Billy Straight

64

Land of the free, home of the stupid.

In the cramped storage room behind the souvenir shack, Vladimir Zhukanov finished the vodka and wondered if he'd been an asshole to leave Russia.

At least there he had a uniform, a purpose. There was always someone who needed controlling. Even more now, since capitalism was sinking its claws in. The gangs were taking over, and half the gangsters were ex-police. He could've found something.

In America, he had no respect, only stupid dolls. Stupid nigger cop ignoring him, then taking his information to the TV, the black bastard.

Anonymous tip. Meaning they didn't want to pay him.

One thing: It proved he'd been right about the kid. Like there'd been any doubt- that dimple in the chin, just like the drawing. Scratches on his face, what you'd expect in someone hiding in a forest. Zhukanov's father had told him stories about forests, the war. Militiamen chasing Yids through clumps of wintering birch. Bare trees, iron sky, the marriage of bayonet and flesh, crimson stains on snow.

Anonymous tip. The TV news meant competition for the twenty-five thousand. Only one competitor so far, but he was trouble enough. Fat guy in filthy leather, walking up and down the walkway with the kid's picture.

From his station behind the counter, Zhukanov watched the big pig. Up and back, up and back, walking laboriously, breathing hard in the heat. Growing visibly pissed off as the day wore on and he got nothing but head shakes and blank stares.

The first time the guy waddled toward the souvenir shack, Zhukanov made sure to be in the back room, examining the day's receipts, trying to figure out how much he could skim and get away with. The second time, though, he was up front, counting trolls, making sure no one had ripped him off.

The big pig said, “Hey, man,” and shoved the picture in Zhukanov's face. Zhukanov shook his head dismissively- it wasn't even worth talking about- but the guy just stood there.

“You didn't even look at it, man.” Breath like a toilet. Zhukanov refused to dignify the question, picked up a Malibu troll. “Want to buy something?” His tone making it clear that the guy couldn't afford a lousy toy.

The fat guy tried to give him the evil eye. Zhukanov almost laughed out loud. Big but flabby. Back in Moscow, he'd trampled runny-shit like this half-drunk.

Finally the guy jiggled off. What an imbecile.

Still, it was competition. He'd have to be sharper than ever.

Now it was dark and all the retail shops were closed; the only things open were the cafés on the north end of Ocean Front. And the Yid church a few stores south. Bunch of old Yids in there wailing, plotting, whatever the hell they did when they got together.

He had skim money in his pocket, the vodka had awakened his senses, and he was hungry and horny and getting angrier by the minute at the nigger cop and everyone else who was conspiring to deprive him of what was rightfully his.

Tomorrow, he'd call the newspapers and tell them the truth about the anonymous tip, how stupid cops didn't respect dutiful citizens.

No, no, not yet- that would focus more attention on the walkway, bring in more problems. He'd give the nigger one more chance. What was his name, he had the card, somewhere… not in his pockets. Maybe he'd left it in the back room.

Slipping behind the curtain, he searched among the clutter but didn't find it. No matter, he'd ask around, a bald nigger detective, someone would know him. Then a man-to-man talk. Maybe offer him a piece of the twenty-five. If that was the only way.

If the nigger still didn't cooperate, he'd go to the papers- no, the TV stations. Get in touch with one of those blondies who read the news, tell her the truth. Maybe some big-shot movie producer would be watching and say, “Hey, this is a good idea for a movie.” Arnold Schwarzenegger, a Russian cop, comes to America to show the stupid Americans how to- Did they do that one already? It sounded familiar. No matter. With movies, you had something good, you did it again.

Publicity. That was what he needed.

On top of the money, he'd be the hero, trying to find the kid, solve a crime, but no one listened and-

“Hey, man,” said a voice from up front.

Fatso.

How had he gotten in? Then Zhukanov realized he'd forgotten to pull down the shutters and lock up. He took another swallow of vodka.

“Hey! You back there, man?”

Stupid asshole. Get rid of him and find some place to eat and drink. Zhukanov put on his Planet Hollywood jacket and tapped his front pockets. Cash in the right front pocket, knife in the left. Cheap Taiwan blade- he carried it with him for the walk from the shack to his car, sometimes with an unlicensed 9mm. Part of the back-room arsenal: nunchucks, a sawed-off baseball bat, age-blackened brass knuckles he'd inherited from his father. So far, the only thing he'd had to use was the bat, as a warning to kids with itchy fingers, but you never knew. The gun was back home. Cheap junk. It had jammed, and he had it on the kitchen table, trying to figure out what was wrong with it.

“Hey!”

Zhukanov bolted the rear door before parting the curtains. The fat bastard had his elbows on the counter, scratching a blubbery chin, sweating, eyes raw-looking and swollen. Hulking silhouette against the black beach sky, maybe tough-looking to some tourist, but all Zhukanov saw was a vat of grease.

