Hollywood Station

ELEVEN

EARLY THAT MORNING Mag Takara underwent surgery at Cedars-Sinai to reconstruct facial bones, with more surgeries to follow, the immediate concern being to save the vision in her left eye. After being booked into the prison ward at USCMC, the pimp, Reginald Clinton Walker, also went under the knife, to have his ruptured spleen removed. Walker would be charged with felony assault because of the great bodily injury suffered by Officer Takara, but of course the serious charge of felony assault on a police officer could not be alleged in this case.

There wasn’t a cop on the midwatch who didn’t think that the felony assault and the pimping allegation wouldn’t be the subject of plea bargain negotiations, but both the area captain and the patrol captain vowed that they’d do all they could to keep the DA onboard for a vigorous felony prosecution. However, a caveat was added, because as soon as Walker filed a multimillion-dollar lawsuit against the LAPD and the city for having his spleen destroyed, who could say what the outcome would be?

That afternoon, an hour before midwatch roll call, the floor nurse at Cedars saw a tall man in T-shirt and jeans with a dark suntan and bleached streaky hair enter the ward, carrying an enormous bouquet of red and yellow roses. Sitting outside the room of Officer Mag Takara were her mother, father, and two younger sisters, who were crying.

The nurse said, “Are those for Officer Takara, by chance?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so,” she said. “You’re the fourth. But she can’t see anybody today except immediate family. They’re waiting outside her room for her to have her dressing changed. You can talk to them if you like.”

“I don’t wanna bother them,” he said.

“The flowers are beautiful. Do you want me to take them?”

“Sure,” he said. “Just put them in her room when you get a chance.”

“Is there a card?”

“I forgot,” he said. “No, no card.”

“Shall I tell her who brought them?”

“Just tell her… tell her that when she’s feeling better, she should have her family take her to the beach.”

“The beach?”

“Yeah. The ocean is a great healer. You can tell her that if you want.”

At midwatch roll call the lieutenant was present, along with three sergeants, including the Oracle. He got the job of explaining what had happened and having it make sense, as though that were possible. The cops were demoralized by the events on Sunset Boulevard the night before, and they were angry, and all the supervisors knew it.

When he was asked to be the one to talk about it, the Oracle said to the lieutenant, “In his memoir, T. E. Lawrence of Arabia said old and wise means tired and disappointed. He didn’t live long enough to know how right he was.”

At 5:30 P.M. the Oracle, sitting next to the lieutenant, popped a couple of antacid tablets and said to the assembly of cops in the roll-call room, “The latest report is that Mag is resting and alert. There doesn’t appear to be any brain damage, and the surgeon in charge says that they’re optimistic about restoring vision in her eye. At least most of the vision.”

The room was as quiet as the Oracle had ever heard it, until Budgie Polk, her voice quavering, said, “Will she look… the same, do they think?”

“She has great surgeons taking care of her. I’m sure she’ll look fine. Eventually.”

Fausto, who was sitting next to Budgie, said, “Is she coming back to work after she’s well?”

“It’s too soon to say,” the Oracle said. “That will depend on her. On how she feels after everything.”

“She’ll come back,” Fausto said. “She picked up a grenade, didn’t she?”

Budgie started to say something else but couldn’t. Fausto patted her hand for a second.

The Oracle said, “The detectives and our captains have promised that the pimp will go to the joint for this, if they can help it.”

B.M. Driscoll said, “Maybe they can’t help it. I’m sure he’s got half a dozen shysters emptying his bedpan right this minute. He’ll make more money from a lawsuit than he could make from every whore on Sunset.”

“Yeah, our activist mayor and his handpicked, cop-hating police commissioner will be all over this one,” Jetsam said. “And we’ll hear from the keepers of the consent decree. No doubt.”

Before the Oracle could answer, Flotsam said, “I suppose the race card will be played here. Dealt from the bottom of the deck, as usual.”

