CHAPTER 13. SUNDAY JULY 19, 21:45.
"Thought that might happen. Didn’t expect one warning to work, did you?" Caramarin asked his boss.
"Course not. Thick bastards can’t take a hint. Just have to rack it up a notch or two."
"Shame about Tailpipe. Hope you’re going to meet his medical bills."
"'Course I am. Won’t be cheap but I look after my men. You do right by me, I do all right by you. That’s my motto."
Caramarin thought about that. Sounded like Maiorescu got the best of it both ways. Figured. Always the way of it. But his head was so jazzed on coke it was hard to get things straight.
"What about his family?"
"Them, too. Like I say, I look after my people, capisce?"
Caramarin nodded.
"Bad luck he got in the way of that beating. This time, do what needs to be done. If they want to meet and greet Allah, then let them. Capisce."
"Going down the hospital?"
"Yeah, later. Not much point taking grapes. Might take him grape juice – anything you can suck up through a straw."
Coke racing through his bloodstream. Despite himself, Caramarin fell about laughing.
"Seriously, there’s a coffee shop down off Transportnyi Lane. Y'know, by the Mala train station. I heard they use that as a base. Take a few of the lads and torch it. Let’s send a clear message."
Caramarin stopped laughing. Instantly.
That’s going to escalate things, he thought.
"When?" was all he managed to say.
"This evening. Let's see if we can catch these rag heads after evening prayers or whatever it is they get up to."
Caramarin stood and shrugged his shoulders.
That's why Caramarin found himself in his beat up Opel Combo that evening next to Placid and Oilfield, two men he most certainly did not want to go on a mission with. Both were total psycho nutters with as much humanity as a starving wolf.
Placid sneered at Caramarin. "I'll drive," said Placid. "You didn't exactly get stuck in when we took out those two fuckers in the Bistro the other day, did you?"
Caramarin shrugged. Too much coke raced through his system and at the end of the day, who gives a rats? Maybe it would be better if he did the bombing instead of one of these two out of control ex-Spetznaz psychos. At least he could try not to kill anyone.
Placid threaded his way through the evening traffic. In the foot well, two bottles were wedged into a small cardboard box. Rags stuck out of the top and gasoline sloshed about inside. Caramarin sat and watched the bottles. Placid and Oilfield boasted about the weights they could bench press and strange dietary supplements.
They pulled up down the road from the coffee shop. The place was still open. A number of old men and a few teenagers sat outside enjoying the warm evening. Even on a summer evening, most of the old men were wearing hats and jumpers. Didn't know that the place was going to get a lot hotter very soon.
The men were sipping drinks and playing board games. One smoked a hookah. All of them were of eastern, Caucasian appearance. A waiter wandered about from table to table. It looked peaceful, but Caramarin knew enough not to trust surface appearances.
"What we'll do is this. We'll accelerate up to the cafe. Make the goat shaggers scatter. You jump out, lob the Molotovs and then we're out of here. Nice and simple – even a retard can manage that. Got that, cunt?"
Caramarin looked down the road. Their escape route looked all right, nothing blocking the street. He nodded. Wasn't happy about this but he couldn't back out now. Not with these two in his Opel. He nodded.
"Let's do it." He wrapped his keffiyeh around his head. Covered his eyes with shades. Unrecognisable in any future line up now.
"Nice touch that, mate," said Oilfield "you look like a towel head yourself now."
Placid dropped the hand brake, gunned the accelerator and sped the Opel over the road towards the men sitting outside the coffee shop. A squeal of brakes and a blast from a horn as the Opel swerved across the path of a mini bus.
The relaxing men idly looked up at the noise, then saw the Opel hurtling towards them. There was a moment when nothing happened. The scene looked like a postcard from the middle east. Then there was a gasp of horror as they realised the meaning of the Opel van.
The men dived to the floor, the quick witted ones dragging the older or slower men out of the way. The hookah rolled to the floor. Chess men and backgammon counters bounced and scattered over the courtyard.
The Opal Combo leaped onto the side walk and charged onto the Bistro's courtyard. Placid slammed on the brakes. But one of the youths, too slow or dazed by the speed of events, tripped on an overturned chair, was side swiped by the car to the pavement. His head smashed to the paving flags and he lay still.
Caramarin leaped out of the Opel, lit the first petrol bomb and hurled it through the open door into the dark interior of the Bistro. Instantly, orange and red flame spread over the tiled floor, engulfed the wooden bar counter. Inside a woman screamed.
