SHORT Stories
Friendship
li(Takes place approximately October 12, 2023.)
Kolya Petrov picked up a cup of coffee in the cafeteria, stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar. He'd intended to return to his office, where he'd been working nonstop for the past three days, only running home for a few hours of sleep every night. But as he turned to leave the brightly decorated dining room, he spotted Tehila Malada, sitting by herself in at a table in the corner, back to the wall. He hesitated, and then crossed the room to sit down across from her.
"Hey Kolya." She looked as tired as he felt. "How are you?"
"Exhausted." He sipped his coffee. "But otherwise okay." He hadn't seen her since the previous Saturday. She was a good friend. He should have sought her out earlier, but he'd been focused on the job. Find out what had gone wrong - and whose fault was it. Most of the agency was working overtime to figure out what had been missed. The rest of the agency was working sources to anticipate what might happen next.
"Are you really? Okay, that is." Tehila had a half-eaten yogurt in front of her along with a cup of something that wasn't coffee and looked nasty.
"More or less. Not pleased that we missed this." By we, Kolya meant the entire intelligence community, American and Israeli, not just the small agency that employed him.
"We took our eye off the ball. Everyone did."
"Still. Describing it as a colossal fuck-up would be an understatement."
"True enough," Tehila said.
"How are you doing?" It was Kolya's turn to ask the question that he knew wouldn't be answered honestly.
"Okay too. More or less."
But she clearly wasn't doing well. He hesitated about the next question, but it needed to be asked. "And your family? Are they okay?"
"No. No, no everyone’s not okay. I lost a cousin. He was an ambulance driver and was shot trying to rescue injured people. My aunt, his mother, is a mess. Also two good friends are missing. Either dead or hostages."
"I'm sorry."
"It's a small country. Everyone knows someone." She sighed. He understood. Being sorry changed nothing. "Have you seen Neil?"
He and Tehila were two of the three Jews in the agency. Neil was the third.
"No. He's on assignment in France." Kolya knew the location, but he didn't know Neil's assignment. He didn't need to know.
"France." Tehila took a sip of her beverage. "There've been a hundred or so incidents over there. People caught with knives near Jewish schools."
"Neil's very capable. And he doesn't look like what people think Jews look like." Neither did Kolya. Blond, blue eyed, he'd used his looks to infiltrate neo-Nazi groups. Tehila, a half Ethiopian, half Ashkenazi Jew who'd immigrated to the United States from Israel, also defied stereotypes of Jewish appearance.
"I know. That's not the point, though, is it?"
"No, it's not." Neil was an American, and he was a trained agent. He would most likely be safe. Those Jewish children - were they safe? A week earlier, Kolya would have thought so, but he was no longer sure.
Tehila stirred her yogurt but didn't eat. "Did I ever tell you about my brother?"
Kolya shook his head. "I didn't know you had a brother."
"I don't... now. But I did. He was seven years older than me. I adored him. He was smart and funny, and he wanted to be a doctor. Not easy in Israel, especially twenty years ago, not for a member of Beta Israel, even if our mother was Ashkenazi, but he had good grades and teachers who were encouraging him. We lived in Jerusalem, and he was going to meet me at my school, because my parents didn't want me coming home alone. It was the middle of the second intifada. His bus was blown up by a suicide bomber. I was ten."
"I'm sorry." It was the second time he'd said it, and it wasn't any more adequate than it had been the first time.
"It's why I became - what I am." She leaned back in her chair. "Not that I regret it. I like what I do, and I'm good at it. But what happened last Saturday brought it back. Terrorists massacring defenseless people for the crime of being Jewish. You know what the worst part of it is?"
He knew but he let her say it.
"The people who I used to think were friends. The ones who celebrate killing Jewish children in their homes and raping women in a field as a blow against white colonialists."
"Someone say that to you?
"
"Yeah," Tehila said. "This morning. A woman I used to run with. We'd joke about what people might think, seeing two black women running around the Lincoln Memorial reflection pool."
"I take it you hadn't mentioned being Jewish. Or Israeli."
"Never came up. She knew I was gay, though."
Kolya raised eyebrows but remained silent. Instead, he took a gulp of his coffee.
Tehila took another sip of her unappealing drink. "Ironic, isn't it? I was comfortable sharing my sexuality but not my religion or nationality."
"Understandable. There are still too many people who hate Jews. On both sides of the aisle. Did you tell her this morning?"
"It was either tell her or shoot her, and I had on white running shorts. Hard to get blood stains out."
"Change anything?"
"Other than ending a friendship? No. But apparently, I'm a white colonialist now."
Kolya smiled. It was fondness for Tehila rather than humor. "Now that you're white, does that mean that you're going undercover with Nazis instead of me?"
"You wish."
"Not really. I like going after Nazis." He drank more coffee. "Even if doing so has been occasionally ... uncomfortable." It was something of an understatement. He'd nearly died in various operations involving far right antisemitic fanatics. In one operation, he'd been held prisoner, his captors taunting him for being a Jew while torturing him. He still carried the scars, both physical and psychological, from that experience.
The cafeteria was slowly filling up with other agents grabbing a quick breakfast. Kolya spotted his usual partner and close friend, Jonathan Egan, who started for their table and then rethought, offering a wave and a nod and then heading in another direction. Jonathan had already stopped by Kolya's office to offer support.
"He's a good guy," Tehila said. "We spoke yesterday. You know, Jews judge whether someone is a real friend by whether they'd hide you when Nazis come to take you to the gas chambers. I think Egan would."
"Yes, he would. Disconcerting, though, how many wouldn't."
"You still a Democratic Socialist?"
Kolya, who believed in broad social programs to help people, had formerly described his political leanings as Democratic Socialist - but there had been a Democratic Socialist rally in New York where speakers had celebrated Hamas' attacks on civilians as resistance. "No. They're assholes. But I still want universal healthcare."
"Who doesn't? How's Alex doing?"
The previous night Alex, Kolya's beloved fiancee, had tossed and turned, unable to sleep, and nothing he'd said had comforted her. "Upset. She believes so strongly in human rights, and she's struggling with how so many people she's worked with don't extend that to Jews. Her nephew was taunted at his school, and someone threatened her brother. Still, being Alex, she's very worried about the children of Gaza."
Tehila sighed again. "Innocents always pay the price of fanatics. Tell Alex to hang in there. We need people like her. Not just people like us."
People like us. Intelligence operatives. It was necessary work, but if a road to lasting peace existed, it would be through people like Alex.
"She's hanging. Would you like to come for Shabbat dinner? It'll be vegetarian lasagna - so kosher - more or less."
"Who's cooking?"
"I am." Kolya always cooked. Alex was famous for her lack of cooking interest - or skills.
"Then, maybe. I'll check with Emma. I should really get back to work."
"Me too."
Neither asked what the other was doing.
He picked up his coffee, and she picked up the remnant of her yogurt and her cup of brown liquid. "Stay safe, Tehila."
"You, too, Kolya."
His job often involved not staying safe. He'd accepted that. What he found harder to accept was the feeling of not being safe because of who he was - not what he did. But as he glanced around the cafeteria, he saw people who had risked their lives with him ... and for him. Friends. From diverse backgrounds and cultures, they were friends. He, Tehila, and Neil might be the only three Jews in the agency, but they were not alone - not in the world and not in the agency - and knowing that made all the difference.
He followed Tehila to the elevator, ready to return to work.
Kolya Petrov picked up a cup of coffee in the cafeteria, stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar. He'd intended to return to his office, where he'd been working nonstop for the past three days, only running home for a few hours of sleep every night. But as he turned to leave the brightly decorated dining room, he spotted Tehila Malada, sitting by herself in at a table in the corner, back to the wall. He hesitated, and then crossed the room to sit down across from her.
