# 12 - Chapter Twelve "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

It Hurts to Say Goodbye 

Chapter Twelve 

Dimitri Orlov loved K and A, Philadelphia’s neighborhood at the intersection of two major thoroughfares – Kensington and Allegheny avenues. 

The area had seen better days. Many of the residential streets’ two story row houses no longer shined like in the old days when blue-collar wage earners worked in the now-abandoned factories nearby. The quality family restaurants either closed or turned into grungy establishments. Many of the stores that had made the area a shopping mecca have long-since closed. 

The past didn’t matter to Orlov. He felt just fine in K and A because part of the area represented the underside of human nature: The pursuit of money and power, in his case through the sale of illegal drugs. 

The Allegheny El station dominated the intersection. Drug dealers overran the sidewalks around the station. They pursued their trade, but they could melt into the background at the hint of an approaching police car. The area just a few blocks away by the old Conrail train tracks held the vestiges of a campground for drug addicts that had been cleared out by the city. And the intersection was within walking distance of Aunt Alice’s Candle House, Orlov’s drug production and distribution center. 

Orlov was waiting directly across Allegheny from the El station. He was sitting in a booth in Eddie’s Last Chance, Bar of Renown, one of his favorite hangouts. From his seat he could watch the front door, but he was spending most of his time glancing down at his wristwatch. The dial told him it was 11:07 in the morning. 

Orlov was starting to feel something akin to steam in his chest and down his back. 

He shouted at the elderly man behind the bar: “Gimme another hit, the good vodka.” 

The old man wore a soiled white apron and a worried expression on his pinkish face. He tried to move fast, spilling some of the liquid as he filled a small tumbler, rushed it over to Orlov’s booth and placed it with the other four empty tumblers on the table’s wet surface.

Just as Orlov placed his massive, hairy hand on the tumbler, he saw the silhouette of a small figure outlined by the sunlight in the bar’s glass door. 

The small figure pushed the door open and advanced down the bar toward Orlov. Then, Lieutenant Doug Boswell stood and waited. He hesitated to take a seat in the booth until invited to do so. 

Orlov acknowledged Boswell’s presence, but said nothing. Rather, he raised the tumbler to his face, opened a huge, pink crevice in the middle of his full, black beard, and poured the vodka into his mouth.

“That makes five,” he said. “Just a warning. I’m no longer responsible for my actions. Just a warning.”  

“Look, sorry about that,” Boswell found himself stammering, rushing to get the words out without revealing his fear. “You know what 95’s like with all the work, you know. And parking here, it’s sure not easy.”

“You know what? I don’t give a shit. Just take a seat and tell me what’s getting you all excited.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Boswell said as he slipped onto the bench across from Orlov. “Just a second, gotta catch my breath. Just a second, okay?”

“You want a second, no problem.”

“Okay, I gotta tell ya, it’s getting’ hairy.” The words were streaming from Boswell’s mouth. He had decided how to appeal to Orlov, but finally he just fell back on his instinct. “They’re putting pressure on me!”

“What’s the problem?” Orlov asked the question, but he wasn’t paying attention. He started looking around the bar, but there wasn’t anything pleasant to look at.

“Guys in the department, guys high up, they want Elliott Siegel to take the rap for killing a girl, a girl, we found her body in Fairmount Park. They want me to make it look sure, make it look like he killed that girl,” Boswell said. “I gotta put this thing together, the case against the Siegel guy, and it’s gotta look official. Imagine that! I gotta get people to back up the story. I don’t know. It’s not that easy. It’s not possible.”

A woman entered the bar and took a seat at the bar. She wore a knit top that revealed her tan shoulders and a short black skirt and black stockings. Without her asking, the barkeep slid a glass of red wine in front of her. 

She lifted the glass and took one sip.

Then she swiveled on the round stool and looked at Orlov. She was not young, and there was something in her expression that said “tired.” She had gleaming chestnut hair and fine features. She turned back to look in the mirror behind the bar and examine the rows of bottles. 

“You look, man!” Orlov said. “Hey, hear that? I talk just like a Philly guy. Yeah, man? So, why you worry? The Siegel? He’s causing you a problem? Drugs, it’s a very difficult business. He causes trouble? We can just kill him. No more problem, it’s done.” 

Boswell couldn’t control himself. He stood up, pushing the Formica table into Orlov’s gut. “Fuck, we can’t do . . . You can’t do that! Can you imagine the mess that’d cause? We can’t just kill someone!”

Orlov slid off his slick plastic bench, moved around the table and pushed Boswell back down onto his bench. Then, Orlov took a seat and put his arm around Boswell’s shoulders. 

“You talking about the guys in the Philly police, the guys high up? Lemme tell you something, a secret. I’m telling you, just you. The guys high up in the Philly police, you don’t have to worry about them. No problem, it’s no problem.” 

