"Greed," Dmitri said, his voice slurred from a bloody, split lip. "Greed's killed more men than the bubonic fucking plague."
The planks of the dock were cold and wet against his knees, and the twist of rope binding his wrists was scratching them raw. Standing behind him, Vadim just nodded amiably. He could afford to be indulgent in these matters, given that he was pressing the barrel of a .45 against the back of Dmitri's head. All poised for an L.A. Goodbye: one shot, one splash into the dirty midnight water, one meal for the blind and cold things that swam beneath the pier.
"That was always your problem," Vadim said. "You wanted too much."
"Like what, a living?"
"You made a good living."
"I made a good living for you," Dmitri said. "You want a taste of my profits? Fine, you're the boss, that's your right. But you were never satisfied with just a taste, Vadim. You wanted more, and more, and more--"
Vadim jabbed the gun's barrel hard against the back of Dmitri's head, barely keeping his anger in check. "I taught you. I raised you like one of my own sons. Everything you had, you had because of me."
"You? You had me shaking down little old ladies for pocket money. When I had the idea to start producing music, it was just that: my idea, and I used my money to get the ball rolling. When that started turning a profit, who had the idea to invest it into Reactor, and turn it into one of the hottest clubs in the city? Right. Me again. You had your boys pushing crack on street corners, while I was handing out X like party favors to some of the prettiest faces in Hollywood. People knew me, Vadim. You want a quality good time? You go see Dmitri. Need an introduction to the right people? You go see Dmitri. You want a clean gun? Passports, drivers licenses? You go see Dmitri."
"And you think that excuses it? You think that excuses stealing from me?"
Dmitri stared out at the waters, lit by a waning moon trying to press through the smoggy night sky, as they lapped against the wormeaten pier. All he could muster, waiting for the gunshot, was a strange bittersweet melancholy. He'd had a good run. Made something of himself. It was all over now, no sense fighting fate. Just made him a little sad.
"No answer, huh?" Vadim demanded. "You should have been more like my son Yuri. He's a good boy. Dutiful. Obdient. Knows his place."
Yuri stood lookout on the other end of the dock, a slim silhouette smoking a Clove and looking like he'd rather be anywhere but here. Dmitri knew the feeling.
"Waiting for his turn," Dmitri said.
"Damn right he's waiting. He's a hard worker, like you were, but he understands how things work. He understands the way of the world. I take the lion's share, because I'm the lion. One day, I'll retire, and then it will be his turn to prosper. He's patient."
Dmitri couldn't help but chuckle. "You were always a bad listener, Vadim."
"Huh? What do you--"
A gunshot cracked through the night air like a short, sharp peal of thunder. Vadim stood frozen, transfixed by the gaping hole in the ruin of his head. He wobbled, then pitched over, splashing into the bay. Baptised in blood and salt water, Dmitri knelt very still.
"Greed," Dmitri said as Yuri holstered his gun and crouched to untie his wrists. "It's a killer."
Rubbing his wrists to get the blood flowing, he followed the somber young man back to the black Mercedes on the edge of the riverwalk. Yuri opened a briefcase on the hood of the car to pull out a sheaf of papers, all business, handing Dmitri a pen and showing him where to sign.
"Here. And here. Here. Good. That's everything."
He clicked the briefcase shut and turned to look Dmitri in the eye. They studied each other for a minute, silent.
"It's all mine," Yuri said, like a lawyer laying out the terms of a settlement, "the recording studio, the nightclub, even that bank account in the Bahamas you were hiding from the old man. You leave Los Angeles with nothing but the shirt on your back."
Dmitri nodded. It stung, but it was a fair enough trade, for a life.
"You shot my father," Yuri said, "murdered him here on the dock. That makes me the new boss. I'll have to put a price on your head, it would look strange if I didn't, and we'll hunt for you... But we won't hunt too hard. Go underground for a while. You'll be forgotten in time."
"Everyone is," Dmitri said.
Yuri offered him a cigarette. Cupped his palm to the wind and lit it for him. Dmitri inhaled a lungful of smoke and took one last look at the neon skyline.
"Don't come back to L.A.," Yuri warned. "Ever again. There's nothing for you here."
"No," he agreed. And that was all there was to say. An entire lifetime of ambition and dreams, wiped away in the space of a gunshot and the swipe of a pen.
Yuri drove away, leaving Dmitri standing alone in the parking lot. He finished his smoke, stubbing it out on the asphalt under his Italian loafer, and headed for the bus station. He had just enough in his pocket for a one-way trip to San Paro, and maybe a hot meal at the end of the trip. After that... Well, he'd think of something.