"Hey Kolya." She looked as tired as he felt. "How are you?"
"Exhausted." He sipped his coffee. "But otherwise okay." He hadn't seen her since the previous Saturday. She was a good friend. He should have sought her out earlier, but he'd been focused on the job. Find out what had gone wrong - and whose fault was it. Most of the agency was working overtime to figure out what had been missed. The rest of the agency was working sources to anticipate what might happen next.
"Are you really? Okay, that is." Tehila had a half-eaten yogurt in front of her along with a cup of something that wasn't coffee and looked nasty.
"More or less. Not pleased that we missed this." By we, Kolya meant the entire intelligence community, American and Israeli, not just the small agency that employed him.
"We took our eye off the ball. Everyone did."
"Still. Describing it as a colossal fuck-up would be an understatement."
"True enough," Tehila said.
"How are you doing?" It was Kolya's turn to ask the question that he knew wouldn't be answered honestly.
"Okay too. More or less."
But she clearly wasn't doing well. He hesitated about the next question, but it needed to be asked. "And your family? Are they okay?"
"No. No, no everyone’s not okay. I lost a cousin. He was an ambulance driver and was shot trying to rescue injured people. My aunt, his mother, is a mess. Also two good friends are missing. Either dead or hostages."
"I'm sorry."
"It's a small country. Everyone knows someone." She sighed. He understood. Being sorry changed nothing. "Have you seen Neil?"
He and Tehila were two of the three Jews in the agency. Neil was the third.
"No. He's on assignment in France." Kolya knew the location, but he didn't know Neil's assignment. He didn't need to know.
"France." Tehila took a sip of her beverage. "There've been a hundred or so incidents over there. People caught with knives near Jewish schools."
"Neil's very capable. And he doesn't look like what people think Jews look like." Neither did Kolya. Blond, blue eyed, he'd used his looks to infiltrate neo-Nazi groups. Tehila, a half Ethiopian, half Ashkenazi Jew who'd immigrated to the United States from Israel, also defied stereotypes of Jewish appearance.
"I know. That's not the point, though, is it?"
"No, it's not." Neil was an American, and he was a trained agent. He would most likely be safe. Those Jewish children - were they safe? A week earlier, Kolya would have thought so, but he was no longer sure.
Tehila stirred her yogurt but didn't eat. "Did I ever tell you about my brother?"
Kolya shook his head. "I didn't know you had a brother."
"I don't... now. But I did. He was seven years older than me. I adored him. He was smart and funny, and he wanted to be a doctor. Not easy in Israel, especially twenty years ago, not for a member of Beta Israel, even if our mother was Ashkenazi, but he had good grades and teachers who were encouraging him. We lived in Jerusalem, and he was going to meet me at my school, because my parents didn't want me coming home alone. It was the middle of the second intifada. His bus was blown up by a suicide bomber. I was ten."
"I'm sorry." It was the second time he'd said it, and it wasn't any more adequate than it had been the first time.
"It's why I became - what I am." She leaned back in her chair. "Not that I regret it. I like what I do, and I'm good at it. But what happened last Saturday brought it back. Terrorists massacring defenseless people for the crime of being Jewish. You know what the worst part of it is?"
He knew but he let her say it.
"The people who I used to think were friends. The ones who celebrate killing Jewish children in their homes and raping women in a field as a blow against white colonialists."
"Someone say that to you?
"
"Yeah," Tehila said. "This morning. A woman I used to run with. We'd joke about what people might think, seeing two black women running around the Lincoln Memorial reflection pool."
"I take it you hadn't mentioned being Jewish. Or Israeli."
"Never came up. She knew I was gay, though."
Kolya raised eyebrows but remained silent. Instead, he took a gulp of his coffee.
Tehila took another sip of her unappealing drink. "Ironic, isn't it? I was comfortable sharing my sexuality but not my religion or nationality."
"Understandable. There are still too many people who hate Jews. On both sides of the aisle. Did you tell her this morning?"
"It was either tell her or shoot her, and I had on white running shorts. Hard to get blood stains out."
"Change anything?"
"Other than ending a friendship? No. But apparently, I'm a white colonialist now."
Kolya smiled. It was fondness for Tehila rather than humor. "Now that you're white, does that mean that you're going undercover with Nazis instead of me?"
"You wish."
"Not really. I like going after Nazis." He drank more coffee. "Even if doing so has been occasionally ... uncomfortable." It was something of an understatement. He'd nearly died in various operations involving far right antisemitic fanatics. In one operation, he'd been held prisoner, his captors taunting him for being a Jew while torturing him. He still carried the scars, both physical and psychological, from that experience.
The cafeteria was slowly filling up with other agents grabbing a quick breakfast. Kolya spotted his usual partner and close friend, Jonathan Egan, who started for their table and then rethought, offering a wave and a nod and then heading in another direction. Jonathan had already stopped by Kolya's office to offer support.
"He's a good guy," Tehila said. "We spoke yesterday. You know, Jews judge whether someone is a real friend by whether they'd hide you when Nazis come to take you to the gas chambers. I think Egan would."
"Yes, he would. Disconcerting, though, how many wouldn't."
"You still a Democratic Socialist?"
Kolya, who believed in broad social programs to help people, had formerly described his political leanings as Democratic Socialist - but there had been a Democratic Socialist rally in New York where speakers had celebrated Hamas' attacks on civilians as resistance. "No. They're assholes. But I still want universal healthcare."
"Who doesn't? How's Alex doing?"
The previous night Alex, Kolya's beloved fiancee, had tossed and turned, unable to sleep, and nothing he'd said had comforted her. "Upset. She believes so strongly in human rights, and she's struggling with how so many people she's worked with don't extend that to Jews. Her nephew was taunted at his school, and someone threatened her brother. Still, being Alex, she's very worried about the children of Gaza."
Tehila sighed again. "Innocents always pay the price of fanatics. Tell Alex to hang in there. We need people like her. Not just people like us."
People like us. Intelligence operatives. It was necessary work, but if a road to lasting peace existed, it would be through people like Alex.
"She's hanging. Would you like to come for Shabbat dinner? It'll be vegetarian lasagna - so kosher - more or less."
"Who's cooking?"
"I am." Kolya always cooked. Alex was famous for her lack of cooking interest - or skills.
"Then, maybe. I'll check with Emma. I should really get back to work."
"Me too."
Neither asked what the other was doing.
He picked up his coffee, and she picked up the remnant of her yogurt and her cup of brown liquid. "Stay safe, Tehila."
"You, too, Kolya."
His job often involved not staying safe. He'd accepted that. What he found harder to accept was the feeling of not being safe because of who he was - not what he did. But as he glanced around the cafeteria, he saw people who had risked their lives with him ... and for him. Friends. From diverse backgrounds and cultures, they were friends. He, Tehila, and Neil might be the only three Jews in the agency, but they were not alone - not in the world and not in the agency - and knowing that made all the difference.
He followed Tehila to the elevator, ready to return to work.
MAKING LATKES
(A short story to celebrate Hanukkah.) (Takes place between Trojan Horse and Nerve Attack.)
Alex didn't like to cook. Not only did she not like cooking, she was terrible at it. But in the spirit of the season, she volunteered to have the family party on the eighth night of Hanukkah at her Georgetown townhouse. Which meant latkes.
"We don't keep kosher." Her fiancee Kolya would of course try to find a reason to get out of hosting the party. He would attend family gatherings to please her, but he didn't enjoy them.
"Dealt with. Besides the only one who's that strict is my brother, and he's not coming. We'll eat latkes, light candles. It'll be fun."