Orlov pulled Boswell close and then put his left hand on Boswell’s right thigh. His hand began gripping Boswell’s thigh, tighter and tighter, as he continued to speak. “Kill him, we kill him, easy. And maybe there’s not just one kill him. Maybe there’s more kills.” 

Boswell was starting to feel the pain of Orlov’s grip. 

“Tell me, you tell me,” Orlov said, “the guys high up in the Philly police! Is one of them a very handsome, very distinguish man, maybe a captain? Could he have a name like McAllister? You know him?” 

Boswell was feeling the pain in his thigh. He tried to push Orlov’s hand away, but it was too strong, locked tightly onto his leg. The detective lieutenant didn’t understand. 

“You want kike Siegel dead?” Orlov asked. “No problem.” 

Boswell was trying to wiggle his leg, trying to get free, but he couldn’t move. Orlov was hugging him to his body.

“Fuck, let go! Will ya! Just let go, what ya trying to do?”

Boswell remembered what he wanted to say. He knew he had to try. “Can you just hold off, just for a while? Just hold off on the drug sales for a while, until I can clear up this whole thing. I don’t want your guys to get arrested, and then I’m in deeper shit.”

“No can do. It hurts me to say. Hold off? No can do,” Little by little, Orlov’s voice rose. “I hold off, and you know what? I lose. I lose my clients. I lose my territory. You know those big, brown-skinned boys? I’d be doin’ them a favor, give them my territory, my market.”

Suddenly, Orlov released Boswell’s leg. “You wanna know who’s in charge.  It’s me. I’m in charge. You don’t have to worry. Captain McAllister, he’s my friend. We’re friends, and we’re in business. You don’t have to worry about him. But me? That’s different. You have to worry about me.”

Boswell had one single thought: I gotta get outta this. There’s no way for me, between McAllister and Orlov. How could I? Fuck, I’m lost!

He thought back, about the months and years before. How did I get involved? How’d I get here? 

Boswell thought back. How long was it? Maybe only six, seven years. He was on street patrol, and he wore a uniform. It seemed so simple, and he could use a little extra money. So he agreed he wouldn’t do anything if he saw some petty drug dealers selling on the street. But it didn’t stop with petty dealers. 

Boswell didn’t understand at the time, but now he did. He made lieutenant, but he was still trapped. He didn’t know the name, but he became a thing. He was a thing that was passed from one gang to another, then from one syndicate to another. At first, it was only south Philly, and then it grew. He protected the syndicate’s dealers and arrested their competition. The money was good, more than he could spend. Each step was small. Each step more. 

Now, he knew he had to get out, away from the whole situation. But how? 

Boswell blurted it out: “Look’it, I’ll take care of it. Just gimme some time!” 

Orlov said, “You say some time. Me, I don’t know what that means. One day? Three days? A week. Me? I’m a business man, I’m a reasonable man. I can see McAllister’s point of view. Sure, he’s a big deal, he’s gotta be careful. So, he gives you a job to do.”

Orlov nodded to the woman with chestnut hair, and she rose from the bar stool and walked over to Orlov’s table. 

Orlov placed his right hand on her waist, and then he lowered his hand and cupped her ass. He smiled at Boswell.

“Lemme tell you, you got one week,” Orlov said. “Now get outta here.”

Orlov let Boswell exit the booth, and Boswell ran for the bar’s glass door.  

-0-

It was early evening, slightly after eight. Dimitri Orlov pulled his faded green panel truck up to the back loading dock of the former textile mill where his headquarters was located. On the side panels of the 1987 Chevrolet truck was written, “Aunt Alice’s Candle House, Artistic Light Since 1989.” There was an image of an ensemble of five brightly colored candles, and also a phone number. But the number was smeared; Orlov didn’t want any “artistic crazies” interrupting his real business. 

He pushed the driver’s door open, sounding a cacophony of crunching and squeaks. He slid his massive body off the drivers seat and landed his leather boots on the asphalt surface and walked around to the rear of the truck. He pulled the two back doors open and located the large roll of plastic sheeting pushed against the right side.

Methodically, Orlov unrolled a ten-foot length of the sheeting and spread it over the rear compartment, careful to tuck it in to protect the back of the two front seats. All the while, he kept repeating to himself, “Killer business, it’s a killer business.” 

But somewhere deep down in his consciousness, there was a vague thought. The thought wasn’t clear, but it carried a sense of resistance. It just gave him a slight unease, a fuzzy message that he hoped he wouldn’t have to use the preparations he was making.

Orlov examined the plastic sheeting and thought about what he would have to do that evening. The vague thought and the slight unease slipped away. 

