Free Kiss of the Blue Dragon by Julie Beard Page A

Berlin Wall.” He tapped his desktop touch screen and the map swirled into a close-up of the Rogers Park neighborhood nestled against Lake Michigan. “Before long, the shops on West Devon stopped selling donuts and hot dogs and started offering beluga and borscht.”
    “And that process intensified after the breakup of the Soviet Union,” I said.
    “That’s right.”
    Sydney quietly slipped in with a tea tray, then hurried off to answer the door. I poured tea for us and handed a mug to Henry.
    He caressed the touch screen and a photograph of Russian determination and pride appeared in a swarthy face. “That’s when Ivan Petrov came to Chicago and established the powerful Chicago arm of the Russian Mafiya. Back then Russian mobsters were called Vor y Zakone .”
    “Thieves in law,” I said. “I do know a little about that from my encounters with the Sgarristas on the street.”
    Henry gave me one of those measured looks of his that reflected both admiration and fear. “Have I ever told you that you should consider a safer line of work, Angel?”
    I didn’t bother to reply to his ironic query. He knew I never would. He just said that to make himself feel like he was fulfilling his fatherly duties. When I’d decided to become a retribution specialist, he had argued loudly against the idea until I had reminded him that his job had once put him inharm’s way, as well. He’d been shot as a foreign war correspondent. He’d realized then that I was just as passionate about my work as he had been about his. When Mayor Alvarez, a family friend, needed retribution, Henry had confidently and confidentially recommended me.
    “A Sgarrista tried to assassinate me today,” I said quietly.
    Henry nearly dropped his mug and some tea splashed on his pants. “Damnation.” He put the mug on his desk and glared at me. “Angel, do you know what you’re dealing with?”
    “Some real assholes.”
    “The Sgarristas are ruthless.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “They cut off the heads, legs and arms of their victims.”
    “Oh, really?” I inquired innocently. I wouldn’t mention what I’d seen in Lola’s apartment.
    “Before the era of quick DNA tests, they dismembered victims to wipe away their identity and erase evidence of the crime. Now they do it simply because it’s a tradition.”
    “What about the R.M.O.’s business dealings here in America?”
    “They’re pervasive. It started with the usual vices—gambling, prostitution, drugs. Then came child sex rings and slave trade. Petrov’s descendants have managed to buy their way into legitimate operations on virtually every level of society. Their dirty money is so deftly laundered, the government simply can’t track it. Even if U.S. agencies could shutthem down, the R.M.O. dons, or vors as they’re called, would simply launder their money back in the motherland.”
    “So where does Lola fit in? She’s small potatoes. I wouldn’t think the R.M.O. would consider her worth kidnapping. Maybe she was just a victim of random violence.”
    “I doubt it,” Henry replied. He pushed the button again and the screen silently retreated into the ceiling. “She was probably a victim of extortion. Maybe she didn’t pay her monthly business fee to the Mafiya and paid the price. She lived on Howard Street, didn’t she? That’s not far from the R.M.O.’s stomping grounds. Maybe the syndicate was shaking her down for so-called protection.”
    “I think she would have mentioned that to me.” I shook my head. “I just still can’t believe Lola would catch the interest of a big league mob. She had an autographed picture of Vladimir Gorky in her parlor.”
    Henry whistled in amazement. “Gorky is Petrov’s modern-day counterpart. He’s a powerful figure.”
    “He would place bets with his own organization, but I find it hard to believe he came to her for readings.”
    “Stranger things have happened. She was good at what she did.”
    We shared a look. He was gracious