At 11:00 p.m. in Brighton Beach, a well-dressed man with brown hair and a pinky ring spoke into the payphone, his wool overcoat pulled tight against the night air. “I know, I know it’s late. I had to balance the books, he said to his wife in Russian. “I understand, I’ll be home soon,”
In his free hand, he turned over a joker card he found in his office earlier—grinning face up, then down, then up again.
The street was quiet except for the rumbling of the train overhead. The kind of quiet that made you check over your shoulder at the slightest noise.
A stray cat hissed from behind a garbage can, and it startled him enough to put his hand on the gun in his pocket. He took a few deep breaths and picked up his pace.
Aside from the occasional drunk stumbling home from a bar, the block was empty. Early March wind cut through the street and rain began to fall in earnest. He pulled his coat tighter as he reached his car, parked on a side street.
The train roared past as he pulled out his key.
Suddenly, an engine revved behind him. A car pulled up, windows down, shots firing out. The train’s rumble masked the first that grazed his arm. Another hit his back. He ducked behind his car and returned fire as bullets shattered the windows.
He broke into a sprint down the alleyways, skidding over trash and puddles, ignoring the scrape of his hands and knees as he fell and scrambled up again. Blood loss made him dizzy. He frantically began ringing doorbells—first one building, then another—but no one was coming fast enough.
Finally, an apartment door cracked open. He began to speak, gasping, but a third shot rang out and echoed throughout the night. He collapsed, then tumbled down the concrete steps.
The car sped away into the darkness.
Within minutes, neighbors spilled into the street. Phones rang frantically. The body lay sprawled on the asphalt, face pale under the flickering streetlight. In his hand a bloody joker card that fluttered to the wet pavement, washing away in the rain.
20 minutes later a black car parked near a Russian club named ‘Rasputin.’
A man in his early 30s, buzz cut, brown leather jacket over navy blue tracksuit gets out of the car with another younger man, blonde, black tracksuit.
They walk into the club into the back office.
The man behind the desk didn’t even look up – a clean-shaven head gleaming under the flickering light, massive frame filling the chair like a predator at rest. Broad shoulders strained against a worn leather jacket, the unmistakable build of a former enforcer who’d earned his way to the top.
“Boss, it is done.” the first man said in Russian.
The boss replied back in Russian. “Good, good. Did you get the card back?”
“No,” the first man answered, perplexed.
“You owe me new deck of cards.” the mob boss said.
“Excuse me boss?” the first man said.
“Ha, I am just fucking with you, but leave.”
The two men left, and the boss took a shot of vodka, smirked and said to himself “America..”