B0056C0C00 EBOK (4 page)

“No, just appreciate talent when I see it.”

“She’s from Moscow... Oh my god! How do I look?” he almost shouted. He had seen something over my shoulder.

“I don’t swing that way, not that I’m not flattered.”

“Be serious. Is my hair ok, it’s not flipping up? Oh damn. Damn...” He was about to have an aneurysm.

“You look fine, Earl.”

“Really? You’re not just saying that?”

“No, really. You look good,” I said, knowing it wouldn’t matter how he looked. He bounced across the room to a cute little thing in a Catholic schoolgirl’s skirt and spikes, who smiled and hugged him. She was half his age. She had high end store bought tits. Leading him to a booth she crawled in beside him laughing at something he said. Before this night was over he’d be down a bill or two and feeling good about himself, because some pretty young thing was attracted to him. If it worked for him, it was cheaper and more effective than a shrink.

The whiskey was taking effect. The room swirled pleasantly. I had reached that wonderful level of tipsy, the place where trouble goes away, judgment is skewed but not gone. I watched Earl and his schoolgirl cuddle, I was happy for him.

“You like young girl better?” I spun around to find Katerina standing next to me.

“No. Watching a friend fall in love.”

“A fool’s game, yes?” She looked over at Earl and smiled. “And that man is a fool. Last week, he brought her roses.”

“He’s alright, he’s just a little too smart to figure out how it works here.”

“And you?” Her voice was deep with a sexy nicotine rasp. Sliding onto the stool next to me she searched my eyes.

“I gave you the only roses that matter.” I rubbed my thumb and fingers together in the universal sign for cash. “And I don’t expect any return, except the fun of watching you strut that stage.”

“Buy me drink?” she said, absentmindedly tracing her finger down the line of her dress, pulling my attention to her breasts. They were mounded by a push-up bra into marvelously lush cleavage.

“Nice move,” I said, my eyes following her finger, “but unnecessary. I already noticed how good you look.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she went wide-eyed and innocent.

“You’re hot, you know it. I know it. I’m way out of my league here, so I’ll buy you a drink, chit some chat while you scope your next victim, but you have to turn down the heat, ok?”

“Spasibo, it was much work, pretending to like a big handsome man like you.” She smiled broadly, showing me that gap in her teeth. “Betty, please, a Rémy,” she called to the bartender.

She had expensive taste when someone else was paying. I wondered what she drank when it went on her tab. I ordered myself another McCallans that I probably didn’t need, but sure wanted.

“Na zdororve!” she said, clinking my shot glass with her snifter. I knew she got a cut of any booze the chumps bought her, but I didn’t care. It was worth every penny to sit listening to her accented broken English.

“Scorpio, yes?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What is you birthday?”

“October twentieth. What? Why are you grinning like I just dropped a hundred on the stage?”

“Scorpio. Casanova, Scorpio the lover. Ruled by Mars, a lover and warrior.”

“And you?” Astrology is pure mumbo jumbo, but I would have said anything to keep the conversation going.

“Me, Aries. We are fire and water.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yes.” She slew me with a look of deep longing. “My beautiful man, I knew you were for me, first time I saw you,” she said, simply as if it were an obvious fact.

“I thought we agreed you were going to dial it back,” I said, hoping she would turn up the heat.

“Scorpio,” she shook her head, mulling the thought over, “I have to be very careful with you, if I fall for you it would be very bad for business.”

“Why me? Look around, plenty of younger, richer guys here.”

“They are boys dressed like men. You are man.”

“Dressed like a boy.” I smiled looking down at my Pogues concert shirt, faded jeans and Doc Martens.

I spent my nights looking after girls, but here was a woman. My back straightened and my chest puffed slightly. She made me want to be the man she seemed to think I was.

Katy Perry blasted happy pop over the sound system. I noticed Earl and his schoolgirl had disappeared into the VIP room, so I guessed his date was going fine. Over our drinks, Katerina told me she was from Yaroslavl, a small city two hundred miles from Moscow. “When I was fifteen, my mother passed away and left me to take care of my baby sister and my pig of a father.”

