"Stadanko's some kind of movie nut," I said.
"Oh, he's a nut all right." Wilma got on the bed beside me. She grabbed a remote off the dresser and pressed a button. I heard something whine and turned to see a TV rising out of what I thought had been a stereo unit. She got one of the tapes and put it in a slot on top of the TV.
On screen was a homemade video of some women spanking each other, giggling, and snorting coke. One of them was even doing another with a jet black strap-on dildo. Wilma was watching, fascinated. I was getting turned on knowing she was getting turned on. In one scene Chekka was running around naked in a cowboy hat chasing the chick with the dildo. I could hear Stadanko hollering at him in that language of theirs. Stadanko would put the video camera down now and then and join in.
"This is what happens after they talk business," Wilma said. She unbuttoned her shirt, rubbing her own nipples.
Pretty soon me and Wilma were getting busy on the bed, the partyers on the tape whooping and having a great time too. Sometime later, laying on my back staring at the ceiling, it crossed my mind to ask myself how it was she knew what was on the tapes. Was it just a guess, based on what she'd heard about Stadanko? Or was there some other reason?
At some point, Wilma had put in another tape and it was playing as we laid on the bed. She had a leg over my lower body, and she was asleep. I shifted and looked at the action on the tape. This one involved some light S & M, with Stadanko getting his jollies by being spanked with a long flat paddle with holes in it. This big ice blonde was doing him. She was dressed in thigh-high boots, leather mini skirt, and a cap like I'd seen the German officers wearing in a Hogan's Heroes rerun. She was definitely enjoying her work, and so was Stadanko. The boy was almost crying he dug the pain so much.
I laid back down, my eyes getting heavy too. The sounds on the tape were my lullaby "Faster, faster, goddammit," I suddenly heard a voice say. A voice I knew. I shot up, almost waking Wilma. On the TV, Davida was getting banged by Rudy Chekka. She was spread eagle on a couch, her arms and legs tied apart with thick white ropes. Rudy was working hard, sweating and grunting like the animal he was. It didn't help my mood that Davida was really digging it. The ice blonde stood on the side, whacking Chekka's butt with a whip. But she wasn't doing it too hard. I watched the whole goddamn tape, not tired anymore at all.
Chapter 12
The next day I had to move out of my crib. I'd been trying not to say anything about this, but Wilma and Nap had to have some way to contact me.
"I didn't realize," Wilma had said on the drive back to L.A. the evening before.
"I'll get it back 'fore it's sold. We got the information now, right?"
She put her hand on my crotch, massaging me. "That's right, baby, everything's going to be ours now."
So here I was watching the movers take my shit out of the pad. I had to get out from under that rock of a mortgage. To save dough I'd arranged to rent the place out for a couple of months while it was on the market to be sold.
Most of my stuff was gonna have to go to storage 'cause there damn sure wasn't enough room to put it in the apartment in Lennox. Maybe I was being too cocky, but what better place to chill out before the job than Davida's old pad? I mean, it was empty and Fahrar would have to think twice to look for me there. Plus the landlady knew who I was and had given me a break on the move-in costs.
I put my box of trophies in the rear, then closed the back of the Explorer. I fired up the SUV and started to drive off.
On the way out, I passed Candy and Dandy, my demon statues. The men from the prop shop I'd sold them to were digging around the pair's feet, getting to the cement base they were bolted to. I sure was gonna miss those two. If I didn't get over on this job, I was gonna be fucked worse than a sissy in San Quentin.
Wilma was out of town through the weekend dealing with the broadcast negotiations. Nap and his color consultant boyfriend Pablo were also getting away for a couple of days. As I got on the 101 heading south, I thought about giving Isabel a call later to see what she was up to. But I nixed that, knowing it wasn't a good idea to get too involved with her, what with Fahrar on my jock. Besides I knew I'd be pushing my luck with the job coming up. Where was my favorite asshole these days anyway? He'd been laying low, but that only meant he was waiting for me to slip. And now, especially now, I had to be careful. I couldn't let anything happen to blow the operation.
The next few days I was nervous as a long-tailed cat on a porch full of busy rocking chairs. Every goddamn noise had me going like it was Trace and a couple of his holy-rolling buddies come to settle his debt with me. But that didn't happen. I supposed Wilma was right, but I still couldn't see Weems' angle. Was his Jesus jive all a front? Was he as crooked as the rest of them? Shit. The waiting was eating me up.
Then there was the apartment. I never really paid attention to how fucked up the area was. I mean, I wasn't blind or anything, I knew Lennox wasn't no Newport Beach. What dough she had she'd put into keeping up appearances with that car of hers.
Most of the people who lived in the area were Mexicans or Latinos or whatever they call themselves these days. Some of 'em worked in the hotels near the airport, which weren't far away. They also slaved in other hotels in El Segundo and downtown, and restaurants too.
The noise was the worst part. Every other goddamn minute it seemed like some jet or another was buzzing by above heading to Hawaii, Montana, Bofunk, Iowa, wherever. The windows would rattle, glasses dancing to the edge of the table. Jesus, how in the hell did she put up with this bullshit? I guess when I was over here I was either figuring what new way we could sex each other down or worn out after doing it, so the goddamn planes weren't big on my mind.
I had to fight the urge to score some crack or coke. I wanted to be as sharp as a motherfuckin' tack when it was time, but I had to cut the edge. I drove back to the Canyon and worked myself as hard as I could. More than halfway up the mountain, my hip started aching like a mother and I had to stop. The fibula had a new twang in it I hadn't experienced before. The fight with Trace and Randy, and me showing off by leaping over that barbed wire fence, had done its job on me. I managed to limp to the top, sweat coming off me by the gallon.
From that spot I looked over at my house, or what used to be my house. If things didn't go right there'd be another name on the title. I bent over, the palms of my hands pressed hard against my lower legs, then went back down the hill. Walking toward the drinking fountain I saw a beat-to-fuck Camry do a U-turn from the curb and head west on Fuller. Fahrar. I was wondering when he was going to show his dead eye again.
The problem was not so much that he'd showed up again. I expected that. What bothered me was I hadn't noticed him. He was smart not to use his own boat 'cause that lame-ass Toronado was too easy to make. But I also had the feeling he wanted me to see him do his turn, wanted me to know he was still on me. I had to be more careful.
That meant no illegal shit. Better to stick with the legal highs I enjoyed. I picked up the phone and called Isabel even though I knew I might be bringing bad luck down on myself. But I was just weak that way, always had been.
''What's up?"
"Hey, good to hear your voice," Isabel said on the other end of the line. I could almost see the smile on her face.
"Busy tonight?"
"Yeah," she giggled, "you know I have to get this report"
"How 'bout we go check out Ozomatli at the Locker Room?" Danny at least threw me a bone after I bugged him. The little punk got my name on the VIP list.