Two Guns 22 - This is not America

Brighton Beach, Mark reflected, didn't really look all that festive.

It wasn't snowing so much as mudding, the flakes already dirty on their way to the ground and not improving the situation down there. Mark walked on the boardwalk with a plodding rhythm, both to reflect on the situation and to avoid making a very undignified slip on the ice - the soles of his boots were stiff like boards, affording him little grip on the slippery sidewalk. Normally, that would've been worth noting (and correcting), but being too deep in thought, the sole thought only bubbled up on occasion, to be immediately pushed back down by heavier deliberations. He turned his head to glance behind him, catching a glimpse of the Coney Island amusements in the distance; he sighed, but kept walking. The streets branching off the boardwalk were growing heavier on kyrillic signs and children in heavy parkas waging snowball wars; Mark picked one with little advance warning and crossed the street into Little Odessa.

It seemed that, with every step, he nodded to someone else; street vendors, young toughs hanging out in entrance ways, the occasional businessman. Mark liked the certainty in that, announcing his presence and being acknowledged as guest in turn. Being a good Enforcer was about more than knowing how to handle yourself with a gun. Being a respectable arbiter between the families, knowing how to behave yourself, speaking a smattering of their languages and knowing their customs...all as useful, if not more so, than a fast trigger finger.

Boris's front was an unassuming store for men's clothing; the old bastard was quite the tailor, and Mark recognized a few of the mannequin suits as hanging in his own closet. Mark did it how things worked there; he politely declined the first offer of help from the employee, looked around for a couple of minutes, then informed the sales clerk that he'd like to have a custom suit tailored. This led to the sales clerk excusing himself for a minute to formally announce Mark's presence to Boris; then he came back and told Mark to step into the back to talk to the boss about what exactly he had in mind. Mark thanked the clerk, then parted the curtains and stepped into the back. One of Boris's bodyguards asked him to remove his coat, for measuring; Mark had always felt like this was a pretty good idea on how to frisk people while staying in character, so to speak. With a nod from the guardian, it was time to hit the office. Another guard stood at the door, nodded to Mark and opened it for him; Mark stepped into a slice of 70s Americana. He always admired the crampedness of the room, all the photos and half-tailored suits and paintings surrounding Boris's desk. The old man was sitting there, skinny glasses riding the bridge of his nose and his right hand on a mug of deep black coffee.

"Hello, Boris," Mark began; the old man indicated a chair in front of the desk, and Mark sat down.
"Welcome once again, Mark. What can I do for you today?"
"Oh, I figured I'd just check in," Mark said nonchalantly. "See how you're doing."
"I'm recovering quite nicely, thank you." Boris held up his hand; the index finger didn't flex when he moved the others. Mark understood what that meant, but gave no further comment. "How are you?" Boris asked.
"Ah, you know me. I'm bulletproof."
Boris chuckled softly. "That's what we all are. Then we get old."
"I'm glad you're okay," Mark said.
"I was a little worried when they set the trailer on fire," Boris said, sipping from his coffee. "And being clinically dead twice in one week...yes, that's a little more excitement than I usually wish for. Would you care for some coffee?"
"Thank you, but..."

Boris fetched a second cup and saucer from a cupboard behind him, then poured coffee for Mark. In the great continuum of coffee from sludge to dishwater, this definitely fell closer to the former. Mark took a sip and impressed Boris by managing to keep a straight face.

"I need to know what happened to Berkovitz," Mark said.
"I have a question for you, first," Boris said thoughtfully. "When the Soviet Union finally decided to let people emigrate...who do you think they let go first?"
"Okay, I'll bite. They kicked out the gangsters in the 60s, right?"
"Early 70s. But yes. People like me. People they didn't want. Berkovitz's parents were Orthodox Jews, hardliners. His father didn't make it past the border, his mother drank herself to death over it. So that little boy grows up here, and his heart is hardened against Russia."
"Oh, I know another complainer..."
"True Russians complain," Boris added. "I defended the Motherland against Hitler's stooges. He hated it, and that's why he's an emigrant. I am merely in exile..."
"Right. Berkovitz?"
"The little boy who hates Russia grows up to be a police officer. He speaks Russian, they put him into Organized Crime. He goes crooked. We come to an arrangement."
"You never mentioned that part before," Mark said.
"Mark, we're friends, not business partners," Boris shot back without the slightest hint of malice. "He was just another piece of small fry until he made his play to kidnap me from Nikolai and kill me. I have to admit, he was pretty good, but he wasn't a professional. And he bored me with his life story...as if I didn't already know it."
"You're fairly relaxed about all the shit they did to you."
"Why get agitated?" Boris says, sipping on his coffee. "With the precision of clockwork, life repays our evil. Berkovitz is dead, you killed Nikolai."
"Are you sure Berkovitz is dead?" Mark asked.
"I saw him sink into the water next to me with a bullet hole in his head, before Nikolai pulled me out again. That would be difficult to fake."

Mark leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh.

