmond," Eddie said. "Let me show you this beautiful hand-painted mural of Saint Petersburg. Hand-painted when Evesi Volshin owned this restaurant. But see these dark spots here? If you look closely, you'll see they're not windows; they're bullet holes. Bullets that went through Evesi's body when he sat right in this chair. Isn't that right, Lexy?"

"No one cries for Evesi," Lexy said.

"That's right," Eddie said. "Evesi deserved to die. Evesi was a scumbag kidnapper. In fact, the night of the shooting, shell casings were everywhere. People eating their dinner moved their chairs so the shooters could pick them up. Evesi was scum, like Borodenko. Isn't that right, Lexy? You were here that night, Lexy. Or couldn't you see through your mask?"

"Plenty more bullets in the store," Lexy said.

"Is that a threat? Right in front of Desmond Shanahan of the FBI?"

"It is whatever you see in your nightmares."

"What is that, Lexy, an example of Russian mystery? Some inscrutable phrase supposed to strike fear into my heart? Oooh, I see the smoke of the cossack fire."

Eddie walked toward the bar. Lexy stepped back. Eddie stood on the rail, reached over, and pulled a metal club from underneath.

"Eddie," Boland said.

"You're good at telling stories, Lexy. Deliver this message for me. Tell whoever it is to be a man, let my daughter go, and come after me."

Eddie looked carefully at the metal bar. One end was wrapped in black electrical tape. He reached over and smashed the mirror. Shards of glass fell onto the shelves of bottles and on the floor behind the bar.

"I'm taking this with me," Eddie said. "If anything happens to my daughter, our next meeting will be your nightmare."