Immigrant City by David Bezmozgis

Author:David Bezmozgis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 2019-01-22T05:00:00+00:00

The Russian Riviera

“SOME BUSINESSMEN” WAS HOW Skinny Zyama had described the two gangsters from New Jersey.

“You want me there for a meeting with businessmen?” Kostya had asked.

“You have other plans on a Wednesday afternoon?”

“No.”

“Wear a jacket,” Zyama had said.

Now, stationed as instructed beside Skinny Zyama’s mahogany desk, Kostya appraised the gangsters. Zyama had placed two leather armchairs in front of his desk, but only the smaller of the two had consented to sit. The larger one, the one doing all of the talking, had turned his chair sideways and perched himself on its arm. Instinctively, Kostya gauged both men’s weights. They were both wearing suits, but that made no difference. Kostya had proven many times that he could guess a man’s weight within one kilo even if he was dressed in heavy winter clothing. It was one of Kostya’s few demonstrable skills, which—like his other skills—had brought him little profit. In Siberia, his father would occasionally take him to the bar to amuse his friends and to wager a bottle of vodka with skeptical strangers.

Conditioned by years at the gym, Kostya’s mind conjured a man’s weight and class, just as, seeing an apple, it conjured taste and smell. He’d barely considered the gangsters before his mind had announced: sixty-four kilos and eighty-five kilos—welterweight and cruiserweight. The larger gangster looked powerful through the back and shoulders, but he carried himself arrogantly, gestured excessively with his hands and punctuated his demands by thrusting out his chin. In contrast, the smaller one moved hardly at all. He kept his hands folded in his lap and followed the conversation with his eyes. His neck and his ankles were thin, and he was pale in the manner of someone who is either very sick or very spartan. Of the two, Kostya supposed the smaller man posed the greater danger, though, to be precise, the greatest danger was posed by neither of them. The greatest danger was posed by Skinny Zyama, who had assumed an obnoxious air of invulnerability.

“These are competitive times. You could benefit from our help,” the larger gangster said.

“The place is busy four nights a week. Impossible to get a table Friday or Saturday without a reservation. We have the best Vegas-style floor show in the city. Professional dancers trained in Russia. Where’s my competition?” Zyama asked.

“There are other restaurants. They could become more successful.”

“The other restaurants are run by imbeciles. Their customers are people who couldn’t get a table here.”

“With the right guidance those restaurants could improve. With connections they could attract popular entertainers from New York and New Jersey.”

“Listen, Alla Pugacheva and Arkady Raikin could perform every Saturday night for a month and those idiots would still find a way to lose money.”

“There are also other possibilities. Something unfortunate could happen to your restaurant or to you.”

Zyama, who had been reclining in his suede captain’s chair, tilted forward and made a production of looking the gangster in the eye. “You think you’re the first ones to come in here? Understand: I’m in business all these years not because I give money to every hoodlum with his hand out.

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