Fury

15

One of the great things about jogging down a New York sidewalk accompanied by a 150-pound dog, Marlene thought, is that the crowd scatters like a school of herring when a barracuda shows up. Some of the fish did the New York shuffle, which was to look straight ahead at nothing and everything while skirting dog and owner without breaking stride. Others darted to the side and stood there staring at the dog as if it were some strange creature from another planet.

For his part, Gilgamesh cruised along indifferent to the people-except that his enormous brown eyes seemed to click on each for a moment, assess the danger to his owner, and then move on to the next. He was happy just letting his teacup-size nose take in all the wonderful, to a dog, smells and being on a walk with Marlene. Occasionally a brave soul would stretch out a hand to give him a scratch, which he accepted without reaction, although on a word from Marlene he would have removed the appendage about up to the elbow.

Marlene's route took her to an apartment building on the East Side, actually not far from Ariadne Stupenagel's loft. She was on her way to the Michaliks'. She'd called that morning and told Helena that she wanted to drop by and talk to her and Alexis.

"I want to take my dog for a run; then I'll drop him off and be over," Marlene said.

"Oh, bring your puppy, too," Helena replied. "I love dogs and had to leave my schnauzer at home when I came to the United States."

"Well, he's considerably bigger than any puppy or schnauzer you've probably met."

"Doesn't matter. Please, I insist. I would like to meet your dog."

Marlene agreed. She was proud of her dog and knew that Gilgamesh would enjoy the longer outing. She regretted forgetting to ask Helena if she owned a cat. As well trained as Gilgamesh was-he'd hold his ground if a bomb was going off next to him-there was one small flaw in his nature and it was that he loved cats. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

"Nice doggy," said a voice behind her.

Marlene and Gilgamesh turned, the latter emitting a deep, low rumble that was not quite a growl but a warning to stay back. Caught us both by surprise and that takes some doing, Marlene thought, as she sized up the stranger she saw.

The man was obviously no threat. He was dressed sort of like a monk in a cowled brown robe that hung to mid-calf, revealing that he was wearing a worn pair of running shoes but no socks despite the cold and damp. It was hard to get a good look at his face because he kept most of it inside the hood and looked up at her sideways. But she saw he had the sunken cheeks and protruding eyes of someone who didn't eat well or regularly. His legs and arms, what she could see of them, were filthy, and the fingernails on the hand he stretched out to her were long, yellow, and dirt-caked. He smiled, revealing that most of his teeth were also gone. "Can you spare a buck?" he asked.

Marlene reached for her fanny pack. She was worth millions-exactly how much she didn't know because she let others handle the details of her investments and disbursements, including generous donations to a variety of charities and nonprofit agencies-and could afford to be generous to the beggars who roamed New York's streets. Some people said giving them money just encouraged more begging and contributed to whatever addictions they had, but she didn't see the harm. If a buck toward a bottle of cheap gin could get some old guy through the day, then who was she to deny what little pleasure he had. She unzipped the pack she was wearing and pulled out a five.

The little man skipped forward and snatched the bill, apparently not worried that he had to pass so close to the Hound of the Baskervilles. Marlene had been ready to command Gilgamesh to sit tight, but still she was surprised that he appeared no more concerned than he would have been if one of the twins had run up to her.

"Thank you, thank you, have a Merry Christmas, Marlene Ciampi," the man yelled over his shoulder as he trotted off down the street.

"Wait! How'd you know my name?" Marlene shouted. She wasn't sure she liked strangers in monk's costumes knowing who she was.

The "monk" pulled up and looked back, most of his face still hidden in the cowl. "Why, everyone knows Marlene Ciampi," he said and cackled. "I seen you in a newspaper once."

"Then can I know your name?" Marlene said, relieved by the simple explanation though she couldn't remember the last time her photograph had been published.

"Roger," the man said. "Thank you for asking. It's been a long time since one of you up-world people cared what my name was… I was beginning to think it was 'Fuck Off, Bum.'" The man cackled again and resumed his retreat.

"Well then, have a Merry Christmas, Roger," she called after him. Too late, she wondered what he meant by up-world.

Marlene shook her head. Sometimes living in Manhattan was like living in the old Twilight Zone television show. She rang the buzzer across from the name tag that said Michalik.