"I've never made latkes." He did almost all the cooking. He liked it and was good at it, never once commenting that Alex as a capable and smart attorney should be able to follow a recipe.
"I know. Your Jewish education is woefully lacking. But it's okay. I'll make them. You can relax and enjoy my family."
"Just shoot me."
"Don't tempt me." But she wasn't really tempted or even annoyed. She loved him for who he was - even if she sometimes would have liked him to be a little less introverted. But she understood why he felt uncomfortable. He'd had a difficult childhood and was still struggling with physical and psychological injuries from imprisonment and torture after the intelligence agency for which he worked had betrayed him. He was unable or unwilling to talk about either, and he felt he had little in common with her gregarious and comfortable family.
He retreated to the piano in the living room where he improvised on Gershwin tunes for an hour. At least, he could play piano if he didn't want to socialize. But that wasn't the point of the holiday, was it?
On the day of the party, her great aunts, her great uncles, her first cousins, second cousins, and her cousins once removed arrived bearing gifts and kosher wine. She watched Kolya greet guests, and knowing that he was making the effort gave her a warm glow.
Then she retreated to the kitchen for the all-important job of making latkes. She grated onions and potatoes in the food processor, dumped all into a bowl, made patties, and then began the process of frying the mixture. But instead of remaining as patties, the potatoes and onions spread out in a gooey mess. With a spatula, she tried to form the traditional shape. Within minutes, smoke filled the room.
Kolya rushed into the kitchen, followed by her 86-year-old Aunt Shelley. He grabbed the frying pan off the stove.
"Heat's too high." He dumped the burned mess into the garbage.
"And too much moisture, Alex dear." Aunt Shelley gave a tentative swipe of the spoon to the mix. "What did you use as a binder?"
"Binder?" Alex asked. "There's potatoes and onions. That's it."
"Oh, for goodness sakes, Alex. Go have a glass of wine. Kolya and I will do it. Kolya, is there a cheese cloth around?"
He located one, and then he grated more onions and potatoes. Aunt Shelly squeezed the liquid while he, at Aunt Shelly's directions, measured out potato starch, matzo meal, salt, and pepper and finally mixing in an egg. "I'll make the patties," Aunt Shelly told Kolya. "You fry."
Alex watched them and then retreated to the living room where one of her great uncles complained loudly about a recent Supreme Court decision. Kolya and Aunt Shelly emerged half an hour later, Kolya carrying the platter of latkes, which he set on the table next to the sour cream and the apple sauce.
After the latkes but before sunset, the great-aunts, great uncles, first cousins, second cousins, and cousins once removed gathered around the Hanukkah menorah. Alex lit eight candles for the last night. As she placed the shamus candle in the center of the menorah, she noticed Aunt Shelly hanging onto Kolya's arm, while they talked quietly. He glanced over at Alex and smiled.
After everyone left and the house was clean, she curled up next to him on the couch. "How did you get on with Aunt Shelly?"
"I enjoyed making the latkes with her. And then she told me about her father - who immigrated from Kyiv. He had family who died in the massacre at Babi Yar." He was silent for a moment, stroking her hair. "As did my grandmother. Also from Kyiv."
"It wasn't such a bad evening after all, was it?"
"Not bad at all. Even though I know you burned the latkes on purpose."
"Moi?" Her feigned innocence didn't fool him. But it didn't matter that he knew. He'd enjoyed himself, and at last for the evening, he'd felt a part of her family. That was good enough.
How to Make Latkes
There are many recipes on the internet, and they are going to be more precise than my instructions. But - if you like experimenting:
Grate a lot of potatoes and slightly fewer onions.
Press to get the liquid out.
In a bowl, mix the potatoes and onions with enough matzo meal or flour that there is no moisture, one egg, unless you have a lot of potatoes and onions then add another egg, salt, pepper, and potato starch. Make the mixture into patties.
Using a frying pan (cast iron works best) heat oil and then dump in patties.
Cook until crispy on the bottom, then flip.
Cook until the second side is also crispy.
Serve immediately with apple sauce, sour cream, or jelly.
(A short story to celebrate Hanukkah.) (Takes place between Trojan Horse and Nerve Attack.)
Alex didn't like to cook. Not only did she not like cooking, she was terrible at it. But in the spirit of the season, she volunteered to have the family party on the eighth night of Hanukkah at her Georgetown townhouse. Which meant latkes.
"We don't keep kosher." Her fiancee Kolya would of course try to find a reason to get out of hosting the party. He would attend family gatherings to please her, but he didn't enjoy them.
"Dealt with. Besides the only one who's that strict is my brother, and he's not coming. We'll eat latkes, light candles. It'll be fun."
"I've never made latkes." He did almost all the cooking. He liked it and was good at it, never once commenting that Alex as a capable and smart attorney should be able to follow a recipe.
"I know. Your Jewish education is woefully lacking. But it's okay. I'll make them. You can relax and enjoy my family."
"Just shoot me."
"Don't tempt me." But she wasn't really tempted or even annoyed. She loved him for who he was - even if she sometimes would have liked him to be a little less introverted. But she understood why he felt uncomfortable. He'd had a difficult childhood and was still struggling with physical and psychological injuries from imprisonment and torture after the intelligence agency for which he worked had betrayed him. He was unable or unwilling to talk about either, and he felt he had little in common with her gregarious and comfortable family.
He retreated to the piano in the living room where he improvised on Gershwin tunes for an hour. At least, he could play piano if he didn't want to socialize. But that wasn't the point of the holiday, was it?
On the day of the party, her great aunts, her great uncles, her first cousins, second cousins, and her cousins once removed arrived bearing gifts and kosher wine. She watched Kolya greet guests, and knowing that he was making the effort gave her a warm glow.
Then she retreated to the kitchen for the all-important job of making latkes. She grated onions and potatoes in the food processor, dumped all into a bowl, made patties, and then began the process of frying the mixture. But instead of remaining as patties, the potatoes and onions spread out in a gooey mess. With a spatula, she tried to form the traditional shape. Within minutes, smoke filled the room.
Kolya rushed into the kitchen, followed by her 86-year-old Aunt Shelley. He grabbed the frying pan off the stove.
"Heat's too high." He dumped the burned mess into the garbage.
"And too much moisture, Alex dear." Aunt Shelley gave a tentative swipe of the spoon to the mix. "What did you use as a binder?"
"Binder?" Alex asked. "There's potatoes and onions. That's it."
"Oh, for goodness sakes, Alex. Go have a glass of wine. Kolya and I will do it. Kolya, is there a cheese cloth around?"
He located one, and then he grated more onions and potatoes. Aunt Shelly squeezed the liquid while he, at Aunt Shelly's directions, measured out potato starch, matzo meal, salt, and pepper and finally mixing in an egg. "I'll make the patties," Aunt Shelly told Kolya. "You fry."
Alex watched them and then retreated to the living room where one of her great uncles complained loudly about a recent Supreme Court decision. Kolya and Aunt Shelly emerged half an hour later, Kolya carrying the platter of latkes, which he set on the table next to the sour cream and the apple sauce.
After the latkes but before sunset, the great-aunts, great uncles, first cousins, second cousins, and cousins once removed gathered around the Hanukkah menorah. Alex lit eight candles for the last night. As she placed the shamus candle in the center of the menorah, she noticed Aunt Shelly hanging onto Kolya's arm, while they talked quietly. He glanced over at Alex and smiled.
After everyone left and the house was clean, she curled up next to him on the couch. "How did you get on with Aunt Shelly?"
"I enjoyed making the latkes with her. And then she told me about her father - who immigrated from Kyiv. He had family who died in the massacre at Babi Yar." He was silent for a moment, stroking her hair. "As did my grandmother. Also from Kyiv."
