Billy Straight

52

Nigger.

Not taking him seriously. Vladimir Zhukanov pulled a troll doll down from the rack and squeezed its belly. Blond-haired troll, SURF DUDE! printed on the shirt. He hated the way the damn thing smiled. Some Swede or Dane had invented the original one. This one was made in Korea, pirated. Zhukanov had bought ten gross from an old Moscow friend of his who worked the docks down in Long Beach, a hundred bucks, no questions asked.

A Georgian named Makoshvilli- they'd busted heads together while in the army, breaking up protests near the Kremlin, braining Yids, assorted cosmopolitan dirt.

He brought the trolls in a few at a time, pocketed the cash, fuck the boss.

Vladimir Zhukanov, sergeant in the Moscow police, reduced to trafficking in toys!

America, land of dreams. He'd claimed to be a Yid to get over here, paid a fortune to some immigration lawyer to lie for him, bunked down in some West Hollywood hovel full of Yids while he tried to find a niche for himself in L.A. A few months later, Yeltsin opened the gates to anyone, the bastard.

The city was all niggers and brownies. He had yet to find his niche. He'd driven a cab, tried unsuccessfully to sell his head-busting services to a Van Nuys forgery ring, managed to get into a West Hollywood car-theft ring but couldn't hot-wire fast enough so they fired him. He worked nights for a while, bouncing at a Russian club on Third Street till some punks broke his nose- five against one, stupid club owners insisting no weapons, how could they claim it was his fault?

Now this. Five bucks an hour from the Yid who owned the souvenir stand. Zhukanov skimmed at least 5 percent regularly, the Yid knew it, didn't care- he was raking it in from twenty other stands all around the city, living in Hancock Park, buying that hook-nosed wife of his diamonds.

One day, Zhukanov figured, he'd break into the house, get those diamonds.

Meanwhile, he sold toys. Till now: salvation in the form of the kid.

Had to be him. Zhukanov had done his share of hunting, knew what prey smelled like.

Handing it to the nigger cop, but the black bastard wasn't taking him seriously. No wonder this multicultural shithole had so much crime- nigger cops. Like having foxes guard chickens.

No way would he let that screw up his plans. Twenty-five grand meant out of here, maybe a quick grab for the boss's diamonds, fly to New York, Brighton Beach, Coney Island- no shortage of outfits there who'd welcome his talents; but with that kind of money he'd start his own business.

He was already self-employed: personal hunter of the kid.

How far could the little bastard have gone? He was sure to turn up again, and Sergeant Zhukanov would grab him.

A flash of optimism lightened his mood. A little vodka, maybe stop off somewhere for a nice meal.

Starting tomorrow, he'd be on full alert.