Legends

As darkness settled over Little Odessa, the Russians began heading back to their apartments. Behind them, on Brighton Beach Avenue, traffic thinned out. Lights appeared in windows on both sides of Fifth Street; the bulb in the vestibule of the funeral parlor across the street came on. Two floors above the door with the gold lettering that read “Akhdan Abdulkhadzhiev & Sons—Crematorium,” an elaborate chandelier fitted with Christmas tree bulbs blazed into life and the scratchy sound of an accordion playing melodies that sounded decidedly Central Asian drifted out of an open window. A lean man and a teenage boy dragged a pushcart filled with tins of halavah down the middle of the street and turned into one of the driveways near the end of the block. Two young girls skipping rope as they made their way home passed the Packard. An old woman carrying a Russian avoska filled with vegetables hurried up the steps of a nearby brownstone. When the street appeared deserted, Martin leaned forward and nudged Stella on the shoulder.

She angled her rearview mirror so that she could see Martin in it. “How long did I sleep?”

“A few minutes.”

Samat’s eyes blinked open and he swallowed a yawn. He looked up and down the street. “I do not understand why we have come to the Russian section of Brooklyn,” he said anxiously. “If it is to meet someone—”

Martin could hear a voice in his ear. For once in your life, don’t weigh the pros and cons—just act violently.

“Dante?”

You don’t want to shoot him, Martin—too noisy. Use the butt. Break his knee cap.

Stella said, “Who are you talking to, Martin?”

Don’t think about it, just do it, for Christsake!

“I’m talking to myself,” Martin murmured.

He was sorely tempted—to jailbreak, to set foot outside the Martin Odum legend; to become, if only for an instant, someone as impulsive as Dante Pippen. Clutching the Tula-Tokarev by the barrel, Martin slammed the grip down hard on Samat’s right knee. The sharp crunch of the bone splintering filled the Packard. Samat stared in disbelief at his knee as a brownish stain soaked into the fabric of his trousers. Then the pain reached his brain and he cried out in agony. Tears spurted from his eyes.

Stella twisted in the seat, breathing hard. “Martin, have you gone mad?”

“I’m going sane.”

Samat, cradling his shattered knee cap with both hands, thrashed in pain. Martin said, very softly, “You killed Kastner, didn’t you?”

“Get me a doctor.”

“You killed Kastner,” Martin repeated. “Admit it and I will put an end to your suffering.”

“I had nothing to do with Kastner’s death. The Oligarkh had him eliminated when the Quest woman told him you were trying to find me. My uncle and Quest … they wanted to cut off all the leads.”

Stella said, “How did the killers get into the house without breaking a door or a window?”

“Quest supplied the keys to the doors and the alarm box.”

“You killed the Chinese girl on the roof, too,” Martin said.

Samat’s nose began to run. “Quest’s people told the Oligarkh about the beehives on the roof. He sent a marksman to the roof across the street. The marksman mistook the Chinese girl for you. Her death was an accident.”

“Where is the Oligarkh?”

“For the love of God, I must get to a doctor.”

“Where is the Oligarkh?”

“I told you, I do not know.”

“I know you know.”

“We speak only on the phone.”

“The 718 number?”

When Samat didn’t say anything, Martin reached across Samat and pushed open the door on his side of the car. “Read the name on the crematorium door,” he ordered.

Samat tried to make out the name through the tears blurring his vision. “I cannot see—”

“It says Akhdan Abdulkhadzhiev. Abdulkhadzhiev is a Chechen name. The crematorium is the Chechen business that was accused of extracting gold teeth before cremating the corpses. If you don’t give me the phone number, I’ll push you out of the car and ring the bell and tell the Chechens sitting down to supper upstairs that the man who hanged the Ottoman upside down from a lamppost in Moscow is on their doorstep. There isn’t a Chechen alive who doesn’t know the story, who won’t jump at the chance to settle old scores.”

“No, no. The number … the number is 718-555-9291.”

“If you’re lying, I’ll break your other knee.”

“On my mother’s head, I swear it. Now take me to a doctor.”

Martin got out of the Packard and came around to the other side of the car and, taking a grip on Samat’s wrists, pulled him from the backseat across the sidewalk. He propped Samat up so that he was sitting on the sidewalk with his back against the door. Then Martin pressed the buzzer for several seconds. Two floors over his head a young woman appeared in the open window.

“Crematorium closed for the day,” she shouted down.

“Crematorium about to open,” Martin called back. “You ever hear of a Chechen nicknamed the Ottoman?”