“Hey, bro, din' you hear me?”

Zhukanov said nothing.

“Listen, man-”

“Can't help you.”

“How can you say that, man, you don't know what I'm asking.”

Zhukanov started to slide down the front shutter. The fat man reached up and stopped it.

Zhukanov pulled. The fat man resisted. Flabby, but his weight gave him strength.

Zhukanov said, “Move, fatso.”

“Fuck you, shithead!”

That brought the blood to Zhukanov's face. He could feel it, hot as winter soup. His neck veins throbbed. His hands ached from gripping the shutter.

“Go away,” he said.

“Fuck you, man. I got a question, you could at least try a fucking answer.”

Zhukanov went silent again.

“No big deal, bro,” said the fat man. “Maybe you've seen this kid since I was here. You say no, fine. So why you giving me shit?”

The shutter wouldn't budge. The fat guy's resistance enraged Zhukanov. “Go away,” he said very softly.

The fat guy pushed at the shutter and it shot up. Daring Zhukanov to try closing it. A bully, used to having his way.

Zhukanov remained in place, smelling him. The stench wasn't just his breath, it was all of him. A walking garbage heap.

“Seen him?”

“Go away, asshole.”

Now it was the fat man's turn to go red. Pig eyes bulged; spittle bubbled at the sides of his mouth. That soothed Zhukanov's anger, turning it warm and smooth. This was starting to get funny. He laughed, said, “Stupid fat-ass piece of shit.”

The fat guy made a deep, fartlike, rumbling sound, and Zhukanov waited for the next insult, ready to throw something back, laugh in the bastard's face again.

But the fat guy didn't say a word, just went for him, faster than he thought possible, one huge hand shooting out and snagging him by the throat, pulling him up so hard against the counter he thought his ribs had broken. The pain nearly blinded him and he thrashed helplessly.

The fat guy's other hand was fisted, zooming at him for a face-pulverizing punch.

Zhukanov managed to jerk his face away from the blow, but the hand around his neck kept squeezing and he could feel all the breath go out of him, hear the fat guy snarling and cursing. Ocean Front was dark, abandoned, just the waves, no one around to watch this monster strangle him to death- no one but the Yids, yards away, doing their Christ-killing chants; they wouldn't help him anyway.

He tried to tear at the strangling hand, but his hands were sweat-slick, so weak, and the fat man's arm was moist too, and he couldn't get a purchase. Slipping and flailing as his field of vision funneled to a pinpoint of light, he saw the fat man's enraged face, another fist coming at him.

A spasm of panic saved his face but brought the blow along the side of his head, hard enough to rattle his brain pan. His arms continued to wave around uselessly. He didn't remember the knife until he'd nearly lost consciousness.

Then he remembered: pocket, front pocket, left side for the quick draw, just like they'd taught him in hand-to-hand. The fat man began shaking him harder, feeding off the pain and terror on Zhukanov's face, not noticing as Zhukanov reached down.

Zhukanov floundered, found it, grabbed too low. Cold metal, a sting, grope-grope, finally he touched the warmth of wood.

He yanked upward. Pushed the blade. No strength, not even a thrust, just a weak, womanish poke and-

Must have missed, because the fat man was still choking him, cursing… gargling. And now the shaking had stopped.

Now the bastard wasn't making any sounds.

A look of surprise on his face. The blubbery lips formed into a tiny O.

Like saying, “Oh!”

Where was the knife?

Suddenly, the hand around Zhukanov's throat opened and air rushed into his windpipe and he retched and choked; finally realized he could breathe, but his throat felt as if someone had used it for a lye funnel.

The fat man was no longer facing him; he was flopped down on the counter, arms hanging over.

Where was the knife?

Nowhere in sight. Losing everything. Must be the vodka.

Then he saw the slow red leak from under the fat man's shoulder. No gush, no big arterial spurt, just seepage. Like one of those summer tides when the waves got gentle.

He took hold of the fat man's hair and lifted the massive head.

The knife was still embedded in the guy's neck, just off-center from the Adam's apple, tilting downward. Diagonal slice through jugular, trachea, esophagus, but gravity was pulling the blood back down into the body cavity.

Zhukanov panicked. What if someone had seen?

Like the kid in Griffith Park, watching, thinking he was protected by darkness.

But there was no one. Just this fat, dead piece of shit and Zhukanov holding his head up.

A hunter with a trophy. For the first time in a long time, Zhukanov felt strong, territorial, a Siberian wolf.

The only bad thing was the size of the bastard, and now he had to be moved.

Letting the head flop down again, he turned off the lights in the shack, checked the cut on his hand- just a nick- vaulted over the counter, and scanned the walkway in all directions just to make sure.

