Chapter 33

Someone once said that even gangsters have morals. Perhaps some do but Bernie Zito wasn’t one of them. At the moment he was desperate. His mule, and more importantly her cargo, was slipping through his fingers. Frankie (his man in Riga) had gone AWOL. All the leverage he had left was the mother-in-law.

Vika was shivering, rubbing her arms as if she’d caught a chill. Even though she was seated at the prime table in Osiris—the one next to a fireplace—she couldn’t stop shaking. Eggy had ordered her a hot balzams drink and watched, with concern, as she took a few sips.

This wasn’t the brash flashy Vika he had met at the airport just a short while ago—although it seemed to him that he had somehow known her forever. Gone were the diamonds and the self-confident smile. Her eyes were imploring. She was pale, her voice feeble and hesitant.

“Is this a trick, Eggy? Is it? Is this his way of dragging me back? Back to face his wrath? He would never let me go. He’d kill me.”

Eggy knew nothing at all about organized crime. Well, he knew that it existed. Everywhere. But it had never touched him. Growing up in Soviet Latvia, he had learned to stay silent, to stay invisible, to blend in and to survive.

“I don’t know, Vika. I just don’t know. But it’s monstrous to use an old lady—a mother—to terrorize someone. To terrorize you.”

Vika exhaled a long sigh, her shoulders slumped. Her mind felt paralyzed, as if it just couldn’t take in another thought. Sitting up straighter, she ordered herself to snap out of it. She had to do something. But, other than repeatedly calling and texting Irena, she just didn’t know what to do. She wished she had gotten to know the other people in her mother’s condo building. But back then Vika hadn’t felt the need to be over-protective. Things had run smoothly. Vika had taken her trips on Bernie’s behalf. Irena had enjoyed the comfort and safety of her condo. Nothing could have made Vika think that this seemingly harmonious life couldn’t go on. Until Latvia.

She reviewed her acquaintances in New York. There was no one she could trust. Most of  them were Bernie’s friends. There was just no one in New York she could ask for help. Then it occurred to her. Maybe there was. Where was Frankie? Was he still here in Riga or had he returned to New York?

With shaking hands Vika opened her phone. Saw again the text from Bernie. Your mother has had a heart attack. She’s asking for you. Come home.

She’d try to play him. Yes, Bernie! I’m so worried. Please, please tell me more. Where is she? How bad is it? Can I reach her? Please!

She closed her phone, put it on the table and looked up at Eggy with a wane smile. At least she was trying. She closed her eyes and gently tapped her phone as if in a religious ritual. Suddenly she remembered how hungry she was.

“What’s good to eat here?”

Eggy’s face brightened. “Let’s look at the menu. I think there’s even one in English.”

The phone pinged. The ritual had worked—but not in a good way. A text from Bernie: She needs you to come home. She doesn’t want to die alone.

Vika chewed on her lower lip. She cursed herself for allowing her eyes to mist over and for the tears that were now coursing down her cheeks. No need for a menu.

She needed to act. She needed to call Frankie. He was now her only hope—the last straw she could hang on to.

Luckily Frankie answered almost immediately. He had made it out of the cold. He was in Italy soaking up the warm sun. But there was a bit of good news. Once he had heard Vika’s story he told her he’d ask his cousin Vinny, who was well-connected in New York, to make some inquiries. Frankie himself had retired. He was well out of the game. But Vinny was reliable.

*  *  *

*  *  *

Some gangsters did have—if not morals—at least a modicum of good manners. Juris Lapins had handed Arsy a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He had even reached out and lit Arsy’s fag. Nothing threatening about that!

Arsy exhaled smoke, tried to relax. Tried to see Juris as just a devoted grandfather. Aina’s grandfather. Juris had a chamelionlike ability to become anything he wanted—a doting grandfather, a trusted friend, a ruthless criminal.

Arsy sat there smoking for what felt like hours. In fact only a few minutes had passed. Juris was ready to hear his story.

“Would you like a drink? Coffee?” Juris knew that making people comfortable paid off. His charm was a gift from the Goddess of Gangsters—or from KGB training on how to seduce foreign visitors into revealing more than they were prepared to tell.

“No. Thank you.” Arsy’s smile was uncertain. “I felt I should tell you what I know.”

“Have your coffee first. I notice your hands are trembling. The coffee will calm your nerves. Or would vodka be better?”

Juris signaled one of his boys to serve the coffee, whether Arsy wanted it or not. No one says “no thanks” to Juris.

Arsy accepted the coffee, took a long calming breath and just dove in. He told Juris about the visit from Ivo. In order not to leave anything out, he forced himself to talk about Aina. At the mention of his granddaughter’s name, Juris’ face darkened and the whole complexion of the meeting changed.

Arsy was scared to death.

“My granddaughter has longed to travel. There are excellent art schools abroad. Don’t mention her name again!”

You could hear a pin drop. Arsy’s eyes widened, his complexion turned ashen.

Juris continued in a calm and non-aggressive voice. “Listen up. If you want to stay alive, this is what you’re going to do. This Ivo you’re telling me about was a nobody. You saw him on the steps of the academy. Ivo is no more. He took his last breath on those stairs.”

Arsy’s blood ran cold. He could hardly speak. “What am I supposed to do?” he whispered. From his work as an art forger who had been trying to make just enough money to make ends meet, he had just crossed the line into an even darker and deeper circle in Dante’s Inferno.

Under his breath he murmured in Russian God have mercy on my soul.