Preparations completed, he slammed the back doors, returned to the driver’s side of the truck, opened the door and pulled his mass back up to the driver’s seat. Ignition and the clanky sound of the truck’s motor, and Orlov was on his way. 

It was evening, and the sun was slipping lower and lower in the sky. Orlov could hear the grinding of the six-cylinder motor and watched the dashboard lights blinking on and off as he pushed the old vehicle up past sixty-five on I 95 South. A careful driver would have driven the old truck slowly, carefully, but that was not Dimitri Orlov. Rather, he kept looking down at the floor on the passenger’s side to make sure he had everything he needed, and he reviewed his plan. 

He pulled off at the Columbus Avenue exit, a few more turns, and he arrived in the heart of the Queen Village neighborhood. To his right were grassy expanses with several rows of trees, and between the grassy areas were small parking lots. The last place remained free, because someone left a large tree branch blocking the place.  

That someone was Orlov. Earlier in the day, he had discovered the branch two blocks away and dragged it to the parking lot, so he’d be sure of a place to park his truck. 

Now, Orlov dragged the branch onto the grass and then pulled his truck into the place, took several supplies from his truck and walked through the narrow streets of Queen Village. 

On 2nd Street, there was a construction site. A new mini-condominium was being built, and the construction site was protected with a chain-link fence covered with a blue tarp. Orlov pulled the fence aside and found the exact location where he could watch Elliott Siegel’s house and the two intersecting streets, all without the danger of being discovered. 

And Orlov waited. Time passed. One hour, two hours, three, it was already almost ten o’clock. 

The doorway of Siegel’s house opened, and brightness filled the street in front of it. Orlov watched Siegel exit and close the door, but then he reopened the door, stepped into the house, and exited again, now carrying what looked like a light jacket and reclosed the door. 

Then, Siegel placed his hand on the door handle, shook it, pulled on – yes, a jacket – and then turned and walked west, away from Orlov. 

Surprise! Orlov watched his friend, Kasbar Sargsyan step out of an alley and, for just a few seconds, stand in front of Siegel’s house.  Sargsyan looked odd, out of place. He was wearing that silly jacket of his, and he was touching the right-side pocket, as though he wanted to be sure he had something there. 

Fuck! Sargsyan was following Siegel. Maybe he’ll do it, Orlov thought. Maybe he can do it. Maybe he’ll surprise me. If he does, fine. Orlov reasoned that Siegel was wearing only light trousers, a polo shirt and his light jacket, and he was carrying nothing. He was sure to return home. 

Orlov waited and watched from the building site. Time passed. Orlov looked at his watch. Only ten minutes had passed. 

Sure enough, Orlov watched Siegel walking down the sidewalk, carrying a pizza box, returning to his home. 

And, surprise, Orlov spotted Sargsyan halfway down the block, popping into alleys, hiding behind parked cars, but definitely following Siegel. 

Will he do it? Orlov asked himself. Why didn’t he do it while they were walking down the streets with just a few streetlights? Why wait until he returned home? 

Siegel juggled the pizza box and reached into his trouser pockets. He pulled out a key ring, inserted one key and opened his front door. 

Orlov watched Sargsyan. Across the street, crouched behind a parked car, he was watching Siegel enter his house, and then, in a flood of light, Siegel closed the door and the street returned to darkness. 

Surely, he has a plan. Orlov was patient. Of course, yes, my friend knows what to do. 

Sargsyan straightened and walked toward Siegel’s house. He stopped in front of the house and raised his hand toward the button for the doorbell. He stood there for long seconds, his hand suspended in air. Then, he dropped his hand and started patting his right jacket pocket.

Orlov watched Kasbar turn and look up the street. Orlov could see his friend’s face, lean in the dim light, lost, panicked, frightened. Then, the small, frail man looked up and down the street, and he ran. He started out slowly, but his pace quickened. Until he was in front of the construction site, and . . . 

Orlov stepped out from behind the chain-link fence. He grabbed Sargsyan by holding onto his shoulders. Kasbar didn’t resist. He dropped to his knees and cupped his face in both hands. He began sobbing. He didn’t try to speak. He was beyond that. He kept sobbing, tears streaming down his hollow cheeks. 

Orlov grabbed his friend under one arm and lifted him up, then pulling him down the street toward parking area where the Aunt Alice’s truck was parked. As Sargsyan stumbled along, he was trying to speak, but just the first word came out, “I . . .  I  . . . I  . , ” over and over again. 

The two men, the two friends reached the truck, and Orlov opened the two back doors. Without asking, Orlov reached into the right pocket of Sargsyan’s jacket. There was no resistance. Orlov jammed the small weapon into his own left pocket. 

Then Orlov ordered his friend Kasbar to climb into the back of the truck. 