“Sounds rough.” I never knew my old man and by the time I was sixteen I was in the Marines being shot at by towel-heads in the Root. To get away from my drunk mother, I had stolen my big brother’s birth certificate and they shipped me off to that jug fuck in Lebanon. I didn’t tell Katerina any of that, I just told her I had grown up poor, too. We had a bond that children forced to grow up too soon share. A bond of pain and longing. A bond of anger and the desire to be loved. Over our words, a separate conversation flowed between our eyes, a conversation of longing and need.

“Come, I’ll dance for you. I want to.”

“Sorry, I don’t do that anymore,” I said, with zero resolve.

“Yes, I know... come.” She took my hand and led me willingly across the room and through the red velvet curtains into the VIP room. Earl must have gone home while we were talking, because we had the room to ourselves. It was a low-ceilinged dimly lit cave of lust. Plush crushed velvet tuck and roll surrounded the room like it was one big low-rider Chevy. There were several tables with chairs and candles. Generally the couch is $35-$40 bucks and the chairs are $20-$25. That’s before tip, but only about half the pricks tip the girl who dances on them. The law states that the man cannot at any time touch the girl, she can touch him, but not in a lewd manner. Trying to legislate morality is like trying to hold back the sea with a chain-link fence.

Katerina pushed me down in the soft padding, over the speakers, Cee Lo Green started singing about wishing he had enough cash to keep the girl. She put her knees between mine and pried them open, moving slowly ever closer. I was used to lap grind, make a guy come and get on with your day dances. But she was seducing me, one move at a time. As she swayed closer, I could feel the heat emanating from her before any skin touched. Her lips brushed across my cheek, I could feel her breath, smell the faint cigarette mixed with brandy. Just when I thought she would kiss me she pulled back. It took all I had not to pull her down on top of me. The song ended and Katerina rose up taking a small step back. Her eyes flicked down to my lap.

“One more, yes?” she said.

“Why not.” I fought to sound like I could take it or leave it. Chili Peppers’
Breaking the Girl
filled the air around us. Katerina slowly unfastened her shirt, letting it drop to the floor. She stepped out of her leather skirt and stood for a moment so I could look at her. She had a ragged appendix scar. A small jail-blue tattoo started on her hip and ran down disappearing into her thong. It was maybe two inches long, a straight line with a cross bar near the top and below it a second line set more diagonally. Marina had a similar tat, it must be a Russian thing.

Looking up at Katerina, I knew whatever she wanted was hers, she was that beautiful. Sounds shallow but there it is. Moving between my legs, this time she pushed her leg until it was against my erection. I let out a shudder as she began to stroke me with her thigh. Moving up she brushed her breasts across my face, I kissed her ivory skin. She didn’t pull away. She moved slowly down, I kissed her neck, and then she brought me her lips. Gift of all gifts, a real kiss. Hookers and strippers alike will tell you they will fuck and suck all day long, but to kiss is just too personal.

Katerina’s lips pressed against mine. She bit at my lower lip, her eyes were closed and her breathing had the rhythm of arousal. Her hand wrapped around the line in my jeans, she let out a small gasp. I ran my hand up her thigh. Continuing the kiss, I pulled her down on top of me. And like two Catholic teenagers, we went at. She ground herself against my bulge, pushing her tongue into my mouth. How many songs came and went while we pounded against each other I haven’t a clue, I was lost in the rush. Her breathing turned into a deep rasp. Suddenly her eyes popped open in crazy surprise. She sank her teeth into my shoulder to muffle her scream. Then like a rag doll, she collapsed into the couch next to me with her head on my shoulder.

“Oh, oh... you didn’t finish... I sorry... I,” she said with weak but genuine concern.

“Ain’t nothin but a thing.”

“But...”

“Hush... you smell so human.” I nuzzled her neck.

“What?”

“You don’t cover up with a bunch of perfume, you smell human.”

Her eyes drifted closed, maybe she wanted to block out the room around us.

“What’s your name? It’s not ‘Katerina’.”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s fine, just not yours, least not the one you were born with.”

She thought about this for a long moment, screwing up her fine features. “What is your name?”

