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I jerk my head toward a table ofkachki.
“They were bodybuilders?” Sabrina says.
It’s not really a question—even the oldest and most broken-down in the group still maintain enough of their mass to show that they were powerfully built men, filling out their oversized pullovers and zip-ups, acne scars on their cheeks and hair thin at the temples from rampant steroid use.
“That’s right—all part of the Soviet sports machine. The one on the left, that’s Boris Kominsky. He was a judo champion. The next one over, Nikolai Breznik, he was a wrestler, and Vladislav Aulov a Decorated Master of Sport. Then all the funding dried up and they went from hitting heavy bags to beating payments out of debtors. You see that one on the end, the ogre with the martini?”
The largest of a dozen big men is dressed in a Kelly-green Adidas zip-up, a vodka martini delicately pinched in one monstrous hand.
“Hard to miss him.”
“That’s Ira Angeloff, better known as Cujo. Most of thekachkirun their own rackets now, but you can still rent Cujo for your own personal attack dog if you’ve got the cash. They say he hits harder than Mike Tyson.”
Sabrina casts a cool eye over Angeloff’s knuckles, swollen and distended, a roadmap of scars.
“He looks good at his job.”
“The best. His old boss got rich brokering bribes for oligarchs who wanted to buy the newly privatized state enterprises. The entire economy of Russia was up for grabs, and all the independent businesses popping up were ripe for extortion. Cujo made a lot of money for a lot of people, but I think most of it went up his nose. The house he lives in now is nothing special.”
“Who runs the protection rackets now?”
“Everyone.Kryshais half the economy of Russia. Everyone pays protection money, it’s part of business.”
“Are you takingkrysha?”
“Not yet. Most of the territory is already portioned out. We’ll have to move in on someone else to take ground.”
Sabrina scowls, trying to understand the current system.
“There’s a High Table,” she says, “but the Bratva aren’t one group.”
I shake my head. “They never have been. There’s no centralized authority, no head of the snake you can lop off. The High Table represents a half-dozen of the biggest bosses in Moscow, but it’s a loose alliance, and loyalties change all the time. It’s supposed to prevent the outright warfare we had in the nineties.”
“Chaos is bad for business,” Sabrina says.
“That’s right. Moscow was madness then—every day it was car bombs, drive-by shootings, boss after boss gunned down and then buried in monumental tombs that would cost a hundred year’s wages for a normal Russian.”
“I want to see them,” Sabrina says.
“The tombs?”
“Yes.”
I laugh. “If you’re imagining white marble, think again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Russian gangsters aren’t exactly known for subtlety. The headstones are massive, glossy black, with life-size portraits of the dons. Sometimes with their favorite cars or their favorite women. Dripping in gold chains, drinking wine, and eating lobster.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not even exaggerating. Whatever you’re imaging, picture bigger, uglier, and tackier.”
Sabrina laughs, delighted at the picture in her head.
“What stopped the wars?” she asks. “The cops cracked down?”
“They tried under Yeltsin, without much success. Putin is smarter.”
