“What kind of proof would satisfy you?” Mr. B asked. “Can you do a DNA test with that multi-spectrum analyzer of yours?”
Sasha smiled, which only served to accentuate his dead eyes. “Although you and I have never met, we’ve worked with some of the same people over the years. Are you aware of this?”
“Of course I am,” Mr. B replied. “That’s how I became aware of you in the first place. Not too surprising given our particular marketplace and the lack of operations that can handle the type of high-end merchandise we do.”
“Good. Then you should be able to tell me who supplied the Lucchese family with twelve hundredfake Green Cards year.”
“This supposed to be some kind of test?” Mr. B asked with a chuckle.
“It’s not like it’s a secret. At least not for people in our line of work.”
“Alright, I’ll play along. The Green Cards came from the Medallón cartel in Mexico in cooperation with the Genovese family and Artie Guzman in Atlantic City with the understanding that the Lucchese family would share a portion of the new underground workforce they’re building.”
“So, you know Skinny Deluca from the Bronx?” Sasha asked.
Mr. B chuckled. “Of course I do. Skinny D and I have made a lot of money together over the years.”
“Is that so? Sasha asked. “Me too. Has he ever stolen from you?”
Mr. B shook his head. “Never. My books with Skinny have always balanced.”
“Well, that’s good for you because I haven’t been so lucky,” Sasha said, nodding to his bodyguard.
Vova opened the office door to reveal two of Sasha’s goons holding up a severely beaten man, who they unceremoniously dumped onto the floor.
“You know him?” Sasha asked.
“That’s Skinny,” Mr. B said. “Only I’m used to seeing him without so many bruises.”
Sasha walked over to Skinny, pulling his head off the carpet by his hair, turning it to face our man.
“Who’s that?” Sasha asked
“Brussels,” he slurred through a busted mouth. “M…m…mister b…bee.”
“Well, this piece of shit knows you. That’s something,” Sasha said.
“H…help m…mee…p…please,” the battered man begged from the floor.
“Did you steal money from this man?” Mr. B asked Skinny. “Be honest.”
Skinny did his best to nod. “Y…yes. I’m s…so…s…sorry. H…help me, p…please.”
Mr. B shook his head. “What can I do? You stole from a man that was already putting money into your pocket. A man that does something like that is no man at all.”
Sasha nodded to one of the goons who produced a clear plastic bag and a roll of duct tape. Then, as goon number two held Skinny down, goon one taped his hands and feet together, put the bag over his head and then secured it with tape around his neck.
“Is this how you would handle a situation like this?” Sasha asked.
Mr. B nodded. “Something like that, yeah.”
The next few minutes, we watched in silent horror as Skinny writhed in agony as the air in his lungs became toxic and his brain began to systematically shut down from oxygen starvation.
Tess buried her face in my chest, pretending as though she was unable to stomach the sight of someone dying in front of her. I wrapped an arm around her to comfort her. We were art dealers, after all, not CIA officers.
Once Skinny lost consciousness, Sasha ordered Vova and the other two goons to drag Skinny out of the room “before he shits himself.” It was whenVova bent down that I saw he had a second gun, tucked into his waistband, which Sasha must have known about when he ordered his bodyguard to check his gun at the door.
Sasha surveyed the mess left behind by Skinny’s mutilated body. “This is precisely why the rugs in this room are not original. Look at all this blood.”
