I’m done with this work we’ll go to Disneyworld.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Then work hard and come home soon!”
“I will, honey. I just have to see a man and then I’m coming home.”
Gunny Leffertz said:
“Never underestimate the power of fucking up the other guy’s day.”
21
----
Symon Kharchenko sat chewing a cigar and watching surveillance video on the big screen in the den. His son Danya started to tell him that Uncle Wolo didn’t allow smoking in his house. Vanko elbowed him and gave him a sharp look.
Out by the pool the cleaning crew had Wolo out of the pool and lying on his back on the tiles. Two of them cut the tape from his arms and legs. A third opened a body bag. They’d already brought Symon the contents of his brother’s pockets. They lay in a popcorn bowl on a coffee table before the sofa.
The big screen was divided into a grid of six panels like a live action comic book page. In one panel a camera above the front door caught the couple who cleaned the house leaving. This was swiftly followed by the arrival of a man who rang the door then punched Wolo senseless. The man wore a ball cap and the bill hid his face from view. He was white and clean shaven. His clothes were cheap and plain and without distinction. Symon guessed his height at six foot give or take an inch. He was big enough to drop Wolo with a single sucker punch. Wolo, despite his age, was still a very hard man.
The camera over the pool was of no use. It was trained on the pool area but left much of the lanai out of frame. They could clearly see Wolo being slid out to the edge of the pool in the chair but the stranger was only seen from behind and above. He appeared as shadow silhouetted by the sun glare off the water and only momentarily in a corner of the frame.
Wolo went out well. Though there was no audio, Symon could tell his adopted brother remained stoic and defiant up to the moment where he was tipped back into the water. Symon turned off the image. The sight of Wolo’s pathetically wiggling toes above the slopping water was making him sick with rage.
“One white man. You told me you were looking for two niggers,” Symon said.
“You think this is about what happened at Skip’s?” Vanko said.
“Ten years in Tampa and not a drop of blood shed. In two days we have three of our own dead. You are the smart one. Use your brain,” Symon said.
Danya grinned at his brother getting shit on by the old man.
“There is no sound. We do not know what they talked about,” Danya said stating the obvious.
“He was talking about Dimi,” Symon said.
“How can you tell,
tato
? You read lips?” Danya said.
“I know him well. He made the face he only makes when he talks about his worthless son.” Symon flicked a new flame from a gold lighter to bring his Cuban back to life.
“What has Dimi done? Who has he pissed off?” Vanko said.
“Who knows? He deals the drugs. He breaks the code of the Vor and his father’s heart and it comes to this,” Symon said puffing on the black cigar as thick as his thumb.
“We find who he has made angry then,” Vanko said.
“No. You find Dimi and make him tell what he has done and who he has crossed.” Symon blew a stream of creamy smoke at the ceiling before standing.
“Then what do we do,
tato
?” Danya said.
“You have him take you to this man. You kill him. Then you kill Dimi. Must everything be explained to you?”
Symon watched the cleaning crew carry the dripping body bag into the house and through the door leading to the garages where their van was parked out of sight. The crew had been busy the last couple of days. The clean-up at Skip’s and now the removal of Wolo Kolisnyk.
The pride of the Vor was their invisibility. They ran under the cover of legitimate businesses. They paid taxes. Their public face was holding companies that owned fast food places, bars, coin laundries, car dealerships and commercial cleaning companies. These were all used
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Then work hard and come home soon!”
“I will, honey. I just have to see a man and then I’m coming home.”
Gunny Leffertz said:
“Never underestimate the power of fucking up the other guy’s day.”
21
----
Symon Kharchenko sat chewing a cigar and watching surveillance video on the big screen in the den. His son Danya started to tell him that Uncle Wolo didn’t allow smoking in his house. Vanko elbowed him and gave him a sharp look.
Out by the pool the cleaning crew had Wolo out of the pool and lying on his back on the tiles. Two of them cut the tape from his arms and legs. A third opened a body bag. They’d already brought Symon the contents of his brother’s pockets. They lay in a popcorn bowl on a coffee table before the sofa.
The big screen was divided into a grid of six panels like a live action comic book page. In one panel a camera above the front door caught the couple who cleaned the house leaving. This was swiftly followed by the arrival of a man who rang the door then punched Wolo senseless. The man wore a ball cap and the bill hid his face from view. He was white and clean shaven. His clothes were cheap and plain and without distinction. Symon guessed his height at six foot give or take an inch. He was big enough to drop Wolo with a single sucker punch. Wolo, despite his age, was still a very hard man.
The camera over the pool was of no use. It was trained on the pool area but left much of the lanai out of frame. They could clearly see Wolo being slid out to the edge of the pool in the chair but the stranger was only seen from behind and above. He appeared as shadow silhouetted by the sun glare off the water and only momentarily in a corner of the frame.
Wolo went out well. Though there was no audio, Symon could tell his adopted brother remained stoic and defiant up to the moment where he was tipped back into the water. Symon turned off the image. The sight of Wolo’s pathetically wiggling toes above the slopping water was making him sick with rage.
“One white man. You told me you were looking for two niggers,” Symon said.
“You think this is about what happened at Skip’s?” Vanko said.
“Ten years in Tampa and not a drop of blood shed. In two days we have three of our own dead. You are the smart one. Use your brain,” Symon said.
Danya grinned at his brother getting shit on by the old man.
“There is no sound. We do not know what they talked about,” Danya said stating the obvious.
“He was talking about Dimi,” Symon said.
“How can you tell,
tato
? You read lips?” Danya said.
“I know him well. He made the face he only makes when he talks about his worthless son.” Symon flicked a new flame from a gold lighter to bring his Cuban back to life.
“What has Dimi done? Who has he pissed off?” Vanko said.
“Who knows? He deals the drugs. He breaks the code of the Vor and his father’s heart and it comes to this,” Symon said puffing on the black cigar as thick as his thumb.
“We find who he has made angry then,” Vanko said.
“No. You find Dimi and make him tell what he has done and who he has crossed.” Symon blew a stream of creamy smoke at the ceiling before standing.
“Then what do we do,
tato
?” Danya said.
“You have him take you to this man. You kill him. Then you kill Dimi. Must everything be explained to you?”
Symon watched the cleaning crew carry the dripping body bag into the house and through the door leading to the garages where their van was parked out of sight. The crew had been busy the last couple of days. The clean-up at Skip’s and now the removal of Wolo Kolisnyk.
The pride of the Vor was their invisibility. They ran under the cover of legitimate businesses. They paid taxes. Their public face was holding companies that owned fast food places, bars, coin laundries, car dealerships and commercial cleaning companies. These were all used
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