"It wasn't such a bad evening after all, was it?"
"Not bad at all. Even though I know you burned the latkes on purpose."
"Moi?" Her feigned innocence didn't fool him. But it didn't matter that he knew. He'd enjoyed himself, and at last for the evening, he'd felt a part of her family. That was good enough.
How to Make Latkes
There are many recipes on the internet, and they are going to be more precise than my instructions. But - if you like experimenting:
Grate a lot of potatoes and slightly fewer onions.
Press to get the liquid out.
In a bowl, mix the potatoes and onions with enough matzo meal or flour that there is no moisture, one egg, unless you have a lot of potatoes and onions then add another egg, salt, pepper, and potato starch. Make the mixture into patties.
Using a frying pan (cast iron works best) heat oil and then dump in patties.
Cook until crispy on the bottom, then flip.
Cook until the second side is also crispy.
Serve immediately with apple sauce, sour cream, or jelly.
CHOICES
(Takes place approximately 10 years before Trojan Horse.)
Kolya hadn't been home for almost two weeks. Well, technically, it wasn't his home anymore; he shared an apartment with three other associates close to the law firm in lower Manhattan where he'd been working for the past month, but the two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn where his cousin Rifka had raised him from the age of fourteen still felt like home. He'd wanted to visit, but he'd been working sixteen hours a day, including weekends. He only had the day off because the partner he worked for had settled the case on Friday night, but starting Monday, he'd be on a new case. It wasn't just the hours - he felt no sense of accomplishment or pride in what he was doing. He'd already reached the conclusion that this was not how he wanted to spend his life - which was why he'd sent an application in to the FBI.
Seated at the table in the kitchen, Rifka was crying. She looked even thinner than the last time he'd visited, a scarf wrapped around her head in a manner that reminded him of the Orthodox women who populated the neighborhood. But she wasn't Orthodox.
Alarmed, he crossed the room and bent over to kiss her. "What's wrong? Did you hear something from the doctor?"
She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped her face. "No, no, Kolya. Nothing from the doctor. Everything is as it was. I'm not crying for myself."
He sat next to her and took her hand.
"It's my friend. Nina. You remember Nina? She was killed yesterday."
"What? Who would have killed Nina?" He was shocked and angry. Nina had been a regular fixture on Saturdays in his teenage years. A regular attendee at the reform temple where Rivka had dragged him during adolescence for a token visit on the Jewish High Holy Days, Nina would drop by after Saturday services and spend much of the afternoon kibbitzing with Rivka. She almost always brought cookies or rugalach, homemade and delicious. Once the sun set and Shabbat was over, she would perform Havdalah - a ceremony that marked the end of the Shabbat and the beginning of the week - and then encourage him to play some of his favorite jazz pieces on the piano.
He later realized that Nina, widowed, twenty years older than Rivka and the mother of two grown sons, was also quietly offering Rivka advice on parenting a teenage boy.
"She was hit by a stray bullet when two mafiya gangs started shooting at each other on Brighton Beach Avenue." Rivka put her hand up to her face and wept. Calming again, she wiped her face as Kolya fixed her a cup of black coffee with sugar, her favorite. Even though it sometimes made her sick, she still wanted it. He set the cup in front of her and seated himself again.
"Did the police catch the kozyol yobannity that shot her?" He resorted to his native Russian to express his indignation.
She shook her head. "You know how it is. No one saw anything. No one's going to risk it."
"Yob tvoyu mat." He quietly spoke his favorite Russian curse, but she had heard it. She smacked his hand.
"Stop saying that. You sound like a Russian thug."
"Well, it's what I am, isn't it?" Or at least what he would have been had Rivka not adopted him from the abusive boy's home in St. Petersburg where he'd spent five years after the death of his mother. But his intent was to divert her, and he succeeded.
"You absolutely are not. You're a lawyer, a musician. Not a gangster." But at least the tears had stopped. "Have you had lunch? Can I fix you something?"
"Why don't I make both of us scrambled eggs and toast?" He could have cooked something more elaborate, but toast and scrambled eggs were what she could keep down. He mentally cursed the chemo, the breast cancer, along with the unknown men who had killed Nina.
Eating lunch brought a semblance of normalcy. He told her about his job, omitting how much he disliked it, and she told him neighborhood gossip. After the meal, he washed the dishes, and she asked him to play the piano for her. He preferred jazz, but like his mother who had taught him to play piano almost before he could walk, Rivka loved Mozart. He played Mozart's 11th piano sonata, while she curled up in her favorite chair, eyes closed.
At four, he kissed her goodbye.
"You're going to have dinner with your friend? The one from Russia who called the other day?" She clung to his hand.
"Dmitri. Yes, we're meeting at The Ukraine in Manhattan." Dmitri had been his best friend at the boy's home, but Kolya hadn't even known Dmitri was in the country until the phone call two days earlier. "I'll come see you next weekend. I'm sorry I missed a week." He'd do it, even if he had to compensate by working through the night.
"I'll be here." She smiled at his look of concern. "I'm going to beat this, Kolya. Women in our family are strong."
Neither of them was being completely honest, but he decided to let it go.
****
On his way to the subway, he passed the Blue Parrot, one of his favorite piano bar restaurants. The owner, Avram, a former resident of Moscow, had invited him to play jazz with other musicians when he was a teenager. Kolya had continued to jam at the Blue Parrot in the summer during his college years.
But today, the Blue Parrot was barred and shuttered.
It should have been open. On weekends, Avram usually opened for lunch and stayed open until one o'clock the following morning.
Puzzled, he entered the small grocery store next to the bar. The owner of the store, Masha, a wiry woman in her sixties, nodded a hello but didn't look up from the newspaper she was reading. When he'd first arrived in Brooklyn, Kolya'd stolen some candy bars and magazines from the store. Rivka had found his illegal booty in his bedroom, and he'd confessed. She had marched him back to the store, where he'd apologized, and Rivka had paid for the items. Then after school for the next two months, he had put in several hours sweeping and cleaning. Since then, Masha had been friendly when he dropped by.
"Why is the Blue Parrot closed?" he asked her.
She looked up from the newspaper. "How is Rivka? I haven't seen her recently."
A deflection.
"Okay. She's okay." Although she wasn't. "Upset about Nina."
"Nina's not the only one dead. Eight people have been killed in the last two weeks. That's not counting the criminals killing each other off. Eight good people. You didn't know?"
"I haven't been following the news." And Rivka had only mentioned Nina. "I had no idea that this was happening."
"Well, it is."
She returned to her newspaper. He waited for another minute. She looked up again. "You're not waiting around to steal candy bars again, are you?"
"I pay for them now. The Blue Parrot?"
She rustled the newspaper. "What did I just tell you?"
"Avram? He was killed?"
She nodded.
He felt a surge of grief. He'd liked Avram. "Did he get caught in a crossfire, like Nina?"
"No. He refused to pay protection money. Because he was a stubborn fool. So they killed him."
"Yob tvoyu mat." He spoke softly, but like Rivka, Masha had keen ears. Unlike Rivka, she didn't object.
"You can say that again. Those bastards will destroy every business in Brighton Beach."
He felt a level of fury that he hadn't felt for several years. "You?"
"I pay them. Because I'm not a stubborn fool."
"Someone should do something. The police."
She laughed softly. "I thought you were Russian. You should know that the police won't do shit to stop organized gangs. Not in Russia. Not here."
He had known about the gangs in Russia, about the dangers of simply walking down the street in the 1990s. Still, he'd thought America was different. Maybe he was wrong.
He picked up a 3 Musketeers candy bar and held it up for her to see. Then he handed her a twenty-dollar bill. She offered him change, but he shook his head.
"It's interest. From ten years ago."
