The Boy Who Stole From the Dead by Orest Stelmach Read Free Book Online Page A

in English and Russian. He wouldn’t reveal his client’s name. They set up a lunch for tomorrow. The prospect of a paycheck energized Nadia. She called Johnny, told him what she was up to, and took the subway to Brooklyn.
    There was a saying that Brighton Beach was conveniently located near the United States. Immigrants arrived en masse from the Soviet Union in the late 1970s. In the 1980s Brighton Beach became headquarters for the Russian mafia. A man named Marat Balagula was its leader. He had a kind heart with a soft spot for educated immigrants who couldn’t find jobs in America. He also made a fortune through shell companies that distributed gasoline but kept taxes for themselves. When word got out he was in business with the Italian mob, Russian hit man Vladimir Reznikov put his 9mm Beretta against Balagula’s head at a nightclub and demanded $600,000 for not pulling the trigger. Reznikov returned to the club the next day for payment. A Gambino crime family associate shot him dead.
    Much had changed in Brighton Beach since then. The ghetto was torn down and replaced with luxury condominiums. Afghans, East Asians, Mexicans, and Pakistanis joined the mix. If there was still a Russian mafia presence, it never made the papers.
    Nadia marched from the subway stop toward the Atlantic Ocean. The wind whipped her hair. The air smelled of salt. Nadia wasn’t worried about her safety but she still felt as though she was entering enemy territory. She was the daughter of Ukrainian immigrants walking into a Russian enclave. Ukraine had suffered for centuries under Russian oppression. The Soviet Union was a Russian creation. Stalin did his best to starve Ukraine. Brezhnev tried to eradicate all traces of its culture.
    Nadia learned to speak Ukrainian before English even though she was born in Hartford. When she was recommended for Russian language classes in junior high school by the Spanish teacher, her parents were initially reluctant for fear it would pollute her Ukrainian. They hailed from Western Ukraine, where nationalist pride ran deep. The further East one travelled, the more Russified the Ukrainian population. In Kyiv, Russian was still more prevalent than Ukrainian even though the country had been independent since 1991.
    Bobby was from central Ukraine. His Facebook page said he was fluent in Russian. That infuriated Nadia as it hinted at his past. It was an exercise in mindless self-indulgence. His Facebook page didn’t mention he spoke Ukrainian. That irked her. If he was boasting he spoke Russian, why didn’t he mention he was fluent in his native Ukrainian? It was as though the latter didn’t matter.
    His girlfriend’s Russian ethnicity also troubled Nadia. That ethnic bias, in turn, disturbed her. The end result was a continuous loop of distrust, apology, and acceptance. In Iryna’s case, however, Nadia seemed stuck on the distrustful part. She feared the girl was an opportunist who figured out Bobby might become a professional hockey player. She also worried Iryna might be older than seventeen.
    The name of the restaurant was Gogol-Mogol. Nadia expected an elegant dining room that morphed into a rowdy scene at midnight. Instead she walked into a small café serving coffees and pastries. Pink walls featured elegantly stenciled recipes. Macaroons, Baba Au Rhum cakes and chocolate bombs filled the display cases. Crumbs littered the shelves behind the counter. They were empty except for four loaves of bread.
    An old man sat reading a paper and drinking coffee at one table. A middle-aged couple shared an éclair at another. Music accompanied dessert. It arrived in muted bursts from speakers in the ceiling. Rap music. With Russian lyrics. Something about diamonds and disrespect. Sung by dueling women.
    A lithe girl stood behind the register in a pink shirt and white pants. Nadia recognized Iryna from her picture. She was about five foot seven with an oval face, enormous blue eyes, and perfect alabaster skin. She