CHAPTER 9. WEDNESDAY, JULY 15 18:30.
"I’m not having this," Maiorescu slammed down some papers and looked out the window of his realtor's office on Prokhorovs’ka Street. Dusty property details filled the front windows. It hardly did any legit business. Just a front for the gang head to hide behind. The man lit up yet another smoke.
Caramarin looked up. "The non payments, you mean?"
"What else?"
Caramarin could think of some other shit that his boss wouldn’t have if he knew about it.
"Want us to sort it out, then?" Said Dmytro 'Placid' Litovchenko.
If there was one man Caramarin didn't want to be on the wrong side, it was Litovchenko. But probably too late to worry about that now. His street name was 'Placid' because he wasn't. 'Psycho Bloody Mayhem' would have been better. One scary man. He was one of the Arkadia beach's chief doormen and looked the part.
He was almost two metres tall, covered with the sort of muscles only serious steroid and testosterone use can give as well as putting in serious work down the gym. His head was shaved to the bone except for a neatly trimmed goatee. Under the man's white shirt, Caramarin could see Litovchenko's prison tattoo of Christ on his cross. Knew the man had stars on his knees, showing he would never kneel to anyone. More tattoos covered his hands.
He'd heard of, and seen, Litovchenko do some really bad things. Nothing seemed to be beyond him. He enjoyed violence for its own sake. Sure, Caramarin had done violence, had few problems with it; but for him it was a last resort, a means to an end.
But it would be a mistake to think that Litovchenko was just a muscle bound thug. You don't survive as long or get on in the underworld unless you can provide brains as well as brawn. Helped that the man was connected to several of the crime families in the Odessa region.
"Little point leaning on the clients," said Caramarin. "Can’t expect ‘em to pay us and these Georgians. What’ve you found out about them?"
Maiorescu turned to face Caramarin and Placid, the dim light filtering through the grimy window dying on his sallow, jowly features.
"For a start, they’re not Georgian. They’re Abkhazian. Y’know, that breakaway region of Georgia. Doesn’t matter to us ‘cos we’re going to flatten them into the ground. Their boss is a rag head called Timur Ozgan. Life got too tough for him even over in that hell hole, so he came here. I’m told their security forces threw him out."
Maiorescu moved a pen stand to one side, perched on the edge of his desk, looking down at the two men. He blew out smoke.
"His men are going to show at..." he glanced at his Tag Heuer, "...Bourges Bistro in a couple of hours. Why don’t you pick up a couple of the lads and show them that Odessa is more dangerous than Sukhumi."
Placid stood and cracked his knuckles.
"No, no deaths. Not at this stage. Just show them the error of their ways, capisce?"
Caramarin opened his mouth to protest, but looking at the two men, thought it best to shut his mouth again. He nodded once, slowly.
Caramarin drove, Prosto radio lifting his mood; they picked up Belgian and Tailpipe from the gym and headed through the afternoon traffic over to the Bourges Bistro. Followed a blood red Porsche for most of the journey. He hoped it wasn't an omen. He parked down a shady side street where they kept the front of the Bistro in sight.
"Turn that radio off, cunt," said Placid.
"That Natalya is a nice piece of meat," commented Belgian from the back seat, looking up from a porn mag. "Wouldn’t mind porking that."
"Too right. She was here, I’d bend her over this car and do her right now. Up the ass," said Tailpipe. He made a gesture with the iron bar he was gripping.
"Wouldn’t take too much hard work. Don’t think she wears any knickers?" Said Belgian.
"Dirty slag."
"You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Caramarin?" said Belgian.
Caramarin spun round in his seat.
"Shut it you two," snapped Placid. "And keep your eyes to the front, cunt."
The car fell silent. Placid leaned over and offered a small vial of coke to Belgian and Tailpipe in the back. Caramarin looked at him. Only then did Placid offer him any. There was next to nothing in the bottle, but Caramarin snorted it up anyway.
Then a beige Mercedes pulled up outside the Bistro. Two large, dark skinned men in brown suits stepped out, glanced around, and walked into the Bistro.
"That’s them. Let’s go," ordered Placid.
"Remember, no deaths," said Caramarin, more to Placid than the others. "We’re only sending a message."