“Moses McGuire.”

“That’s funny.”

“The only book my mother ever read was the bible. Brother’s name is ‘Luke’. Guess we’re both lucky we didn’t get stuck with ‘Jesus One’ and ‘Jesus Two’.”

She opened her eyes, making sure I knew what she was giving me. “Anya Kolpacolva.”

Somewhere out in the club, the DJ was calling for all the girls to line up for a two for the price of one lap dance special. Anya let out a laugh. “Oh my god, how long have we been here? You are bad for business, I know this the moment I see you.”

“Do you mind?”

“No,” she said laughing. Jumping up, she pulled on her shirt and skirt in faster time than an Indy pit crew. Reaching down, she tugged me up and out of the couch. Arm in arm and giggling like high schoolers, we walked out of the VIP room. When I slipped $200 into her purse she rolled her eyes but she didn’t refuse. She had rent to pay like everyone else.

From the bar, I watched the money mating dance gyrate around me. Anya slipped like a shark through the sea of men, hustling them, then stopping by to give me a wink or a kiss in between trips to the VIP room. I realized one of these fat fucks was gonna wind up dead if I didn’t get out of there soon.

“Want a dance?” Anya had slipped up behind me while my concentration was on buying a last shot of scotch.

“Love to, but I’m broke.” I don’t know why I lied, fact was I had a wad in my pocket and more cash stashed in my hideout hole in the car. I guess I was hoping she would offer me a freebee, a way she could show that I was different than the other slobs.

“We have ready-teller.” She made it sound sexy, purring like it was some exotic love toy.

“Do I look like the kind of guy they’d give a bank card to?”

“Everyone has bank card.”

“I don’t.”

“Too bad,” she was leaning into me, making sure I got a grand glimpse down her dress at what I was missing. She kissed my neck. “You are so bad for business.”

“When do you get off? I’ll take you to breakfast,” I whispered.

“A date?” She closed her eyes, smiling inwardly at the idea. “No, not tonight.” Past my shoulder, she surveyed the room for her next client.

“Whatever.” I turned back to the bar, trying to pull off indifference, though petulant may have been closer to the effect.

“Here.” She was on the move, she slipped a piece of paper into my hand. “My cell number, call me.” She started to disappear into the crowd, then turned back. “You do have a cell phone?”

“Nope, but I’ve got some change and a working finger.”

“My beautiful man. Are you sure you are American?”

“Only because my parents fucked here,” I said. Anya laughed, running her hand through my hair. I gave her a stolen kiss the manager didn’t see and promised to come back the next night. Then stumbled out into the evening.

CHAPTER 4

T
HE
V
IETNAMESE CAR PARK WAS SLEEPING
in a chair leaned against the building. I climbed behind the wheel of the beast, but lacked the will to make my hand turn the ignition. What kind of candy-ass falls for a dancer’s bullshit?

I held the napkin with her number on it, like somehow it proved she wanted me for more than the money in my wallet. I knew, had clear evidence that it would all end bad for me. But here I was, sitting in my car, hoping we would ride off into the sunrise together.

I had watched the slobs at the club and puffed myself full of superiority. This was a job for these girls and the men were the work the girls had to do to knock out their bills. And here I was, sitting behind the wheel hoping to catch a glimpse of Anya when she came out.

Every promise I’d made myself, no more drinking, no more lap dances, had been shot to shit in one night. The new and improved me would have to take a rain check.

At one forty-five, the drunks and dandies left the club in one long stream. The younger men who had come with buddies joked and whooped at each other. The older men moved with heads down, hoping to hide their secret shame. Within minutes, the lot was almost empty.

At two ten, Anya and a short red-haired dancer walked out of the club. Anya was dressed in jeans and a hooded sweat-shirt. Street clothes only made her look better, more real. I was about to get out and call to her when a black Mercedes pulled to the curb. The redhead opened the door and they climbed into the back.

On the Westside, Mercedes are more common than skin cancer. But this was the second time I had seen Russian dancers get into a black S class. I couldn’t swear it was the same one that had picked up Marina, but what were the odds?

