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Sophie was Russian, too, after all. Born and raised. Why should they extort a Russian? She had done nothing to her ex, Andre. Knew nothing. And Ivan, her elder son, was only a boy. Still a child. He knew nothing of his father’s crimes. Sophie and her sons had not laid eyes on Andre in seven years, since Ivan was nine and Nikolai six. Was this revenge for leaving him? Abandoning him to jail in New York?
The envelope hid the hundred-dollar bills, all from Masha; sweet and sassy cousin Masha, who always found a way to come up with money. No matter how much, she could always provide. And it was dollars, as they asked, not rubles. She had followed their directions, so now it was time to give Ivan back.
Ivan had been gone now for weeks, her baby and first born, sixteen last year, and somehow in trouble with the gang from back east: the Odessa brothers, all friends of Andre’s, all from Uglich, with ties to Moscow.
Bad things and worse went down in New York, in Brighton Beach, where Andre’s family had set up shop. Protection and prostitution rackets. Drugs. Smuggling.
Sophie refused to speak to her ex. She and Masha bought the old Chevy, which Masha fixed up. Masha was a mechanic at heart, and replaced the fuel system, then spread her legs for a new rear axle. Car up and running, they made the drive, Masha, Sophie, Ivan and Nikolai, to the West Coast.
Sophie wanted an honest life. A life in service of her Lord, Jesus. That was it. She was still young. She could work hard. Get married. Start over. Be good. She wanted so badly to be good. To do the Lord’s will.
She watched in the dark as Boris slipped out the cash and counted.
“One thousand four, one thousand five…” They were clean and crisp, fresh from the bank. “One thousand eight…”
She looked around the warehouse. The smell was death, she thought. How could anyone live in this place? How could anyone make this a home, even a gang of criminals? The smell was the rot of rodents, she thought. Dead rats and mice. It was different from mold or mildew, or stink. Mold smelled earthy, like soil from the orchards back home in spring. And mold didn’t make her nauseous like this. Mildew smelled like wet socks or newspapers left in the rain. And stink was years of microwaved fish, coffee and cigarettes, dog breath and diapers, dirt and oil tracked in from outside.
Death, on the other hand, did not leave a smell. It left a stench. The smell of bacteria breaking down flesh, of methane gas, too many cows trapped and steeped in their own manure. It was rot, decay, a sickening odor that turned the stomach of any good housekeeper or good mother.
And Sophie was both.
“It’s all here,” Boris said. “Better be real.”
Sophie’s anger rose in her chest.
“Where would I get counterfeit? Huh? Me? Where do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Boris said, and lifted his brows.
“I make an honest living. Cleaning homes. Making homes pretty and clean and shiny. Not like you.”
“Mom,” whispered Nikolai. “Stop,” he begged.
“I’m aChristian,” she spat. “And so is my son here, and Ivan, too. Now bring him to me, and let us go on and live our own lives. We want nothing to do with you people.”
Boris wore sunglasses on his bald head. “People?” he said with disdain. “We are your family.” Since this was Hollywood—well, North Hollywood—even inside a dark warehouse, Boris felt he had to wear shades. Five gold chains, Rolex, loafers by Gucci, no socks.
“Family?” Sophie said. “Family?” She turned her head and spat on the concrete floor. “You are not family. This is not what family does. How family treats its members. No.”
Boris stared coldly at her and turned, clenching the envelope as he walked off toward a steel door with an Exit sign.
“Calm down, Mama,” Nikolai pleaded. “Please. Please.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and looked around. She knew she was asking for trouble. She was an exquisitely beautiful woman, svelte and blond, and Ivan and Nikolai were beautiful boys. They attracted the wrong kind of attention.
Ivan had tagged the wrong wall in North Hollywood, and gangbangers jumped him and dragged him away. They stuffed him into a van, said Nikolai, and drove him away. Nikolai thought it was MS-13. The men looked Mexican. But Sophie later got word that the Russians and MS-13 had a deal. They worked together on various streets. Maybe it wasn’t about the graffiti. Maybe the jump was because of Andre. Andre’s revenge. He had threatened revenge over and over. “Someday,” he’d said. “You cannot hide.”
For weeks in church, she’d sunk to her knees and prayed to the saints, begged God and Mary to bring Ivan home. He was an innocent.
She’d searched the Valley and learned all about the LA streets. The Latin gangs owned north LA. The Armenians ruled Glendale and Burbank. South of downtown, the blocks belonged to the Bloods and the Crips. But the Russians, the Russians were everywhere. Ruling over everything. Making deals. Forging alliances.
Who could keep track?
She begged the priest and parish to help. Taped her son’s photo to telephone poles, like a lost puppy. She couldn’t call the LAPD. She didn’t have papers. They would deport her. Hand her to ICE.
Then one day Boris found her in Crenshaw and made her an offer.
“Five thousand cash by Sunday,” he said. “Meet us with cash, or your other son is next.” So now they waited in the vacant warehouse.