Placid glared at Caramarin. If looks could kill, Caramarin would be pushing up the daisies. The four men crossed the road and pushed through into the Bistro. Caramarin turned the sign over to read ‘Closed’. The two Abkhazians looked at the four men. Their eyes flashed to each other. It was clear they were in big trouble.
One, a tall skinny man with a lantern jaw, pushed the Bistro manager at Maiorescu’s men, and then both wheeled around and ran for the kitchen door. Belgian dived on the slower one both crashing to floor. A table fell over, crockery shattering, knives and forks bouncing on the stripped floorboards.
Placid and Tailpipe chased the lantern jawed man into the kitchen, the swing door banging after them. Caramarin helped the manager to his feet.
"Watch. You won’t have any more trouble from these guys again."
The manager looked terrified, his eyes starting from his head. There was a huge crash from the kitchen and a roar of pain. A sound of blows, then the big jawed Abkhazian was flung back into the Bistro. A kick from Placid sent him to the floor.
"Easy, remember," said Caramarin.
However, the beating was savage and prolonged. The two men were beaten to pulp. Fists, boots and the iron bar fell repeatedly on their bodies. Heard the crack of several broken bones. The two thugs were hard men and tried not to scream. Later on, they were unconscious as the blows fell. Caramarin took no part this time, but stood by the door to keep out any customers and made the manager watch the beating.
"They’ve had enough," Caramarin said, pulling Placid away. The three hoods stood over the bodies, breathing heavily.
"Too much for you, cunt?"
"You remember what Maiorescu said. No deaths, okay."
Caramarin knelt and felt through the bloodied clothes of the Abkhazians. He pulled out a wad of hryvnias and peeled off several high value notes. He patted the manager on his arm.
"Get this place cleaned up. You won’t have trouble from these again."
The manager trousered the money but still looked terrified.
"Let’s lose these fools," said Placid.
They hoisted the broken bodies upright and half walked, half dragged them to the Abkhazians’ beige Mercedes. Placid took their keys from Caramarin and drove off with Belgian and Tailpipe. Caramarin followed, this time with the radio on full.
Placid drove south out of the run down city suburbs to the Dniester estuary, just as the sun was going down but the heat was still in the day. The day trippers had all gone home by now and the picnic spot was deserted. A flock of white birds flew overhead, calling harshly. Placid kicked the two Abkhazians out the car, where they sprawled limp on the gravel. Laboriously, one dragged himself upright, using the Merc’s hood for support.
"Tell your boss, he’s finished. Unless he wants a taste of what you’ve had. Got that?"
The man spat. Said something in his own language.
"I think that was ‘fuck you’ in Abkhazian," laughed Belgian.
Placid punched the man to the floor, started to apply shoe leather. Not for the first time, Caramarin stepped between Placid and his victim.
"Enough. We’re not to kill them, okay, comrades." Caramarin thought Placid would start on him. Despite Placid being the larger man, Caramarin fancied his chances. Too much slow steroid muscle on the man. Placid breathed in, gave Caramarin a look of pure hate.
"One day, cunt. okay, strip them."
"I think this one’s pissed himself," said Tailpipe.
The hoods stripped the beaten Abkhazians to their underpants, threw the clothes into the beige Merc then rolled the limo into the Dniester. They watched the car sink, bubbles rising to the surface.
"Job done. Let’s go home."
Later that evening.
"Good evening. Great to see you again. Take a seat by the window. Put some life in the place. Beer?
"I’ll tell you something. Now these gang bangers are using my Bourges Bistro as a battleground. That scruffy Romanian bastard in the combat jacket thinks he can throw me a few hryvnias and I’ll just shut up and keep paying through the nose for their protection. And his lot never even protected me from the other Georgian lot. Just used my little place as a battleground.
"Yeah, I knew it would be tough – I know Odessa’s got a bit of a reputation but I didn’t expect a re-enactment of the Saint Valentine’s Day massacre on my premises. I cleaned up their mess but I’m going to the realtor’s as soon as I can. I’ll take any half way decent offer.
"What worries me is what this Georgian mob are going to do next. They going to smash me up because their men got smashed up in my joint? They going to come after my wife and family? I don’t know, do I?
"If I can find a mug who’ll buy this place – no of course I’m not going to mention what’s happened here, I look that stupid? – I’ll buy a place somewhere quieter. South Central Los Angeles, Beirut, Mogadishu come to mind.
"Pizza Margherita? Certainly. Rapido."