Fall of Giants

Lev cleaned his curry comb and hoofpick. At five past six he said good-bye to the chief ostler and headed for the First Ward. He felt a little conspicuous, carrying a feed sack through the streets, and he wondered what he would say if a cop stopped him and demanded to see what was in the sack. But he was not very worried: he could talk his way out of most situations.

He went to a large, popular bar called the Irish Rover. He pushed through the crowd, bought a tankard of beer, and downed half of it thirstily. Then he sat next to a group of workingmen speaking a mixture of Polish and English. After a few moments he said: “Anyone here smoke Fatimas?”

A bald man in a leather apron said: “Yeah, I’ll smoke a Fatima now and again.”

“Want to buy a tin at half price? Twenty-five cents for a hundred smokes.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“They got lost. Someone found them.”

“Sounds a little risky.”

“I tell you what. Put your money on the table. I won’t pick it up until you tell me to.”

The men were interested now. The bald man fished in his pocket and came up with a quarter. Lev took a tin from his sack and handed it over. The man opened the tin. He took out a small rectangle of folded paper and opened it to disclose a photograph. “Hey, it’s even got a baseball card!” he said. He put one of the cigarettes in his mouth and lit it. “All right,” he said to Lev. “Pick up your quarter.”

Another man was watching over Lev’s shoulder. “How much?” he said. Lev told him, and he bought two tins.

In the next half hour Lev sold all the cigarettes. He was pleased: he had turned two dollars into five in less than an hour. At work it took him a day and a half to earn three dollars. Maybe he would buy some more stolen tins from Nick tomorrow.

He bought another beer, drank it, and went out, leaving the empty sack on the floor. Outside, he turned toward the Lovejoy district, a poor neighborhood of Buffalo where most of the Russians lived, along with many Italians and Poles. He could buy a steak on the way home and fry it with potatoes. Or he could pick up Marga and take her dancing. Or he could buy a new suit.

He ought to save it toward Grigori’s fare to America, he thought, guiltily knowing he would do no such thing. Three dollars was a drop in the bucket. What he needed was a really big score. Then he could send Grigori the money all in one go, before he was tempted to spend it.

He was startled out of his reverie by a tap on his shoulder.

His heart gave a guilty leap. He turned, half expecting to see a police uniform. But the person who had stopped him was no cop. He was a heavily built man in overalls, with a broken nose and an aggressive scowl. Lev tensed: such a man had only one function.

The man said: “Who told you to sell smokes in the Irish Rover?”

“I’m just trying to make a few bucks,” Lev said with a smile. “I hope I didn’t offend anyone.”

“Was it Nicky Forman? I heard Nick knocked over a truckload of cigarettes.”

Lev was not going to give that information to a stranger. “I never met anyone by that name,” he said, still using a pleasant tone of voice.

“Don’t you know the Irish Rover belongs to Mister V?”

Lev felt a surge of anger. Mister V had to be Josef Vyalov. He dropped the conciliatory tone. “So put up a sign.”

“You don’t sell stuff in Mister V’s bars ’less he tells you.”

Lev shrugged. “I didn’t know that.”

“Here’s something to help you remember,” the man said, and he swung his fist.

Lev was expecting the blow, and he stepped back sharply. The thug’s arm swept through empty space and he staggered, off balance. Lev stepped forward and kicked him in the shin. A fist was a poor weapon, generally, nowhere near as hard as a booted foot. Lev kicked as powerfully as he could, but it was not enough to break a bone. The man roared with anger, swung again, and missed again.

There was no point hitting such a man in the face-he had probably lost all feeling there. Lev kicked him in the groin. Both his hands went to his crotch and he gasped for breath, bending forward. Lev kicked him in the stomach. The man opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, unable to breathe. Lev stepped to one side and kicked the man’s legs from under him. He went down on his back. Lev aimed carefully and kicked his knee, so that when he got up he would not be able to move fast.

Panting with exertion, he said: “Tell Mister V he should be more polite.”

He walked away, breathing hard. Behind him he heard someone say: “Hey, Ilya, what the fuck happened?”

Two streets away his breathing eased and his heartbeat slowed. To hell with Josef Vyalov, he thought. The bastard cheated me and I won’t be bullied.

Vyalov would not know who had beaten up Ilya. No one in the Irish Rover knew Lev. Vyalov might get mad but there was nothing he could do about it.

Lev started to feel elated. I put Ilya on the ground, he thought, and there’s not a mark on me!

He still had a pocket full of money. He stopped to buy two steaks and a bottle of gin.