Caramarin didn't bother lighting the second. He threw that, too, into the Bistro, the flames eagerly swallowing the added fuel. The inside of the Bistro looked like a scene from the infernos of Hell. No way could anyone get into or out of the front door now. Even standing several metres away, Caramarin could feel the fierce heat from the inside of the shop. The roar of the fire was getting stronger.
The men had backed to the two sides of the Bistro's courtyard. They kept their distance from Caramarin. One of the coffin dodgers outside screamed something in his own language. Another made an obscene gesture.
Placid had backed the Opel to the edge of the road, the rear passenger door open, A safe haven. Caramarin ran to it just as Placid drove five metres down the road, the door swinging shut. Some of the men had stepped onto the pavement and one old man, must have been about seventy five if a day, looked like he was going to do something about it. Caramarin swore.
Caramarin raced along the road to the Opel. Oilfield pushed open the rear door as Caramarin threw himself onto the rear seat. Both were laughing fit to burst. Placid sped down the street.
"Had you going there," Oilfield laughed. "Bet you were pissing yourself."
Caramarin looked out the rear window. The men had spilled onto the street and watched the Opel down the road. Flames were erupting out of the door and the awning had caught ablaze, making a brief roof of fire.
The Opel van shot round the corner. Caramarin slammed into the window.
"What the fuck was that about?" he shouted. "You fuckin' amateurs."
Oilfield and Placid were still howling with laughter. Now it was over, he supposed there was a funny side to it. But he still wasn't laughing.
Swapped cars at Maiorescu's warehouse and Placid and Oilfield left to start their shifts at the nightclubs. They were still in a good humour.
Caramarin went in to report to Maiorescu. His boss held up a hand. There was a news bulletin coming up on the radio. It mentioned briefly the arson attack on the Bistro. Didn't go into details but said the Militsia suspected that it was a targeted attack.
"Well done." He tossed Caramarin a wedge of hryvnias. "Bit of advice. Get your clothes washed; get any petrol residue off. Even better, why not buy something decent to wear?"
He smiled as the radio continued with a comment from the Chief of Militsia about how these attacks wouldn't be tolerated.
"That's sent the bastards a clear message. They'll think twice before messing with me."
Caramarin wondered about that. Thought it might just be the start.
His clothes were now in his landlady's washing machine and he was sitting in his room in his pants watching a frantic yet boring game show and wondering what to do. Felt tired and lethargic after the adrenalin rush of earlier. Banging on his door woke him from his drowsy state.
"All right, I'm coming," he shouted.
Standing out on the landing were two Militsia. Their dark blue uniforms added to the menace. They knew they could do pretty much as they wanted. Caramarin knew that too. One shoved him back into the room.
The man showed him his warrant. It said Sergeant Grodzyk.
"Sit."
He sat. Didn't make any comments. Didn't want to antagonise them.
The other one switched off the television. They stood in front of him.
"You involved in that arson attack on Transportnyi Lane?" asked Sergeant Grodzyk.
"No, I've been in all evening."
He knew his landlady would back him up. As a child, she remembered the horrors of Stalin. When she was drunk, which was often, she would go on about her beloved Daddy who vanished one night, never to be seen again. She distrusted all authority. She especially hated all Militsia.
"So, you know nothing about it?"
"Only what I heard on the radio, earlier."
The other officer was walking about the apartment, looking around as Caramarin was talking. He spotted the wedge of hryvnias on the table. The man picked it up.
"Where did you get this from, eh?" he asked.
"Just what I won at the casino the other night."
"Easy come; easy go, eh?" The officers split the money and they trousered it.
"Wish I had time to go down the casino and win money." said Sergeant Grodzyk. "We're onto you, Nicolae Caramarin. Take this as a warning. A friendly warning. No more fire bombs. We want an easy life and you're adding to the problems."
"Yeah, you're lucky. Our Lieutenant thinks it's a dispute between the fuckin' rag heads," the other sniggered. "Doesn't have his ear to the ground like what we do."
Their radios squawked. One turned away to answer. Seemed urgent as he tugged the sleeve of his Sergeant.
"Yeah," said Grodzyk. "Personally, we couldn't care less if you barbecue a load of rag heads. Far as we care, they can send 'em all back. And you could do us a favour and fuck off back to Romania as well. But we don't want the paperwork. And we don't want the good name of this city dragged through the mud."
They both laughed.
"Seriously," said Grodzyk. "Tell Maiorescu to lay off. We won't tell you again."
They slammed the door behind them and clattered down the stairs. Caramarin breathed a sigh of relief. He'd been lucky to get away with only losing some money. Might have taken a beating down at the station. Didn't want to go out now.
Poured a slug of vodka, drained it and then worked his way down the bottle.