Rapidly, Sargsyan scrambled into the dark space. He was careful to keep the plastic sheeting as neat as possible. His dark eyes looked up at Orlov’s big, round face; his eyes were pleading. Sargsyan didn’t know what his friend planned, but he was filled with panic. 

“You kneel, you kneel looking at me,” Orlov commanded. “Now, I explain. You remember. You remember when I told you our business is a killer business. We were doing your plan, get the young people with money, get them to buy from us. Yes, you told me you understand, killer business. You told me you understand. You remember? Yes, you do. You’re genius, very smart. Yes?”

Sargsyan looked up at his friend, his thin face twisted in fear. The glare from a nearby streetlight put his face in a blue cast, his thin lips no more than a black line. “Dima, don’t do this, you crazy! Please, I don’t know. Please, don’t do this.”

“And you remember, you tell me, yes, you tell me you understand. You say you change. You say, yes, I change, and I do it. You promise, you do it. You remember? Now, what I see? Why not? I see the Siegel man, the Jew, and I watch you, and I see you watching him. And you don’t do it. He walks by you, and I see you hiding, you hiding. You hear? You were hiding.”

Sargsyan started talking rapidly, faster than he’d ever spoken in his life. “Dima, it was you. You didn’t say you’d be here. I didn’t know. I thought it was someone else. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t know it was you. I was going to, I was going to do it.” 

Orlov felt his temper rising. He hated to see his friend lose his dignity, beg, beg and lie. “Bullshit,” he screamed. “Coward, you giving me bullshit. You see what I do. I give you a chance. A chance, you see?”

From his pocket, Orlov pulled his own pistol. It was a Mossberg FN 509. The barrel was polished steel; the handle was also steel, but it was black and textured for a good grip.

“Now shoot, you shoot me. If you don’t, I kill you. You didn’t change. You promised, but you can’t do it, you can’t. I’m sorry my friend. I love you. But you have to prove. You have to prove you can kill. You remember, killer business. We have to, we have to do it. We adapt, or it’s no good. No good for everyone.”

Orlov’s hand held the small Mossberg, and he pushed it toward his friend. 

“Dima, please! Please, I can’t kill you. You’re my friend.” Sargsyan held up his two palms. He refused. He didn’t want the weapon. How could he? He couldn’t kill his friend, Orlov.

In a fit of anger, Orlov pulled back his hand, which was holding the pistol, and he glared at his friend in disgust.

Orlov said, “Now, it’s me. I have to do it. It is my only choice. I show you that we have to be strong. We have to adapt.” 

Holding the pistol in his left hand, Orlov reached into his right front pocket, and he pulled out the pistol’s magazine, which he had removed earlier. He jammed the magazine into the pistol’s handle.

The operation made a sliding sound, until it clicked into place. Then he pulled the weapon’s slide to chamber the first round. He reached into his pocket one more time, this time for the silencer, which he screwed onto the barrel. 

“I’m sorry my friend. I tell you. Now I have to kill you.”

“But you! You cheated! The gun, it wasn’t loaded.” Sargsyan tried to push himself up from the truck’s floor, but he slipped on the plastic sheeting. His face was turning red. “That’s it, you want everything, you want to steal everything from me. It was all my money.”

“My friend, I’m sorry,” Orlov’s voice was even, controlled. “No, of course not. What you think? You think me stupid? You think I want to die? You think I want to hear you say, all the time, your money, your money? No! Of course not!” 

“Please, no! I can’t die. I don’t want to die. This is real! This is not a game. I don’t want . . . .”

The first shot struck Sargsyan in the middle of his forehead. The small, round entry point was neat, but the back of his head exploded in bits of skull and brain tissue, and the bloody mess fell onto the plastic sheeting behind him. His body fell backward from the force of the shot. The next shot struck his heart, and opened another gaping hole in his back. 

Methodically, Orlov clicked the lock on the Mossberg’s slide and unscrewed the silencer and returned the weapon to his pocket. Then, he grabbed his friend’s feet and pulled until his body lay flat. 

Just one more glance to inspect the rear compartment, Orlov thought. He touched the switch above the rear doors, and the single bulb in the ceiling blinked on. Fuck, he told himself, never thought poor little Sargsyan had so much brains. 

Hurriedly, he turned off the light and slammed the rear doors. 

Standing next to the open driver-side door, Orlov surveyed the parking lot, the grassy park, the adjoining streets, and the houses on the other side of the street. He saw no one, and only a few windows in the houses exhibited lights. 

Then he started up the old truck’s engine, backed out of the parking place, and made a series of turns to get onto 95 north. 

He told himself he had to do it. Yes, it’s a killer business. And when you have a strategy, you have to follow it. Yes, the genius that made the strategy didn’t have the balls to follow his own strategy. My friend, my friend, the business genius, it was his fault. 

Now he knew where he would dispose of the body. Of course.