CHAPTER 33. TUESDAY OCTOBER 6, 19:00.
Before meeting Maiorescu, he swung by the Centurion Casino. Two of the doormen were talking outside. He knew them both; they were good lads in a pinch. As he walked up, one shook his head and put his arm out to stop him.
"No way, Nicolae," Tallboy, the larger one, a giant of a man – even taller than Placid- said.
"Why not?"
"You’re trouble and you’re a mess. I’ll do ya a favour, I'll tell Valeriya you’re here. Just wait over there, okay." Caramarin shrugged, did as he was told. Tallboy spoke into his radio mike.
He didn’t have long to wait. Valeriya came out of the staff entrance and looked as if she was about to hit him she was so angry.
"You bastard," she cried. He led her further down the alley, away from the two doormen. "Why didn’t you call? Where’ve you been? I’ve been so worried about you."
"I’m sorry, I’ve been busy." He took her wrists in his hands before she could strike him.
"With some woman, you bastard." He opened his mouth. "And don’t you deny it. You’ve been doing coke with some slag, haven’t you?"
"No," Didn’t think Natalya was a slag.
"Why are you bleeding then you liar?" She wrenched a hand away and touched under his nose. Her finger came away bloody.
"Shit."
"You’re fucked up, Nicu." She burst into tears. "I love you, you know that, but why are you treating me like this? I love you, little Vlad loves you but you’re throwing it all away."
He felt at a loss. "I’m sorry."
"I don’t want to see you for a bit, don’t come back, Nicu. Sort yourself out and get clean. Like you were." She sobbed and looked up at him, tear stained. He thought his heart would break.
"I’m sorry. I’ve got some shit to sort out. I’ll make it up to you, I promise." It felt weak to his ears but he had too much going through his mind at the same time.
"You’re better than this."
A pit boss stepped out of the staff door into the night and beckoned. She followed him in, looking back at Caramarin. Her face sad.
She was right. He’d let Valeriya down too often. If he survived this crisis the coke wasn’t the only problem in his life he’d have to sort out.
The two doormen watched as he drove off. One made a call on his cell.
Stopped off to clean himself up. The evening traffic from the casino was heavier than usual and he didn’t have time to scope out the Red Star and see who was there. He saw Maiorescu’s Merc nearby but that didn’t mean anything. The coke confidence was wearing off big time and he felt nervous, antsy, like his skin was crawling. The bad feeling was back.
Caramarin looked into the Red Star. The windows had been thrown open to catch the evening breeze. The coffee shop was full like he knew it should be. A folk band was setting up on a small stage near the back, tuning up. A happy buzz of people enjoying their evening. Mostly students and a younger crowd but there were all ages in there. Saw Maiorescu had got a table to himself. No obvious thugs or heavies in the coffee shop.
Pushed open the door, stepped into the steamy atmosphere. Sat down, ordered an Americano. If possible Maiorescu looked even worse than usual. His jowly face glistened with sweat and his eyes were bloodshot and weary. He hadn’t shaved and his grey stubble made him look older. Neither offered to shake hands.
"You set me up?" asked Caramarin.
"No. I had no idea the brown was phoney. Think I want to upset Major Balashov?"
"No, I guess you don’t. But the amount of gear you take, you must’ve known."
"Didn’t test it did I? Also, my supplier never let me down before. Anyway, I'm like you. I don't touch heroin."
Caramarin couldn’t tell if the other man was lying. Maiorescu always looked shifty and furtive at the best of times.
"I'm nothing like you, Maiorescu. I realise that now."
"Where’s the girl, Caramarin? Balashov wants her back as we didn’t pay for her. You need to give her up."
"No way."
"What are you going to do, then? We’re both in deep shit now."
"Give him another couple of kilos of heroin or coke and apologise. I’ll take the gear to him myself, if you want."
"We’ll need to go to my warehouse then. I’ll be able to sort something then." Maiorescu smiled. A glimpse of the old days in his smile.
"No tricks."
They finished their coffees and left just as the band was starting up. He followed Maiorescu over to his Mercedes. Suddenly he heard footsteps running up behind him.
