Verducci’s was a mom-and-pop restaurant in Old Town Scottsdale, a historic area where snowbirds clogged the streets most winter nights. There was a long stretch of bike paths where younger clientele would use electric scooters to maneuver around the predominantly older population.
Tommy was there twenty minutes early, making sure there weren’t any excess police to spook Pashkov. At five minutes to eight, he spotted the Chechen’s old Cadillac slowly drive past. Their eyes met and a minute later he parked the Cadillac a quarter mile down the road.
Pashkov had to manually slip the key into the handle to lock the vehicle. He glimpsed his surroundings, then made his way toward the restaurant. He wasn’t walking as much as he was strutting. A confidant man with a confidant stride. He deserved it. He held all the cards.
As he reached the entrance, he pointed at Tommy’s attire. Black suit. Black Tie. Black shoes.
“You look like you should be carrying a casket,” Pashkov quipped.
“Just dressing for the occasion.”
Pashkov looked like he wanted to further that train of thought, but saw a small table outside the entrance with a man wearing a greasy white apron standing next to it. There were two plastic containers the size of shoeboxes on the table.
“What is this?” Pashkov asked.
“I just want to be sure we’re both up front about everything,” Tommy explained. “I emptied my pockets to show transparency. I hoped you would do the same.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No, I’m being entirely sincere. I want this to be an honest, open meeting.”
Pashkov gave him a suspicious glare. “I put my stuff in this basket, then I get it back?”
“Just being cautious, so we both know that we’re not carrying.”
Pashkov stared at Tommy as he emptied his pockets. He wallet, his cell phone, a set of keys, and long, round plastic container that looked like it could hold a pen.
The guy in the apron briefly examined both containers, then handed each item individually to their original owners.
Tommy pointed to the round cylinder. “What is that?” he asked.
“It’s my Epipen,” Pashkov said. “Nothing to be concerned about. If I stab you with it, you only get a jolt of adrenalin.”
“I’m not concerned,” Tommy said, then picked up his small duffel bag and threw the strap over his shoulder.
“Hey, wait,” Pashkov said, pointing to the bag.
Tommy placed it on the ground and unzipped it for Pashkov to scrutinize.
A smile came across Pashkov’s face as he fondled the money.
Tommy zipped up the bag and gestured for Pashkov to follow the man in the apron. The guy grabbed a couple of menus from the hostess stand and made his way to the back of the restaurant. The place was full but for one table in the corner by the window. The customers were a diverse group of families and couples. All ages and sizes. No one even came close to looking like an undercover police officer.
Once they sat and were alone, Pashkov said, “Who was that guy?”
“Just a cook I grabbed from the kitchen.”
“You really thought I might bring a gun to shoot you?”
Tommy shrugged. “Just being cautious. You thought maybe he was a cop?”
“It crossed my mind. I guess both of us have some trust issues, huh?”
“I guess.”
A waiter came over and asked for their drink order.
“I’ll have a Tanqueray tonic,” Tommy said.
“Same here,” Pashkov said.
The waiter turned to leave, and Pashkov said, “Um, I think we’re ready to order dinner.”
The waiter looked down at his notepad. “Sure. What can I get you?”
“I don’t know,” Pashkov said. “What is good?”
“Well, the veal parmesan is the house specialty.”
“Perfect,” Pashkov said, handing him the menu. “No salad, no bread. We are in a little hurry.”
The waiter looked at Tommy. “I’m really not that hungry.”
“Ah, come now,” Pashkov said. “I don’t want to eat alone.”
Tommy frowned. “I’ll have the same. Veal parmesan.”
“Very good,” the waiter said, taking his menu.
When he was gone, Pashkov said, “I chose Italian food for you.”
“I appreciate the gesture.”
Someone dimmed the lights and the candles on each table sparkled. Shoppers walked by the window innocently. A minute passed without conversation and Pashkov must’ve sensed Tommy’s reserved demeanor. He lowered his head while meeting Tommy’s eyes and said, “It was just business. Nothing personal.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Tommy said.
“It is the truth. That is all. I have taken someone from you, and that is unfortunate, but let us not forget there is still someone else to think about.”
The waiter dropped off their drinks.
Tommy took a sip then set it down.
Pashkov grabbed his drink and switched it with him.
Tommy stared. “You think I had your drink poisoned?”
Pashkov took a sip of his new drink. “Like you said, just being cautious.”
This got Tommy to leaned forward. “Listen, if I was going back on my deal, you’d be surrounded by FBI agents right now.” He lifted his phone and showed Pashkov the screen: 12 Missed Calls—Nick. “This is just me and you, pal. All I want is to get Cara. Then you can take the money and go.”
“See, that’s not exactly how this is going to work,” Pashkov said, taking another large sip of his drink. “Once I leave here with the money, I’ll text you her location. But, not until morning.”
“You need time to get away.”
