“Lunch,” she admitted.
“You like pizza?”
“I’ve never had it.”
“Then you are in for a treat.” He started to walk down the stairs, “Come on, you’re not going to turn down pizza, are you?” Fighting years of warnings she followed the boy down into the underground.
Shakey’s was a US/Russian joint venture. It only accepted hard currency, so it mostly catered to homesick foreigners and black market boys. A large deluxe pie cost slightly less than most Muscovites made in a week.
“Edgar Ivanovich, but everyone calls me Easy E, like the rapper,” the boy said. Nika pulled a slice from her mouth; a long string of cheese stretched to her lips.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t use a knife and fork?”
“No, you don’t want to look like a country girl, do you?” Through the window, Nika saw a small dark man in an expensive suit staring at her. He had a fine beaver fedora and a walking stick with a gold handle. “Stay away from him. He’s a pimp, out trolling for new flesh to peddle.”
“No,” Nika snapped her eyes from the window, “he can’t be, really?”
“He is, trust me.”
“You know him?”
“No, but they all look the same, you learn to spot one if you want to survive Moscow.”
“I won’t be staying here long, I’m going to America,” Nika said with finality.
With her stomach full, the exhaustion of the day took hold. It was still hours before the business would be open. Edgar offered to let her sleep at his place.
“I don’t know…”
“This town, the mongrels all come out at night, it’s not safe for a beautiful girl like you.”
“You think I’m beautiful?” She blushed slightly.
“Of course, now come on before I change my mind and leave you here.”
His place, as he called it, was in an abandoned warehouse. From scrounged building supplies, he and a group of squatters built a rabbit warren of small rooms. Some had wood doors and walls, others were made of cardboard and tape. Kids and teenagers were piled on every available space. A twelve year old kid in army fatigues sat on the roof of the warehouse, scanning the desolate neighborhood for cops. Not that they had ever been raided. In Moscow, street kids were a disposable nuisance. If no one saw where they went at night, the better for all concerned.
Boys whistled at Edgar and Nika as they moved through the maze of flops. They called her a nice catch and a fine piece of tail. Edgar laughed them off. When he closed the door, sealing them into his small room, Nika felt a building panic. If he tried to hurt her, who would come to her rescue? Certainly none of the street kids she had passed coming in. No, they would probably join in his fun. The room was claustrophobically small. Room enough for a sleeping bag and two rusted folding chairs. A ratty bathroom cabinet was nailed to the wall.
Edgar slid a folding chair over to the door and sat down, blocking her exit. “Lay down, before you fall over.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“I won’t, I’m the only lock we’ve got.” Leaning back he pressed his weight against the door. The last thing she saw was Edgar smiling before she slipped into sleep.
CHAPTER 3
MEXICO CITY — AUGUST 15TH 4:16 PM
The train is crowded. Flesh pressed against flesh. No one touches me. They can sense I am not one of them. The pimp I killed at the station provided me with cash for the ticket and gold to pawn. I have lost track of how many I have executed. They are faceless. They do not haunt me. An owl never thinks of the life of a mouse. I stare out the window. I clear my mind. I close my eyes. I sleep.
LOS ANGELES — AUGUST 15TH 7:16 PM
Saturday night and I’m bored to tears. I hit the taco truck and get a carnitas burrito. I power on the hot sauce; if I can’t drink I can at least get a chili high. I tried calling the club. Doc said he was taking my shifts and no, Manny didn’t want to speak to me. Fuck. Piper was pissed off and not returning my calls. I sat on the hood of my car. Eating and remembering.
“Moses, it’s me, really.” Cass stood in the doorway. Behind her the Pacific roiled and crashed on the beach. It was Baja. It had been our home for six months.
“Don’t, baby girl. No bullshit.”
“You want the truth? No bullshit? Really?”
I was sure I didn’t. “Yes, the truth.”
“You are a drunk. But I can live with that. You are twenty years too old for me. And I can live with that. But this ‘baby girl’ bullshit I cannot handle. I’m a woman. But you can’t see me that way. And I’m screwed up. Sometimes I need to fuck a stranger I met in a bar, just to stop the noise in my head. That look you have right now, says you’ll kill the son of a bitch who fucked your woman? That look. Scares me.”
“You done?”
“Just about. I love you, Moses. I do. I can’t live up to whoever it is you think you need me to be. Can’t.” Tears rolled slowly down her set face.
“Is it the suit out in the Escalade that you’re leaving me for?”
“I’m leaving with him, not for him. I’m leaving because we’re about a week shy of hating each other. I’m sorry you wound up with the bad sister.”
“I can’t stop being me, Cass.”
“I know, Mo, and that’s the god damn shame of it. You want me to say maybe we’ll meet up down the road?”
“I think enough lies have passed between us, let’s end this clean.” She moved in. She pressed her lips against mine. She left me staring out over the ocean, I didn’t need to look to know the wheels crunching on the gravel was the black Escalade I’d seen in town for the past week. I hoped he was loaded. She deserved a softer life than the past twenty-two years had given her. I tried not to focus on the fact that her departure coincided with our cash reserves running near empty. I stepped out of our house and walked across the burning sand. The pain felt good. The water was cool as it slammed against my jeans. I dove in and swam out away from the beach. I wondered what would happen if I just kept swimming. Far from the shore, I floated on my back and thought about opening my mouth and letting myself fill with water. Be gone. Instead I swam as long and as hard as I could. I finally dragged myself up onto the beach and passed out. It wasn’t long after that I moved back to LA. Took up bouncing again. It was as if nothing had changed. But me. And I’m not even sure I changed that much.
I had to get moving. Heading anywhere. We Angelinos don’t feel at home unless we are rolling along. I let the Crown Vic drift up over Silver Lake and down into Hollywood. She was a black, harmless looking ex-cop car, but under her hood beat the heart of a road beast. Bored, stroked and blueprinted. Hi pro cams, new top end. She was all go, no show. “Is it getting better?” Bono asked from the car speakers as I cranked U2 up and let their bleak Irish hope take me away.
Hollywood Boulevard was clogged with cruisers, shined up cars with kids hanging out the windows trying for the ever-important hookup. A lowered ‘67 Impala with candy apple metal flake paint was pulled to the curb. Its driver, a sixteen year old cholo, was sitting on the curb while the cops shined a light in his girl’s face and ran his plates. Had I remembered it was Saturday night, I never would have crossed into Hollywood. Too many cops. Too many kids. Too many hormones running wild.
Cruising down Highland, I crossed Melrose into Hancock Park. Expensive homes sat a coin toss from the homeless of Hollywood. The wind blew my sedan west on Pico. Down past the Mexican restaurants with the new immigrants, still wet from the crossing, eating bowls of goat’s head soup. Across Fairfax, where all the signs were suddenly in Hebrew, goys need not apply. Up over the hill and past the tall sound stages of 20th Century Fox, where the gates are heavily guarded to insure that no original ideas sneak onto the lot. Under the 405 freeway and there it was, calling me like a siren to the rocks. Fantasia’s neon blinked “Girls Girls Girls” and “Bikini Contest.” Even though I’d never been there before, I knew I was home. I could smell the stale beer, cheap perfume, sweat and desperation mixing with the thump of bass-driven dance music, leaking out the back door into the parking lot.