Out There Bad mm-2 Page 2

  Cracking the bedroom door, Nika checked on her father. He was still passed out on the sofa that served as his bed. An empty bottle of homemade wine lay on the carpet. In the last year, he had given up the pretense of a wine glass and drank from the bottle. He had been a professor before the Ruble crashed and the Yaroslavl academy closed. Now, there was no work for a sixty year old philosophy teacher. Economics teachers, sure, but in the new Russia no one wanted philosophy.

  It was time, all Nika needed was a final push. Sitting on her bed she unfolded the telegram and reread it for the hundredth time.DEAREST VERONIKA. LIFE IN AMERICA IS WONDERFUL. I LIVE IN A LOVELY HOUSE IN LOS ANGELES. WE HAVE A POOL. YOU WILL LOVE IT HERE. I HAVE ARRANGED WITH AN EMPLOYMENT AGENT FOR YOU TO COME AND LIVE WITH ME. HE HAS FOUND YOU A JOB AT A HOTEL. DO NOT TELL FATHER OR HE WILL STOP YOU FROM COMING. WE CAN WRITE HIM ONCE YOU ARE HERE IN THE SUNSHINE. LOVE ANYA

  There was a postscript with the phone number and address for the Moscow employment agency. “Veronika”, her sister had called her “Veronika” instead of the childish “Nika” she had used when they were children. Anya must know she was grown now.

  Nika’s heart pounded. She was heading for a new life in a new land. It meant leaving school and her friends, but so what? What good was an education when doctors starved and only the Mafia got rich? Nika was chasing a dream that most in her small town never even had the courage to imagine. She was going to the land of Beverly Hills, 90210. Who knew, she might even be discovered and become a star. She could sing and dance as well as Miley Cyrus. Hadn’t she won the May Day talent contest? Yes, it was clear she was too big for the small life Yaroslavl could offer. Her father would be angry, but he would forgive her when she arrived home in her chauffeur-driven limousine.

  She closed the flat’s door as softly as possible. Early summer had broken, melting the snow and turning the dirt to mud. Nika walked the path along the Volga River. Brave holidayers were swimming in the freezing water. The ice had only broken up a month ago, but if cold held you back, you would never swim in Yaroslavl. Two teenage boys sat up on their towels, watching her pass. Apparently they liked what they saw, they let out loud whistles and waved for her to join them. Nika was not accustomed to attention from boys of any age, but especially not from cute older boys wearing only swim suits. She felt the heat of a blush flowing up her cheeks. Turning away, she quickened her step.

  Nika had a small bag slung over her shoulder, it held all she was taking with her — several pairs of threadbare cotton panties and bras, a photo of her mother taken before the cancer ruined her looks, a small stack of Rubles and the telegram. Whatever else she needed, she would buy in America.

  Crossing the river on a stone bridge she looked to the old church that towered above the small shops, its gold onion domes lit fire in the morning sun. There were some things she would miss, just not many.

  The train was near full when Nika climbed on. Moving past the private berths she saw well-dressed men and women lounging in style. In the coach section she searched for a seat alone, but it was Sunday and the car was packed with weekenders heading back to the city. A fat, sweaty man stuffed himself in beside her. He was reading Provda. When he thought she wasn’t looking, he let his eyes flit across her body. He licked the sweat off his upper lip and smiled a private smile. For a moment, Nika wished she had not chosen to wear her sister’s dress.

  No, she was starting a new life, she didn’t want to go to America in her old clothes. She closed her eyes and blocked out the train car by imagining how cool life was going to be in Los Angeles. Palm trees, gated houses, swimming pools. She and Anya would get a house on a nice street and they would each have their own room. No one would have to sleep on the sofa.

  The squealing of the brakes woke Nika. The Moscow station loomed monstrously around the train. At two in the morning the sun had recently set, leaving the city cloaked in streetlights and shadows.

  Nika was sucked along with the other passengers as they swept through the station. At the head of the stairs leading down to the underground, she stopped, unsure of where to go. She read the subway map on the wall, but it only confused her more. She had no idea what direction would lead to Octoberskya and the employment agent’s office. The courage that had taken her so far from home evaporated. She was not her sister, brave and smart. No, she was a foolish schoolgirl. If she could not get across Moscow, how had she ever imagined she would make it to America? Although she had promised herself she wouldn’t cry, one small tear escaped her eye and ran down her cheek.

