Pashkov drove his 1975 Cadillac Seville south toward the airport. When he first came to America the old Cadillac was all he could afford. But as his income had risen along with his stature, he began to love the vehicle. It had that old mobster feel to it. And people would stare as he drove by. Amused or intrigued, Pashkov didn’t care the reason. He could feel the respect factor increase anytime he parked the car. Modern parking spaces were not prepared for such a large vehicle and that made Pashkov love it even more.
He pulled into a private entrance to the airport off of 24th Street and stopped momentarily at the security booth, where an older gentleman in a blue uniform waved as the gate swung up and allowed him entry into the parking lot. The facility was owned by Entertainment Resources where they had two Gulfstream G500s sitting with full tanks of fuel and two pilots on call twenty-four hours a day.
Pashkov pulled into a parking space in front of Hangar 49. He got out and tugged on his shirt sleeves until they were evenly matched from under his gray suit jacket then headed toward the door and pressed a button next to the entrance and looked up into the security camera. A moment later the door buzzed and he entered the facility and walked toward the main office to the left of the open hangar.
A couple of guys wearing jeans and tight T-shirts were playing ping pong next to one of the G500s.
“Hey, look who’s here,” one of them said, smirking. “The new boss.”
“Same as the old boss,” the other one replied.
They were no threat to him. They were a couple of workers low on the totem pole who’d been with the squad two years longer than Pashkov and still cleaning toilets. The guy who did concern Pashkov was Keto Yelnik. He had no blood relation to Zelman, but he was currently running things and could cause trouble should he try to undermine Pashkov’s authority.
Pashkov pulled open the office door, and the room became still. He could sense the banter disappear with his presence. It was a narrow room with a long conference table down the center. The wall facing the hangar was glass and the other three walls were decorated with posters of Chechen models, race cars, and outdated calendars. Seven Chechens sat around the table with coffee cups, soda cans, and a couple of open bags of potato chips.
Standing alone at the head of the table was Keto Yelnik with his hands in his pockets, acting innocent.
“What’s going on?” Pashkov asked, looking for the weak link.
Omar Strom was stifling a laugh. A skinny guy with sunken eyes.
“Something funny, Omar?” Pashkov asked.
“Nothing.”
A couple of other team members were giving Omar the stink-eye.
“Come on,” Pashkov said between gritted teeth. “You can tell me.”
The room was so quiet, they could hear planes taxiing down runways a football field away.
They were all staring at Omar now, waiting for his decision. Pashkov had been labeled the Enforcer, and everyone knew his ability to intimidate, but they’d never seen him use that talent on a Chechen before.
Omar was sliding down in his chair now with his hands up. “Hey, relax man, I was just laughing at something dumb.”
Pashkov knew what he had to do. He slowly took off his jacket and draped it around an empty chair.
“Hey, c’mon now,” Omar pleaded. “What is the matter, are we not allowed to laugh anymore?”
Pashkov walked around the table and twisted Omar’s chair around until he was facing him. Pashkov began to roll up the sleeve on his left arm. “Omar, have you ever seen me take off my jacket without hurting someone really bad?”
Now the guy’s face was draining of blood. “Aw, listen, it was just a bad joke.”
Pashkov had his right sleeve rolled up now and raised his eyebrows waiting to hear the joke.
Omar sighed. “Okay, I said you were like a junkyard dog who chewed on a bone all night long until it was completely gone.”
Pashkov stared, waiting for the punchline.
“And then someone said . . .”
“Go ahead,” Pashkov urged.
“Well, someone said, you were a junkyard dog who humped Zelman’s leg all night long.”
There were a couple of snickers, but most kept a poker face.
Pashkov grinned, and that gave the rest of them the confidence to chuckle a bit.
“That’s it?” Pashkov asked, rolling down his sleeves. “That’s not even that funny.”
Omar shrugged, still not convinced he was out of the woods, until Pashkov put his coat back on and said, “Okay, now can we get down to business?”
Everyone nodded, ready to hear what their new leader had to say, but still slumped down, some with a leg hanging over their armrest.
“Tomorrow morning is the Perrino funeral. The main one for Sal is at one o’clock at Valley of the Sun Cemetery.”
More casual nods.
Pashkov recognized the behavior. They were going to listen to him and follow orders, but they weren’t going to appear subservient if they didn’t have to.
A plane fired its engines and gunned down a nearby runway.
Pashkov looked over at Omar. “Hey, now that this comedy session is over, who exactly gave you the punchline about me humping Zelman’s leg?”
Omar’s eyes stared back at Pashkov in total fear of the question. The plane was about to takeoff and the crescendo built up in the room.
“I did,” Keto Yelnik said. And the way he said it, with such arrogance in his tone, Pashkov knew immediately he had no choice. He pulled the Tokarev pistol from the back of his beltline and fired one shot directly into Yelnik’s smug face, just below his left eye.
Everyone jumped from their seats and shouted Chechen curse words. A couple near Yelnik bent over to examine him on the floor, writhing in pain, his moans smothered by the outgoing plane’s engines.
They all kept one eye on Pashkov as he held out his gun for effect. When it was obvious that Yelnik was finally dead, Pashkov walked toward the door and pointed to the corpse. “Zip him into a body bag and get rid of him. I’ll be right back.”
He saw the two ping pong players staring at him as he entered the hangar, their paddles limp in their hands.
“C’mon,” he gestured to them to follow.
They tossed their ping pong paddles onto the table and stepped in line behind him. Once outside, Pashkov unlocked his trunk and told them to carry the large metal crate, which they did. Wordlessly. Grunting from the weight of the container. He held the door open for them as they slid through the narrow passage.
Pashkov returned to the office where two of the crew members had disappeared along with Yelnik’s body. He motioned for the ping pong players to place the metal container on the floor, then he pointed to the conference table and ordered them to sit with a simple gesture. They all did. Sitting upright. Hands on the table in front of them.
“All of you are well-paid soldiers,” Pashkov announced, his hands behind his back. “Would you agree?”
They all nodded.
“If you attempted to get a regular job you would make less than twenty cents on the dollar from what you make now. True?”
More nods.
“So why is it that when I walk in the door, I see rampant casualness to my arrival? Huh? I see guys playing games and men with their feet up on the table. Is this type of behavior acceptable?”
Now they all shook their heads in unison.
“Mr. Zelman has put me in charge and that means I have complete control of our street business. Before me, there were different people in charge of different operations. Now there is just me.”
Universal stares. The memory of Keto Yelnik lingered in their heads.
Pashkov bent over, opened the lid of the metal container and lifted up a rocket launcher. He mounted it on his shoulder and pointed it directly at the assembled crew.
“Got your attention now, don’t I?”