"You paid that back and then some."
"Consider it lagniappe." He doubted she knew the Creole term for something extra given during a business transaction, but he liked the phrase. He'd learned it during a trip to New Orleans his senior year in high school to hear Ellis Marsalies.
Whether she knew the phrase or not, she accepted the money and waved him off.
*****
At six, he arrived at The Ukraine, a popular restaurant in the East Village serving Ukrainian and Russian specialties. The inside of The Ukraine almost glowed with pink. Pink ceilings, pink walls, and pink tablecloths. Kolya didn't really care for the decor, but he liked the food. It brought back memories of his early years in Russia, of his grandmother who'd fled Kiev and who had loved to cook. And he was looking forward to seeing Dmitri again, even if it would be a little strange. The brief conversation on the phone to arrange the meeting was the only contact they'd had in ten years - except for a few letters Kolya had written that had gone unanswered.
He had no trouble recognizing Dmitri, seated at a table in the corner, his back to the wall. At twenty-four, Dmitri still resembled the boy who'd taught him how to defend himself, round face, slightly unkempt brown hair, although the haircut appeared to be an expensive one and the unkempt appearance, a deliberate affectation. At the sight of Kolya, he stood, and the two men embraced.
"Good to see you, you son-of-a-bitch." Dmitri seated himself again, and Kolya took the empty chair. "You look good." He spoke in Russian, and Kolya responded in the same language.
"So do you."
Dmitri looked more than good. He looked rich. At the law firm, partners regularly sported hand crafted suits from London, and Dmitri's outfit had that expensive feel. Kolya also noticed the diamond pinky ring.
"So you're a lawyer now?" Dmitri signaled a waiter, who rushed over to take their order, herring, hot borsch, and a bottle of Absolut vodka. The waiter departed and Dmitri turned back to Kolya. "You like your job?"
"Not particularly." He thought of mentioning that he'd applied to join the FBI, but for reasons he couldn't articulate, he held back.
"I would have thought you'd become a musician."
Kolya shrugged. "I still play. But it's hard to make a living at jazz." He'd enjoyed the challenge of law school, the analysis of cases, the building of arguments, but the practice of law was quite different. "And you? You look like you've done well."
"I'm a businessman now. Doing some real estate. Buying and developing properties." The waiter returned with the vodka and two glasses, unusually fast service for The Ukraine, Kolya noted. Dmitri poured, and they clicked glasses. "Za zdarovye."
"Do you ever see any of the gang from the dyskeii dom?" Kolya asked.
"Sometimes," Dmitri said. "Misha is in prison. Arkady is married and has a kid. We meet for dinner when I'm in St. Petersburg. We've considered paying a visit to Yelseyev, the bastard. But we decided that you should be with us. "
"I don't have any interest in seeing him," Kolya said.
"He probably remembers you. But not fondly. You did break his nose."
Kolya didn't want to revisit the incident - the time when Yelseyev, the director of the boys' school, had tried to rape him and the maneuver that Dmitri had shown him, palm slammed upward against a nose, had saved him. One of many bad memories from those years.
"I was thinking of breaking more than his nose." Dmitri grinned at the memory. "You still remember how to fight? "
Kolya inclined his head. "I studied Krav Maga and mixed martial arts in high school and college. But I only use it for self-defense. I'm not going to go hunt down Yelseyev."
"I get it. You are respectable now."
"More or less. And you aren't?"
"I'm more or less respectable. But I'd still like to give Yelseyev what he deserves for molesting defenseless kids." Dmitri poured another shot for both of them.
"Hard to argue with the sentiment." Kolya clicked glasses again. "Here's to someone, but not us, beating the shit out of the old bastard."
The borsch and herring arrived. They continued to drink through dinner, while talking about the past, about music, about America versus Russia. Dmitri spoke of his years in the boys' home after Kolya had left; Kolya spoke of growing up as a Russian Jewish immigrant in America. By the time they finished eating, Kolya had drunk enough to describe a woman he'd fallen in love with in law school, but who regarded him as a friend.
"Why not tell her how you feel?" Dmitri asked. "Maybe buy her an expensive necklace."
Kolya drank another shot. "Not a great idea."
"American women don't like jewelry?"
"American women who've made their lack of interest quite clear want their opinion to be respected."
Dmitri grinned. "Boring, moi droog. I like America a lot, but this I don't understand. So, you're not fucking anyone?"
"Of course, I am. From time to time. Nothing serious though."
"Doesn't have to be serious to be fun."
"No. But caring for the woman does enhance the experience."
"It can." Dmitri signaled the waiter and held up the empty bottle of Absolute vodka. "It can be very nice. There's this ballet dancer - Katrina - back in St. Petersburg that I really like. I'm thinking of asking her to come to New York and move in with me. What she can do with her legs. Amazing."
The waiter appeared with a new bottle.
"So, let us get down to business," Dmitri's voice was warm, if a little slurred from the vodka. "I'd like you to come to work with me. I can make you rich, my friend."
"Work with you? I don't know anything about real estate."
Dmitri chuckled and poured himself more vodka.
"What's funny?" Kolya asked.
"What you know about my business isn't the point. I need a second in command. Someone I can trust. Someone who is like a brother."
"This is the first time you've seen me in years."
"I still trust you."
"But not completely." Kolya remembered their first meeting. He'd been hiding from Yelseyev under a piano in an empty auditorium when Dmitri found him. They had struck a bargain, Dmitri offering to teach Kolya how to fight in exchange for music lessons. Then, instead of shaking hands, Dmitri had knocked him down and explained that Kolya should never trust anyone completely.
"Maybe not completely, but I trust you more than anyone else I know."
Kolya poured another shot and regarded Dmitri, taking in again the expensive suit, the diamond ring, the chair strategically placed in the corner. He glanced around the room and realized that there were two men seated at a table fifteen feet away, watching them. He thought of the waiter, hurrying to provide the best service, unlike other times he'd dined in the restaurant.
"Those men are watching us." Kolya indicated with his head. "Do you know them?"
"They work for me," Dmitri said.
"They work for you?"
"Yes. And they're doing their job right now."
Kolya had graduated with honors from Columbia Law School, but he'd been slow in putting together the obvious. Maybe because he didn't want it to be true.
"You have muscle protecting you, Dimi? I thought you said you were in business."
"Well, I am a businessman. North American representative of Vladimir Rzaev. You've heard of him?"
"Of course. We used to talk about running away and joining him." And Rzaev was a gangster, one of the biggest.
"He has an import/export business these days. That's what I do. Import/export."
"There have been a number of shootings in Little Odessa in the past few weeks. People I know have been killed."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Some people think I'm cutting into their businesses, and they act stupidly."
"Stupidly? You call starting a gang war acting stupidly?"
"Yes. And I didn't start anything. They started it. And sometimes bad things happen to the wrong people. No one you were close to got hurt, I hope."
"No, but I knew them." Technically, not a lie. He had liked both Nina and Avram, but he hadn't been close to them. Not the way he was close to Rivka. He thought of her crying at the kitchen table.
"I'm sorry that people you knew got hurt. I tell my people to be careful of by-standers, but some of them are idiots and a little trigger happy."
Kolya glanced at the two men watching them. "What are you importing/exporting?"
"What does it matter?"
"You asked me to work for you. I'd like to know what I'd be doing."
"We import/export whatever the market demands - or what Rzaev tells us to do. It's very simple. I also am diversifying into real estate. Buying rundown properties, fixing them up, and flipping them. Very profitable."
"And you'd want me to do what?"
"Watch the business, keep track of the men working for me, of the money coming in and going out - you're smart. Also, now that you're a lawyer, you can help me navigate the American legal system."