  “What could be so bad, to make a pretty girl like you cry?” The boy was maybe sixteen, tall and skinny. His hair was spiked up in punky points. He had on Levi’s and a Megadeth tee shirt.

  “Soot in my eye, from the train, it’s nothing.” He was cute, but Nika had been warned about boys and what they want, especially Moscow boys. Hard currency boys. They made their money trading anything from cigarettes to computers to drugs.

  “Let me look.” He took a bandanna from his back pocket and stepped close to her.

  “It’s fine now, really, I’m fine.” Nika gave him her surest smile, but a small quiver at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

  “I wouldn’t dream of hurting you,” the boy said, “you look lost, that’s all. First time I came to Moscow I nearly pissed my pants.”

  “Really?” This time Nika’s smile was genuine.

  “On my mother’s grave,” he swore, raising his right hand as if taking an oath. “Have you eaten?”

  “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 laugh
ed 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.

  “Five bucks,” a skinny Vietnamese valet said, ready for me to argue with him.

  “Twenty. I park it, you watch it. Sound fair?” I said shooting him my best I’m-not-going-to-eat-you smile. He must have been a tough guy, because he smiled back, usually people don’t.

  “Okey doke,” he said. I walked towards the club, wondering what the hell I hoped to find here that wasn’t back at Club Xtasy, except maybe a job. That would show Manny.

  “I saw her standing there.” Cheesy Brit pop assaulted my ears as I pushed through the curtains into Fantasia’s bikini bar. It must be said, The Beatles were pussies. John, Paul, George and that goofy mutant Ringo, pussies one and all. With their whiny, simpering love songs and simple solutions to complex questions. “Love is all you need.” Tell that to an eight year old boy whose mother is a mean drunk Jesus freak who thinks cornflakes are dinner. Fuck love, what I needed when she took a belt to my ass was a.44 and an airtight alibi.

  I dropped a ten on the counter girl and looked around the big dark hall of a room. Citizens were lined up three deep at the bar. On stage, a chick in a day glow orange string bikini was twisting the night away for a group of Asian businessmen. Kneeling down, she let them stuff singles into her bikini top and cop a quick feel of her silicone-stuffed tits.

  “Manager around tonight?”

  “Every night, you a bouncer?”

  “What, my size gave me away?”

  “No, you just don’t dress hip enough to be a DJ, and you sure ain’t no dancer.”

  “Could be a bartender.”

  “Don’t have the style to pull that off either. No, bouncer it is.”

  “Fine. Point me towards his office.”

  She smirked and flicked a thumb over her shoulder. I pushed through the crowd, smiling at all the lovelies. Damn, a fine woman can bring a smile to my face.

  When I knocked at the office door a smokey woman’s voice told me to enter.

  She sat behind the desk, all three hundred and fifty pounds of her.

  “You a bouncer?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where did you work?”

  “Xtasy.”

  “I know Manny, how did you fuck him?”

  “Didn’t. Caught a girl freelancing. Stopped it. Some teeth may have gotten broken, maybe a rib or two.”

  She let out a fleshy rumbling laugh. “What part of Eastern Europe did the girl come fro
m?”

  “How did you know where she was from?”

  “Just a guess.”

  “Any chance of picking up a shift?”

  “Not a chance in hell. I don’t want to go to war with that Persian bastard Manny over a bouncer. We understand?”

  “Sure, I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Look, tell you what I’ll do — leave me your number, I’ll call Manny, if he’s cool, maybe something could be worked out. Could use a big no-shit guy like you.”

  I left her office with the promise of a call and a free drink pass. I stood by the bar, planning not to drink. Letting my eyes move over the back bar until I spotted it: McCallans. But no, I was not going to drink.

  “You want a drink?”

  “Yes.” I answered without hesitation.

  “McCallans, right? You’re staring at it with intent.”

  “Really?”

  “And now you’re staring at my tits.” She was a Japanese girl with cropped platinum hair. “So which will it be, tits or scotch?”

  “Let’s start with scotch and see where that leads us.”

  It’s called a slip, like you hit some black ice and booze fell into your mouth. Bullshit. Watching that magical amber liquid fill the glass I felt like I was coming home from a long lonely trip. I lifted the glass. First the smell, like liquid peat smoke. Then the taste, clean. Then the warmth.