"Da?" answered a female voice.

"Helena. It's Marlene."

There was a buzz at the door and a click. Marlene pushed the door open and climbed up to the second floor, where Helena was standing out in the hallway.

"Oh, my goodness," the woman said, laughing. "You're right…that is some puppy." She bent over and patted her thighs. "Come, puppy, say hello."

Gilgamesh wagged his tail and looked up at Marlene with a question on his broad face. "Sure," she answered, releasing his leash. "Go say hi."

The hound bounded down the hallway and nearly bowled Helena over. She grabbed him by the scruff on either side of his face as he licked hers.

"Umm, I should have asked," Marlene said, looking at the open door to the Michalik apartment. "But do you have cats?"

Helena stopped playing with the dog and looked at her. "No. I am not a cat person," she said. "Should I have a cat?"

"Not if you want Gilgamesh to visit. How are you?"

The smile dropped from Helena's face. She shrugged. "As well as can be expected, I guess. Please, I'm forgetting my manners, welcome," she said, stepping forward and giving Marlene a kiss on each cheek.

Helena led the way into the small but comfortable and well-appointed apartment. Several Russian icon paintings hung on the wall in the entryway; vases of fresh flowers seemed to occupy most flat surfaces. Marlene noticed that the crib in the living room was already occupied by a half-dozen stuffed animals.

"When are you due?" Marlene asked.

"In June," Helena said, brightening. She looked happily at the crib, but then her face fell again.

The bedroom door in the back of the apartment opened and Alexis Michalik stepped out. Wow, Marlene thought, no wonder college coeds wanted a piece of this guy. The dark, wavy hair had just enough gray in it to qualify as highlights, and he had the deep, soulful brown eyes that qualified him as a poet whether he could write or not. He smiled and held out his hand though with one eye on the dog.

"Alexis Michalik," he said. "Helena told me about how you have offered to help us. I cannot thank you enough." He looked at Gilgamesh and laughed. "I did not know that they allowed you to keep bears as pets in New York City."

Marlene liked Alexis immediately, just as she'd liked Helena. But she felt compelled to set the record straight. Butch had warned her that the Michalik case might not be winnable. In the time she'd spent protecting women from the men who abused them, she'd met plenty who seemed like Prince Charming on the outside, only to find they were monsters inside. "As I told Helena," she said. "I'm willing to look into your situation. If I don't take the case as your lawyer, I might be able to recommend someone who will. But we need to talk and I'm going to have to ask you to be absolutely honest with me…and Helena."

"What do you mean?" Helena said.

"We'll get to it," she said. "But first tell me how you two met." This part wasn't necessary for what she needed, but she'd found through long experience that when she had to ask difficult questions, it was good to throw a few softballs first to loosen up.

"I was a student at the university in Moscow," Helena said, drifting into the tiny kitchen and reemerging with a pot of tea and three cups.

"I was an architecture major-to draw buildings, you know-but my roommate was a poetry student and deeply infatuated with Alexis. To be honest, I was not much a fan of poetry-especially Russian poetry, which is always so dark and moody-"

"Unfair," Alexis complained. "This first poem I wrote to you compared you to spring on the steppes-'a rush of flowers on heaven's stairs.'"

"Yes," Helena said, but then rolled her eyes, "with the obligatory ending that if I would not be his, winter would come to the steppes and freeze his heart for all eternity."

Marlene laughed.

"Anyway, I would much rather go dancing…to the Rolling Stones, preferably," Helena said. "But he was so cute and earnest with his poems-"

"And she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen," he finished her sentence. "I knew as soon as I spoke to her after the reading that she and I were meant for each other."

"What about your roommate?" Marlene asked.

"When she learned that Alexis had asked me out, and I'd said yes, she threw all of my clothes out the window of our apartment."

"Which was good for me because she had nowhere else to go but my place," Alexis said.

They'd married soon afterward, but life was a struggle in Moscow for a poetry professor. Even though Alexis had won several prestigious international poetry awards, and several of his books had been published in Europe, his salary barely kept them above the poverty line. Helena had to quit school to work as a secretary, but even then they could not make ends meet.

The offer to teach as an endowed chair at New York University where he would be paid nearly four times the amount they made from both their salaries combined had seemed like a miracle. They had both fallen in love with America and hoped to be allowed to remain.

