– Yeah.
– You did it? Not Branko?
– Yeah, I did it.
– And yet you try to tell me you are bothered now because this man is a cop.
He hoists his glass slightly, sighting his eyes at mine over the rim.
He sips his drink.
– This man, this cop. Do you know what he has done to make me so angry? So angry that I would have his hands broken?
– No.
– He is a cop that I pay. Every month he is paid money. It is a good arrangement. It is especially good for this cop because he is a man who knows that I can do him more harm than he can do to me. But still, still he abuses this arrangement. He takes more than is his fair share. He takes drugs from my dealers. He takes extra protection from my whores. He is especially greedy with the whores. Two nights past, the same evening after he has been paid what he is due for this month, that very night he shows up at the apartment of one of my whores. He wants money, yes, but he wants also to fuck. Well.
He lifts his shoulders.
– But he is not a normal man. Fucking is not enough for this man. He likes also to beat my whores when he fucks them. This he has done before. And this night, two days past, he does it again. And he does this girl great harm.
His lips tighten. He sips his drink, exhales, and his lips relax.
– My family is from Armenia. This whore’s family is from Armenia. She is from a family that I know from when I was born. Am I close to this family? No. If I were close to these people I would not let their daughter be a whore. But I knew her father and he was not a bastard. And she is, this whore, she is my daughter’s age. Her hair. The same color.
He swallows the rest of his drink and places the empty glass on the windowsill.
– One whore beaten more or less. What is that? Nothing. But this cop has done it many times, and now he does it with a girl I have met. A girl who could be my daughter.
He rubs tears from his eyes, looks at his fingers, and then shows them to me.
– So I tell Branko what will be done. And I tell him you are to do it. Why? Because these are the things you are meant to do for me. You are meant to do difficult things. Things that would make most men throw up their dinners and crap like babies in their pants. This is how you are meant to pay your debt to me.
David reaches out, puts his hand on the side of my face, the tip of his index finger touching the scar, and gently turns my head to face him.
– But you do not do these things anymore. You fail again and again, and Branko must do your work for you. We have talked about this?
I can feel his fingers on my face, but not the one that rests on the patch of wrinkled, white skin.
– Yes.
– Yes, we have. And you try. I know this. I know you take these pills not just for the pain in your face. So today, this job? It was a gift for you. A man to hurt that truly deserved to be hurt.
He smiles at me, crinkles the corners of his eyes.
– But you must do better. You must get back the taste for this work.
His hand drops from my face.
– Soon.
He walks to the bed, sits.
– You understand this?
– Yes.
– That is why I ask to talk to you. So you understand this. I am being unreasonable?
– No.
– Good. That is good. Then.
He settles back into his nest of pillows, crosses his legs at the ankles and picks up the remote.
– The flight was long and I will take a nap now.
– Sure.
I get up and stand there looking for a place to put my nearly full bottle of juice.
– Take it with you. For your blood sugar.
He smiles. I nod and walk toward the door. I have it open when his voice floats up the hall.
– There will be more work for you this week. You are free?
I stand there with the doorknob in my hand.
– Yeah.
– Of course you are. Go home and rest. You are tired.
I nod back down the hall toward the room, where all I can see of him are his stocking feet.
– Yeah. Thanks.
I step out into the hotel corridor, and before the door is closed I hear the sound of the TV click back on, chattering about the artificial beach behind the hotel. I walk to the elevators and push the button and stand there wondering how long I have left before David Dolokhov sends Branko to kill me, and whether he’ll send him to kill my parents before or after I am dead.
MY APARTMENT IS shit. But that kind of goes with the territory. The territory being my shitty life.
I shouldn’t be doing this. But I can’t help myself. I type in the address and wait while my shitty dial-up connects and loads the home page for www.sandycandy.com. It takes forever because the main feature of the page is a huge glamour shot of Sandy in one of her stripper outfits. Once the entire image of her embracing a chrome pole has resolved, I run the cursor down the menu. I start with public appearances. Not much. She’s doing another Howard Stern, but things have certainly slowed up for her in the last six months. No more afternoon talk shows or Court TV interviews, and just the same entry that tells her fans to keep looking for her E! special, but still no date. That one was probably bull anyway. Like the