Too late he started to turn round. A weight cracked against his skull, knocking him forward off balance. Red black fire exploded in his brain. Dazed, he stumbled. Maiorescu’s fist punched into his stomach expelling his wind, another huge pain in his middle. He fell to the floor. Maiorescu kicked him hard, twice in the stomach. Caramarin threw up, the last of his lunch vomited on the side walk.
He was jerked to his feet. Felt a pistol jammed into his ribs.
"Hello, cunt." Dmytro 'Placid' Litovchenko. The last man on earth he wanted to see.
He knew better than to struggle. Not with a pistol against him and a huge, coked up psycho thug holding it. Some laughing students passing looked at the three hard men, stopped laughing, unsure what was happening.
"Can’t take his booze," called Maiorescu. They went into the coffee shop, only one looked back.
Placid pushed Caramarin into the back of the Merc and got in beside him, the pistol never leaving his side.
Maiorescu drove fast through busy streets over to his warehouse on Mala Arnauts'ka Street. Caramarin sat and tried to compose himself. He was in a tight spot. Not for the first time but any time could be the last.
Maiorescu pulled up in front of the warehouse and opened the gate. It had never looked so dead and deserted as it did now.
"Get out, cunt." Still no chance to get away. He was shoved to the warehouse. Maiorescu flicked on the overhead lights and in the harsh lights, the two men holding him looked like demons. In the office, Placid pushed him in a chair and bound his hands.
"You’re fucked, cunt."
Caramarin didn’t say anything. Just sat there with a tight little smile. Waiting his turn.
Maiorescu sat down behind his desk and poured out a couple of shots of vodka. Clinked glasses with Placid. He dialled a number on his cell. It was answered straight away.
"I’ve got the rat here." He paused. "Yes, yes, pick him up when you’re ready. Yes, I’ll make sure you get the genuine product. Thanks." He broke the connection.
"You fucking rat. Shag my wife?" Maiorescu’s face was a mask of hatred. Spittle flew from his mouth, landing on Caramarin’s face. "I should kill you myself but Balashov will do a better job." He drew back his fist and punched Caramarin full in the face. His head rocked back, blood flew from his nose. The pain knocked reality out of his mind for a moment. He punched him again knocking him over. Blood clogged his nose, making it hard to breathe.
Placid stepped up, kicked him several times in the head, hatred filled his voice as he shouted "Cunt, cunt, cunt," over and over again, the noise filling the office as much as the hurt filled Caramarin’s head. Stamped on his head dazing him.
Maiorescu dragged Placid off.
"Enough. Major Balashov wants him alive."
They pulled the chair upright again. Caramarin slumped forward, blood leaking from his nose, down his camo jacket and staining his keffiyeh scarf. His strength of mind came back as his senses gradually recovered.
"I need a piss," he said thickly.
"Fucking do it in your pants, cunt."
"I do, it’ll make this office smell worse than it usually does. You want to see Major Balashov in a pissy smelling office?"
"Fucking fine with me, cunt."
"You the boss now? Just making sure." Caramarin goaded, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
Maiorescu looked up from his cell.
"You can handle him. He tries anything, hurt him. But don't kill him."
Placid grinned and untied Caramarin and hauled him up. Gave him a shove towards the door and punched him on the back of the head.
"Mind how you go, cunt," he jeered.
Placid pushed Caramarin down the corridor leading to the fire exit. It led past a few more offices and storage cupboards to the toilet and the thug opened the door with Caramarin’s head.
Caramarin stood there, head down, knees bent, blood down his front. Looking weak and vulnerable, smaller than he was.
"Well, go on then. Have your piss."
"Do you want to get it out for me then? Would you like that? Hold it in your hand?"
Litovchenko swore. He turned Caramarin round, cut the cable ties and took a small pistol from his pocket. Before he could cover Caramarin with it; Caramarin slammed himself back into Placid.
The speed of his attack took his enemy by surprise. Placid staggered, knocked back against the tiled wall. Caramarin drove his elbow into Placid’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He turned around. Placid’s head was bowed. Caramarin butted him, felt the man’s nose break. Blood poured down the big man’s front.