That’s what the lieutenant hadn’t wanted, the issue of race entering what he knew would be a heated exchange today. But race affected everything in Los Angeles from top to bottom, including the LAPD, and he knew that too.

Looking very uncomfortable, the lieutenant said, “It’s true that the media and the activists and others might have a field day with this. A white cop kicking the guts out of a black arrestee. They’ll want Officer Turner not just fired but prosecuted, and maybe he will be. And you’ll hear accusations that this proves we’re all racists.”

“I got somethin’ to say about it, Lieutenant.”

Conversation stopped then. Benny Brewster, the former partner of Mag Takara, the only black cop on the midwatch and in the room except for a night-watch sergeant sitting on the lieutenant’s right, had something to say about what? The race card? White on black? The lieutenant was very uncomfortable. He didn’t need this snarky shit.

Every eye was on Benny Brewster, who said, “If it was me that got there first instead of Turner and seen what he seen, I’d be in jail. ’Cause I’da pulled my nine and emptied the magazine into that pimp. So I’d be in jail now. That’s all I got to say.”

There was a murmur of approval, and a few cops even clapped. The lieutenant wanted to give them a time-out, wanted to restore order, and was trying to figure out how to do it, when the Oracle took over again.

The Oracle looked at all those faces, wondering how it was possible that they could be so young. And he said to them, “The shield you’re wearing is the most beautiful and most famous badge in the world. Many police departments have copied it and everyone envies it, but you wear the original. And all these critics and politicians and media assholes come and go, but your badge remains unchanged. You can get as mad and outraged as you want over what’s going to go down, but don’t get cynical. Being cynical will make you old. Doing good police work is the greatest fun there is. The greatest fun you’ll ever have in your lives. So go on out tonight and have some fun. And Fausto, try to get by with only two burritos. Speedo weather’s coming up.”

After they had handled two calls and written one traffic ticket, Budgie Polk turned to Fausto Gamboa and said, “I’m okay, Fausto. Honest.”

Fausto, who was riding shotgun, said, “Whaddaya mean?”

“I mean you gotta quit asking me if I want you to roll up the window or where do I wanna have code seven or do I need my jacket. Last night is over. I’m okay.”

“I don’t mean to be a -”

“Nanny. So you can stop now.”

Fausto got quiet then, a bit embarrassed, and she added, “The Li’l Rascals didn’t want Darla in their clubhouse either. But we’re in. So you can all just live with it, especially you, you cranky old sexist.”

Budgie glanced sideways at him and he quickly looked out at the boulevard, but she saw a little bit of a smile that he couldn’t hide.

Things got back to normal when Budgie went after a silver Saab that pulled out of Paramount Studios heading west a good three seconds late at the first traffic signal. The driver had a cell to his ear.

“Jesus,” she said, “what’s he doing, talking to his agent?”

When they had the Saab pulled over, the driver tried charming Budgie, whose turn it was to write one. He said with an attempt at a flirtatious grin, “I couldn’t have busted the light, Officer. It didn’t even turn yellow until I was in the intersection.”

“You were very late on the red signal, sir,” Budgie said, looking at his license, then at the guy, whose grin came off as smarmy and annoying.

“I would never argue with a police officer as attractive as you,” he said, “but couldn’t you be a little mistaken on the light? I’m a very careful driver.”

Budgie started walking back to her car, putting her citation book on the hood to write while Fausto kept his eyes on the driver, who quickly got out and came back to her. Budgie nodded at Fausto that she could handle this schmuck, and Fausto stayed put.

“Before you start writing,” he said, all the charm gone now, “I’d like to ask for a break here. One more ticket and I’ll lose my insurance. I’m in the film business, and I need a driver’s license.”

Without looking up, Budgie said, “Oh, you’ve had other citations, have you? I thought you said you were a careful driver.”

When she began writing he stormed back to his car, got behind the wheel, and made a call on his cell.

Budgie finished the citation and took it to him, but Fausto stayed glued to the right side of the guy’s car, watching his hands like the guy was a gangbanger. She knew that Fausto was still playing guardian angel, but what the hell-it was kind of comforting in a way.