"At least one loose end tied up," he said.
"Make that two," Boris said; Mark looked up to find the Russian pulling the cork from a bottle of wine. "I owe you this much, at least."
"Only one glass," Mark said defensively while Boris poured. "I've got some things to do today."
"Good things?"
"...no."
"Then enjoy the wine," Boris replied.

Mark rose from his chair, grabbed the glass and raised it to a toast.

"To old friendships," Boris said.
"To old friendships," Mark replied with a slight smile.

---

Mark's footsteps were quiet against the gravel that made up the walkway between the plots of the small Brooklyn cemetery; new shoes, a new black suit, all fresh off the shelves at Boris's shop. After that, a visit to the barbershop nearby, haircut and a shave that still tingled on his cheeks. Mark wanted to look respectable for this.

The cemetery was nearly empty, owing to the cold, which suited the assassin just fine; he slowed his walk as he approached a granite cross, a grave he knew without having seen it before. Alfredo Ingues, the inscription read. 1912 - 1989. Beloved father. Mark looked around, eyes darting from side to side. He twitched in his new jacket against the wind, tried to gather up the right words for an audience of infinite patience.

"I'm sorry," he began, unsure of every syllable. "I'm sorry, Alfredo. There, I said it." He laughed uneasily. "You kept nagging me and I always went for Sir. Well, it's Alfredo now, old man! How do you like them apples?"

Silence.

"I wanted to apologize, I guess I've done that now. Yeah, you know, for not being there...at the funeral. I should've been there. I should've been there and I wasn't. I'm, like I said, I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say. Heh, you're probably smiling now. Stupid old Mark, all torn up over another body."

Silence.

"But that's just it, isn't it? You're not just another body rotting away. You are...you were the boss. You've been part of my life for so long...so long. And I'm all torn up because I wanted to be there for you, the way you were always there for me. That's part of why I'm here now, you know how I am. I don't like leaving my debts unpaid. And I owe you this, Alfredo. I owe you the respect to come here and honor you. I don't...I didn't talk to Alex about this, but I figured you wouldn't have wanted this to be a big old group hug kind of thing. So..."

Silence.

"So I also want to thank you. For being there. For taking an angry teenager off the streets. For all the things you gave me and taught me. I know it was just business, it's hard to go for the heartwarming stuff when I was your tool for so long. But I believe that, in the end, I was more than a weapon for you. And you're dead and can't tell me I'm full of shit, so that's how I'll remember it."

Silence.

"I'm just that kind of guy, you know...yes, you know. My bad. I take care of things. And the last thing you ordered me to do, to protect Sharon Collins...I've done that. You would've liked her, if you'd seen her...not just the frightened cop that evening. The woman she is. The warrior she is. The way she walks and doesn't know how crazy it makes me. The way she doesn't back down. The way she just...she just loves me. And the way I love her."

Silence.

"And that's what makes this so damn hard."

Silence.

"You don't see it? Well, let me spell it out for you, Alfredo. She's going to take down the family. I know that. So you see, this is all your fault."

Silence.

"We believed in it, didn't we? You had me convinced, all those years, that we're gangsters with good hearts. That there's honor among thieves. But now I look at it and it's just about survival. Where's the honor now, Alfredo? Is it in the things we do or the things we say?"

Silence.

"You're laughing now, you old bastard, aren't you?" Mark said, the first hint of a tear in his left eye. "Silly old Mark. Getting so worked up over nothing. Why don't you tell me how to puzzle this out, Alfredo? Why don't you just say, 'Mark, there's things a man has to do'?"

Silence.

"Because I know that!" Mark said, anger creeping into his voice. "I know that! But this isn't that easy!"

Silence.

Silence.

"No. I'm being unfair. I know what you'd say."

Silence. Mark sighed and wiped some tears from his cheeks.

"You're talking to two people here, you know that, Alfredo, don't you? Only one is going to leave this place. For every one who wins...somebody loses."

Silence.

Mark breathed out with all his might, the way one might to drive poison from the lungs. His muscles tensed, his face hardened, and he turned away from the grave, purpose in the beat of his steps. No more cold, no more confessions. One Mark left behind at the grave, mourning his losses. Another Mark walking away to do what he lived to do.

---

When he passed the gates of the cemetery, he reached into the pocket of his pants and grabbed the keys to his car. With efficient movements, he unlocked the door, sat down in the driver's seat and started the engine. With a bit more force than necessary, he accelerated out of the parking lot, back into the city. His cell phone rang, right on cue.

"Simmons."
"It's me," Sharon's voice came from the other end. "I'm at the station right now."
"Why are you..."
"Listen, this is important. Ayers sent me a little file the DEA built on Silvestro. One of the photos shows him entering the general hospital in Bogota...and I'll bet you dollars to pesos that he went to see Alex there."
"I'll ask her about it, I'm heading her way now."
"Ask her? Mark, this proves that there's something going on here."
"No, it proves that he was at the hospital. It's not much use as evidence for anything else."
"If you'd just ask her the right questions..."
"Don't worry about that," Mark said, his voice flat. "I have a plan."