Beck had been out to Brighton Beach twice before. Once on an all-night tear with a Russian woman he had become involved with. And prior to that to meet with an old Vory gangster named Ivan Kolenka. He had been summoned to meet with the gangster to receive his personal thanks for protecting an associate while he served time in Sing Sing. There was a long and complicated story behind all that, but the Vory treated the episode with such formality that Beck would have preferred to skip the meeting entirely.
Apparently, Kolenka was one of the few genuine adherents to the “Thieves Code.” A set of rules developed in the Russian gulags. It amounted to rejecting everything that had anything to do with normal society: family, all authority other than the internal authority of the crime group, and all income except that which came through criminal activity.
The life of a true Voy-v-Zakone seemed a bit mythic to Beck, until he met Ivan Kolenka in the private back room of a large restaurant. Kolenka appeared to be a man entirely self-contained. A withered, hunched over, almost emaciated man, dressed in a black suit and white shirt that were both too large for him, chain-smoking nonfiltered cigarettes, surrounded by minions. Big, thick-necked stereotypical Russian wise guys, other men who were either relatives or worked the restaurant, women who seemed to run the gamut from waitresses and fat wives to overdressed mistresses and pampered whores.
Food and drink and people swirled around Kolenka like the cigarette smoke that filled the back room of the private restaurant, but nothing seemed to affect him. He didn’t seem to care about, recognize, or interact with anybody. When the emissary who had persuaded Beck to come to Brighton Beach to see Mr. Kolenka escorted Beck into the back room, Kolenka stood to greet him. The moment the old man stood, everyone in the room stopped moving. Apparently, Kolenka stood for very few and certainly bowed to no one.
Beck felt the charisma of the man, but also felt acutely ill at ease. Certainly, there was the assumed power and ruthlessness. But something more sinister or perhaps frightening lurked underneath. Beck sensed it might have been Kolenka’s ability to endure pain and loneliness.
Beck instinctively wanted little to do with Kolenka. They sat in a velour-covered booth, an iced bottle of Russian vodka in front of them. They shook hands. He felt the wiry strength of the man’s bony grip.
Beck had to lean toward Kolenka to hear his heavily accented English. Beck listened to Kolenka’s thanks for taking care of Mister Cherevin, but responded very little. Kolenka said something about if Beck ever needed help, Beck should come to him. But the way he said it felt like an enunciation of policy. It didn’t feel personal.
Beck thanked Kolenka back, politely refused the offer of food and drink, remained deferential, mindful not to offend the man. But he felt out of his realm and wanted to be done with the stiff, back-room, Russian ritual.
Kolenka hadn’t gotten to where he was by missing the signs and signals around him. He sensed Beck’s discomfort. He didn’t seem to take offense or require that Beck put it aside. He allowed Beck a graceful exit. Beck nodded once more in Kolenka’s direction, turned and walked out to the bar area in front, followed by the dark-suited emissary who had taken him out to Brighton Beach in his limo.
He climbed into the Town Car limousine and rode back in silence to the midtown hotel in Manhattan where he was staying. Back then Red Hook had been in the planning stages, and Beck moved around quite a bit, enjoying his freedom as much as possible after eight long years in prison.
The trip back out to Brighton Beach, this time with Demarco driving, seemed longer. They were caught in the rush hour flow of traffic out to the Island, moving slowly along the BQE to the Belt Parkway. Traffic finally opened up a bit when they made it past the Verrazano Bridge.
Kolenka had no phone, no means of contacting him except via a personal connection. Beck knew this trip might be fruitless, but he was fairly sure that an attempt on his part to contact Kolenka would get a fast response.
The first stop was the well-known Ukrainian Café Glechik.
Coney Island Avenue seemed foreboding. Dark and dingy as the winter night set in. It was nearly six o’clock when they pulled up in front of the café. On the commercial block with most of the storefronts closed for the night, the brightly lit and bustling café seemed like a welcome oasis.
Beck walked into the restaurant, while Demarco sat double-parked in the black Mercury.
The heat, the steamy air filled with the pungent smells of traditional Ukrainian spices and food filled Beck’s head the moment he walked in the door. He seemed to remember that this place had gone down in reputation from its heyday, but he couldn’t have cared less. Nothing on the menu appealed to him, and wouldn’t have when it was more authentic.
He found the manager after questioning a disinterested waiter. When Beck told him his name and leaned in closer to say he needed to see Kolenka, the man’s eyes actually opened wide.
“Tell him I’ll be parked outside for the next half hour. If he can see me, I’ll assume he’ll get back to me by then. If he can’t, ask him to call me at this number.”
Beck had written his cell phone number on the inside of a matchbook with a plain, white cardboard cover.
Beck didn’t wait for any denials or refusals. He stuck the matchbook in the manager’s shirt pocket and walked back out to the Mercury.
Eleven minutes later, a black GMC Yukon pulled up close behind them, and a battered Lincoln Town Car veered in front of them and backed up, trapping the Mercury Marauder between the two vehicles.
Demarco Jones already had his Glock resting in his lap. He calmly pointed it toward the driver’s side door, keeping it low and out of sight.
“Easy,” said Beck. “Let me talk to them.”
Beck stepped out of the Mercury at the same time a large man in dark clothes came out the front passenger door of the Yukon.
Beck tried to remember the last time he’d seen a normal-size Russian doing crime in the New York area.
He kept his hands where they could be seen and took a couple of slow steps toward Kolenka’s man, who held up a hand indicating Beck should stop.
“I’m Beck.”
“Vassily. Okay, you come with me. Tell your friend you be back soon.”
Beck thought about that for a second and said, “No. Let him follow you. He’ll stay in the car.”