Maybe I saw a mobster where there was a car service, but I didn’t think so.

For a moment, I tried to convince myself that it was none of my business who they were or how Anya was involved. But when the Mercedes pulled off, I followed. Slipping into traffic a few cars back, I gave them just enough room to roam without noticing me.

The difference between stalking and looking after someone is a fine line, one I decided not to look too closely at as I followed them up Wilshire. At Santa Monica Boulevard they hung a left heading past Beverly Hills, towards Little Kiev, West Hollywood’s Russian neighborhood. Cruising up to an intersection, they slowed down, timing it right so they could blast across the street at the moment the light turned red.

The cars in front of me stopped, blocking me in. I angled into the right-hand turning lane and mashed down the gas pedal. The V8 roared its deep throated war cry as I blasted through the red. I swerved to avoid an oncoming 4x4. They fisted their horn, but I was gone in a cloud of burning rubber.

Two blocks up, I saw the Mercedes squealing left down a small side street. My heart thumped to an adrenaline-driven beat. I wished I hadn’t left my piece at home. With two felony convictions on my back, I never carried unless I was expecting trouble. The three strikes bullshit meant that a firearms bust would buy me the bitch.

I lost sight of the Mercedes when they ripped a quick left down a narrow alley that ran behind a two-story office building. Pulling down the alley, I discovered it was blocked off at the other end by a cement block wall. The Mercedes had vanished. Rolling to a stop halfway to the wall, I searched for their escape route.

Headlights shot into the sky. The Mercedes sped up out of a parking ramp behind me and skidded to a stop sideways, blocking my exit. I was trapped, and whatever came next, I knew it wasn’t going to be good. If I was right and they were Russian mob, it was going to get ugly.

The front passenger door opened and the biggest man I’ve ever seen lumbered out. I’m a big man. This guy was a fucking giant. A freak. He had a huge square head, with a tattooed line of barbed wire running across his forehead. His black beard and thick hair were buzzed to military length. He was wearing a loose black suit with a black tee shirt stretched tight across his massive chest muscles. He walked slowly toward my car. I could clearly make out the bulge of a shoulder holster under his designer jacket.

I jumped out of the Crown Vic, and headed for the brute at a run. Calm in his sizable advantage, he noticed too late that I brought a tire iron behind my back. Only losers bitch about a fair fight. I arced the iron up toward his head. It would have been a great move if he hadn’t raised his arm and taken the blow on his forearm. The tire iron landed with a meaty thud. If it hurt, he didn’t show it on his face.

Fuck. This man was a fucking monster. Swinging back to strike again, I never got the chance. He drove a boulder sized fist into my chest, exploding the air out of my lungs and sending me stumbling back. In battle, the whole world slows to a syrupy crawl. I was fighting for breath when I saw his other fist sailing at me. I had time to notice four skulls tattooed on his knuckles before it connected under my jaw. My head snapped back and my feet left the ground, for a floating moment I thought everything was going to be fine. It wasn’t. I crashed down hard. Lightning sparks darted across my vision and my stomach lurched.

In the back of the Mercedes, Anya had her face pressed to the glass. She looked worried, and in a sick way I was glad. As if it were a sign she liked me. A boot to my ribs made me forget her.

The brute towered over me like King Kong on steroids. I was blurry-eyed and gasping, he hadn’t even broken a sweat. I fought to get up, but he placed one of his size 15s on my chest and vised me to the ground.

“Kak dela mudack?” a voice said from behind the giant. My chest was compressed to the point where it took all my strength to keep breathing; speaking was way beyond my power.

“You want Pasha to squash you?” The driver moved out of the giant’s shadow. He was a thin angular Russian, his head was clean-shaven and he had a bushy black Stalin mustache. A prison tattoo of a cat crawled up out of his open shirt collar, scratching its way onto his cheek. On his knuckles I saw two tattooed skulls.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Only a gasp passed my lips. My head was throbbing and I could feel the flush of blood pulsing in my face.

“Vzdrochennyi,” the giant said with a low chuckle.

