The bar was on Rockaway Beach Boulevard, not far from the Jacob Riis Park. As soon as we stepped in the door, I heard conversation in Russian.
Darya was right behind me as I surveyed the long room with booths on the left and stools against the bar on the right. Bright sunlight crashed through the wide bay windows, saving the place from the usual depressing air of a bar in the middle of the day.
It was also surprisingly crowded, with people shouting good-naturedly from one booth to another while the bartenders called out orders in Russian.
I wasn’t sure what to do, so without identifying myself, I told the bartender I was looking for someone. I showed him the picture of Marat and told him he was a Russian, speaking Kazakh.
The burly bartender scratched his red beard and shook his head and said in English, “No, no, I never seen this man. Sorry. What you want to drink?”
I bought two beers and settled in at the bar with Darya. There were several other women in the place, but the way they were sitting in booths by themselves or with one man led me to believe they might be prostitutes. I hoped no one would make a mistake and approach Darya. For their sake.
I watched our bartender speaking in a low voice in Russian to one of his colleagues, not far from us.
Darya leaned in close and said, “The bartender just said the two men at the end of the bar are looking for the same man we are.”
Having Darya undercover was brilliant. T
hey didn’t seem to care if we overheard them speaking Russian.
I looked over to the far end of the bar where there were two men standing, dressed in cheap suits with ties, about my age, but heavy and out of shape. One of the men was burly, with a pockmarked face, and the other had cold, gray eyes, and as soon as they met mine I realized someone at the bar had just told them who I was asking about.
I assumed he made me for a cop, because he made no move to come over to talk. That was fine by me. His interest didn’t concern me.
I formulated a plan, and appreciated the fact that Darya didn’t ask what it was.
After a few minutes, the two men in suits stepped out the back door of the bar and into the narrow parking lot. We wasted no time going out the main door and into the same lot.
I saw them get into a new Lincoln. Comfortable, but not flashy. Once we got into my Impala, I ran the tag quickly and it came back to a moving company owned by Russians. Shocking.
When it didn’t look like they were going anywhere, I said to Darya, “Sometimes we have to make our own karma.”
All she said was, “I agree.”
As we slipped out of the car, I said, “Whatever happens in Rockaway Park stays in Rockaway Park. Is that a problem?”
“Not unless you expect me to dig a hole if you kill them. I hate to dig.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Both the men were still sitting in the car, looking out at the traffic trickling by on Rockaway Beach Boulevard.
I was careful, trying to approach the car from behind and in the blind spot. As we got closer, I realized they were taking a smoke break with both the windows open.
Neither seemed to be monitoring the mirrors. For a couple of mobsters, they weren’t terribly observant.
They couldn’t have set it up better for me.
Chapter 19
I liked how both men stayed calm and didn’t jump when I appeared in the driver’s-side window. I crouched low so my face filled the window, and rested my arms across the door with my Glock service weapon in my right hand, casually hanging into the car.
I said, “Hello, fellas, how’s your day going?”
The driver, the burly man with a pockmarked face, mumbled, “No English. Go ’way.”
“You think you’re the first one to pull that kind of shit on me? There is a universal cure for those who don’t want to speak English.” Without hesitation, I pulled the door handle, reached into the Lincoln, and grabbed the man with two fingers behind his jaw. The pressure made him hop out of the car with no help from me other than the two fingers on his sensitive nerves that ran there.
I spun him around and slammed him into the car.