After finishing, she presented the ticket and said, “This is not an admission of guilt, only a promise to appear.”

The driver snatched the ticket book from her hand, scrawled his signature, and gave it back to her, saying in a low voice that Fausto couldn’t hear, “I’ll just bet you get off on fucking over men, don’t you? I’ll bet you don’t even know what a cock looks like that doesn’t have batteries included. I’ll see you in court.”

Budgie removed his copy, handed it to him, and said, “I know what a cassette player looks like with batteries included. This.” And she patted the rover on her belt that was the size of a cassette player. “Let’s have a jury trial. I’d love for them to hear what you think of women police officers.”

Without a word he drove away, and Budgie said to the disappearing car, “Bye-bye, cockroach.”

When Fausto got in the car he said, “That is an unhappy citizen.”

“But he won’t take me to court.”

“How do you know?”

She patted the rover. “He said naughty things and I recorded them on my little tape machine.”

Fausto said, “Did he fall for that dumb gag?”

“Right on his ass,” she said.

“Sometimes you’re not quite as boring as other young coppers,” Fausto said to her, then added, “How you feeling?”

“Don’t start that again.”

“No, I mean the mommy stuff.”

“I may have to stop at the milking station later.”

“I’m gonna keep your gun in the car with me next time,” Fausto said.

Farley Ramsdale was in an awful mood that afternoon. The so-called ice he bought from some thieving lowlife greaser asshole at Pablo’s Tacos, where tweakers did business 24/7, had turned out to be shitty. The worst part was having to sit there for an hour waiting for the guy and listening to hip-hop blasting from the car of a pair of basehead smokes who were also waiting for the greaseball. What were they doing in Hollywood?

It turned out to be the worst crystal he’d ever scored. Even Olive complained that they’d been screwed. But it got them tweaked, the proof being that they were both awake all night, pulse rates zooming, trying to fix a VCR that had stopped rewinding. They had parts all over the floor, and they both fell asleep for an hour or so just before noon.

When Farley woke up, he was so disgusted he just kicked the VCR parts under the couch among all the dust balls and yelled, “Olive! Wake up and get your skinny ass in motion. We got to go to work, for chrissake.”

She was off the couch before he stopped grumbling, and said, “Okay, Farley. Whatcha want for breakfast?”

Farley pulled himself painfully to his feet. He just had to stop passing out on the couch. He wasn’t a kid anymore and his back was killing him. Farley looked at Olive, who was staring at him with that eager, gap-toothed grille, and he stepped closer and looked into her mouth.

“Goddamnit, Olive,” he said. “Have you lost another tooth lately?”

“I don’t think so, Farley,” she said.

He couldn’t remember right now either. He had a headache that felt like Nelly or some other nigger was rapping inside his skull. “You lose another tooth and that’s it. I’m kicking your ass outta here,” he said.

“I can get false teeth, Farley!” Olive whined.

“You look enough like George Washington already,” he said. “Just get the goddamn oatmeal going.”

“Can I first run over to see Mabel for a couple minutes? She’s very old, and I’m worried about her.”

“Oh, by all means, take care of the local witch,” he said. “Maybe next time she makes a stew outta rats and frogs, she’ll save a bowl for us.”

Olive ran out of the house, across the street and down three houses to the only home on the block that had weeds taller than those in Farley’s yard. Mabel’s house was a wood-frame cottage built decades after Farley’s stucco bungalow, during the 1950s era of cheap construction. The paint was blistered, chipped, and peeling in many places, and the screen door was so rusted a strong touch would make chunks crumble away.

The inside door was open, so Olive peered through the screen and yelled, “Mabel, you there?”

“Yes, Olive, come in!” a surprisingly strong voice called back to her.

Olive entered and found Mabel sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea with lemon slices. She had a few vanilla cookies on a saucer next to a ball of yarn and knitting needles.

