The Big Bad Wolf

THAT SAME NIGHT the Wolf had a meeting with two professional hockey players at Caesars in Atlantic City, New Jersey. The suite where he stayed had gold-foil wallpaper everywhere, windows facing the Atlantic, and a hot tub in the living room. Out of respect for his guests, who were big stars, he wore an expensive chalk-stripe Prada suit. His contact happened to be a wealthy cable TV operator, who arrived at the Nero suite with the hockey players Alexei Dobushkin and Ilia Teptev in tow. Both were members of the Philadelphia Flyers. They were top defensemen who were considered to be tough guys because they were big men who moved quickly and could do a lot of damage. The Wolf didn't believe the hockey players were that tough, but he was a huge fan of the game. "I love American-style hockey," he said as he welcomed them with a broad smile and a hand extended. Alexei and Ilia nodded his way, but neither of the hockey players shook his hand. The Wolf was offended, but he didn't reveal his feelings. He smiled some more and figured that the hockey players were too stupid to understand who he was. Too many wooden sticks to the skull. "Drinks, anyone?" he asked his guests. "Stolichnaya? Whatever you like." "I'll pass," said the cable operator, who seemed incredibly self-important, but a lot of Americans were that way. "Nyet," Ilia said with disinterest, as if his host were a hotel barman or a waiter. The hockey player was twenty-two years old, born in Voskresensk, Russia. He was six-foot-five, with close-cropped hair, stubble not quite amounting to a beard, and a block of a head sitting on an enormous neck. "I don't drink Stoly," said Alexei, who, like Ilia, wore a black leather jacket with a dark turtleneck underneath. "Maybe you have Absolut? Or some Bombay gin?" "Of course." The Wolf nodded cordially. He walked to the suite's mirrored wet bar, where he made the drinks and decided what to do next. He was starting to enjoy this. It was different. No one here was afraid of him. He plopped down on the pillowed couch between Ilia and Alexei. He looked back and forth into their faces, smiling broadly again. "You've been away from Russia for a long time, no? Maybe too long," he said. "You drink Bombay gin? You forget your manners?" "We hear you're a real tough man," said Alexei, who was in his early thirties and obviously lifted weights, a lot of weights, and often. He was around six feet and over two hundred twenty pounds. "No. Not really," said the Wolf. "I am just another American businessman these days. Nothing very special. Not tough anymore. So, I was wondering, do we have a deal for the game with Montreal?" Alexei looked over at the cable guy. "Tell him," he said. "Alexei and Ilia are looking for a little more action than what we originally talked about," he said. "You understand what I'm saying? Action?" "Aahhh," said the Wolf, and grinned broadly. "I love action," he said to the businessman. "I love shalit too. Means mischief in my country. Shalit." He was up off the couch faster than anyone would have thought possible. He'd pulled a small lead pipe from beneath a couch cushion and he cracked it across Alexei Dobushkin's cheek. Then he swung it off the bridge of Ilia Teptev's nose. The two hockey stars were bleeding like stuck pigs in seconds. Then and only then did the Wolf take out his gun. He held it between the eyes of the cable owner. "You know, they're not such tough guys as I thought. I can tell about these things in a few seconds," he said. "Now, down to business. One of the two big bears will allow a score by Montreal in the first period. The other will miss a play for a score in the second. Do you understand? The Flyers will lose the game in which they're favored. Understood? "If for any reason this doesn't happen, then everybody dies. Now let yourselves out. I look forward to the game. As I said, I love American-style hockey." The Wolf began to laugh as the big hockey stars stumbled out of the Nero suite. "Nice meeting you Ilia, Alexei," he said as the door closed. "Break a leg."