The stained-glass window in the Yid place was a multicolored patch in the darkness, but no old Yids out in front. Yet.

Removing the knife, he wiped it with his handkerchief, then eased the corpse down to the ground. Wiping blood off the counter, he stuffed the kerchief into the neck wound. Having to roll it up into a tight ball, because the slash was only a couple of inches wide.

Small cut but effective. Small blade- it was the angle that had done it, the fat guy leaning forward to strangle him, Zhukanov giving that little girly poke upward and then suddenly the guy's weight had reversed the trajectory, forcing the knife down into his throat, severing everything along the way.

Making sure the handkerchief plug was secure, he inhaled deeply and prepared himself for the tough part. Mother of Christ, his neck hurt. He could feel it starting to swell around the neckline of his T-shirt, and he yanked down, ripping some elastic. Looser, but he still felt like the fat guy was choking him.

Another look around. Dark, quiet, all he needed was old Yids flooding out.

Okay, here goes.

Taking hold of the fat guy's feet, he started to pull the corpse.

The damn thing only budged an inch, and Zhukanov felt horrid pain in his lower back.

Like dragging an elephant. Bending his knees, he tried again. Another vertebral warning, but he kept going- what was the choice?

It took forever to get the bastard out of view, and by then Zhukanov was sweating, out of breath, every muscle in his body aflame.

And now he could hear voices. The Yids coming out.

He yanked, dragged, breathed, yanked, dragged, breathed, frantic to get the corpse well back from the walkway. Had he gotten all the blood off the counter?

He rushed back, found a few stains, used his shirt, turned off the lights, and slammed down the shutter.

Now he could hear them louder, old voices jabbering.

He got the corpse halfway to the back of the shack. Stopped when his chest clogged up. Bent his knees again, resumed.

Yank, drag, breathe.

By the time he reached the alley, all he could hear was the ocean, no voices; all the Yids gone home.

He dragged the corpse next to the shack's garbage bins. Not a commercial Dumpster, because the boss was too cheap. Two wooden shipping crates that some Mexican illegals emptied every week for ten bucks.

Okay… now what?

Leave him there, concealed by darkness, fetch the car, load the bastard in it, and take him somewhere to dump- where did the West Hollywood guys go for that?- Angeles Crest Forest. Zhukanov had a vague notion where that was; he'd find it.

Another forest. If the old man could see him now.

David had finished off Goliath, and soon Goliath would be rotting in some gulley.

No, wait, before that he had to triple-check for bloodstains- inside the shack and out, along the side of the shack, where the pig had been dragged.

He'd get the car, load the guy, keep him there while he gave the shack a thorough going over. Ditch the knife, the clothes he was wearing. The nunchucks and the baseball bat, too? No. No reason to panic. Why would anyone connect him to the fat bastard, even if they found the corpse?

Just the blood, the knife, his clothes.

Get it done before sunrise.

The guy would leak all over his trunk, but he'd clean it. Running it through again, he decided it was a good plan.

He stretched, fingered the tender, hot flesh of his neck. Slow down, slow everything down, it's over- why had the bastard invited trouble like that?

Zhukanov thanked him for starting up. He hadn't felt this good since leaving Moscow.

Okay, time to get the car. He'd taken three steps when light caught his eye.

The back door of the synagogue opening- someone still there!

He pressed himself against one of the wooden bins, tripping over the corpse's legs, nearly falling on his ass.

Forcing himself not to curse aloud, he breathed through his nose and watched as an old Yid came out of the synagogue. Zhukanov could see him clearly, illuminated by the light inside. Short, thickset, one of those beanies on his head.

The Yid reached in and the blessing of darkness returned. But just for one second, because now the guy was opening a car door.

Not the driver's door, the left rear door. Someone in back of the car sat up. Got out. Stretched. Just like Zhukanov had just done. The Yid talked to him.

Shorter than the Yid- a kid.

Hiding in back- had to be the kid. Why else would he be hiding?

The right size, and he'd been lying low- who else could it be?

The kid got back in the rear seat, lay down, disappeared.

So he'd been here all along. Hidden by the Yids- made sense; twenty-five grand would make them come in their pants.

We'll see about that.

The Yid's car started up and the headlights went on. Staying in the shadows, Zhukanov ran toward it. The Yid started backing out just as Zhukanov got close enough to read the license plate.

Bunch of letters and numbers. Zhukanov mouthed the magic formula soundlessly. At first his brain refused to cooperate.

But the old Yid helped him, taking a long time to back the car out and straighten up, and by the time he finished, Zhukanov had it all memorized.

No time to get his old car to follow. He'd write the number down, call the Department of Motor Vehicles. Giving out addresses was illegal, but he knew a clerk at the Hollywood branch, wiseass louse from Odessa who'd do it for fifty bucks.

Given the payoff, an excellent investment.