"Mets," I lied.
Gomp was an old New York icon, accent and all, and I realized there were fewer of them every year, and I was missing the old days when life was simpler and stupider.
Within a few minutes we were at the corner of Lexington and 68th Street, and I said, "I'll get out here."
He pulled over and said, "Anytime you need a ride, Tom, look for me in the garage."
"Thanks. Maybe tomorrow. Urologist."
I got out of the car and descended the stairs to the Lexington Avenue subway entrance. I consulted the transit map, used my MetroCard at the turnstile, and found my platform.
For Manhattanites, Brighton Beach is somewhere this side of Portugal, but the B train went there, so that's how I'd get there.
The train came, and I got on, then got off, then got on again as the doors closed. I saw this in a movie once. In fact, some asshole I was following five years ago must have seen it too.
To make a long subway ride short, less than an hour after I'd boarded the train, I was traveling on an elevated section of the line, high above the wilds of Brooklyn. I recalled taking this line from my tenement on the Lower East Side to Coney Island when I was a kid, when Coney Island was my magic summer kingdom by the sea. I remembered, too, spending all my money on arcade games, rides, and hot dogs, and having to beg a cop for subway fare home.
I still don't handle money very well, and John Corey still screws up, but now the cop I go to when I need help is me. Growing up is a bitch.
I got off at the Ocean Parkway stop and descended the stairs onto Brighton Beach Avenue, which ran under the elevated tracks. After all this escape-and-evasion, and a long subway ride, Boris had damned well better be alive and at his nightclub-or at least in his apartment, which wasn't too far from here. The good news was that if the FBI had been following me, they'd still be at the 68th Street station trying to get their MetroCards in the turnstile. And if an NYPD detective from my surveillance detail was following me, I'm sure I'd have picked him out.
I haven't been to Brighton Beach in maybe fifteen years, and then only a few times, with Dick Kearns and the Russian-American cop named Ivan who'd been born here and who knew the turf and spoke the language. Of all the interesting ethnic enclaves in New York, this is one of the most interesting and least touristy. I'd say it was real, but there was something unreal about the place.
I walked east along the avenue and checked it out. Lots of cars, lots of people, and lots of life on the street. A guy was selling Russian caviar from a table on the sidewalk for ten bucks an ounce. Great price. No overhead and no middleman. No refrigeration either.
I got to Brighton 4th Street and headed south toward the ocean, which I could actually smell.
The people on the street seemed well fed. No famine here. As for how they were dressed… well, it was interesting. Everything from expensive suits, such as I was wearing, to fake designer clothing, and lots of old ladies who'd brought their clothes with them from the Motherland. Despite the balmy weather, a few guys wore fur hats, and a lot of the older women wore babushkas tied around their heads. Also, the air was thick with unfamiliar smells. Did I take the subway too far east?
About now, I was wondering if this was a good idea. I mean, it seemed like a good idea when I thought about it back in Manhattan. Now I wasn't so sure.
My first concern was that I might be screwing up a good lead. It's okay to do that when you're on the job and things just go bad. But when you're in business for yourself, if you screw up an investigation, a fecal storm will descend on you so fast, you couldn't dig your way out of it with a steam shovel.
My other concern, which was not really a concern, was that Asad Khalil might be on the same mission as I was tonight. I certainly didn't need help in dealing with Khalil, mano a mano, but it's always good to have backup in case you're outnumbered. On the other hand, if Khalil was alone, then I wanted to be alone with him.
As I approached Brightwater Court, I could see the lighted entrance to Svetlana in a huge old brick building with bricked-up windows that ran a few hundred feet back to the boardwalk.
I continued past the building and onto the boardwalk, where I saw, as I'd expected, a boardwalk entrance to Svetlana.
I also noticed a cloud of gray smoke outside the nightclub, and if I looked through the smoke I could see tables and chairs, and lots of men and women puffing on cigarettes. It's good to get out into this healthy salt air.
I went over to the railing and looked out at the beach and the Atlantic Ocean. It was a little after 10 P.M., but there were still people on the beach, walking or sitting in groups, and I'm certain drinking some of the clear stuff from Mother Russia. The night, too, was clear and starry, and a half moon was rising in the east. Out on the water I could see the lights of cargo ships, tankers, and an ocean liner.
JFK Airport was about ten miles east of here, on the bay, and I stared at the string of aircraft lights heading into and out of the airport. One of the things that still sticks out in my mind after 9/11 was the empty skies-the lights and the noise stopped, and it was very eerie. I remembered the night when I was standing on my balcony and I saw the first aircraft I'd seen in four days. I was as excited as a kid from Podunk who'd never seen a jetliner before, and I called Kate out to the balcony and we both stared at the lights as the lone aircraft made its descent into Kennedy. Civilization had returned. We opened a bottle of wine to celebrate.
I turned and looked up and down the long boardwalk. There were hundreds of people promenading on this warm, breezy evening, and I saw parents pushing strollers, families walking and talking, groups of young men and women engaged in pre-mating rituals, and lots of young couples who one day would also be pushing baby strollers.
Indeed, it was a good world, filled with good people, doing good and everyday things. But there were also the bad guys, who I dealt with, and who were more into death than life.
I slipped off my wedding band-not so I could pass as single to the babes at the bar, but because in this business you don't give or advertise any personal information.
I took a last look around to be certain I was alone, then I walked across the boardwalk toward the red neon sign that said SVETLANA.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
How can I describe this place? Well, it was an interesting blend of old-Russia opulence and Vegas nightclub, designed perhaps by someone who had watched Dr. Zhivago and Casino Royale too many times.
There was a big, horseshoe-shaped bar in the rear with a partial view of the ocean, and a better view of the patrons. I made my way through the cocktail tables and squeezed myself in at the bar between a beefy guy in an iridescent suit and a bleached blonde lady who was wearing her daughter's cocktail dress.
Most of the male patrons at the bar were dressed in outfits similar to mine, so I was not in a position to be critical.
Anyway, my attire notwithstanding, I don't think I look particularly Russian, but the bartender said something to me in Russian-or was he a Brooklyn native and did he say, "Whacanigetcha?"
I know about six Russian words, and I used two of them: "Stolichnaya, pozhaluista."
He moved off and I looked around the cocktail lounge. Aside from the slick suits, there were a lot of guys with open shirts and multiple gold chains around their necks, and a lot of women who had more rings than fingers. The no-smoking law seemed to be observed, though there was a steady stream of people going out to the boardwalk to light up.
I heard a mixture of English and Russian being spoken, sometimes by the same person, but the predominant language seemed to be Russian.
My Stoli came and I used my third Russian word. "Spasibo."
The bartender asked, "Runatab?"
"Pozhaluista." Can't go wrong with "please."
I could see the restaurant section through an etched glass wall, and the place was huge, holding maybe four hundred people, and nearly every table was filled. Boris was doing okay for himself. Or Boris had done okay for himself before Asad Khalil cut off his head.