“Da.” The driver pointed a bony finger at my face. “Pasha says, you look like cock that’s been jerked too hard.” The brick-like foot on my chest twisted, grinding out what was left of my breath. “You fucked up his jacket, is it your destiny to die under his boot?” I struggled out a head shake. “Ok, maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. We’ll see. Pasha?” He motioned up and the giant stepped off me. Air flooded in, burning my starved lungs. “Now, who the fuck are you, dolboy’eb? Why follow me?”

“I wasn’t,” I mumbled out as best as I could. A flick from the driver’s eyes and the giant’s huge hands ripped through my pockets. Rolling me over, he pulled my wallet out of my jeans. It had cash only no ID, I never carried any. It’s easier to be whoever you want when you carry no evidence to the contrary.

“Victor!” The redhead called from the back seat of the car. The thin man walked over and spoke Russian into the window. She said something that made Anya shake her head in denial. Her eyes flicked briefly onto me, then back to the man.

“The girl tells me you were dancing with Anya. Says you were talking a long time. No badge, no gun, not a cop. Who are you?”

“I work... for Mr. Gallico.” Trying to regain some level of calm, I rolled up into a sitting position. I fought the urge to massage my bruised jaw. Dropping LA’s mob boss’ name wasn’t a total bluff, I’d known the old Sicilian since I was a kid. I didn’t work for him, but he owed me a few favors.

“Fuck the guinea bastard,” the driver said. “What is he to me?”

“He’s the man who’s going to have your eggs scrambled if you don’t watch out.” I was making it up as fast as my thumping head could think. These bastards could kill me and never look back. My only hope was to convince them that killing me might piss off their boss.

“Why would the Italians have you follow me?” He wasn’t convinced yet, but doubt was starting to show.

“Word is, you’re running whores in Hollywood. That’s his territory, and you ignorant pricks know it.” I knew I was pushing it, but if the bluff was going to work, I needed to act like I had the upper hand.

“The wop bastard, he controls shit,” he said without conviction.

“Then kill me and let it fall where it does.” I gave him the hardest stare I could muster.

“Maybe you bullshit.”

“Yeah, and maybe I’m not. Want to risk a war with the Italians to find out?”

“Pososi moyu konfetku.” He backhanded me across the face, but after the giant’s blow it felt like a love tap. “I see you in my rearview mirror again, you will be dead.”

“Don’t worry, if I come up behind you again, you won’t notice me until the blood’s running down your cheap suit.”

“Cheap? Versace!” He looked like he was going to smack me again. My cold eyes caught him off balance. If he was going to kill me, so be it. I was tired of playing the bitch to his macho gangster act.

With a twitch of his head he led the giant back to the Mercedes. It would have been comical watching the massive man fold himself into the car if my head wasn’t hurting so bad. In the red glow of their brake lights, I saw Anya through the rear window. She looked both frightened and sadly resigned.

While they faded into dark streets, I stayed sitting. Feeling for broken bones, I was relieved to find only bruises and scrapes. The first thing you learn in the military is keep your head down and never volunteer for anything. Only a cherry would go rushing off to try and save a woman he’d just met from a fate she may or may not have chosen. If I could have erased her scared eyes from my mind, I would have. And if my mother had three wheels, she would have been a trike. Besides, take Anya out of the picture, I still owed the Russian bastards. You let someone take you down without retribution you’ve started down that soapy path that ends with you being their shower toy.

The combination of whisky and pain made my drive home a real bundle of joy. I lived in a small rented house in Highland Park, a Latin neighborhood in northeast LA. The yuppies tired of housing prices in Silver Lake and the Westside had starting moving into the adjoining areas. We could hear the drums of urban renewal beating, but for now our corner of LA was safe.

Coming through my door, I was knocked down by hundred and twenty-two pounds of hurling Bullmastiff. Her name was Angel and she had been my dog since her owner was killed. She was my first pet. I always thought it was hard enough to take care of myself, why would I want an animal? But the fact was, she had squirmed her way into my heart. It was good to have a warm body to come home to.

Downing five aspirins with a tall glass of water, I crawled into bed. With a snap of my finger, Angel jumped onto the bed and curled up beside me. We were both snoring moments after I shut off the light.