Mabel was eighty-eight years old and had owned that cottage for forty-seven years. She wore a bathrobe over a T-shirt and cotton sweatpants. Her face was lined but still held its shape. She weighed less than one hundred pounds but had lots more teeth than Olive. She lived alone and was independent.

“Hello, Olive, dear,” Mabel said. “Pour yourself a nice cup of tea and have a cookie.”

“I can’t stay, Mabel. Farley wants his breakfast.”

“Breakfast? At this time of day?”

“He slept late,” Olive said. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay and see if you need anything from the market.”

“That’s sweet of you, dear,” Mabel said. “I don’t need anything today.”

Olive felt a stab of guilt then because every time she shopped for Mabel, Farley kept at least five dollars from Mabel’s change, even though the old woman was surviving on Social Security and her late husband’s small pension. Once Farley had kept thirteen dollars, and Olive knew that Mabel knew, but the old woman never said a word.

Mabel had no children or other relatives, and she’d told Olive many times that she dreaded the day when she might have to sell her cottage and move into a county home, where the money from her cottage sale would be used by county bureaucrats to pay for her keep the rest of her life. She hated the thought of it. All Mabel’s old friends had died or moved away, and now Olive was the only friend she had in the neighborhood. And Mabel was grateful.

“Take some cookies with you, dear,” Mabel said. “You’re getting so thin I’m worried about you.”

Olive took two of the cookies and said, “Thanks, Mabel. I’ll look in on you later tonight. To make sure you’re okay.”

“I wish you could watch TV with me some evening. I don’t sleep much at all anymore, and I know you don’t sleep much. I see your lights on at all hours.”

“Farley has trouble sleeping,” Olive said.

“I wish he treated you better,” Mabel said. “I’m sorry to say that, but I really do.”

“He ain’t so bad,” Olive said. “When you get to know him.”

“I’ll save some food for you in case you stop in tonight,” Mabel said. “I can never eat all the stew I cook. That’s what happens to old widows like me. We’re always cooking the way we did when our husbands were alive.”

“I’ll sneak over later,” Olive said. “I love your stew.”

Pointing at her orange tabby cat, Mabel said, “And Olive, if Tillie here comes around your house again, please bring her when you come.”

“Oh, I love having her,” Olive said. “She chases away all the rats.”

Late that afternoon, they were finally on the street, the first day that they’d gotten Farley’s car running and Sam’s Pinto returned to him.

“Goddamn transmission’s slipping on this fucking Jap junker,” Farley said. “When we collect from the Armenian, I’m thinking of looking around for another ride.”

“We also need a new washing machine, Farley,” Olive said.

“No, I like my T-shirts stiff enough to bust a knife blade,” he said. “Makes me feel safe around all those greaseballs at Pablo’s Tacos.” He was thinking, When Cosmo pays me, bye-bye, Olive. Barnacles are less clingy than this goofy bitch.

He lit a smoke while he drove and, as so often happened since his thirtieth birthday three years ago, he started feeling nostalgic about Hollywood. Remembering how it was when he was a kid, back in those glorious days at Hollywood High School.

He blew smoke rings at the windshield and said, “Look out the window, Olive, whadda you see?”

Olive hated it when he asked questions like that. She knew if she said the wrong thing, he’d yell at her. But she was obedient and looked at the commercial properties on the boulevard, here on the east side of Hollywood. “I see… well… I see… stores.”

Farley shook his head and blew more smoke from his nose, but he did it like a snort of disgust that made Olive nervous. He said, “Do you see one fucking sign in your mother tongue?”

“In my…”

“In English, goddamnit.”

“Well, a couple.”

“My point is, you might as well live in fucking Bangkok as live near Hollywood Boulevard between Bronson and Normandie. Except here, dope and pussy ain’t a bargain like over there. My point is that gooks and spics are everywhere. Not to mention Russkies and Armos, like those fucking thieves Ilya and Cosmo, who wanna take over Hollywood. And I must not forget the fucking Filipinos. The Flips are crawling all over the streets near Santa Monica Boulevard, taking other people’s jobs emptying bedpans and jacking up their cars on concrete blocks because no gook in history ever learned to drive like a white man. Do you see what’s happening to us Americans?”

