Betting on Hope

Chapter 14



Johnny Red, so named because he had had the luck, good or otherwise, to be born in Moscow before the collapse of Communism, strode out of the terminal at McCarran airport in Las Vegas with the other business travelers. Like them, he wore a dark suit and carried a cell phone. He had a large rolling suitcase that he’d checked, a briefcase that he’d carried on the plane, and a business plan that he intended to execute on this business trip. But Johnny Red wasn’t planning to use time management to execute this plan. No, when Johnny Red was ready to execute his agenda, he’d use his Glock, now packed away in his checked baggage.

Johnny Red arrived with an entourage of four men who would help him execute the plan. One of them was young and strikingly handsome, medium height with dark, wavy hair, blue eyes, and the physique of a Greek god. The other three men were older and bigger, resembling ex-professional athletes who’d stayed in shape and turned to security work, which is what they were. All three wore identical bad suits and could have passed as triplets.

Johnny Red exited the airport terminal with his arm raised for a cab and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk so suddenly that the four men following him piled into each other, like ducklings following a cautious mother to the water.

“By the purity of all the saints and the holy Russian motherland they walked on, it’s hot out here,” he said.

This observation was dutifully confirmed by the triplets.

“Not like Moscow,” said Yakov. “Nice and cool in Moscow.”

“Forty degrees Celsius here,” said Markov.

“At least,” said Igor.

“Around here, they would call that a hundred degrees Fahrenheit,” observed the young and handsome one. “More like a hundred and four.”

Johnny Red grinned suddenly and reached out, ruffling the young man’s hair. “That’s Alexei for you,” he said, grinning at the triplets. “Always the scholar.”

Alexei grinned back, knowing that he was not quite one of them.

“Success is in the details,” he said. “That’s why you’re sending me to law school.”

“Da,” Yakov said. “And to keep us oudda trouble.”

There was a murmur of agreement around the circle.

“Okay, enough with the standing around like the peasant representatives to the First International,” Johnny Red said. “We must get to the hotel. We need to plan. Comrade!” He beckoned imperiously to the next cab in line.

The cab inched forward, and the driver, a dark-skinned man wearing a turban, got out to help them with their bags.

“Comrade,” Johnny Red said as they got in, “are you from one of the great Soviet Socialist Republics? Perhaps one of the Asiatic republics?”

The cabbie glanced in the rear view mirror. “New Delhi,” he said.

“Ah, well,” Johnny Red said. “Can’t be helped. You know the Desert Dunes Resort and Casino?”

“Very nice place,” the cabbie said obligingly.

“It’s a pleasure palace for the decadent bourgeoisie,” Johnny Red said, “but we must go where duty lies. Onward, my friend!”

The cabbie nodded, thinking that in Vegas, decadence usually trumped duty. Still, as this fare demonstrated, it took all kinds. He glanced over his shoulder and edged into the lane of traffic.



The Desert Dunes Casino and Resort was everything the Russians wanted in a Las Vegas accommodation.

“Look at this place,” said Alexei, swiveling to catch the murals on the ceiling, the Carerra marble on the floor, and the Tiffany glass behind the concierge desk.

“Look at the action,” said Johnny Red, checking out the entrance to the private bacarrat room, the poker tables, slots, and roulette wheels. “We could make a killing here.”

“We will make a killing here,” said Markov, surprised.

“Shut up! Jesus! Tell the world,” said Johnny Red. “Call the cops, why don’t you.”

“Look at the broads,” said Igor, the most awed of all. “Even the ugly ones is gorgeous.”

They all paused for a moment in reverent silence to the gorgeous broads.

“Boys, we have found Paradise,” Johnny said, as they stepped up to the check-in clerk.

“Can I help you?” the young woman in the tangerine suit behind the desk asked.

“Yes, you can,” Igor said reverentially. “You can come up to my room, whatever it is, when you’re off.”

The woman smiled professionally.

“You’re here to check in, Mr. –?”

“Rudnitsky,” Johnny Red said. “Call me Johnny Red. I reserved the suite.”

