Red rain 2.0 by Michael Crow Page A

Food, vodka, plenty of pussy. We earned all this, no?"
    "We earned it all right," I say. We're sticking to Russian only. "But what the fuck are you doing here, my friend? How the hell did you ever wind up over here?"
    "Ha! Who wouldn't come to best place there is?" Vassily grins. "A simple story. I only stay around that shitty place we were together maybe six months after you left. Then I go back to Moscow, no more military crap for me, and get into some business with friends. But Moscow, hey! It's like your Wild West. Completely crazy. Bribe this official, bribe that one, everything's supposed to be fixed. You relax, maybe even make the mistake of counting your money before it's in your hands. Then out of nowhere some punk kid pops up and tries to shoot you. Always misses. But still, this is insane. I get tired of this pretty fast, although I'm making lot of money. More than I could believe."
    "So then?"
    "So then, I get in touch with some friends in New York.
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    They tell me there is good business to be done there. Easy business, because they've got rules there. Nc worries some stupid crazy kid will take a shot at you for no a reason you can think of. I sell off some of my Moscow enterprises. I get on a plane to New York with some capital. Very quickly I find my friends were not lying."
    "But the word here is you're interested in horses, Vassily. Not that great a business, I can tell you."
    "Just a sideline," he laughs. "I got lot of interests now. First, I got this big nightclub in Brighton Beach. Full of people every night, people with lots of cash. We got food, vodka, dancing girls, the works. The place is making me rich. Horses? That's more like a hobby. But what about you?"
    "Not getting rich," I say. "I own some pieces of a few thoroughbreds, they do all right for me. Then I have a couple of sidelines—between you and me, not exactly legal, but pretty safe. I sleep sound. I get by."
    "Ah, my friend," Vassily grins. "Maybe we should do a little business together sometime. What I really have first, and big hopes for, is some import-export. Import merchandise, export cash to Cayman Islands banks. That's the idea. So far, great! Maybe I need to help you get rich too."
    "Or maybe I'll help you. I retail merchandise around here. How is your retail network?"
    "In New York, almost perfect. Here, not too bad so far. This is pretty new market for us. Not even six months down here."
    Shit, I think. He's the one.
    "I like to start cautiously. Too small just yet for you, I guess. But if things go well, who knows?"
    "I'll be here. I'm interested in building my business cautiously too. And peacefully."
    "You think I want any problem when life is so sweet? So. You let me know if you hear of any good opportunities with horses. I let you know when I get something going we can
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    do together. Any interest in pharmaceuticals? Could be big. Very big, I think."
    "Seems we're thinking very much alike. My sense too that there are great growth possibilities," I say.
    Vassily grins, cocks his head. We're both probing, and we both know it. We know this isn't the time or place to take it any further. So we slide into reminiscence, over coffee, about the old days, remember a few mutual friends who never made it out. Vassily kills the bottle of vodka with a toast to them. And he almost rips the check, grabbing it from me, pays in cash and leaves a $100 bill for a tip.
    Outside, in the humid air of a Baltimore night, another kiss on the head and a rib-cracker of a hug before he slips into a big Mercedes that I figure must have been waiting outside the whole time. I glimpse a heavy in the back seat. The driver looks like a heavy too.
    "Shooter, you I love. Let's do some things together soon. Okay, little brother?" Vassily calls. I wave. Then his window glides silently closed and the Merc pulls away.
    Pharmaceuticals my ass, I'm thinking as I drive home. Vassily is our man. The one we have to take down. The magnitude of that task hits me