Last to Fold by David Duffy Page A

minutes later, and a man stood on the stoop long enough to light a cigarette before coming down the stairs and turning away from where I was parked. The same guy who hit me. Gayeff followed on foot. The van pulled out and followed him. I followed the van. We all turned right at the corner and stopped briefly midblock while the van’s sliding door opened and Gayeff hustled the man inside. I followed a few more blocks until we reached a commercial neighborhood and the van pulled over. The door slid open, and Maks looked out, wearing the same thin grin as his twin. He moved aside, and I climbed in.
    Gayeff held the Ukrainian with two clamplike hands. He was dark-haired, unshaven. A knife, a wallet, and some keys sat on the floor of the van. I took the Raven from my pocket and put it against his forehead.
    “You forgot this.”
    He whimpered and tried to slide away. Gayeff held firm. I put away the gun and picked up the wallet. A driver’s license bore the name Ilarion Nedelenko and an address in Brooklyn, Manhattan Beach. Pictures of an overweight, unattractive woman and an equally overweight, unattractive young girl. I nodded to Maks, stepped outside, and called Foos. He confirmed the address, adding a phone number, immigration information, the make, model, and registration number of an old Ford Taurus, and the names of the wife and child. First thing was to find out if these guys were operating with protection. They were on Lachko’s turf, but they weren’t the kind of men he’d have confidence in. If they were freelancing, it shouldn’t be difficult to terrify them into cooperating—they were already living on borrowed time.
    I told Maks what I had in mind, and we climbed back in the van. I made a show of pocketing my cell phone before I said to Maks in Russian, “Lachko says he’s a useless pizda staraya —old cunt. Kill him. Use his gun.”
    Maks grinned and rummaged through a toolbox. He held up a screwdriver. The man’s eyes bounced in their sockets. The Badger’s calling card was a screwdriver in the right eye.
    Maks said, “What about the wife and kid?”
    “He doesn’t care. That’s up to you.”
    Maks grinned again. “Gayeff likes fat broads.”
    The man began babbling in Ukrainian. He hadn’t done anything, please let him explain, we had the wrong guy, please don’t hurt his wife and daughter, and so on. I let him beg for a while, then ordered him in Russian to shut up. I was right about freelancing. I knelt in front of him and held out my old KGB identity card.
    “The Cheka never goes away, you know. We’re everywhere. We see everything. We know everything. Even here. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now and let my friends spend the rest of the night enjoying themselves with Katerina and Pavla.”
    I don’t know whether it was the card or the Christian names, but the terror overwhelmed him. Howls of fear intermingled with meaningless ramblings.
    “Shut up and listen to me! You have one chance. One chance to save your family and your own worthless skin. You give me the wrong answer, I will know, and I will turn you over to these two.”
    Maks waggled the screwdriver. The man sobbed, “Noooo.”
    “How many men in the house?”
    He hesitated. He wasn’t as terrified as I thought. Turn up the heat. I rationalized that psychological terror was preferable to its physical cousin, but the truth was I’d also been trained by some nasty motherfuckers.
    “Kill him.”
    I handed Maks the Raven, which he put to Nedelenko’s temple.
    “No! No! Wait!” Nedelenko was screaming. “Two, there are two.”
    “Names,” I said, putting as much cold as I could into my voice.
    “Dolnak, Kalynych.”
    “First names?”
    “Marko, Diodor.”
    “Armed?”
    “Revolvers.”
    “Layout?”
    He described a two-room apartment with a small kitchen and bath.
    “Money there?”
    He nodded.
    “Maybe I’m going to give you another chance. Maybe.”
    I went outside and called Foos again, with Nedelenko’s