“You’re sweet,” Igor said to the clerk.

“For a week,” said the clerk, not smiling. “You’d like to keep it on your card? How many keys?”

“Three,” Johnny said. “One for me, one for Alexei, and one for the morons here.”

They finished their transaction. The clerk slid a small envelope with three keys over to Johnny Red.

“You’re in suite seventeen-oh-one,” she said. “Take the elevators to the left.”

“When are you off?” pleaded Igor.

“Have a pleasant stay,” said the clerk.

“Come on,” said Johnny. “Let’s go up to the suite, get cleaned up, and see what’s happening.”

“Did you see her?” asked Igor, as he walked backwards toward the elevator, keeping his eye on the clerk. “She was gorgeous.” He smacked into a pillar.

The others laughed.

“Seventeen-oh-one,” Johnny Red said, hitting the button on the elevator.

The car arrived, and they all stepped in, shoving their luggage into the small space. Alexei, standing closest to the buttons, hit the button for seventeen.

“This is quite a place,” he said as the car rose.

“I could fall in love here,” said Igor.

“You got to develop some finesse first,” Yakov said.

“I got finesse,” Igor said.

“You got the finesse of a supervisor at a Siberian labor camp,” Yakov said.

“Remember why we’re here,” Johnny Red said when the car stopped at the seventeenth floor and he stepped out. “Falling in love is for the bourgeoisie. The job’s gotta come first. I expect everybody to pull his weight on this trip. You hear me?”

He stopped suddenly, his key card poised above the lock on his door, his nose pointed into the air like a bird dog.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“What?” shouted Yakov, whipping out his Glock and crouching low, as he whirled to face the elevator.

“That,” Johnny said, sniffing.

“Where?” shouted Markov, whipping out his Glock and crouching low, like a synchronized swimmer next to Yakov, as he faced the opposite direction down the hall.

Johnny shook his head. “As I honor Lenin, the father of our glorious revolution who struggled to free the masses from their chains of bondage and despair, I can’t believe I brought you amateurs along,” he said in disgust.

“You smell something?” Alexei had seen his uncle sniff the air, and he had not been sent to law school for nothing.

“Varenikis,” Johnny said.

There was a moment of silence almost as profound as the one for the broads.

“Where?” said Alexei.

Johnny sniffed. “Downstairs,” he decided.

The five dropped their luggage outside the door of their suite and headed for the stairs, Yakov and Markov shouldering their weapons.

“What kind, boss?” ventured Markov.

“Apple cinnamon,” said Johnny. “Can’t you tell? The crust, as light as a feather, as rich as a Belarus banker. Dusted with cinnamon sugar, grainy and sweet. The filling—apples, tart, softened with butter, sweetened with raisins and honey, brightened with lemon juice, cooked to perfection. The whole thing fried to a golden brown and dunked in sour cream. That,” said Johnny Red, east coast mobster and devotee of Russian cooking, “is gorgeous.”

By now the five had reached the sixteenth floor, which contained only two suites. Johnny sniffed.

“Here,” he said, stopping at sixteen-oh-one.

He rang the bell. Waited.

“Come on, come on,” he said impatiently, slapping his hand against his leg.

Just then the door was flung open, releasing a gust of air so warm and moist, so redolent of butter, of sugar, of apple-cinnamon varenikis, that Johnny Red almost swooned. And when he had put out his hand to steady himself and opened his eyes to view this heaven, he saw the Angel of Russia framed in the doorway.

Her hair was a blonde halo, an aura of pale curls fluffed from heat. Her cheeks were pink, flushed with the vigorous beating she’d given her dumplings. Her eyes were the color of the Volga on a stormy day. Her tight white tee-shirt was pulled low, exposing the edge of her lacy red bra on the curve of her breast and the strap over her shoulder. She wore an apron that did nothing to conceal her perfect tan legs.

And, best of all, her face was dusted with flour and she held a wooden spoon in her hand.

“Well, hello, boys,” Baby said, smiling at the five stupefied Russians. “What can I do for you?”



An hour later they were eating out of her hand.