"I'm just out of law school. You'd need someone with more experience to help you with legal problems."
"I need someone I can trust." Dmitri downed another shot. "That's more important than experience. I can hire a lawyer to do the actual legal work. I need you to supervise. Besides, my friend, you don't like your job much. You just me told me so."
"No, I don't like it. I am thinking of leaving. Although the job I'm considering pays less, maybe fifty thousand." Mentioning the job that he'd already applied for was out of the question given what he now knew about Dmitri.
"If you're earning fifty thousand, how will you get your cousin the best possible medical care?" Dmitri held up a hand. "Yes, I checked on you and on her. I know about her cancer. With the money you'll make working with me, she can have the best doctors in this country. I remember you crying when you first arrived at the dyskeii dom, just after you'd lost your mother."
"I was nine."
"Still, do you want to go through that again? Lose your cousin who's been a substitute mother to you?" He leaned on the table, speaking low. Maybe not wanting his bodyguards to hear. "You'd be making millions, not some crummy fifty thousand. Think of what you could do for your cousin with that money. And we'd be together again. Doesn't that have any appeal, my friend?"
Kolya thought of his conversation with Masha. Of playing piano at Avram's bar. Of Rivka at the kitchen table, ravaged by the cancer and the treatments for it, weeping over Nina. Then he thought about Rivka's bills that were starting to pile up now that she could no longer work. He'd applied to the FBI, but it would take some time to get in. If he got in. Meanwhile, he would be working on the new case he'd be assigned at his law firm on Monday - another corporation suing over nothing that fucking mattered - and as a new associate, he'd get all the shit work. Then there was the fact that he'd be lucky to see Rivka even once a week, given his job.
He had the possibility of a different path, one directly opposed to what he had thought he wanted. Instead of being in law enforcement, he'd be a criminal. Or at least, helping a criminal enterprise.
Would he have even hesitated if he had stayed in Russia? There it was hard to tell the police from the criminals. Or maybe they were the same. Was America really different? He'd always thought it was, but was he wrong?
Dmitri was the closest he'd ever had to a brother. Despite everything, he liked Dmitri, and Dmitri was offering him friendship and riches. A life that would allow him to take care of Rivka.
He might not have survived the boys' school without Dmitri. Did it matter that "sometimes bad things happen to the wrong people?" Did it matter that Rivka would hate his becoming a member of the vorovsky mir, the gangster world?
Did it matter that Dmitri was turning an American neighborhood into a hell for its residents?
He made his decision.
"I'll resign on Monday."
Dmitri grinned with genuine warmth. "Great. Then you'll start Tuesday." He pulled out a card. "My office in Brooklyn."
Kolya accepted the card.
*****
On Monday morning, he went online to check for a response to the email he'd written over the weekend. Then he handed his resignation letter to human resources, packed his up personal items, and arranged with his secretary to have the box shipped to his apartment. He left the building, located in the Wall Street area and walked to the Jacob Javits Center, arriving a little before one o'clock.
After going through security, he approached a receptionist. "I have an appointment. Bob Smith. One o'clock." He gave his name.
Despite the appointment, he had to wait twenty minutes before being ushered in the office. Bob Smith, a large man who looked elegant in a suit despite his size, stood and offered a hand.
"Are you sure about this?" Bob motioned him to a chair in front of his desk.
"I wouldn't have emailed you otherwise." Kolya seated himself.
"You should know that this is dangerous. If you go through with it, there'll be no going back. And you'll be a marked man. A hit can be arranged even from prison."
"I am aware."
"And he's your friend?"
"Childhood friend. Best friend."
"Mind if I ask why you're doing this?"
"People are getting killed." He would find some way to take care of Rivka, but he would not disappoint her by making choices he knew she would hate. Whether she ever knew what he was doing or not. "It has to stop. This isn't Russia."
"No, but it ain’t' paradise either."
Kolya smiled at that. "I'm aware of that as well." America was not perfect, far from it, but it was his country, and he owed it a debt for the opportunities that it had offered him. And he paid his debts.
Making the decision was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but Dmitri and his gang would continue to hurt innocent people. It was the right thing to do.
"Okay, then." Bob's tone become brisk and businesslike. "Just so you know, your application materials have already been processed, and we were going to offer you a position as a special agent anyway. I admit to being impressed that you didn't even ask about your application before you volunteered to take down your friend Dmitri. Welcome to the FBI, Kolya Petrov."
Kolya hadn't been home for almost two weeks. Well, technically, it wasn't his home anymore; he shared an apartment with three other associates close to the law firm in lower Manhattan where he'd been working for the past month, but the two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn where his cousin Rifka had raised him from the age of fourteen still felt like home. He'd wanted to visit, but he'd been working sixteen hours a day, including weekends. He only had the day off because the partner he worked for had settled the case on Friday night, but starting Monday, he'd be on a new case. It wasn't just the hours - he felt no sense of accomplishment or pride in what he was doing. He'd already reached the conclusion that this was not how he wanted to spend his life - which was why he'd sent an application in to the FBI.
Seated at the table in the kitchen, Rifka was crying. She looked even thinner than the last time he'd visited, a scarf wrapped around her head in a manner that reminded him of the Orthodox women who populated the neighborhood. But she wasn't Orthodox.
Alarmed, he crossed the room and bent over to kiss her. "What's wrong? Did you hear something from the doctor?"
She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped her face. "No, no, Kolya. Nothing from the doctor. Everything is as it was. I'm not crying for myself."
He sat next to her and took her hand.
"It's my friend. Nina. You remember Nina? She was killed yesterday."
"What? Who would have killed Nina?" He was shocked and angry. Nina had been a regular fixture on Saturdays in his teenage years. A regular attendee at the reform temple where Rivka had dragged him during adolescence for a token visit on the Jewish High Holy Days, Nina would drop by after Saturday services and spend much of the afternoon kibbitzing with Rivka. She almost always brought cookies or rugalach, homemade and delicious. Once the sun set and Shabbat was over, she would perform Havdalah - a ceremony that marked the end of the Shabbat and the beginning of the week - and then encourage him to play some of his favorite jazz pieces on the piano.
He later realized that Nina, widowed, twenty years older than Rivka and the mother of two grown sons, was also quietly offering Rivka advice on parenting a teenage boy.
"She was hit by a stray bullet when two mafiya gangs started shooting at each other on Brighton Beach Avenue." Rivka put her hand up to her face and wept. Calming again, she wiped her face as Kolya fixed her a cup of black coffee with sugar, her favorite. Even though it sometimes made her sick, she still wanted it. He set the cup in front of her and seated himself again.
"Did the police catch the kozyol yobannity that shot her?" He resorted to his native Russian to express his indignation.
She shook her head. "You know how it is. No one saw anything. No one's going to risk it."
"Yob tvoyu mat." He quietly spoke his favorite Russian curse, but she had heard it. She smacked his hand.
"Stop saying that. You sound like a Russian thug."
"Well, it's what I am, isn't it?" Or at least what he would have been had Rivka not adopted him from the abusive boy's home in St. Petersburg where he'd spent five years after the death of his mother. But his intent was to divert her, and he succeeded.
"You absolutely are not. You're a lawyer, a musician. Not a gangster." But at least the tears had stopped. "Have you had lunch? Can I fix you something?"
"Why don't I make both of us scrambled eggs and toast?" He could have cooked something more elaborate, but toast and scrambled eggs were what she could keep down. He mentally cursed the chemo, the breast cancer, along with the unknown men who had killed Nina.
Eating lunch brought a semblance of normalcy. He told her about his job, omitting how much he disliked it, and she told him neighborhood gossip. After the meal, he washed the dishes, and she asked him to play the piano for her. He preferred jazz, but like his mother who had taught him to play piano almost before he could walk, Rivka loved Mozart. He played Mozart's 11th piano sonata, while she curled up in her favorite chair, eyes closed.
