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.
Timothy, who had been working for Lawford and Drubb only three years, knocking down more than $175,000 last year (their father’s idea of starting at the bottom), said to him, “What do you get out of it, Wesley? And please don’t give me any undergraduate existential bullshit.”
Wesley had said, “I just… I don’t know. I like what I do most of the time.”
“You are such an asshole,” his brother said, ending the discussion. “Just try to only get crippled and not killed. It would be the end of Mom if she lost her baby boy.”
Wesley Drubb didn’t think that he was terribly afraid of getting crippled or killed. He was young enough to think that those things happened to other guys, or other girls, like Mag Takara. No, the thing that he couldn’t explain to his brother or his dad or mom, or any of his fraternity brothers who were now going to grad school, was that the Oracle was right. This work was the most fun he would ever have on any job.
Oh, there were boring nights when not much happened, but not too boring. On the downside, there was the unbelievable oversight that LAPD was presently going through, which created loads of paperwork and media criticism and a level of political correctness that a civilian would never understand or tolerate. But at the end of the day, young Wesley Drubb was having fun. And that’s why he was still a cop. And that’s why he just might remain one for the foreseeable future. But his thought process went off the rails at that point. At his age, he couldn’t begin to fathom what the words “foreseeable future” truly meant.
After Hollywood Nate had his Starbucks latté and was in a good mood, they got a call to Hollywood and Cahuenga, where a pair of Hollywood’s homeless were having a twilight punch-out. Neither geezer was capable of inflicting much damage on the other unless weapons were pulled, but the fight was taking place on Hollywood Boulevard, and that would not be tolerated by the local merchants. Project Restore Hollywood was in full bloom, with everyone dreaming of more and more tourists and of someday making seedy old Hollywood glam up like Westwood or Beverly Hills or Santa Barbara minus the nearby ocean.
The combatants had taken their fight to the alley behind an adult bookstore and had exhausted themselves by throwing half a dozen flailing punches at each other. They were now at the stage of standing ten feet apart and exchanging curses and shaking fists. Wesley parked the shop on Cahuenga north of Hollywood Boulevard, and they approached the two ragbag old street fighters.