"I am a Russian in my soul," Alexis said. "I love my native land. But the end of the Soviet Union did not bring the economic boom everyone hoped for; it brought even more corruption and gangsters. If you wanted justice, you had to pay for it. There was no hope that things would get better. Here it is better. You can dream, and while Americans may not speak as highly of their artists, they pay them better. So, I am Russian in my soul, but becoming an American in my heart."

If only we all felt as strongly, Marlene thought but cautioned herself against letting this poetic man sway her with words when his actions might not have been so noble.

"So," Helena said, changing the subject, "you said you wanted to talk to us about Alexis's case."

Marlene looked at the younger woman and saw the fear in her eyes. She didn't want to hurt her but this had to be done. She turned to Alexis. "Like I said, I need to ask you some questions before I'll take this case. And let me warn you, you have to be completely honest with me, no matter how painful the answers, or I'm out of here. Understand?"

Alexis hung his head and sighed. "Yes, I will be honest," he said. "Ask."

"Then tell me the truth about your relationship with Sarah Ryder-from the beginning and right through to when you last spoke with her," Marlene said. Rather than ask specific questions at the moment, she wanted to see if he would try to downplay certain aspects or lie. But he didn't.

He spoke about how he'd met his accuser, the helpful student and friend. "She was-how do you say this, flirting-yes, flirting. I know now that I should have…um…nip this in the bud, but I admit I found it to be flattering and I thought harmless."

"Was there any physical contact?" Marlene asked.

"None. Well, except that she liked to hug and seems to be infatuated with the European custom of kissing on the cheeks. But nothing else, not until just before the incident when she kissed me on the mouth and told me that she was in love with me."

"How come you did not tell me this?" Helena interrupted angrily.

Alexis shrugged. "I did not think it was a big deal. I told her that I enjoyed her friendship, but that I did not feel the same…that I was already married to the woman that I loved."

"I don't suppose you made any sort of dated notation about this incident with Ms. Ryder?" Marlene asked. "A memo in a file or an email?"

"No. It was a kiss. I told her that it could not happen again, and she seemed to accept that…she said we could be just friends."

"What happened after that?"

Alexis leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling with his hands clasped in front of his stomach. "Nothing. She was just the nice, helpful student struggling to complete her master's thesis, which is why I agreed to see her that evening in my office. I was feeling somewhat guilty as her adviser because I had been so focused on trying to complete the translation of my book. I felt I owed her the time."

Alexis reached the point where Sarah arrived and brought out the beer, which she then spilled. "That is when she must have put something in my drink," he said.

"Something in your drink?" Marlene said. "The toxicology report indicates that she had rohypnol in her bloodstream. Are you saying that you were drugged?"

"I did not see her do this," he said, explaining how he'd left to fetch a paper towel. "But I'm Russian and no stranger to stronger drink than a weak American beer. Yet, after we talked for some minutes, I felt…well, actually, I felt good, relaxed, but my mind was like…you would say mush. The next day, I confronted her with this, but she says I drugged her."

"Did you tell the police detective who interviewed you that you thought you'd been drugged?" Marlene asked.

"No. It did not come up. He did not seem too interested in what I say, except the part where…" Alexis stopped talking and looked at his wife and then back to Marlene. "Helena has not heard most of this next part. Only that this woman claims I raped her."

"I'm afraid she's going to have to know the whole truth now," Marlene said. "If this goes to trial, she will learn anyway, and it's best if she doesn't look surprised and hurt in front of the jury."

Alexis nodded and looked at the ground so it was at first difficult to hear him. "She gave me oral sex."

"What?" Helena asked, her voice barely audible.

"When I was in my chair and feeling woozy, she gave me oral sex."

Helena looked stunned and then angry. But Marlene pressed on. "Did you ejaculate?"

"Yes," he said, nodding. "She would not stop."

Helena set her teacup down with a crash. "She would not stop? Poor Alexis, you could not push her away? She excited you enough that much? Perhaps you did nothing to resist?"

Alexis said nothing.

"Well, the legal question is, did you force yourself upon her at any time?" Marlene asked.

"No."

"You didn't tie her up?"

"What!" Helena exclaimed.

"No."

"You did not rape her vaginally or anally?"

"I never did these things," he said, starting to seethe himself.