At four, he kissed her goodbye.
"You're going to have dinner with your friend? The one from Russia who called the other day?" She clung to his hand.
"Dmitri. Yes, we're meeting at The Ukraine in Manhattan." Dmitri had been his best friend at the boy's home, but Kolya hadn't even known Dmitri was in the country until the phone call two days earlier. "I'll come see you next weekend. I'm sorry I missed a week." He'd do it, even if he had to compensate by working through the night.
"I'll be here." She smiled at his look of concern. "I'm going to beat this, Kolya. Women in our family are strong."
Neither of them was being completely honest, but he decided to let it go.
****
On his way to the subway, he passed the Blue Parrot, one of his favorite piano bar restaurants. The owner, Avram, a former resident of Moscow, had invited him to play jazz with other musicians when he was a teenager. Kolya had continued to jam at the Blue Parrot in the summer during his college years.
But today, the Blue Parrot was barred and shuttered.
It should have been open. On weekends, Avram usually opened for lunch and stayed open until one o'clock the following morning.
Puzzled, he entered the small grocery store next to the bar. The owner of the store, Masha, a wiry woman in her sixties, nodded a hello but didn't look up from the newspaper she was reading. When he'd first arrived in Brooklyn, Kolya'd stolen some candy bars and magazines from the store. Rivka had found his illegal booty in his bedroom, and he'd confessed. She had marched him back to the store, where he'd apologized, and Rivka had paid for the items. Then after school for the next two months, he had put in several hours sweeping and cleaning. Since then, Masha had been friendly when he dropped by.
"Why is the Blue Parrot closed?" he asked her.
She looked up from the newspaper. "How is Rivka? I haven't seen her recently."
A deflection.
"Okay. She's okay." Although she wasn't. "Upset about Nina."
"Nina's not the only one dead. Eight people have been killed in the last two weeks. That's not counting the criminals killing each other off. Eight good people. You didn't know?"
"I haven't been following the news." And Rivka had only mentioned Nina. "I had no idea that this was happening."
"Well, it is."
She returned to her newspaper. He waited for another minute. She looked up again. "You're not waiting around to steal candy bars again, are you?"
"I pay for them now. The Blue Parrot?"
She rustled the newspaper. "What did I just tell you?"
"Avram? He was killed?"
She nodded.
He felt a surge of grief. He'd liked Avram. "Did he get caught in a crossfire, like Nina?"
"No. He refused to pay protection money. Because he was a stubborn fool. So they killed him."
"Yob tvoyu mat." He spoke softly, but like Rivka, Masha had keen ears. Unlike Rivka, she didn't object.
"You can say that again. Those bastards will destroy every business in Brighton Beach."
He felt a level of fury that he hadn't felt for several years. "You?"
"I pay them. Because I'm not a stubborn fool."
"Someone should do something. The police."
She laughed softly. "I thought you were Russian. You should know that the police won't do shit to stop organized gangs. Not in Russia. Not here."
He had known about the gangs in Russia, about the dangers of simply walking down the street in the 1990s. Still, he'd thought America was different. Maybe he was wrong.
He picked up a 3 Musketeers candy bar and held it up for her to see. Then he handed her a twenty-dollar bill. She offered him change, but he shook his head.
"It's interest. From ten years ago."
"You paid that back and then some."
"Consider it lagniappe." He doubted she knew the Creole term for something extra given during a business transaction, but he liked the phrase. He'd learned it during a trip to New Orleans his senior year in high school to hear Ellis Marsalies.
Whether she knew the phrase or not, she accepted the money and waved him off.
*****
At six, he arrived at The Ukraine, a popular restaurant in the East Village serving Ukrainian and Russian specialties. The inside of The Ukraine almost glowed with pink. Pink ceilings, pink walls, and pink tablecloths. Kolya didn't really care for the decor, but he liked the food. It brought back memories of his early years in Russia, of his grandmother who'd fled Kiev and who had loved to cook. And he was looking forward to seeing Dmitri again, even if it would be a little strange. The brief conversation on the phone to arrange the meeting was the only contact they'd had in ten years - except for a few letters Kolya had written that had gone unanswered.
He had no trouble recognizing Dmitri, seated at a table in the corner, his back to the wall. At twenty-four, Dmitri still resembled the boy who'd taught him how to defend himself, round face, slightly unkempt brown hair, although the haircut appeared to be an expensive one and the unkempt appearance, a deliberate affectation. At the sight of Kolya, he stood, and the two men embraced.
"Good to see you, you son-of-a-bitch." Dmitri seated himself again, and Kolya took the empty chair. "You look good." He spoke in Russian, and Kolya responded in the same language.
"So do you."
Dmitri looked more than good. He looked rich. At the law firm, partners regularly sported hand crafted suits from London, and Dmitri's outfit had that expensive feel. Kolya also noticed the diamond pinky ring.
"So you're a lawyer now?" Dmitri signaled a waiter, who rushed over to take their order, herring, hot borsch, and a bottle of Absolut vodka. The waiter departed and Dmitri turned back to Kolya. "You like your job?"
"Not particularly." He thought of mentioning that he'd applied to join the FBI, but for reasons he couldn't articulate, he held back.
"I would have thought you'd become a musician."
Kolya shrugged. "I still play. But it's hard to make a living at jazz." He'd enjoyed the challenge of law school, the analysis of cases, the building of arguments, but the practice of law was quite different. "And you? You look like you've done well."
"I'm a businessman now. Doing some real estate. Buying and developing properties." The waiter returned with the vodka and two glasses, unusually fast service for The Ukraine, Kolya noted. Dmitri poured, and they clicked glasses. "Za zdarovye."
"Do you ever see any of the gang from the dyskeii dom?" Kolya asked.
"Sometimes," Dmitri said. "Misha is in prison. Arkady is married and has a kid. We meet for dinner when I'm in St. Petersburg. We've considered paying a visit to Yelseyev, the bastard. But we decided that you should be with us. "
"I don't have any interest in seeing him," Kolya said.
"He probably remembers you. But not fondly. You did break his nose."
Kolya didn't want to revisit the incident - the time when Yelseyev, the director of the boys' school, had tried to rape him and the maneuver that Dmitri had shown him, palm slammed upward against a nose, had saved him. One of many bad memories from those years.
"I was thinking of breaking more than his nose." Dmitri grinned at the memory. "You still remember how to fight? "
Kolya inclined his head. "I studied Krav Maga and mixed martial arts in high school and college. But I only use it for self-defense. I'm not going to go hunt down Yelseyev."
"I get it. You are respectable now."
"More or less. And you aren't?"
"I'm more or less respectable. But I'd still like to give Yelseyev what he deserves for molesting defenseless kids." Dmitri poured another shot for both of them.
"Hard to argue with the sentiment." Kolya clicked glasses again. "Here's to someone, but not us, beating the shit out of the old bastard."
The borsch and herring arrived. They continued to drink through dinner, while talking about the past, about music, about America versus Russia. Dmitri spoke of his years in the boys' home after Kolya had left; Kolya spoke of growing up as a Russian Jewish immigrant in America. By the time they finished eating, Kolya had drunk enough to describe a woman he'd fallen in love with in law school, but who regarded him as a friend.
"Why not tell her how you feel?" Dmitri asked. "Maybe buy her an expensive necklace."
Kolya drank another shot. "Not a great idea."
"American women don't like jewelry?"
"American women who've made their lack of interest quite clear want their opinion to be respected."
Dmitri grinned. "Boring, moi droog. I like America a lot, but this I don't understand. So, you're not fucking anyone?"