Pashkov swirled his drink and grinned. “Something like that.” He put his drink down, then glanced around the room for a moment before saying, “This is interesting, no? I mean, the only time we ever spoke, you were sitting on my couch in the middle of the night, making conversation, asking me about my gravedigging job and my boxing career. The life of the party. But now, you are the one who is silent, and I am the one who is talkative. It seems that I have become you in a way, no?”
“That was before you had my girlfriend shot and kidnapped.”
“Tsk tsk. That sounds very bitter. You know, you are not the only one who has lost people. Everyone has lost someone.”
Tommy didn’t care to add to the conversation.
“This book your friend wrote, this Sal, did it happen to mention anything about my cousin Klaus?”
Tommy shook his head.
“That is because he hid his identity from our family. Actually changed his name when he was fourteen to keep us safe. You see Klaus was what you call here, a gay man. A homosexual. In Chechnya homosexuality is not tolerated. If they even suspect you are gay, they will beat you until you give them ten names of other homosexuals. It is the reason I became a boxer. I wanted to prove to the government that I was not homosexual. Do you know how my cousin died?”
Tommy shook his head again.
“He would not give them any names, so they strapped him down and placed a rat on his back, then placed a pot over the rat. Then they heat up the pot and the rat digs his way out through my cousin’s back. Horrible way to go.”
“Yeah,” Tommy said, not believing one word of it. It sounded too much like a Chechen fairy tale. The guy was born a manipulator.
Tommy had his arms on the table now. “Is this how you wanted your life to turn out? When you were growing up, did you think, ‘Boy, if I could just become a gangster and kill people for money. Wouldn’t that be a swell job?’”
“What about you?” Pashkov said. “You grew up in the Mafia. Is that not a bit hypocritical?”
Tommy nodded. “You have a point.”
“We can’t run from who we are. Sometimes fate chooses us.”
“I’m not buying whatever you’re selling.”
“And what am I selling?”
“Excuses.”
“What is with that black suit anyway?”
“It was Sal’s.”
“You thought maybe it would bring you some luck? Because if that is the case, well, I am sorry for you.”
“That’s not it. I wore it because it seemed appropriate.”
“Appropriate how?”
“Sal always taught me to dress for the occasion.” He looked outside at the flow of people all going to different places. None of them were thinking about Sal Perrino, that much was for sure. They had lives to lead. Food to eat. Tommy wished he could have one more meal with Sal.
“And what exactly is the occasion?” Pashkov asked.
The waiter brought their food over and casually said, “Buon appetito .”
Tommy sliced a piece of the veal and was chewing it when he noticed Pashkov staring at him, not touching his food.
Tommy slouched his shoulders, then slid his plate over to Pashkov and traded meals.
Pashkov had no manners. He shoved the veal into his mouth like it was running away from him. Three quarters of the way through the veal, Pashkov said, “Your friend is not coming back. Better to think of the future.”
Tommy had a few bites, but quickly lost his appetite.
“You can slide that bag over to my side of the table now,” Pashkov said, wiping a mouthful of grease with his cloth napkin.
Tommy pushed the bag with his foot.
There was Pashkov’s grin showing up right on time. The boxer who never lost a fight. “Good boy,” he said, then dove into the veal once more. “This is delicious, don’t you think?”
“It’s their specialty.”
“You have eaten here before?”
“Once a long time ago with Cara and some friends.”
Pashkov pointed his fork at the plate. “What do they put in this? There is something very different about it. I cannot put my finger on it.”
“I’ve had some time to reflect over the past week and you are right, I have not lived a pure life. I’ve lost some very important people. My aunt and uncle were killed when I was just a teenager. I guess, looking back, that’s what sent me on this path. I lost a close friend, Don Silkari, who died trying to catch a Kurdish terrorist. Now Sal Perrino. I mean, how come I get to survive? Doesn’t seem right.”
“You want to die,” Pashkov said, reaching for his glass of water. “I might be able to help you out.”
“Lately, I’ve had this recurring dream. I’m on a boat and reaching for Cara who’s in the ocean. She keeps saying something and I can’t understand her. I think it’s ‘Will them,’ or ‘Still them.’ Finally, this morning I wake up and realize she is saying, ‘Kill him.’”
Pashkov gulped down half of his water. “That sounds like revenge. Not very healthy. You need to learn forgiveness.”
“You’re probably right.”
Pashkov touched his lips. “What was in that veal?”
Tommy shrugged. “I ate the same meal you did.”
Pashkov twisted in his seat and waved to the waiter.
“You wanted to know why I wore Sal’s black suit,” Tommy said. “I told you, I was dressing for the occasion.”
Pashkov seemed leery of the direction the conversation was heading.
The waiter came by their table.
“Can I ask what went into the veal parmesan?” Pashkov asked.
