Red rain 2.0 (11 page)

"We did that. In another life."

"Da, da. So no history," Vassily says, eyes dampening again. I feel something close to affection for the man, despite what he was, and probably still is. But then what am I, if not the same? "No history. We drink, we eat, we celebrate new life, okay?

"But fuck God, it's so damn good to see my little brother," he says, waving over one of the waitresses, an aging lady with stiff hair the most unnatural shade of platinum I've seen.

"What'U it be, hon?" she says, smiling at Vassily. There's a little bit of bright red lipstick on one of her front teeth.

"Vodka, you beauty," Vassily roars in English.

"Vodka? You mean like just a straight glass of vodka, hon?"

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"I mean bottle, big bottle, very cold." Vassily beams at her.

She lowers her order pad, the little stub of pencil in her right hand bobbing up and down. Then she laughs. "A bottle, hon? Sure thing. You look like a man who can handle a bottle."

When it comes I have to explain to Vassily why I can only have a sip, not match him shot for shot. He looks dismayed. "This is some damn shame," he says, shaking his massive head. "So. I drink for you, my friend. In honor of you!"

He does. He also slurps down three of the four dozen Chincoteagues on the half shell I order. They taste of the clean salt sea. He cracks his way through two of the three dozen steamed crabs, bright red and crusty with Old Bay. He polishes off most of the whole baked rockfish, plus massive portions of cole slaw, potato salad and sliced tomatoes.

"Ah, this I love, Shooter," he says. "This sort of life. No more field rations! Never again! A peaceful life. Food, vodka, plenty of pussy. We earned all this, no?"

"We earned it all right," I say. We're sticking to Russian only. "But what the fuck are you doing here, my friend? How the hell did you ever wind up over here?"

"Ha! Who wouldn't come to best place there is?" Vassily grins. "A simple story. I only stay around that shitty place we were together maybe six months after you left. Then I go back to Moscow, no more military crap for me, and get into some business with friends. But Moscow, hey! It's like your Wild West. Completely crazy. Bribe this official, bribe that one, everything's supposed to be fixed. You relax, maybe even make the mistake of counting your money before it's in your hands. Then out of nowhere some punk kid pops up and tries to shoot you. Always misses. But still, this is insane. I get tired of this pretty fast, although I'm making lot of money. More than I could believe."

"So then?"

"So then, I get in touch with some friends in New York.

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They tell me there is good business to be done there. Easy business, because they've got rules there. Nc worries some stupid crazy kid will take a shot at you for no a reason you can think of. I sell off some of my Moscow enterprises. I get on a plane to New York with some capital. Very quickly I find my friends were not lying."

"But the word here is you're interested in horses, Vassily. Not that great a business, I can tell you."

"Just a sideline," he laughs. "I got lot of interests now. First, I got this big nightclub in Brighton Beach. Full of people every night, people with lots of cash. We got food, vodka, dancing girls, the works. The place is making me rich. Horses? That's more like a hobby. But what about you?"

"Not getting rich," I say. "I own some pieces of a few thoroughbreds, they do all right for me. Then I have a couple of sidelines—between you and me, not exactly legal, but pretty safe. I sleep sound. I get by."

"Ah, my friend," Vassily grins. "Maybe we should do a little business together sometime. What I really have first, and big hopes for, is some import-export. Import merchandise, export cash to Cayman Islands banks. That's the idea. So far, great! Maybe I need to help you get rich too."

"Or maybe I'll help you. I retail merchandise around here. How is your retail network?"

"In New York, almost perfect. Here, not too bad so far. This is pretty new market for us. Not even six months down here."

Shit, I think. He's the one.

"I like to start cautiously. Too small just yet for you, I guess. But if things go well, who knows?"

"I'll be here. I'm interested in building my business cautiously too. And peacefully."

"You think I want any problem when life is so sweet? So. You let me know if you hear of any good opportunities with horses. I let you know when I get something going we can

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do together. Any interest in pharmaceuticals? Could be big. Very big, I think."

"Seems we're thinking very much alike. My sense too that there are great growth possibilities," I say.

Vassily grins, cocks his head. We're both probing, and we both know it. We know this isn't the time or place to take it any further. So we slide into reminiscence, over coffee, about the old days, remember a few mutual friends who never made it out. Vassily kills the bottle of vodka with a toast to them. And he almost rips the check, grabbing it from me, pays in cash and leaves a $100 bill for a tip.

Outside, in the humid air of a Baltimore night, another kiss on the head and a rib-cracker of a hug before he slips into a big Mercedes that I figure must have been waiting outside the whole time. I glimpse a heavy in the back seat. The driver looks like a heavy too.

"Shooter, you I love. Let's do some things together soon. Okay, little brother?" Vassily calls. I wave. Then his window glides silently closed and the Merc pulls away.

Pharmaceuticals my ass, I'm thinking as I drive home. Vassily is our man. The one we have to take down. The magnitude of that task hits me hard.

"Love ya to pieces and all that, Luther, but no way I'm taking a felony fall with you," Annie says in the parking lot outside HQ Friday night. "You steal this off the street, or put a gun to a drug dealer's head and make a little offer—he gives you the car, and you let him slide by not planting a half-kilo bag of smack in there and then busting him for it?"

She's got her old leather Gladstone hanging from her shoulder, her head's cocked to one side, and she takes a long step back as I slip in the key, pop the TT's trunk, and reach for the bag to cram it in.

"Hey, the car's mine," I say. "Bought it a couple of days ago. The Camaro died."

"You
bought
this? This midlife crisis toy? You went into

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debt for this? Aren't you a little young for midlife crisis craziness?"

"Came on early and real sudden. Must be my high-pressure existence. Or an old soul." I grin at her. "What's that they say, 'Live fast, die young, and leave a good-lookin' corpse'?"

"You think I'm buying into that one, think again. I'm not planning on reaching my peak for at least another ten years, and then the decline's gonna be so gradual and graceful no-body'll even notice."

She's laughing when she hands me the Gladstone and then eases her slim self into the TT. When I climb in on the other side, I see her slyly stroking the black leather, checking out the cool instrument panel, sort of form-fitting herself into the seat. "Have to admit, it's a nice piece of work," she says, when I start the engine and she hears the very muted growl as I ease out of the lot and onto the road.

The past three days had yielded zero progress on the reservoir girl, so Annie kept her promise about the long weekend in Virginia, though I knew she'd have her cell clipped to her belt, or be otherwise within reach twenty-four hours a day. I slip into the heavy traffic on the Beltway toward Annapolis, then break free of it and head down the more lightly traveled Route 301 through Anne Arundel, Prince George's and Charles Counties. I punch the TT up very fast just once south of La Plata. "Oh, I'm digging this," Annie says, doing her version of a twenty-year-old college girl. "I adore speed."