He always did.
The planks of the dock were cold and wet against his knees, and the twist of rope binding his wrists was scratching them raw. Standing behind him, Vadim just nodded amiably. He could afford to be indulgent in these matters, given that he was pressing the barrel of a .45 against the back of Dmitri's head. All poised for an L.A. Goodbye: one shot, one splash into the dirty midnight water, one meal for the blind and cold things that swam beneath the pier.
"That was always your problem," Vadim said. "You wanted too much."
"Like what, a living?"
"You made a good living."
"I made a good living for you," Dmitri said. "You want a taste of my profits? Fine, you're the boss, that's your right. But you were never satisfied with just a taste, Vadim. You wanted more, and more, and more--"
Vadim jabbed the gun's barrel hard against the back of Dmitri's head, barely keeping his anger in check. "I taught you. I raised you like one of my own sons. Everything you had, you had because of me."
"You? You had me shaking down little old ladies for pocket money. When I had the idea to start producing music, it was just that: my idea, and I used my money to get the ball rolling. When that started turning a profit, who had the idea to invest it into Reactor, and turn it into one of the hottest clubs in the city? Right. Me again. You had your boys pushing crack on street corners, while I was handing out X like party favors to some of the prettiest faces in Hollywood. People knew me, Vadim. You want a quality good time? You go see Dmitri. Need an introduction to the right people? You go see Dmitri. You want a clean gun? Passports, drivers licenses? You go see Dmitri."
"And you think that excuses it? You think that excuses stealing from me?"
Dmitri stared out at the waters, lit by a waning moon trying to press through the smoggy night sky, as they lapped against the wormeaten pier. All he could muster, waiting for the gunshot, was a strange bittersweet melancholy. He'd had a good run. Made something of himself. It was all over now, no sense fighting fate. Just made him a little sad.
"No answer, huh?" Vadim demanded. "You should have been more like my son Yuri. He's a good boy. Dutiful. Obdient. Knows his place."
Yuri stood lookout on the other end of the dock, a slim silhouette smoking a Clove and looking like he'd rather be anywhere but here. Dmitri knew the feeling.
"Waiting for his turn," Dmitri said.
"Damn right he's waiting. He's a hard worker, like you were, but he understands how things work. He understands the way of the world. I take the lion's share, because I'm the lion. One day, I'll retire, and then it will be his turn to prosper. He's patient."
Dmitri couldn't help but chuckle. "You were always a bad listener, Vadim."
"Huh? What do you--"
A gunshot cracked through the night air like a short, sharp peal of thunder. Vadim stood frozen, transfixed by the gaping hole in the ruin of his head. He wobbled, then pitched over, splashing into the bay. Baptised in blood and salt water, Dmitri knelt very still.
"Greed," Dmitri said as Yuri holstered his gun and crouched to untie his wrists. "It's a killer."
Rubbing his wrists to get the blood flowing, he followed the somber young man back to the black Mercedes on the edge of the riverwalk. Yuri opened a briefcase on the hood of the car to pull out a sheaf of papers, all business, handing Dmitri a pen and showing him where to sign.
"Here. And here. Here. Good. That's everything."
He clicked the briefcase shut and turned to look Dmitri in the eye. They studied each other for a minute, silent.
"It's all mine," Yuri said, like a lawyer laying out the terms of a settlement, "the recording studio, the nightclub, even that bank account in the Bahamas you were hiding from the old man. You leave Los Angeles with nothing but the shirt on your back."
Dmitri nodded. It stung, but it was a fair enough trade, for a life.
"You shot my father," Yuri said, "murdered him here on the dock. That makes me the new boss. I'll have to put a price on your head, it would look strange if I didn't, and we'll hunt for you... But we won't hunt too hard. Go underground for a while. You'll be forgotten in time."
"Everyone is," Dmitri said.
Yuri offered him a cigarette. Cupped his palm to the wind and lit it for him. Dmitri inhaled a lungful of smoke and took one last look at the neon skyline.
"Don't come back to L.A.," Yuri warned. "Ever again. There's nothing for you here."
"No," he agreed. And that was all there was to say. An entire lifetime of ambition and dreams, wiped away in the space of a gunshot and the swipe of a pen.
Yuri drove away, leaving Dmitri standing alone in the parking lot. He finished his smoke, stubbing it out on the asphalt under his Italian loafer, and headed for the bus station. He had just enough in his pocket for a one-way trip to San Paro, and maybe a hot meal at the end of the trip. After that... Well, he'd think of something.
He always did.