“Here, have another,” Baby said, leaning over Alexei’s shoulder as she reached around him and placed two tender varenikis on his plate. He’d already had six, but he would have eaten a hundred if this beautiful baker of heavenly varenikis would continue to press her voluptuous breasts against his shoulder the way she was doing now. He sighed, letting his head drift toward Paradise.

“Oh, I can’t,” he said weakly, feeling the buckle of his belt press too tightly against the firm, muscled contours of his stomach. “I’m stuffed.”

“You’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t try the apricot,” Baby said, her luscious red lips pouting. She reached forward toward the bowl of sour cream, which did amazing things to her chest and caused Alexei almost to pass out from bliss. And then she held the apricot vareniki just an inch from his lips and brought her face down to his.

“Taste,” she said. “This you will love.”

Alexei did, indeed, love.

Johnny Red looked at the sugary remains on his plate with gluttonous satisfaction as Alexei struggled to please the goddess at the table by eating the apricot vareniki that she wanted him to eat.

“You cook like an angel,” Johnny Red said, watching Baby’s breasts with a fascination almost equal to Alexei’s. “Where did you learn to make varenikis?”

“From my grandmother,” Baby said. “Born in Minsk. Raised in Moscow. She cooked for generals. For bishops. For presidents even.”

“Lenin?” Johnny Red breathed.

“Not Lenin,” Baby said. “She was too young for Lenin.”

Johnny Red kept silent. He would ask no more. This angel was here now, cooking the varenikis. For him, Johnny Red. That was what counted.

He licked some crumbs off his plate and glanced up. Baby’s breasts all but spilled out of the lacy red bra over her tight tank top.

“Magnificent varenikis,” Johnny Red said.

“Don’t I know it,” Baby said.



That night in bed Baby warned Big Julie about the Russians.

“There are five of them,” she said. “But only four of them carried guns. The youngest one was sort of sweet.”

Big Julie struggled to come out of the deep post-coital stupor he’d fallen into. What Baby couldn’t do with just her fingers and a rubber band.

“Hey,” he said, opening his eyes on a wave of possessiveness. “Who?” And then after a second to gather his thoughts, “How do you know they got guns? How did you know they was even coming here?”

“The Russians who are after you,” Baby said patiently. “I knew they were coming because one of your guys called when you were out, I don’t even want to know where, you never tell me nothing. I told you before but you didn’t listen. I saw the guns when they were eating the varenikis.”

“The Russians were here?” Big Julie said, struggling to sit up. “Did they threaten you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I am telling you,” Baby said. “Again. I made varenikis for them. They liked them.”

“You cooked varenikis for them? You invited them in?” Big Julie asked, all memories of exploring fingers and rubber bands vanished. “Are you crazy?”

Baby pouted. “You always said, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“But, Jesus. I didn’t mean the Russians.”

“Well, you should have been more clear, then.” Baby turned away, hurt. Her flounce and the way she crossed her arms over her chest thrust her breasts out in such a way that Big Julie was momentarily distracted.

“Aw, Baby, you know I didn’t mean nothing. What you found out—that was a big help.” Big Julie lost focus. Baby’s breasts—full, round, firm, pink, luscious—called out to him like dessert at the buffet table. He reached out, helping himself to their sweetness.

“What did you tell them?” he asked, his voice a little strained.

“Nothing,” Baby said outraged, turning a little so Big Julie could reach better. “But they know you’re here. A couple of them spoke Russian. They thought I didn’t understand.”

“Uh,” Big Julie said, feeling Baby’s warm, taut flesh under his fingers.

Baby arched her back a little. “They said they were staying for a week. So whatever they’ve got planned—” She stopped momentarily, drawing in a breath as Big Julie’s hands found what they’d been seeking. “Whatever they got planned, Big Julie, you should be careful,” she finished on a gasp.

“I’m being careful,” Big Julie said, breathing in her warm freshness, the firm, soft breasts. “See how careful I’m being?”

He slid his hands under the sheet, reaching lower, finding her heat. He raised his head, as a new thought occurred to him.

“You can cook?”