A Touch of Torment, page 5
part #7 of Nick Bracco Series
From behind him, Ropa said loudly, “He is here sir.”
Zelman’s eyes opened and he gestured to the chair across from him with a smile. “Sit, Tapo. Listen to my son, Jerry’s, latest song.”
Zelman leaned forward and raised the volume on his laptop computer so Pachkov could hear the discord more clearly. “Huh?” he said with raised eyebrows. “It is good, right?”
Pashkov faked a pleased expression. “Yes, it is.”
“It’s called, ‘The End.’”
“Yes.” Pashkov understood now what this was. It sounded like a funeral dirge. People trailing behind a casket with their heads down. The perfect soundtrack for walk through a cemetery.
“You must be very proud,” Pashkov offered.
“Yes, yes.” Zelman beamed. “I am very proud.”
As the song ended, so did Zelman’s enthusiasm. He tapped the spacebar on his laptop and the room went still. He appraised Pashkov with a fixed stare. “So, how is your aunt?”
“She is well, sir.”
Zelman folded his arms across his chest and said, “I am hearing a lot of praise about how you have conducted yourself. The Sicilian job, that was very well done. Also, that gentleman you visited last night at the bowling alley just signed a five-year deal with us. Your ability to bend people to your will is very impressive.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Zelman pulled open a glass lid to a container of almonds sitting on his desk and held the container for Pashkov. “Have some.”
Pashkov instinctively lurched back away from the offering. “No, thank you very much, but I am highly allergic to almonds. They almost killed me as a child.”
“Really?” Zelman said, replacing the lid on the container and popping a few almonds into his mouth. “You can die from eating almond?”
“My throat swells up and closes my windpipe. Since then I walk around with an Epipen, just in case.”
“That is how I am with bees. One bee sting puts me in a hospital for a week.”
“Horrible.”
Zelman’s expression changed. He waved his arm around the office filled with shiny stainless railings and finely crafted wood shelves. “Have you ever wondered how all of this got started?”
Pashkov nodded, looking curious.
“Twenty years ago, I was back home working for the Chechen Mafia, doing grunt work, much like you. There was this crew of Albanians who would not pay for the marijuana we provided them. They said the quality was poor and they wouldn’t pay. It was an insult we could not accept. I had to get rough with one of the Albanians and crashed a baseball bat across his forehead.”
Zelman shrugged, adding, “I had a job to do. Later, I find out the guy I killed was the Albanian boss, so naturally I am elevated to a higher position.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a photo and handed it to Pashkov. It was an image of a nightclub with swirling lights and people dancing in the middle of the floor.
“That is where I got the idea,” Zelman said, pointing a finger at his compatriot. “I was relocated into the south of France where I was employed by a private security firm run by Chechens who quickly seized control of all the dance halls and entertainment establishments to maintain order. Then came the business dealings. Laundering money the old-fashioned way. But I was always the computer nerd, putting everything into files on the computer. When my boss asked where the information was, I would show him a flash drive and he would look confused. That was when I realized I had surpassed their intellectual abilities and needed to branch out on my own.”
Zelman stood up and put his hands in his pocket. “I decided there was a better way. A digital way to launder funds. That’s where our cryptocurrency became so valuable. No one can track our transactions. Not even the feds. But I realized that we needed a place to integrate our forces within a society so we could navigate the corporate world seamlessly, without scrutiny.” Zelman waved his arms around the room of finely crafted shelves filled with crystal trophies of their business awards. “I would say our integration is complete, no?”
“Yes.” Pashkov wondered where all of this was going. He couldn’t think of anything else to say so he asked, “What about Malkin?”
Zelman waved the back of his hand. “He was charged with impersonating an officer. A misdemeanor in Maryland. That’s all. Our lawyers are taking care of it, then he has a chore to do.”
Pashkov sat there trying to convince himself that everything would be fine, but his boss appeared to sense his uncertainty.
Zelman came around and sat at the edge of his desk right in front of Pashkov and appraised him. “Here at Entertainment Resources, we all fight for each other, because we are all family.” He raised his eyebrows for affect.
Pashkov seemed obliged to smile.
“As Chechens, we face the same discriminations that all minorities face in this country. We are no different. And the Sicilians would love nothing better than to see us wiped out. Especially after what we did to the Perrino family.”
Now he was getting to it, Pashkov thought.
Zelman had clenched his fist into a ball and was tapping it on his knee. “We need to be ready for the attack. They will come after us with everything they have. I want you to be in charge of the crew and finish the job we started. Are you prepared for that kind of responsibility?”
Pashkov sat upright in his chair. “Yes, sir.”
“I will handle the finances and you will be my muscle. I am putting you in charge of the crew. You will have my full support on whatever decisions you make as long as it leads to the elimination of the Sicilians. Understood?”
“Certainly.”
“One more thing,” Zelman said, looking down at his computer screen where the music was paused. “I need you to protect my most precious asset. My son, Jerry. He is an innocent twenty-one-year old kid who likes to make music and has no desire to join our crew and I am perfectly fine with that.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Tapo,” Zelman said, leering down at him now. “We need to start this operation immediately. I will text you a file with all the data we have on the Sicilians. Can you do this for me?”