“Certainly, sir. There’s basil, oregano, mozzarella cheese, marinara sauce, and parmesan cheese.”
“That’s all?”
“Well, there’s a breadcrumb mixture that it’s covered with before they sauté it. Would you like me to ask what is in that?”
Pashkov drank the rest of his water, then put down the empty glass. “Send over the cook and let me speak with him. And I need more water.”
“You feeling a little raspy?” Tommy asked, taking a sip of his Tanqueray tonic.
Pashkov stared at Tommy. His eyes were hollow and dark. “Are you playing a game with me?”
“No game. It’s more philosophical. How every action we make has consequences. And every consequence trickles down.”
The cook who examined their incidentals at the front door came to the table wiping his hands on his apron. “Can I help?”
Pashkov rubbed his eye. “What is in that breadcrumb mixture for the veal parmesan?”
“Oh, that, yeah, it’s a personal favorite of mine. Did you like it?”
“I like it, just tell me what’s in it.”
“Well, I mix eggs with breadcrumbs, some salt and pepper, but the main ingredient is concentrated almond paste. Plus, I crush up some almonds in the mixture as well.”
Pashkov looked pale now. He glared at Tommy with disdain. “How stupid are you?”
“Pretty stupid,” Tommy said. “Sometimes.” Then he gave the cook a fist bump.
“So, are we clear?” the cook asked Tommy.
“We’re square, Marty. You’re all paid up.”
The cook smiled then walked back to the kitchen.
“You know him?” Pashkov asked.
“Long story. He’s a compulsive gambler who owed me a lot of money, but he’s clear now.”
“You think you can scare me by putting almonds in my food?” Pashkov said. “Because that book Perrino wrote told you I am allergic? That is your big plan?”
“I didn’t have a lot of time to prepare.”
Pashkov sneered at him while removing the Epipen from his pocket. “You must know that once I inject this, my allergic reaction will immediately subside. Exactly how dumb can you be?”
Tommy leaned back and took another sip of his drink. “Go ahead. Inject it.”
Pashkov took off the cap and slammed the round cylinder into his thigh, then pressed down for almost ten seconds. When he was done, he grabbed the bag of money and stood up.
“You are lucky I do not kill the girl right now.”
“I would sit down if I were you.”
“Why?”
“Because that injection was merely saline. Sodium Chloride. Salt water. They use it in nursing schools to train medical students.”
Pashkov strained to look at the cylinder. “What the—”
Tommy held up Pashkov’s Epipen. “Marty switched them when he checked your belongings at the door. Then he slipped it to me while seating us.”
Pashkov rubbed his throat. “What? Do you not understand? The girl will die.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Pashkov dropped the duffel bag and sat back down. “What do you mean, you know?”
“To be honest, I think she’s made peace with death ever since you killed her father. On the flight over here from Baltimore, she actually told me if the plane went down, she’d be fine with that.”
Pashkov was touching his lower lip which was growing like a water balloon attached to a faucet. “But you can save her life.”
“Even when we get intimate,” Tommy said, “I could tell part of her soul is missing.”
Pashkov was having a hard time breathing now, darting his eyes around the room and shouting, “Is there a doctor in here? I’m going into anaphylactic shock!”
No one moved. They all sat there staring at him.
“These are all family and friends of Sal and Charlie and Lucy Perrino,” Tommy said, crushing an ice cube between his teeth.
Pashkov’s eyes were bulging. He picked up his phone and Tommy snatched it from his hand.
“I’m sorry, pal,” Tommy said. “Now you know why I wore a black suit. I always wear black at funerals.”
“Do you want to speak with her?” Pashkov said with a wheezy voice.
“Naw. I’m good.”
“She . . . she will die.”
Tommy nodded. “And so will you. Right in front of Sal’s family.” He gestured to the slender woman with long dark hair at the table next to them. “I even got permission from his widow.”
The confusion on Pashkov’s face grew as he struggled to maintain breathing, his windpipe slowly closing up on him. “Please,” he said, holding out his hand. “She’s at 1281 West Rose Lane. Apartment one hundred. Phoenix.”
“I don’t care.”
“Give me the phone I will have her released immediately.”
“No.”
Pashkov was getting dizzy and having trouble remaining upright. “I am begging you.”
Tommy frowned, then pushed a button on his phone and waited a second before hearing Nick say, “Where have you been?”
“Go to 1281 West Rose Lane, apartment one hundred in Phoenix. The Chechens are holding Cara hostage.”
“I’m ten minutes away.”
“Call me when she’s safe,” Tommy said, then put his phone on the table.
Pashkov had hives sprouting on his face. He held out his hand. “Can I please—”
“No.”
“Let me call my men and have her released,” he rasped.
“I don’t trust you. You’ll have a code word in place to have her killed.”
The expression on Pashkov’s face told him everything he needed to now. The guy finally realized he was going to die. Tommy savored every moment.