CHAPTER 20. FRIDAY AUGUST 14, 21:15.
Mid August in Odessa is hot, every week seemed hotter and stickier than the one before. The sun so hot it bleached the blue out of the sky. Only the sea breezes of an evening cooling the worst of the heat away. Then the beautiful people came out and promenaded along the Black Sea front, up the Potemkin Stairs then through the crowded streets between the beautiful Italianate buildings of the city centre. But Caramarin had little time to kick back and enjoy the weather. And his nights were spent in sweaty sleeplessness with no chance of rest.
Caramarin was kept busy that week, collecting protection from the building sites and coffee houses and drinking clubs that Maiorescu controlled. Matters seemed to be getting back to normal. Or at least stability. Maybe Caramarin was quieter than normal – certainly he cut down the snow and vodka for a while and spent a bit more time down at the gym and sauna, sweating the toxins and his bad moods away. Kept his reflexes good, sparring with other doormen and fighters at the gym.
Sometimes, like in any business, things just tick over with no real problems. Even racketeering is a business of sorts. Until early on a hot Friday night. Caramarin was thinking of going out later to one of the clubs, having a few beers, checking out the night life, maybe a woman. His cell rang.
"Do me a favour." It was Maiorescu. Telling not asking. "One of my shipments has come in. Slip over to Zavods'ka haven and pick it up for us." Maiorescu gave him the details. That was the evening finished. Drove through the evening traffic to the oil terminals. Prosto Radio 102.5 FM banging out the top forty hits, drowning out the noises of the city.
He bribed the guard at the gate a few hryvnias and swung in, pulling up behind a stack of containers near the front. One of the containers was open. Figured that was the one. Picking his way between the oily puddles he called out to the Turk.
"Munis Balioglu, how are you?" he greeted his old friend. The Turkish sailor wore a black beanie hat and the world's oldest pair of rigger boots. Caramarin pulled a thick envelope from his camo jacket.
"Problem, my friend." tossing a cigarette into a puddle. The stub hissed and died.
Things had been going too easily this week. Should have known something was going to happen. Balioglu passed him a bound up tarpaulin. Felt like several rifles, AK-47s or AK-74s or their equivalents. Maybe a few pistols in there too. Caramarin raised his eyes. Gun running was another step up for Maiorescu. Either the man was raising his game or was getting desperate for a bit of extra fire-power.
"No problems here, comrade. What is it?"
"Come." Balioglu said. The Turk took Caramarin to the rear of the container. His boots clattering over the metal floor. The last light of the day dimly illuminated the interior. He edged his way past the crates of Chinese made machine parts and tools. There was a foul smell of piss and shit at the back. Huddled at the back was a girl. The Turk roughly pulled her up, made as if to hit her. She cowered away.
"No need for that, comrade," Caramarin said. He smiled at her and pulled the girl to the front where the light was better and the smell not so bad.
"You take her," Balioglu said. "We don't want get involved with no illegal immigrants. Is too much hassle and money."
The girl jabbered something in her own language. Caramarin looked questioningly at Balioglu.
"Kurdish?" said Balioglu.
"Well, what's she saying?"
"I dunno, do I? I'm a true Turk from Izmir. Don't speak no Kurdish." He shrugged. "You take her – she nothing to do with me." Balioglu started to close the container doors.
"Well, what the fuck am I going to do with her?"
"That's up to you." Balioglu leered at him.
The girl was only about fifteen or sixteen years old. She had an oval face, dark hair under a headscarf, deep brown eyes. Not too tall, only about one point six metres. Her skin was not much darker than Caramarin's but she was quite dirty. She was wearing a black padded jacket and dark trousers. She was crying harder now.
So, there was no help to be had from Balioglu. When in doubt, phone the boss. Caramarin took her back to his Opel Combo. Maiorescu told Caramarin to bring her back to the warehouse. Which was fine but how was he going to get a crying girl out of the port and back through the crowded streets of Odessa?
He put the weapons in the back and gestured for the girl to get in and lie down. He was glad the Opel was a van and not a pick-up truck. Covered the girl and the guns over with another tarpaulin. He bribed the guard on the gates again and drove carefully back to Maiorescu's office. Obeyed every traffic light and speed limit. If he was stopped, he'd be looking at years on remand in some hell-hole prison. No way. Drove to the warehouse on Mala Arnouts’ka Street, just to the south of the city centre.
