Limitless

‘Until John Junior took over. It’s a fucking mess these days.’

I was close.

‘And now?’

‘The Russians. From Brighton Beach. They used to work together, them and the Italians, or at least didn’t work against each other, but now things are different. John Junior’s crews – apparently – couldn’t turn over a cigar stand.’

I never had the measure of Nestor: was he just a fly on the neighbourhood wall, or was he connected in some way? I didn’t know. But then, how would I know? Who the fuck was I?

‘So lately, round here,’ he went on, ‘there’s this guy, Gennady. Comes in most days. He talks like an immigrant, but don’t let that fool you. He’s tough, just as tough as any of his uncles that came out of the Soviet gulags. They think this country is a joke.’

I shrugged my shoulders.

Nestor looked directly at me. ‘These guys are crazy, Eddie. I’m telling you. They’ll cut you around the waist, peel your skin – peel it all the way up to over your head, tie a knot in it and then let you fucking suffocate.’

He let that one sink in.

‘I’m not kidding you. That’s what the mujahedin did to some of the Russian soldiers they captured in Afghanistan. Stuff like that gets passed on. People learn.’ He paused, and did a little more wiping. ‘Gennady comes in, Eddie, I’ll talk to him, but just make sure you know what you’re doing.’

Then he stood away from the counter a little, and said, ‘You been working out? You look terrific.’

I half smiled at him, but didn’t say anything. Clearly puzzled, Nestor moved on to another customer.

I sat there for about an hour and drank four cups of coffee. I glanced at a couple of newspapers, and then spent some time trawling through the expanding database I had between my ears, picking out stuff I’d read about the Russian mafia – the Organizatsiya, Brighton Beach, Little-Odessa-by-the-Sea.

I tried not to think too much about what Nestor had told me.

At around lunch-time, the place got busy and I began to consider the possibility that I was wasting my time, but just as I was about to get up and leave, Nestor nodded to me from behind the counter. I looked around discreetly and saw a guy in his mid-twenties coming in the door. He was lean and wiry and wore a brown leather jacket and sunglasses. He went and sat in an empty booth at the back of the diner. I stayed where I was and watched out of the corner of my eye as Nestor brought him down a cup of coffee and chatted for a few moments.

Nestor came back up to the front, collecting some plates on his way. He put the plates on the counter beside me and whispered, ‘I vouched for you, OK, so go and talk to him.’ Then he pointed a finger at me and said, ‘Don’t fuck up on me, Eddie.’

I nodded and swivelled around on my stool. I strolled down to the back. I slipped into the booth opposite Gennady and nodded hello.

He’d taken the sunglasses off and left them to one side. He had very striking blue eyes, a carefully maintained stubble and was alarmingly thin and chiselled. Heroin? Vanity? Again, what did I know? I waited for him to speak.

But he didn’t. After a ludicrous pause, he made a barely perceptible gesture with his head that I took to mean I could speak. So I cleared my throat and spoke. ‘I’m looking for a short-term loan of seventy-five thousand dollars.’

Gennady played with his left ear-lobe for a moment and then shook his head no.

I waited – waited for him to say something else – but that was obviously it. ‘Why not?’ I said.

He snorted sarcastically. ‘Seventy-five thousand dollars?’ He shook his head again and took a sip from his coffee. He had a very strong Russian accent.

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘seventy-five thousand dollars. Is that such a problem? Jesus.’

If it came to it, I knew this guy would probably have no qualms about sticking a knife in my heart – and if Nestor was right that’d only be for starters – but I found his attitude irritating and didn’t feel like playing along.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘a fucking problem. I don’t see you before. And I don’t like you already.’

‘Like me? What the fuck has that got to do with anything? I’m not asking you out on a date here.’

He flinched, moved – was maybe even going to reach for something, a knife or a gun – but then he thought the better of it and just looked around, over his shoulder, probably pissed now at Nestor.

I decided to push it.

‘I thought all you Russians were big shots – you know, tough, in control.’

He looked back, widening his eyes at me in disbelief. Then he collected himself, and for some reason made up his mind to respond.

‘What – I not in control? I turn you down.’

Now I snorted sarcastically.

He paused. Then he snarled, ‘Fuck you. What you know about us anyway?’

‘Quite a bit, actually. I know about Marat Balagula and the gas tax scam, and that deal with the Colombo family. Then there’s … Michael …’ I paused and made a show of trying to get the name out. ‘ … Shmushkevich?’