CHAPTER 14. MONDAY JULY 20, 07:30.
A banging head didn't help. Drove down to the docks, couldn't take the noise this early in the morning so switched off the radio. He parked and waited outside the gates. A large van with the name of a Turkish florist painted on the side pulled up. Caramarin swung up into the cab. He shook hands with the driver and introduced himself. Not one of the Turkish gang's regulars but a new face, so he directed him over to Maiorescu's warehouse.
"You're very quiet, friend," said the driver, his Turkish accent very strong.
"Lot on my mind," said Caramarin.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you had too much last night," the man said with a grin.
They pulled up outside the warehouse and Caramarin unlocked it and swung up the shutters. The van drove in and Caramarin pulled down the shutters, plunging the vast space into semi darkness lit up only by light seeping in through dingy sky lights.
Caramarin snapped on the fluorescents. He was startled by footsteps coming from the offices. He wheeled round.
"What are you doing here, boss?" Maiorescu was rarely on site when smuggled counterfeit goods were delivered. Like most gang bosses, he'd lasted this long by having layers of people between him and anything that could take him to court.
"Paperwork," Maiorescu said.
But he looked even more shifty than usual. And there was a strangely eager look on his face that Caramarin had rarely seen. Odd, because as far as Caramarin knew, there was nothing to get excited about a load of knock off Chinese cigarettes. Yeah, nice money to be made out of them but when you've seen one box of hooky cigs, you've seen them all. Must be something else going on.
"The driver's gonna be here a while. Why not take a cab back to the docks and go see chase up some of our friends who've fallen behind on their premiums? You know what they say; the early bird catches the worm."
"Who's going to unload the van?"
"Litovchenko's coming over soon."
"If you're sure, boss." Caramarin looked at his boss. Didn't like what he saw. Liked it even less than usual.
"Yeah, no probs. I'll give you a call later."
Caramarin shrugged and left. Something was wrong and he wasn't a part of it. What was he left out of? Or didn't that greasy bastard Maiorescu trust him any more. In that case he was in real deep shit.
He ducked into the alley between Maiorescu's warehouse and the next. Although the structure was a bit dilapidated, he couldn't find any eye holes. Not surprising. Instead, he crouched behind a dumpster and waited. Concentrated on his breathing, like he'd been taught in sniper training.
Not long after, Placid showed up and drove into the warehouse. Pressing his ear to the siding, Caramarin heard the sound of boxes being moved, then muffled conversation, then laughter. Unusual to laugh over contraband cigs. Then Litovchenko's car started up.
Caramarin dived behind the dumpster just as the car pulled out and sped down Mala Arnouts'ka Street. Soon after, the Turk's van left in the direction of the docks. Finally, Maiorescu himself set the alarm, locked up and drove his Merc after Litovchenko.
Caramarin was no locksmith. No way he could break into the warehouse without taking a lot of time and making a lot of noise. Instead, he headed into the city to collect the 'premiums'.
As he stepped out from a newsagents with the money in his pocket, a black Opel swerved onto the pavement in front of him. Two Caucasian looking men in brown suits vaulted out of the car. Not about to find out what they wanted, Caramarin spun round and had it away on his toes down the road.
Heard them pounding the pavement behind him. He ducked down an alley, swung out a dumpster behind him, raced on. Leaped over a cat, skidded on a dog turd, recovered his balance. He was gaining on the two men. They needed to work on their cardio. Ahead of him was the next street. Then the entrance darkened. Another man stepped into the alley ahead of him. Caramarin recognised him. A tall skinny man with a lantern jaw. The man took up a fighting stance and held up a lock knife.
Caramarin pulled up. Looking about, he spotted a pallet propped against the wall. Caramarin picked it up and hurled it the man with all his force. The man dodged, but in the narrow exit the pallet struck him on the shoulder, knocking him back, staggering him off balance. Caramarin braced himself on a drainpipe and kicked out, catching the man full on the chest, forcing him back almost to the street.
But the other two behind him caught up. One grabbed Caramarin by the shoulder, spinning him round. He punched Caramarin full in the face. Caramarin's head slammed against the brick wall. He saw stars. Before he could recover, the second punched Caramarin full in the stomach. He doubled over, gasping with shock and pain. Again, he was punched in the stomach, He gagged, hot acid bile rising up.
The first man grabbed Caramarin by his long hair jerking him upright again. Once, twice, his fist slammed into Caramarin's face. Blood from his nose poured down his face. Caramarin gobbed full in the man's face. He shouted something in his own language and stepped forward. Caramarin butted him. Thought he felt the man's nose break, his blood mixing with his own.
The man fell back, his hands covering his face.
"You'll pay for that, Romanian shit head," the lantern jawed third man said.
Caramarin said nothing. He punched the second, two hard hitting blows to the man's body. For a brief moment, he thought he might get away. But the third smashed the discarded pallet into him. Caramarin slipped off balance from the force of the blow. The second took advantage and scythed his leg away. Caramarin fell to the ground, fell into a mess of rotting food.
His knee cracked, a jolt of agonizing pain shooting through him, scrambling his mind for a second. And that was all it took. All the men needed. The pallet smashed down onto his head. He collapsed to the ground. A rotten kebab filled his sight.
The three men went into a frenzy of kicking. His body absorbed the punishment. Curled into a ball, trying to protect his head and vitals. Felt the pallet crashing onto his back. Felt like the beating had been going on for ages but was probably only a minute or so.
Then, through his haze of red pain, dimly heard an old lady shout something. No idea what she said but with a last kick, the three men ran off back down the alley. He dragged himself up, gasping for air, dragging himself back to awareness and life. Two old babushkas helped him stand. He smiled.
"Looks nasty. You want to get that seen to," one said.
"Can't go anywhere in this city now. All these foreigners," said her incredibly aged looking friend.
"You're right. Not like the old days," her face scowling. Yes, better in the old days when Stalin purged them and sent them to the Siberian Gulags. Not.
"I'm okay. Nothing broken. But thanks for stepping in," said Caramarin. He turned away and spat out a mouth full of blood. He'd been lucky those babushkas had helped. Most wouldn't and then he would have been battered. The two ladies looked at each other.
"Do you want us to call the Militsia?" the very old lady asked.
"No, it was only a mugging. They'll be long gone now," said Caramarin.
The two ladies looked at each other. They knew he was lying but weren't going to get involved any further. He thanked them again and headed back down the alley.