Pashkov stood up and held out his hand. When Zelman shook it, Pashkov said, “I will go to my grave executing your orders, sir.”
Zelman actually grinned at that one. “Let’s hope it does not come to that.”
Chapter 8
On the flight from Baltimore to Phoenix, Cara slept in a window seat while Tommy sat next to her reviewing FBI files on his laptop. It was a long night of tears and anger, reflection and regrets. Tommy had used every ounce of rationalization to help mitigate Cara’s grief, but the only time he knew she was out of pain was when she slept.
Now, her head was limp on Tommy’s shoulder, and he could practically feel the exhaustion drain from her body. The flight was fairly smooth, just the hum of the engines and a random bobble of turbulence.
Tommy read certain paragraphs of the FBI file two or three times to be certain he was understanding the depth of the Chechen Mafia’s financial acumen. Their leader, Khasi Zelman, had masterminded a digital empire using a credit card business as a front for his money laundering. He’d incorporated scare tactics to force business owners to use their credit card at a premium, sometimes threatening family members, but always using extortion as their main technique.
Zelman was a round figure of a man who didn’t look like someone who could rule a criminal organization, but Tommy could sense his power in the files. Millions of unanswered transfers using cryptocurrency to keep their balance invisible.
There was a sudden jostle as the plane hit clear air turbulence, startling Cara. She woke up with sad eyes at the realization that her nightmare didn’t go away when her eyes opened. Her face was flush with anguish and Tommy placed a hand on her cheek.
“I want you to hear something,” he said trying to divert her pain. He looked down and shut his laptop.
Cara stayed quiet.
“You were twelve when your second-cousin Devin was murdered. You didn’t find out until much later that it was the Mancini family who did it. It was Al Mancini’s crazy nephew who shot him.” Tommy shook his head. “Kid was always screaming for attention. Anyway, even though the whole world knew the kid acted on his own without Mancini’s approval, everyone in the Perrini family wanted revenge and they wanted it quick. Your father knew a war with the Mancinis would destroy both families. He hated violence, but he also knew if he didn’t react, it would be a sign of weakness and he would lose his stature with the family. Then some hothead might take over and . . . well, you understand. So he walked into Al Mancini’s office unannounced. Alone. Unarmed. Now, back then if you wanted a sit-down with a boss, you asked weeks ahead of time for permission. It was a sign of disrespect to do otherwise. Mancini’s men actually asked their boss if they should eliminate him right there.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope. Mancini allowed him to live. They talked for over an hour. No one ever knew what they discussed. Except me.”
Cara’s eyes widened.
“Your pop knew that Mancini’s nephew had a screw loose and he was causing Mancini all kinds of headaches. But if the kid was found missing or killed after that meeting, everyone would’ve known your dad had the power and Mancini couldn’t afford that. So your dad did something ingenious. Before the meeting, your dad called a crew chief in Kansas City, an old boss who owed your dad a favor. He asked him to take the nitwit nephew and give him his own crew and the guy agreed. So Mancini tells his nephew that his kill was so famous that a Midwest captain wanted him to take over his own territory. Well, the kid was thrilled to be a boss. Couldn’t leave fast enough. Mancini got rid of his incompetent nephew and it looked like a promotion. Your father said as long as the nephew never returned to Phoenix, he promised there would never be retribution for Devin’s murder.”
Cara smiled at her father’s ingenuity.
“Sal told his family that he browbeat Mancini into deporting his nephew out of state in exchange for a larger territory downtown. Everyone went along for the ride. They trusted him.”
“I never knew this.”
“Ever since then, Mancini treated your father with the utmost respect. There was never any conflict that Mancini wasn’t willing to settle peacefully.”
Tommy pulled a flash drive out of his computer and slipped it into Cara’s laptop, then gestured for her to open the file. While she tapped the keyboard, Tommy said, “The Chechens came to Mancini first and asked him to put down your family. Offered him 5 percent of their business in perpetuity if he gave his crew the order.”
Cara was facing Tommy now, her finger frozen in place above the keyboard.
Tommy shook his head. “Mancini turned him down.” He pointed to her computer. “It’s all right there.”
She opened the file, then scrolled down, reading with extreme acuity, her face looking amazed at what she was seeing.
“I could write a great piece on these guys.”
“You’re funny,” Tommy said. “What you’re looking at is confidential and off the record.”
“I know.”
“I’m serious. I’m letting you see that so you understand just how powerful these Chechens are.”
Her eyes flew across the pages, as if Tommy might pull it away at any moment. “We have to stop this, Tommy.”
“Uh huh.”
They remained quiet while Tommy put his thoughts together.
“I mean, come on,” Cara murmured.
“Mancini will read the tea leaves. He owns a large dry-cleaning business in the East Valley. It’s only a matter of time before the Chechens force their credit card business on him. He must know that.”
Cara mumbled a response while continuing to speed read the file.
Tommy waited for her to catch up.
“An airport hangar?” she asked.
