The Westminster Caper – A Novel

318 – October, 2010

By Dr. Al Grossman

January 15th, 2011

Brighton Beach, NY

The motley crew shuffled one by one into Sergey’s apartment. Only Sergey seemed excited. “Anybody have anything?” he asked. “No! Well I hit the jackpot!!” He shouted. With that out came the cigarettes and everybody started shouting questions. “Calm down, Calm down,” shouted Sergey lighting up himself “and I will tell you my plan for a million dollar payoff, and I don’t mean rubles.”

Pandemonium broke out in the room and no one could hear Sergey trying to describe the scam. All they wanted to know was what they had to do to lay their hands on that kind of money. “For that kind of money we would sell our immortal souls,” They shouted.

“OK, OK, OK, just listen. First off we have to decide on how we will split the money. Since it’s my idea and my plan, I take a half million the other $500,000 can be divided between the three of you, or $166,000 each.” “Bullshit,” yelled Petr. “We agreed on an even split when we first got together. That’s more like $250,000 for each of us.

After much squabbling and recriminations, they finally compromised on $400,000 and change for Sergey and $200,000 for each of the others.

“So what is this great plan that will make us rich?” asked Andrei “It’s easy,” said Sergey who hailed from St. Petersburg, “We kidnap a dog and hold it for ransom.” There was general laughter with shouts of “you’re nuts” from the gang. “Who are you kidnapping, Lassie,” asked Felix. “We thought you were smarter than that,” laughed Andrei. “Shah! Calm down,” shouted Sergey, “let me explain.” “Nyet, Nyet,” shouted the troublesome threesome. “Okay,” said Sergey, “if you don’t want the kopeks forget it. I’ll get another crew who won’t mind getting rich.”  This quieted them in a hurry and they urged him to tell his story and reveal the plan.

Sergey revealed that he had been at a party drinking, of all things Black Russians, when one of the guys at the table started to tell a story about a party he had worked up in Westport, a ritzy town up in Connecticut. It’s full of rich people who seemed to have more money to spend than even the old Russian czars. Their hobby was showing purebred dogs and they spent a fortune breeding and showing them all around the country. They even built a kennel that the owners of Gazprom would be happy to live in. They also built another nice house 300 meters from the kennel for their employee who shows other people’s dogs as well as those of the ritzy people.

“Now these rich bastards whose name is Olansky (a good Russian name) have this  dog, a two color cocker spaniel called a black and tan who is the favorite to win the big dog show at Madison Square Garden coming up in early February. The dog’s name is Robin and the owners have turned down an offer of a million dollars for him.” “Why is he worth so much money?” asked Felix. “Aha, typical American,” shouted Sergey, “money and more money and the prestige of winning the top show in America and inflating their already big egos.”

“So, how do we go about grabbing the dog and when do we do it. Also, how can we do it so no one sees us?” said Petr. “Yeah, and where do we keep him until we get the money?” asked Felix.

“Slow down a minute and you will learn about the plan. There are still a number of details to work out in the next few days. Today you learned about the scheme, now we need to be smart in working out the details.” “Listen carefully,” said Sergey. There was quiet all across the room as these men considered the possibility of getting caught and the consequences of making a mistake and ending up doing major jail time. Petr expressed their greatest fear of getting caught and being sent back to Russia. Andrei wanted to know how they could dodge the American police doing all this. They wanted the money for sticking out their necks and asses in any criminal venture but did not want the consequences.

“Let’s be careful,” was the byword “and figure this out so it will work without too much danger of being caught.” All to the good was this was in a small town which usually meant, in Russia anyway, that the police were not too smart and besides no one in his right mind trusted the police, did they?

Chapter VI

January 12, 2011

Brighton Beach, NY

Sergey had taken Willy Kresigan’s advice and asked him whom he should consult about a caper he wanted to pull off. Willy suggested one of the original Brighton Beach mob bosses who had been around a long time and had never served any jail time. He knew his way around the law and was looked up to by the Russian mob. He made an appointment with Alexander Abramowitz for the next day. Abramowitz had originally come to this country as one of the original Refusniks in the early 1980s. He and a core of other Russians of various nationalities then teamed up with members of various Cosa Nostra crime families to facilitate their growth. Learning from their brethren in the Italian mob, they organized along the same hierarchal lines. Abramowitz was at a high level in the organization that was based in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn that had grown into an intimidating force – a lucrative international enterprise stretching from Moscow to Israel to Thailand to the United States, blending old-fashioned brutality with high tech skills.

The old boss had his headquarters above a neighborhood deli. As Sergey approached the store he was accosted by two burly Russians both smoking self-wrapped cigarettes. Once he identified himself they swung open the screen door and followed him inside. The odors of cheese and hard salami were everywhere. The shelves were stacked to the ceiling with traditional Russian items and the front counter had lottery tickets for sale.  Sergey was shown the back stairs leading to an office. As he entered he was astonished by the opulent setting. The beaded entry way led to a dazzling display of wealth that the Russian czars of old would have been proud of. The window trimmings themselves would have made the best interior designers green with envy. On one side of the room was a chest of drawers that had probably graced one of the mansions of Russian nobility.  The desk was a thing of beauty itself with an onyx top. Sitting behind the desk in an oversized chair was an elderly man wrapped in a smoking jacket.  Abramowitz was certainly old. His double chin came almost down below his Adams apple. With no hair on the top of his head he looked like a bowling ball. His eyes were deep and penetrating and he was smoking a fat black cigar. “Nu, what can I do for you?” he inquired genially.  Sergey explained the situation telling him the gang thought they could pull off the caper but they were thinking about but weren’t sure how they could collect the money without the cops being right on their ass. Abramowitz listened attentively and asked some good questions. He then said that he could be of help in collecting the ransom but  wanted 10% of the ransom for his services. In addition, he did not want the dog sent back until after the show. When questioned, all he would say was he had his reasons. Sergey’s first thought was that this was an awful lot of money for his help. Then his better instincts overcame any doubts realizing that once they were in with the mob, any other jobs would be easier to come by.  They agreed and shook hands on the deal. Abramowitz would take care of how the notification of the Olansky’s would be handled and set up an electronic payment scheme that was foolproof and would not let the cops in on the payoff. As he described his approach to solving the problem Sergey was suitably impressed. It appeared the mob had joined the new electronic world.

The wily old fox had also seen a further avenue for profit. Even If the cocker spaniel people came up with the money, he was not going to be in the show. It would cut down on the serious contenders. Betting on another dog could make money. He would have to investigate this business to see if there was some way a dollar could be turned without too much effort on his part. It was amazing how many different ways there were to fleece people of their money.

When Sergey had left he picked up the phone and speed dialed a well-used number. “Mordecai,” he said, “Another door has just opened and I see a way to make a few extra kopeks. I want you to check out the big dog show at Madison Square Garden in February and let me know the scuttlebutt about the favorites and who might be the favorite if the Black and Tan Cocker Spaniel was not entered.” This could be a whole new way of skimming off some cream.

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