Placid started to bring his pistol to bear. Using his trained paratrooper reflexes, Caramarin grabbed his wrist and slammed it against the tiles, shards of ceramic falling to the floor. Placid held on like grim death, trying to bring it to bear.
At such close quarters, Caramarin could smell the alcohol on the other man’s breath. He knew he had to finish this quickly before Maiorescu got worried. The trouble was, Litovchenko was larger and stronger than him. But the man's muscles were mostly from weightlifting and steroids – not trained fighting muscles like Caramarin’s.
He brought his knee up into Placid’s crotch. Litovchenko made a coughing grunt, a deep animal sound. Taking a huge risk, Caramarin let go of Litovchenko’s wrist. He doubled his two fists together and clubbed Litovchenko full in the face, his head smashing back into the tiles, shattering several. Blood now covered the tiles. Litovchenko reflexively dropped his pistol. Caramarin saw it on the floor and punted it away over towards the squat toilet.
Caramarin saw Placid’s eyes glaze over. Not giving the big man any time to pick up again, he swiftly planted two more punches to his head. Litovchenko started to sag forward, like he was going to embrace Caramarin.
Caramarin side stepped and punched Litovchenko on the ear as he fell forward, knocking the door man sprawling on the urine stained floor. He kicked the big man several times in the head until he lay still in a puddle of blood.
"Cunt," he spat down at the bloody figure before him. He picked up the man’s knife and dropped pistol. He saw it was a Czech made CZ-75 automatic. Small and handy. He stepped out of the toilet and made his way to the fire exit door.
"You!"
He heard a shout behind him. Maiorescu was in the passage. His boss lifted his arm and fired. Caramarin felt the bullet pluck at his sleeve. In the enclosed space the bang deafened him. Caramarin raced forward and knocked down the securing bar of the fire door. Another bullet followed him out, ricocheting off the metal door. Caramarin raced out of the exit and swerved round the side of the building.
He dived down a dark alley between the next warehouse and dodged behind a couple of dumpsters using them as cover. He heard Maiorescu following. Another bullet whanged overhead. Caramarin knew you couldn’t run and expect to hit anything. This was not like blazing away with a Kalash in the forest.
He came out onto Mala Arnauts'ka Street and kept running, dodging from shadow to shadow as much as possible. Didn’t seem to be much traffic this time of night. He could feel the adrenaline still rushing through his bloodstream. He figured he must be gaining on Maiorescu – the man was much older and out of condition. Didn’t stop him taking another shot at Caramarin. The shot went wild. He ran on.
In a lay-by over the road, a blue Volkswagen Polo was gently rocking. The fat man with a look of pleasure; the woman was kneeling down in the foot well giving head. The look of horror on the middle aged brass’s face as she looked up and saw the bloody mess of Caramarin’s face and clothes.
She was a second too slow to lock the door before Caramarin yanked it open. The man opened his eyes too late. Looked on with bewilderment as Caramarin grabbed his jacket and threw him out of the car.
Caramarin pointed his pistol at the woman.
"You too," he said. She scrambled out in disarray, her lipstick smeared over her face. Caramarin snatched her handbag and pushed her away towards her punter.
Over the road, he could see Maiorescu still following. Caramarin rested his arms on the VW’s roof and snapped off a shot. Took a deep breath of night air. The second hit the gang boss. He spun round with a scream and fell to the road. In this light Caramarin had no idea how badly he’d been hurt. Behind him, the man screamed again. Caramarin jumped into the VW Polo, fired it up and sped away. Behind him, the prostitute screamed gutter curses at him.
He aimed the car at Maiorescu but the man rolled away with millimetres to spare. In the rear view mirror, could see him get to his feet. Caramarin went through the woman’s handbag as he drove. Kept the cash and her cell then tossed it out the window.
As he pulled onto Nova Street, past the Spartak Rugby Stadium, he saw another big Mercedes with tinted windows turning into Mala Arnauts'ka Street. Major Balashov?
Who else would be driving a big limo round here this time of night?