Jetsam kept on singing: “Two shots of happy, one shot of saaaaaad.”
Flotsam kept driving toward Sunset Boulevard and finally said, “I wanna take you up to the Director’s Chair first night we’re off together. Have a few beers. Shoot some pool or darts.”
“Okay, I got nothing better to do, but I never been fond of the joint. Don’t you wanna go someplace where there ain’t so many cops?”
Flotsam said, “I love a bar with a sign that says ‘No shirt, no shoes, no badge, no service.’ Besides, there’s always a few badge bunnies around that’ll pork any copper, even you.”
Jetsam said, “Thank you, Dr. Ruth. Why’re you so concerned with my sex life all of a sudden?”
Flotsam said, “It’s me I’m thinking about, dude. You gotta take your mind off your ex and her lawyer and that hose monster that dumped you. Either that or in order to protect my career and pension I gotta go find that Northeast detective she’s snogging.”
“What for?”
“To cap him. We can’t go on like this. You hearing me, dude?”
Cosmo Betrossian had always denied that he was even loosely associated with the so-called Russian Mafia. The federal and local authorities called everybody from the former USSR and eastern Europe “Russian Mafia.” That is, everyone Cosmo knew, because everyone Cosmo knew was involved in illegal activity of one sort or another. The designations didn’t make any sense to Cosmo, who, even though he had grown up in Soviet Armenia and spoke some bastardized Russian, was no more a Russian than George Bush was. He figured that American cops were just full of shit as far as eastern European immigrants were concerned.
But because of their obsession with Russian Mafia, he had to be careful when he had any business dealing with Dmitri, the owner of the Gulag, a nightclub on Western Avenue that wasn’t in the best part of town but had a well-lit, well-guarded parking lot. Young people from all over the west side, even Beverly Hills and Brentwood, were not afraid to drive east to Little Siberia, as some called it.
The Gulag’s food was good and they poured generous drinks and Dmitri gave them the recorded familiar rock sounds they wanted, which kept the dance floor jammed until closing time. And on the occasional “Russian Night” Dmitri advertised live entertainment: Russian dancers, balalaikas, violins, and a beautiful singer from Moscow. It brought Dmitri a very wealthy clientele who had emigrated to Los Angeles from all over the former USSR, whether or not they were into legitimate business or smuggling or money laundering. But this night was not going to be one of the Russian nights.
A week had passed since the robbery, and Cosmo felt confident going to Dmitri. The police were even less of a worry. Nobody he knew had even been questioned. Early in the evening, he drove to the Gulag, entered, and went to the bar. He knew the bartender whom the Americans called “Georgie” because he was from the Republic of Georgia, and asked to see Dmitri. The bartender poured him a shot of ouzo and Cosmo waited for the bartender to deal with two cocktail waitresses at the service bar who were giving the bartender more happy hour drink orders than he could handle.
The nightclub was typical for Hollywood in that there was an area set aside for private parties. In the Gulag the private area was upstairs, with plush green sofas lining walls papered in garish streaks of color-somebody’s idea of “edgy,” that favorite cliché of Hollywood scenesters, the other being “vibe.” The Gulag was edgy. The Gulag vibed mysterious.
On this evening, the jock was just setting up and he spun some soft-rock standards for the end of the extended happy hour. There were two guys repairing some strobes and spots before the crowd arrived and bodies got writhing in the dance-floor pit. Busboys and waiters were wiping off tables and chairs and dusting the seats in the cuddle-puddle booths on the raised level for those customers who tipped the manager Andrei.
After ten minutes, Cosmo was directed upstairs into Dmitri’s surprisingly spartan office where he found the club owner at his desk, slippered feet up, smoking a cigarette in a silver holder, and watching S &M porn on his computer screen. Everybody said that Dmitri indulged in all kinds of exotic sex. He was forty-one years old, not tall, had a slight build, soft hands, and bloodshot blue eyes, and was wearing a chestnut hair weave. He looked unexceptional and harmless in a white linen shirt and chinos, but Cosmo was very scared of him. He had heard things about Dmitri and his friends.
The club owner knew that Cosmo’s Russian was extremely poor and Dmitri adored current American slang, so he had always spoken English to Cosmo. Without getting up he said, “Here comes a happen-ink guy! A guy who always has it go-ink on! Hello, Cosmo!”
He reached out with one of those soft hands and slapped palms with Cosmo, who said, “Dmitri, thank you for this talk. Thank you, brother.”
“You got some-think I need?”
“Yes, my brother,” Cosmo said, sitting in the client chair in front of the desk.
“Not credit-card information, I hope. In gen-yural I am not into credit cards no more, Cosmo. I am moving into other directions.”
“No, brother,” Cosmo said. “I have brought for you something to show.” And with that he produced a single diamond, one of the larger stones from the jewelry store robbery, and put it gingerly on the desk.
Dmitri lowered his feet onto the floor and looked at the stone. He smiled at Cosmo and said, “I do not know diamonds. But I have a friend who knows. Do you have more?”
“Yes,” Cosmo said. “Much more. Many rings and earrings too. All very beautiful stones.”
Dmitri looked impressed. “You are grow-ink in America!” he said. “No more business with addicts?”
“Addicts do not have diamonds,” Cosmo said. “I think you shall buy all my diamonds and sell for big profit, my brother.”
“It is possible that I should be een-wolved with you again, Cosmo,” Dmitri said, smiling. “You are perhaps now a big man in America.”
“I wish to bring every diamond soon. I wish to sell for only thirty-five thousands. The news lady on TV say the diamonds worth maybe two, three hundred thousands.”
“The hand grenade!” Dmitri said with a grin. “So it was you! But thirty-five thousand? You must bring me high-quality stones for thirty-five thousand.”
“Okay, brother,” Cosmo said. “I shall bring.”
“I need perhaps one month to make my deal and to get so much cash for you,” Dmitri said. “And to make sure that police do not arrest you in meantime.”
“I am very sad to hear that,” Cosmo said, sweat popping on his forehead. “I must get money now.”
Dmitri shrugged and said, “You may take your treasure to somebody else, Cosmo. No problem.”
Cosmo had nobody else for something like this, and he knew that Dmitri was aware of it.
“Okay,” Cosmo said. “I wait. Please call me when you have money.”
“Now that you are grow-ink into a businessman,” Dmitri said as Cosmo bowed slightly and prepared to leave, “you should shave between the eyebrows. Americans like two eyebrows, not one.”
On the night that Jetsam fired two shots of happy with no shot of sad, another shooting would take place, this one in Hollywood Division, that would provoke several shots of sad for two of the officers involved.
The code 3 call was given to 6-A-65 of Watch 3, directing them to a residential street on the west side of Hollywood, an area that seldom was the source of such calls. Half the cars on the midwatch rolled on it when the PSR said the words “Man with a gun.”
The assigned car, thanks to lights and siren, got there seconds before the others, but two of the midwatch units roared in before the officers of 6-A-65 were out of the car. One of the midwatch units was driven by Mag Takara. Her partner, Benny Brewster, jumped out with a shotgun, and then another car from Watch 3 arrived. Eight cops, four with shotguns, approached the house from which the call had emanated. The porch lights were out, and the street was quite dark. The decision whether to approach the porch did not have to be made. The front door to the house swung open, and the cops at the scene could scarcely believe what they were seeing.