"She says he did this?" Helena asked Marlene.

"Yes."

"Does she have proofs?"

"There is evidence that she had sex in this manner. There are also traces of Alexis's semen found on her blouse."

"This is not possible!" Alexis cried. "I did not…have sex in this manner or do this on her blouse."

"Then how do you explain these proofs," Helena demanded.

"I cannot," he admitted.

"There is also a question of a beer glass found in your office with Ms. Ryder's fingerprints-as well as yours-and lipstick stains," Marlene continued. "It contained traces of the drug."

"Aha!" Alexis shouted. "There is proofs that I am telling these truths. I never touched her beer glass, only the one she handed me."

"There's no way to prove that Alexis," Marlene said. "Only one beer glass was located, and it had both of your fingerprints on it. Her version of the story checks out, including a witness who has come forward to say he saw Ms. Ryder on the night in question and that she claimed to have been raped by her professor."

"But her story is lies," he complained.

"Except that you accepted this oral sex from this woman…and her kisses," Helena cried and began to sob.

Alexis stood and went over to his wife. "It was not like that," he said and touched her shoulder but she angrily pulled away from him.

Marlene watched the couple and felt like a heel. But she also believed Alexis. If he'd tried to lie about the blow job or had tried to introduce some silly explanation, she'd made up her mind to walk away and leave him to his fate. But while he was defensive about his actions, which was normal under the circumstances, he'd answered truthfully with his wife sitting across from him.

"Helena," she said, "if Alexis is telling the truth-and I have to say I believe him-there are other explanations for these proofs, as you call them. But it's going to be tough to convince a judge and jury so we're going to have to decide if you want me to help and if you want to be part of this."

Alexis looked at her gratefully, but Helena just nodded as tears spilled down her face. Marlene was about to tell them that she'd decided to accept the case as their lawyer when Gilgamesh lifted his head and looked at the front door while letting go a low rumble that sounded like a diesel truck trying to start on a cold day.

A moment later, there was a knock on the door. Helena stood, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve, and went to answer.

Marlene noticed that Helena didn't look out the peephole before reaching for the doorknob. Definitely not a New Yorker, she thought, as Helena opened the door.

A large man-approximately the same size as an NFL linebacker with his pads on-pushed through the door with his right hand inside his suit coat. However, Gilgamesh had risen to his feet from next to Marlene and was already within closing distance before the man realized that the dog would be on him before he could get the gun out.

So, bud, now you know how a gazelle feels in that moment when it finally sees the lion in mid-pounce, Marlene thought.

The man froze, his jaw twitching and his eyes on the dog. Another man stepped in behind him and then moved to the side, speaking to the dog. "Hello, friend," he said. "There is nothing to worry about here."

As tall as her own husband, the second man had none of the fear in his voice that was playing over the first man's face. Nor was he threatening, which Gilgamesh seemed to recognize, and to Marlene's complete shock, he sat down wagging his tail and gave what she thought of as his happy bark.

"May I," the second man said to Marlene, indicating that he wanted to approach the dog.

"Sure," she said. "You two seem to be old friends."

When the second man approached Gilgamesh and knelt to scratch beneath his collar and accept the obligatory lick, Marlene had a chance to study the scarring she'd noticed on his face; her eyes were drawn, of course, to the black patch he wore over his right socket. He'd obviously been burned. She glanced down at his right hand, which did not flex or change positions as he tickled the dog. Extensively. But he's still a hunk, she thought as he stood up and faced her so that she could see what he must have looked like before the accident.

"A magnificent animal," he said. "I may need to visit your farm someday on Long Island and find myself a similar companion."

"We could probably work something out," she said, wondering why it was that every stranger in town today seemed to know her and her business but deciding not to give him the satisfaction of asking. "But this one's been acting strange all day. He wouldn't have attacked you or your friend over there-who, by the way, can pull his hand out of his coat-without the command from me, but he acts like you two came from the same litter."

The man laughed and motioned the other man to take his hand off his gun, which he did but couldn't stop looking at the dog. The laugh was a pleasant one, not forced, but at the same time she got the impression that he didn't laugh often.

