The Big Bad Wolf

CHAPTER 58

THAT SAME NIGHT the Wolf had a meeting with two professional hockey players at

Caesars in Atlantic City, New Jersey. The suite where he stayed had gold-foil wallpaper

everywhere, windows facing the Atlantic, and a hot tub in the living room. Out of respect for

his guests, who were big stars, he wore an expensive chalk-stripe Prada suit.

His contact happened to be a wealthy cable TV operator, who arrived at the Nero suite with

the hockey players Alexei Dobushkin and Ilia Teptev in tow. Both were members of the

Philadelphia Flyers. They were top defensemen who were considered to be tough guys

because they were big men who moved quickly and could do a lot of damage. The Wolf

didn’t believe the hockey players were that tough, but he was a huge fan of the game.

“I love American-style hockey,” he said as he welcomed them with a broad smile and a hand

extended.

Alexei and Ilia nodded his way, but neither of the hockey players shook his hand. The Wolf

was offended, but he didn’t reveal his feelings. He smiled some more and figured that the

hockey players were too stupid to understand who he was. Too many wooden sticks to the

skull.

“Drinks, anyone?” he asked his guests. “Stolichnaya? Whatever you like.”



“I’ll pass,” said the cable operator, who seemed incredibly self-important, but a lot of

Americans were that way.

“Nyet,” Ilia said with disinterest, as if his host were a hotel barman or a waiter. The hockey

player was twenty-two years old, born in Voskresensk, Russia. He was six-foot-five, with

close-cropped hair, stubble not quite amounting to a beard, and a block of a head sitting on

an enormous neck.

“I don’t drink Stoly,” said Alexei, who, like Ilia, wore a black leather jacket with a dark

turtleneck underneath. “Maybe you have Absolut? Or some Bombay gin?”



“Of course.” The Wolf nodded cordially. He walked to the suite’s mirrored wet bar, where he

made the drinks and decided what to do next. He was starting to enjoy this. It was different.

No one here was afraid of him.

He plopped down on the pillowed couch between Ilia and Alexei. He looked back and forth

into their faces, smiling broadly again. “You’ve been away from Russia for a long time, no?

Maybe too long,” he said. “You drink Bombay gin? You forget your manners?”



“We hear you’re a real tough man,” said Alexei, who was in his early thirties and obviously

lifted weights, a lot of weights, and often. He was around six feet and over two hundred

twenty pounds.

“No. Not really,” said the Wolf. “I am just another American businessman these days.

Nothing very special. Not tough anymore. So, I was wondering, do we have a deal for the

game with Montreal?”



Alexei looked over at the cable guy. “Tell him,” he said.

“Alexei and Ilia are looking for a little more action than what we originally talked about,” he

said. “You understand what I’m saying? Action?”



“Ahh,” said the Wolf, and grinned broadly. “I love action,” he said to the businessman. “I

love shalit too. Means mischief in my country. Shalit.”



He was up off the couch faster than anyone would have thought possible. He’d pulled a

small lead pipe from beneath a couch cushion and he cracked it across Alexei Dobushkin’s

cheek. Then he swung it off the bridge of Ilia Teptev’s nose. The two hockey stars were

bleeding like stuck pigs in seconds.

Then and only then did the Wolf take out his gun. He held it between the eyes of the cable

owner. “You know, they’re not such tough guys as I thought. I can tell about these things in a

few seconds,” he said. “Now, down to business. One of the two big bears will allow a score by

Montreal in the first period. The other will miss a play for a score in the second. Do you

understand? The Flyers will lose the game in which they’re favored. Understood?

“If for any reason this doesn’t happen, then everybody dies. Now let yourselves out. I look

forward to the game. As I said, I love American-style hockey.”



The Wolf began to laugh as the big hockey stars stumbled out of the Nero suite. “Nice meeting

you Ilia, Alexei,” he said as the door closed. “Break a leg.”