“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.”
TWELVE
HOLLYWOOD NATE ALWAYS said that there were two kinds of cops in Hollywood Division: Starbucks and 7-Eleven types. Nate was definitely a Starbucks guy, and lucky for him his protégé Wesley Drubb came from a family that had never set foot in a 7-Eleven store. Nate couldn’t work very long without heading for either the Starbucks at Sunset and La Brea or the one at Sunset and Gower. On the other hand, there were Hollywood Division coppers (7-Eleven types) who chose to take code 7 at IHOP. Nate said that eating at IHOP would produce enough bad cholesterol to clog the Red Line subway. He seldom even patronized the ever-popular Hamburger Hamlet, preferring instead one of the eateries in Thai Town around Hollywood Boulevard and Kingsley. Or one of the more health-conscious joints on west Sunset that served great lattés.
The hawkish handsome face of Nate Weiss had now recovered from his battle with the war veteran who insisted on a ride to Santa Monica and La Brea. The last Nate heard about the guy was that he’d plea-bargained down to simple battery and would no doubt soon be returning to drugs and flashbacks and a hankering for another ride to Santa Monica and La Brea.
Nate was back to pumping iron at the gym and jogging three times a week and had an appointment to meet a real agent who might advance his career immeasurably. Being one of the few officers at Hollywood Station who loved to work all the red carpet events at Grauman’s or the Kodak Theatre, where sometimes hundreds of officers were needed, he’d met the agent there.
“You know, Wesley,” Nate said, “about that little indie film I’ve been trying to put together? Had a chance to talk to your old man about it yet?”
“Not yet, Nate,” Wesley said. “Dad’s in Tokyo. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up. He’s a very conservative man when it comes to business.”
“So am I, Wesley, so am I,” Nate said. “But this is as close to a no-brainer as it gets in the film business. Did I tell you I’m getting my SAG card?”
“I’m not sure if you told me or not,” Wesley said, thinking, Does he ever stop? The guy’s thirty-five years old. He’ll be a star about the time USC trades its football program for lacrosse.
“Every time I do a union job as a nonunion extra, I get a voucher. One more job and I’ll have enough vouchers and pay stubs. Then I’m eligible to join the Screen Actors Guild.”
“Awesome, Nate,” Wesley said.
When Hollywood Nate lay in bed after getting off duty, he had latté dreams and mocha fantasies of life in a high canvas chair, wearing a makeup bib, never dating below-the-line persons, using the word “energy” at least once in every three sentences, and living in a house so big you’d need a Sherpa to find the guest rooms. Such was the dream of Hollywood Nate Weiss.
As for young Wesley Drubb, his dream was muddled. Lately he’d been spending a lot of time trying to convince himself that he had not made a horrible mistake dropping out of USC, not graduating and going on for an MBA. He often questioned the wisdom of moving away from the Pacific Palisades family home into a so-so apartment in West Hollywood that he couldn’t have easily afforded without a roommate. And not without the personal checks he was secretly receiving from his mother’s account, checks that he had nobly refused to cash for several months until he’d finally succumbed. What was he proving? And to whom?
After the hand grenade incident and the fight in which Nate got hurt worse than he pretended, Wesley had confided in his brother, Timothy, hoping his older sibling would give him some advice.