"Dogs are just so much better than we are at instantly knowing who is a friend and who is a foe," he said. "If he thought I was a danger to his lovely mistress, he would have torn my throat out when I came in the door. Although, getting older, I sometimes think there is something to reincarnation, so perhaps we were once brothers in arms. Yes, yes, I believe I see in his eyes an old sergeant who served with me in Afghanistan. The one who saved me so that I could spend the rest of my life half blinded and looking like this."

As he said that his crippled right hand went up to his face. "But then I see that we share a similar fate regarding our right eyes." He turned back to the dog. "May I know his name?"

"Gilgamesh," Marlene replied, thinking that if this man was this attractive after he had been burned, he must have been a god before.

The man arched his eyebrows. "Ah, the ancient Sumerian warrior," he said. "Very appropriate." He looked over his shoulder at the first man. "It's okay, Milan, the big puppy dog won't bite you so long as you are well behaved." The man nodded but still kept his eyes on Gilgamesh.

"Now do we get to know your name?" Marlene asked. But the answer came from behind her.

"His name is Yvgeny Karchovski," Alexis said without enthusiasm. "He is a…what is the word, a gangster, a criminal. Unfortunately, he is also my half brother, though it has been many years since we've seen each other, which has been fine with me."

Looking at Yvgeny, Marlene thought she saw something akin to pain cross his face at Alexis's words. But he inclined his head to her and said, "I would argue with some of the semantics-I consider myself a businessman who operates within certain gray areas of law-but generally what he says is true."

"Yvgeny," Alexis continued, "this is Marlene-"

"Ciampi," Yvgeny finished. "The beautiful, adventurous wife of the district attorney of New York, Butch Karp. I know of your husband."

"Yeah? Not in a professional capacity, I hope," Marlene said.

Yvgeny smiled. "No, I know better than to conduct my business in Manhattan and thus have never had to worry about your husband. No, let us say we have some history and people in common, but is best that I leave this discussion for another day."

Yvgeny turned to Helena, who had backed up against a wall in fear when the first man came through the door, then remained there looking befuddled by the conversation that followed. "And this must be the lovely Helena, my sister-in-law," he said, embracing her and kissing her on both cheeks. "Is it the name that creates such a face as to launch a thousand ships?"

Helena smiled shyly. "You are kind, sir."

"You've never met?" Marlene asked.

Yvgeny exchanged a look with Alexis, then shook his head. "Regrettably, my brother and I were raised in separate households and we've, um, lost touch over the years. I was already living here in the United States when they became engaged, and apparently my invitation to the wedding was lost in the mail."

"It was so far to travel, brother," Alexis said. "And I would not have wanted to distract you from your business."

Yvgeny gave Marlene an apologetic look. "My brother does not approve of the family business-"

"Not my family," Alexis retorted.

"Yes, yes…he wants nothing to do with me," Yvgeny said. "But come, brother, there is no need to burden these lovely women with our estrangement." He turned and gave a little bow to Helena and Marlene. "However, I was wondering if I might speak privately to my brother for a few minutes."

"I have no desire to listen to what you say," Alexis said.

"No, but I will say it to you anyway if…"

Marlene decided to intercede. The appearance of Yvgeny had not, of course, healed the rift between Alexis and Helena. But she wanted to talk to Helena privately herself and said to the younger woman, "Why don't you and I and Gilgamesh go for a walk and give these two a chance to chat?"

"I don't need a chat with him," Alexis said.

"No, Alexis," Helena replied. "But I need the fresh air…and time. So you talk to your brother and Marlene and I will walk the dog."

Defeated, Alexis nodded. "Do you also wish for me to be gone before you come back?"

The tears rushed back into Helena's eyes, but she shook her head. "Nyet. I may wish it later, but I am thinking now that we need to have our own little chat after I've had time to consider this."

After the women left with the dog, Alexis angrily faced his brother. "How dare you come to my home uninvited," he said. "I have told you that I want nothing to do with you. I had hoped that you did not even know I was in this country."

Yvgeny motioned for Milan to leave the room. "Even if I did not know before, I could hardly have missed it in the newspapers of late-the Russian Casanova case, I believe they call it," he said. "But I've come to offer my help."

"I don't want it," Alexis said.

"No, no, of course not," Yvgeny said. "It would be like accepting tainted money. But tainted by what? Do you even know what I do for a living?"

"Other than break the law, including murder?"