“Yeah, they own a private aviation company too. Pretty clever. They can come and go as they please without scrutiny.”
Cara tried to click open another file, but an icon popped up requesting a password. She looked at Tommy, who shook his head.
“Sorry,” he said. “That’s as far as you go.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Of course I do. However, a year or two from now, you’ll be writing a piece about something different and a memory will pop into your head. You will have forgotten where it came from. I can’t afford that to be implanted in your brain.”
Cara frowned, then pulled out the flash drive and handed it back to him.
The flight attendant pushed a squeaky metal cart down the aisle and asked if they wanted a drink. They both declined.
Cara looked out the window at the clouds passing below them. When she turned back, tears trickled down her face.
Tommy wiped one away with his thumb.
“They had finally transitioned everything into a legal corporation,” she said, pulling a tissue from her purse. “They ran the concessions for all the major sports teams in the state, including concert venues and outdoor festivals. It was all legit. Then this . . .” she waved her crumpled tissue, “this Chechen organization bullies my father . . . and . . .”
She couldn’t finish, but Tommy knew to shut up and let the grief pour out incrementally.
They flew on in silence until a series of severe turbulence jostled everyone around. The captain came on to inform the passengers they would have some rough air for the next thirty minutes. A couple of times the plane seemed to drop beneath them and Tommy’s stomach lurched upward. There were some toddlers crying in the rows behind them, and a teenage girl let out a yelp during one of the drops.
Tommy reached over and held Cara’s hand.
“You want to know something,” Cara said looking straight ahead, no expression on her face. “I’m not suicidal, but honestly, if this plane went down right now, I’d be perfectly fine with it.”
Tommy squeezed her hand. “Don’t, Sweetie. We’re too close to Heaven and your pops might hear you talking like that.”
As Cara’s shoulders quivered with a new round of sadness, Tommy considered just what he could do to alleviate her pain. And confronting the Chechens would be a great place to start.
Chapter 9
Pashkov drove his 1975 Cadillac Seville south toward the airport. When he first came to America the old Cadillac was all he could afford. But as his income had risen along with his stature, he began to love the vehicle. It had that old mobster feel to it. And people would stare as he drove by. Amused or intrigued, Pashkov didn’t care the reason. He could feel the respect factor increase anytime he parked the car. Modern parking spaces were not prepared for such a large vehicle and that made Pashkov love it even more.
He pulled into a private entrance to the airport off of 24th Street and stopped momentarily at the security booth, where an older gentleman in a blue uniform waved as the gate swung up and allowed him entry into the parking lot. The facility was owned by Entertainment Resources where they had two Gulfstream G500s sitting with full tanks of fuel and two pilots on call twenty-four hours a day.
Pashkov pulled into a parking space in front of Hangar 49. He got out and tugged on his shirt sleeves until they were evenly matched from under his gray suit jacket then headed toward the door and pressed a button next to the entrance and looked up into the security camera. A moment later the door buzzed and he entered the facility and walked toward the main office to the left of the open hangar.
A couple of guys wearing jeans and tight T-shirts were playing ping pong next to one of the G500s.
“Hey, look who’s here,” one of them said, smirking. “The new boss.”
“Same as the old boss,” the other one replied.
They were no threat to him. They were a couple of workers low on the totem pole who’d been with the squad two years longer than Pashkov and still cleaning toilets. The guy who did concern Pashkov was Keto Yelnik. He had no blood relation to Zelman, but he was currently running things and could cause trouble should he try to undermine Pashkov’s authority.
Pashkov pulled open the office door, and the room became still. He could sense the banter disappear with his presence. It was a narrow room with a long conference table down the center. The wall facing the hangar was glass and the other three walls were decorated with posters of Chechen models, race cars, and outdated calendars. Seven Chechens sat around the table with coffee cups, soda cans, and a couple of open bags of potato chips.
Standing alone at the head of the table was Keto Yelnik with his hands in his pockets, acting innocent.
“What’s going on?” Pashkov asked, looking for the weak link.
Omar Strom was stifling a laugh. A skinny guy with sunken eyes.
“Something funny, Omar?” Pashkov asked.
“Nothing.”
A couple of other team members were giving Omar the stink-eye.
“Come on,” Pashkov said between gritted teeth. “You can tell me.”
The room was so quiet, they could hear planes taxiing down runways a football field away.
They were all staring at Omar now, waiting for his decision. Pashkov had been labeled the Enforcer, and everyone knew his ability to intimidate, but they’d never seen him use that talent on a Chechen before.
Omar was sliding down in his chair now with his hands up. “Hey, relax man, I was just laughing at something dumb.”
Pashkov knew what he had to do. He slowly took off his jacket and draped it around an empty chair.
“Hey, c’mon now,” Omar pleaded. “What is the matter, are we not allowed to laugh anymore?”
Pashkov walked around the table and twisted Omar’s chair around until he was facing him. Pashkov began to roll up the sleeve on his left arm. “Omar, have you ever seen me take off my jacket without hurting someone really bad?”
Now the guy’s face was draining of blood. “Aw, listen, it was just a bad joke.”