"Of course, I am. From time to time. Nothing serious though."
"Doesn't have to be serious to be fun."
"No. But caring for the woman does enhance the experience."
"It can." Dmitri signaled the waiter and held up the empty bottle of Absolute vodka. "It can be very nice. There's this ballet dancer - Katrina - back in St. Petersburg that I really like. I'm thinking of asking her to come to New York and move in with me. What she can do with her legs. Amazing."
The waiter appeared with a new bottle.
"So, let us get down to business," Dmitri's voice was warm, if a little slurred from the vodka. "I'd like you to come to work with me. I can make you rich, my friend."
"Work with you? I don't know anything about real estate."
Dmitri chuckled and poured himself more vodka.
"What's funny?" Kolya asked.
"What you know about my business isn't the point. I need a second in command. Someone I can trust. Someone who is like a brother."
"This is the first time you've seen me in years."
"I still trust you."
"But not completely." Kolya remembered their first meeting. He'd been hiding from Yelseyev under a piano in an empty auditorium when Dmitri found him. They had struck a bargain, Dmitri offering to teach Kolya how to fight in exchange for music lessons. Then, instead of shaking hands, Dmitri had knocked him down and explained that Kolya should never trust anyone completely.
"Maybe not completely, but I trust you more than anyone else I know."
Kolya poured another shot and regarded Dmitri, taking in again the expensive suit, the diamond ring, the chair strategically placed in the corner. He glanced around the room and realized that there were two men seated at a table fifteen feet away, watching them. He thought of the waiter, hurrying to provide the best service, unlike other times he'd dined in the restaurant.
"Those men are watching us." Kolya indicated with his head. "Do you know them?"
"They work for me," Dmitri said.
"They work for you?"
"Yes. And they're doing their job right now."
Kolya had graduated with honors from Columbia Law School, but he'd been slow in putting together the obvious. Maybe because he didn't want it to be true.
"You have muscle protecting you, Dimi? I thought you said you were in business."
"Well, I am a businessman. North American representative of Vladimir Rzaev. You've heard of him?"
"Of course. We used to talk about running away and joining him." And Rzaev was a gangster, one of the biggest.
"He has an import/export business these days. That's what I do. Import/export."
"There have been a number of shootings in Little Odessa in the past few weeks. People I know have been killed."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Some people think I'm cutting into their businesses, and they act stupidly."
"Stupidly? You call starting a gang war acting stupidly?"
"Yes. And I didn't start anything. They started it. And sometimes bad things happen to the wrong people. No one you were close to got hurt, I hope."
"No, but I knew them." Technically, not a lie. He had liked both Nina and Avram, but he hadn't been close to them. Not the way he was close to Rivka. He thought of her crying at the kitchen table.
"I'm sorry that people you knew got hurt. I tell my people to be careful of by-standers, but some of them are idiots and a little trigger happy."
Kolya glanced at the two men watching them. "What are you importing/exporting?"
"What does it matter?"
"You asked me to work for you. I'd like to know what I'd be doing."
"We import/export whatever the market demands - or what Rzaev tells us to do. It's very simple. I also am diversifying into real estate. Buying rundown properties, fixing them up, and flipping them. Very profitable."
"And you'd want me to do what?"
"Watch the business, keep track of the men working for me, of the money coming in and going out - you're smart. Also, now that you're a lawyer, you can help me navigate the American legal system."
"I'm just out of law school. You'd need someone with more experience to help you with legal problems."
"I need someone I can trust." Dmitri downed another shot. "That's more important than experience. I can hire a lawyer to do the actual legal work. I need you to supervise. Besides, my friend, you don't like your job much. You just me told me so."
"No, I don't like it. I am thinking of leaving. Although the job I'm considering pays less, maybe fifty thousand." Mentioning the job that he'd already applied for was out of the question given what he now knew about Dmitri.
"If you're earning fifty thousand, how will you get your cousin the best possible medical care?" Dmitri held up a hand. "Yes, I checked on you and on her. I know about her cancer. With the money you'll make working with me, she can have the best doctors in this country. I remember you crying when you first arrived at the dyskeii dom, just after you'd lost your mother."
"I was nine."
"Still, do you want to go through that again? Lose your cousin who's been a substitute mother to you?" He leaned on the table, speaking low. Maybe not wanting his bodyguards to hear. "You'd be making millions, not some crummy fifty thousand. Think of what you could do for your cousin with that money. And we'd be together again. Doesn't that have any appeal, my friend?"
Kolya thought of his conversation with Masha. Of playing piano at Avram's bar. Of Rivka at the kitchen table, ravaged by the cancer and the treatments for it, weeping over Nina. Then he thought about Rivka's bills that were starting to pile up now that she could no longer work. He'd applied to the FBI, but it would take some time to get in. If he got in. Meanwhile, he would be working on the new case he'd be assigned at his law firm on Monday - another corporation suing over nothing that fucking mattered - and as a new associate, he'd get all the shit work. Then there was the fact that he'd be lucky to see Rivka even once a week, given his job.
He had the possibility of a different path, one directly opposed to what he had thought he wanted. Instead of being in law enforcement, he'd be a criminal. Or at least, helping a criminal enterprise.
Would he have even hesitated if he had stayed in Russia? There it was hard to tell the police from the criminals. Or maybe they were the same. Was America really different? He'd always thought it was, but was he wrong?
Dmitri was the closest he'd ever had to a brother. Despite everything, he liked Dmitri, and Dmitri was offering him friendship and riches. A life that would allow him to take care of Rivka.
He might not have survived the boys' school without Dmitri. Did it matter that "sometimes bad things happen to the wrong people?" Did it matter that Rivka would hate his becoming a member of the vorovsky mir, the gangster world?
Did it matter that Dmitri was turning an American neighborhood into a hell for its residents?
He made his decision.
"I'll resign on Monday."
Dmitri grinned with genuine warmth. "Great. Then you'll start Tuesday." He pulled out a card. "My office in Brooklyn."
Kolya accepted the card.
*****
On Monday morning, he went online to check for a response to the email he'd written over the weekend. Then he handed his resignation letter to human resources, packed his up personal items, and arranged with his secretary to have the box shipped to his apartment. He left the building, located in the Wall Street area and walked to the Jacob Javits Center, arriving a little before one o'clock.
After going through security, he approached a receptionist. "I have an appointment. Bob Smith. One o'clock." He gave his name.
Despite the appointment, he had to wait twenty minutes before being ushered in the office. Bob Smith, a large man who looked elegant in a suit despite his size, stood and offered a hand.
"Are you sure about this?" Bob motioned him to a chair in front of his desk.
"I wouldn't have emailed you otherwise." Kolya seated himself.
"You should know that this is dangerous. If you go through with it, there'll be no going back. And you'll be a marked man. A hit can be arranged even from prison."
"I am aware."
"And he's your friend?"
"Childhood friend. Best friend."
"Mind if I ask why you're doing this?"
"People are getting killed." He would find some way to take care of Rivka, but he would not disappoint her by making choices he knew she would hate. Whether she ever knew what he was doing or not. "It has to stop. This isn't Russia."
"No, but it ain’t' paradise either."
Kolya smiled at that. "I'm aware of that as well." America was not perfect, far from it, but it was his country, and he owed it a debt for the opportunities that it had offered him. And he paid his debts.
Making the decision was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but Dmitri and his gang would continue to hurt innocent people. It was the right thing to do.
"Okay, then." Bob's tone become brisk and businesslike. "Just so you know, your application materials have already been processed, and we were going to offer you a position as a special agent anyway. I admit to being impressed that you didn't even ask about your application before you volunteered to take down your friend Dmitri. Welcome to the FBI, Kolya Petrov."