"Your definition of murder in this case might be called self-defense by others," Yvgeny said. "It's a hard world, populated by evil men who we have sometimes had to defend ourselves against. But I ask again, do you know what I do for a living? I do not make a living killing, that is just an unfortunate and regrettable part of doing business."

Alexis shrugged. "Not that I care, but smuggling…black market."

"All right," Yvgeny said, "that is partly true. But what do we smuggle?"

Again the question met with a shrug. "What does it matter? It is illegal. You are a common criminal."

Yvgeny surprised him with his next question. "Do you and Helena wish to remain in the United States…perhaps become citizens?"

Alexis scowled but nodded. "Da…yes."

"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.

"Come on, you Russian cracker, show me something," Lynd said, dribbling the ball outside the three-point line. "You can't touch this." With that Lynd drove and dunked the ball while Svetlov looked on helplessly.

Running back down the court, Lynd wagged his finger at Svetlov. "This my house, baby. Come on, Moby Dick, you big dumb white whale, come get you some of this."

The Russians turned the ball over and one of the Bloods fed the ball long to Lynd, who again slammed it home and then ran back down the court wagging his finger. However, the next time Lynd drove the lane, Svetlov fouled him hard, raising a red welt on his back. "Damn muthafuckin' cracker," Lynd said. He missed both of his free throws.

The same thing happened the next time. In fact, it seemed that Svetlov was purposely letting Lynd see an open lane to the hoop only to hack him as he went by.

"What the fuck, peckerwood. Keep that shit off the court," Lynd yelled, but the Russian just smiled and wagged his finger.

The third time Svetlov fouled him, Lynd was knocked to the ground. He got up and pushed Svetlov, which was about as successful as pushing against one of the prison's walls. Svetlov grinned but then spat on Lynd.

In a rage, Lynd swung at him and connected with Svetlov's nose. The Russian put his hand to his face and looked unconcerned at his bloody fingers. He took two steps toward Lynd, ignoring another hard right as he waded in, and shoved Lynd so hard the black man was launched into the spectators. The gym erupted into pandemonium. Both teams came off the bench, and the inmates who'd been watching poured onto the floor, where a dozen fights and scuffles ensued. In the meantime, the guards stood back to wait for the prison's riot team to show.

In the center of the action, Lynd and Svetlov squared off. A Bloods gang member handed a piece of razor-sharp sheet metal to Lynd, who slashed at the Russian, but Svetlov easily avoided the attacks as he crouched in a wrestler's stance.

All around the two men, the other fights began to subside as the combatants realized that something big was going down center stage. One of the guards yelled, "Lynd, put the weapon down."

But Lynd wasn't listening. Connecting with the two punches had given him the confidence that Svetlov wasn't fast enough to deal with him. He smelled blood and felt like slashing the giant's throat open in front of the homeboys.

Lynd lunged, trying to cut Svetlov across the stomach. But Svetlov deftly turned to the side, and the blade missed eviscerating him by half an inch. His left hand slid along Lynd's knife hand until it reached the heel, where he gripped as tight as he could and then turned the hand back, reinforcing the move with his own right hand. There was a popping noise as the jujitsu technique called katate tori ichi snapped Lynd's wrist like a dry stick.

Lynd screamed and the knife went flying. Svetlov wheeled around behind his opponent and quickly put him in a figure-four headlock with Lynd's throat in the crook of his right arm and his left arm behind the black man's neck. He then squeezed his massive biceps and applied pressure to the side and back of Lynd's neck.

Lynd struggled, trying to break the grip with his remaining hand. He was losing consciousness from the pressure on his carotid artery. He looked beseechingly at his fellow gang members, but they had turned their backs and were walking toward the bleachers. He caught the eye of the man who'd handed him the shiv; the man shook his head and then he too turned away.

Muthafucka. It was a setup, he thought, a moment before he went limp. When his muscles relaxed, there was another cracking sound, more subtle than the wrist yet at the same time more final. Lynd's head flopped to the side, his eyes wide and staring but no longer capable of sight.

As the riot team came rushing up, Svetlov let go of his victim and the body crumpled to the floor. He placed his hands behind his back to allow the guards to cuff him.

"Vas self-defense," Svetlov protested. He spat again on Lynd and laughed. "He vas a bad sport, da?"