“Yes, Farley,” she said.

“What, Olive?” he demanded. “What’s happening to us Americans?”

Olive felt her palms, and they were moist and not just from the crystal. She was on the spot again, having to respond to a question when she had no idea what the answer was. It was like when she was a foster child, a ward of San Bernardino County, living with a family in Cucamonga, going to a new school and never knowing the answer when the teacher called on her.

And then she remembered what to say! “We’ll be the ones needing green cards, Farley,” she said.

“Fucking A,” he said, blowing another cloud through his nose. “You got that right.”

When they reached the junkyard and he drove through the open gate, which was usually kept chained, he parked near the little office. He was about to get out but suddenly learned why the gate was open. They had other security now.

“Goddamn!” Farley yelled when a Doberman ran at the car, barking and snarling.

The junkyard proprietor, known to Farley as Gregori, came out of his office and shouted “Odar!” to the dog, who retreated and got locked inside.

When Gregori returned, his face stained with axle grease, he wiped his hands and said, “Better than chaining my gate. And Odar don’t get impressed by police badges.”

He was a lean and wiry man with inky thinning hair, wearing a sweatshirt and grease-caked work pants. Inside the garage a late-model Cadillac Escalade, or most of it, was up on a hydraulic lift. The car lacked two wheels and a front bumper, and two Latino employees were working on the undercarriage.

Olive remained in the car, and when Gregori and Farley were alone, Farley presented a stack of twenty-three key cards to Gregori, who looked them over and said, “What hotel do these come from?”

“Olive gets them by hanging around certain hotels on the boulevards,” Farley said. “People leave them at the front desk and in the lobby by the phones. And in the hotel bars.”

Then Farley realized he was making it sound too easy, so he said, “It’s risky and time-consuming, and you need a woman to do it. If you or me tried hanging around a hotel, their security would be all over us in no time. Plus, you gotta know which hotel has the right key cards. Olive has that special knowledge but she ain’t sharing it.”

“Five bucks apiece I give you.”

“Come on, Gregori,” Farley said. “These key cards are in primo condition. The perfect size and color. With a good-looking mag strip. You can buy those bogus driver’s licenses from Cosmo and they’ll glue to the front of the card just perfect. They’ll pass inspection with any cop on the street.”

“I don’t talk to Cosmo in a long time,” Gregori said. “You see him lately?”

“Naw, I ain’t seen him in a year,” Farley lied. Then, “Look, Gregori, for very little money every fucking wetback that works in all your businesses can be a licensed driver tomorrow. Not to mention your friends and relatives from the old country.”

“Friends and relatives from Armenia can get real driver’s license,” Gregori said imperiously.

“Of course they can,” Farley said, apologetically. “I just meant like when they first get here. I been in a couple of Armenian homes in east Hollywood. Look like crap on the outside, but once you get inside, there’s a fifty-two-inch TV and a sound system that’d blow out the walls if you cranked it. And maybe a white Bentley in the garage. I know you people are real smart businessmen.”

“You know that, Farley, then you know I ain’t paying more than five dollars for cards,” Gregori said, taking out his wallet.

When Farley accepted the deal and was driving back to the boulevard to score some crystal, he said to Olive, “That cheap communist cocksucker. You see what was up on that lift?”

“A new car?” Olive said.

“A new Escalade. That Armo gets one of his greasers to steal one. Then they strip it right down to the frame and dump the hot frame with its hot numbers. They search every junkyard in the county till they find a wrecked Escalade. They buy the frame, bring it here, and reassemble all the stolen parts right onto their cold frame, then register it at DMV. It’s a real Armo trick. They’re like fucking Gypsy tribes. Cosmo’s one of them. We shoulda nuked all the Soviet puppet states when we had the chance.”