Maiorescu was big enough to keep away from drugs and guns himself. He wasn't going to be caught in the same room with them. His second, Dmytro 'Placid' Litovchenko, met Caramarin at the opened warehouse.
Caramarin stepped out and nodded to Litovchenko. He opened the back of the Opal Combo and threw back the tarpaulin. The girl cowered back. Caramarin could understand how she felt. In a foreign country where she couldn't make herself understood and now, in the dark in the back of a pick-up she had two large men standing over her. He smiled at her and held out his hand. She had nowhere to go so she wriggled out.
"What the fuck?" said Litovchenko, echoing Caramarin's thoughts.
"Stowaway in the container," said Caramarin taking the guns out.
"Bonus," said Placid. The huge steroid thug dragged the terrified girl into the warehouse. Caramarin followed and stashed the rifles in a hidden alcove in the wall. Placid shoved the girl into a secure cage and padlocked it.
"What you going to do with her?" asked Caramarin as Litovchenko passed him a thick wedge of hryvnias.
"Not my decision, pal. Up to the boss. Look, here's a bit extra. Have a good evening on me. I'll call Maiorescu but just do yourself a favour and forget her." Placid smiled.
A look that did not reassure Caramarin. He walked back to his Opel Combo van. Had a really bad feeling as he watched in his mirror the doorman go back into the dark warehouse. This was not right but he couldn't think what else to do. Not like he was going to ring one of the Churches or a refugee centre, let alone the corrupt Militsia.
The bad feeling didn't go away as he drove back to his apartment in Moldavanka. The girl was unexpected. Not a bonus at all but a problem. He knew he shouldn't have left her with a man like Placid but what could he do?
Showered, changed into a white shirt and jeans. Took a couple of lines of coke to clear his head and help him think straight. Maybe Placid was right and he should have a good night out. Called a cab and down to the Centurion casino. He knew he'd be welcome there as Maiorescu was washing even more of his money through it.
Also, his current girlfriend, Valeriya, still worked there on the roulette wheel. He'd been busy, hadn't seen her for a week or more so reckoned he owed her a visit. Threw in a few kopecks into the koi carp pool surrounding the Roman statue for luck.
He ignored the suckers glued to their slots and straight over to the roulette wheel. She saw him coming and smiled. Her wheel was busy – no surprise with a pretty woman as the croupier to take the men's minds off their losses.
There wasn't much space at the wheel so he called over a hostess for a Zibert Light as he waited for a space. Wasn't going anywhere else, no way.
She wore the casino's uniform of a maroon shirt and waistcoat which was stretched over her full breasts. Dark black hair – dyed and tied back. But she had the most amazing green eyes he'd ever seen, almond-shaped – a hint of the eastern steppes in her - high cheek bones and when she smiled, it lit up his heart and brightened his day. He'd missed that beautiful smile.
The Centurion Casino ran an honest wheel. He stuck to his usual outside bets – black or red, high or low, odds or evens. Figured that way he'd stand a decent chance of making money. Valeriya watched his stack of chips grow. Maybe she'd have a chance to spend some later. He wasn't greedy but he did more than all right tonight and his bad mood over the Kurdish girl started to drain away from him.
He'd had enough by one in the morning so cashed in his winnings, tooted another line in the gents, had a burger and a couple of Zibert Lights and hung about swapping jokes with the doormen until two when Valeriya's shift finished.
Didn't have long to wait before hailing a cab back to her new apartment and, as he helped pay her rent on this place, he knew he could stay over. The roads were much quieter now and she snuggled up to him in the back of the taxi.
Only downside of her place was they had to stay on the couch after her baby sitter left. No problem for him – he could get his head down anywhere but she had her kid in her bedroom which would take all the fun out of things.
He pulled her down to him, his hands fumbling with her clothes, hers pulling down his jeans and pants. He thrust rapidly, deeply into her, one hand clamped over her mouth to stifle her cries as he took her. Didn't last long. Yet it was visions of Natalya's toned porno trained body before him, not Valeriya's more womanly one. He collapsed, rolled over. Was asleep almost immediately.
Valeriya looked down on him as he lay there. A tender little smile on her face. Obvious he'd taken coke so found him some paracetamol tablets if he woke during the night and a blanket and left him there to his dreams. What can a girl do? The man was helping her afford a bigger, better apartment, much nicer than the old one, so she didn't have to live with Mum any more.
If he could only give up the coke he'd be ideal.