“I’m scared of Cosmo, Farley,” Olive said, but he ignored her, still pissed off at the price he got for the key cards.

“Hear what he called his dog? Odar. That’s what Armenians call us non-Armos. Fucking goat eater. If I wasn’t a man of property, I’d get outta Hollywood and away from all these immigrant assholes.”

“Farley,” Olive said. “When your mom left you the house, it was paid for, right?”

“Of course it was paid for. Shit, when my parents bought the house, it only cost about thirty-nine grand.”

“You could sell it for a lot now, Farley,” Olive said. “We could go somewhere else and not do this thing with Cosmo and Ilya.”

“Pull yourself together,” he said. “This is the biggest score of my life. I ain’t walking away. So just deal with it.”

“We could stop using crystal,” Olive said. “You could go into rehab, and I really think I could kick if you was in rehab.”

“Oh, I see,” he said. “I’ve led you into a life of drugs and crime, is that it? You were a virgin cheerleader before you met me?”

“That ain’t what I mean, Farley,” she said. “I just think I could kick if you did.”

“Be sure to tell that to the casting director when he asks you to tell him all about yourself. You were a good girl seduced into the life by a wicked, wicked man. Who, by the way, provides you with a house and car and food and clothes and every fucking thing that makes life worthwhile!”

Farley parked four blocks from Hollywood Boulevard to keep from getting a ticket, and they walked to one of the boulevard’s tattoo parlors, one owned by a member of an outlaw bikers gang. A nervous young man was in a chair being worked on by a bearded tattoo artist with a dirty blond ponytail wearing a red tank top, jeans, and sandals. He was drawing what looked like a unicorn on the guy’s left shoulder.

The artist nodded to Farley, dabbed some blood from his customer’s arm, and said to him, “Be right back.” Then he walked to a back room, followed by Farley.

When Farley and the tattoo artist were in the back, Farley said, “A pair of teens.”

The artist left him, entered a second room and returned in a few minutes with the teeners of crystal in plastic bindles.

Farley gave the guy six twenty-dollar bills and returned to the front, where Olive stood admiring the design on the young man’s shoulder, but the guy just looked sick and full of regret.

Olive smiled and said to him, “That’s going to be a beautiful tattoo. Is it a horse or a zebra?”

“Olive, let’s go,” Farley said.

Walking to the car, Farley said, “Fucking bikers’re lousy artists. People get bubbles under the skin. All scarred up. Hackers is what they are.”

They were halfway home and stopped at a traffic signal when Olive blurted, “Know what, Farley? Do you think it might be a little bit big for us? I mean, trying to make Cosmo give us ten thousand dollars? Don’t it scare you a little bit?”

“Scare me?” he said. “I’ll tell you what I been thinking. I been thinking about pulling the same gag on that cheap fucking Gregori, that’s what I been thinking. Fuck him. I ain’t doing business with the cheap bastard no more, so I wonder how he’d like it if I phoned him up and said I was gonna call the cops and tell them what I know about his salvage business. I wonder how he’d like reaching in that fat wallet and pulling out some real green to shut me up.”

Olive’s hands were sweating more now. She didn’t like the way things were changing so fast. The way Farley was changing. She was very scared of Cosmo and even scared of Ilya. She said, “I think it will be just awful to meet with Cosmo and collect the money from him. I’m very worried about you, Farley.”

Farley looked surprised and said, “I’m not stupid, Olive. The fucker robbed the jewelry store with a gun. You think I’m gonna meet him in some lonely place or something? No way. It’s gonna happen in a nice safe place with people around.”

“That’s good,” Olive said.

“And you’re gonna do it, of course. Not me.”

“Me?”

“It’s way safe for you,” Farley said. “It’s me he hates. You’ll be just fine.”

At seven that evening, Gregori phoned his business acquaintance Cosmo Betrossian and had a conversation with him in their language. Gregori told Cosmo that he had had a visitor and had bought some hotel key cards from Farley, the dope fiend that Cosmo had introduced to him last year when identification was needed for employees working in Gregori’s salvage yard.

“Farley? I have not seen the little freak in a very long time,” Cosmo lied.

“Well, my friend,” Gregori said, “I just need to know if the thief can still be trusted.”

“In what way?”

“People like him, they sometimes become police informants. The police trade little fishes for big whales. They might consider me to be a whale.”

Cosmo said, “You can trust him in that way. He is such a worthless addict that the police would not even want to deal with him. But you cannot lend him money. I was stupid enough to do that.”

“Thank you,” Gregori said. “Perhaps I could buy you and your lovely Ilya a dinner at the Gulag some evening?”

“I would like that, thank you,” Cosmo said. “But I have an idea. Perhaps you can do something for me?”

“Of course.”

“I would be very grateful next month on a night I shall designate if you would call Farley and tell him you need more key cards because several new employees have arrived from Mexico with family members. Offer him more than you paid today. Then tell him to deliver the cards to your salvage yard. After dark.”

“My business is closed before dark. Even on Saturday.”

“I know,” Cosmo said, “but I would like you to give me a duplicate gate key. I will be at the salvage yard when Farley arrives.”

“Wait a moment,” Gregori said. “What does this mean?”

“It is only about the money he owes me,” Cosmo said reassuringly. “I want to scare the little dope fiend. Maybe make him give me what money he has in his pocket. I have a right.”

“Cosmo, I do not do violence, you know that.”

“Of course,” Cosmo said. “The most I will do is to keep his car until he pays me. I will take his keys and drive his car to my place and make him walk home. That is all.”

“That is not a theft? Could he call the police?”

Cosmo laughed and said, “It is a business dispute. And Farley is the last man in Hollywood to ever call the police. He has never worked an honest day in his life.”

“I am not sure about this,” Gregori said.

“Listen, cousin,” Cosmo said. “Drop the key at my apartment after work this evening. I cannot be there because of other business, but Ilya will be there. She will make you her special tea. In a glass, Russian-style. What do you say?”

Gregori was silent for a moment, but then he thought of Ilya. That great blond Russian Ilya with her nice plump, long legs and huge tits.

He was silent too long, so Cosmo said, “Also, I will give you one hundred dollars for your trouble. Gladly.”

“All right, Cosmo,” Gregori said. “But there must not be violence on my property.”

After Cosmo hung up, he said to Ilya in English, “You shall not believe our good fortune. In a few hours Gregori of the junkyard shall come here with a key. I promise to him one hundred for the key. Behave nice. Give to him your glass of tea.”

Two hours later when Gregori arrived, he discovered that, true to his word, Cosmo was not there. Ilya invited him in and after he put the salvage yard gate key on the table, he was asked to sit while she put on the tea kettle.

Ilya wore a red cotton dress that hiked up every time she bent over even slightly, and he could see those white plump thighs. And her breasts were spilling from her bra, which Gregori could see was black and lacy.

After putting two glasses and saucers and cookies on the table, Ilya said in English, “Cosmo is gone all evening. Business.”

“Do you get the lonesomeness?” Gregori asked.

“I do,” she said. “Gregori, Cosmo promises to pay you one hundred?”

“Yes,” Gregori said, unable to take his eyes from those white ballooning breasts.

“I have it for you, but…”

“Yes, Ilya?”

“But I must buy shoes and Cosmo is not a generous man, and perhaps I may tell him that I paid money, but…”

“Yes, Ilya?”

“But perhaps we do like Americans say…”

“Yes, Ilya?”

“And fuck the brains from outside of our heads?”

The tea was postponed, and within two minutes Gregori was wearing only socks, but he suddenly began to fret about Cosmo and said, “Ilya, you must promise. Cosmo must never learn we do this.”

Unhooking her bra and removing her black thong, Ilya said, “Gregori, you have nothing to fear about. Cosmo says that in America someone fuck someone in every business deal. One way or other.”