CHAPTER
63
I’m talking to Mom, trying to explain something important to her, but she’s not getting it. She’s not even listening.
I get mad at her, start to yell; she just stands there, arms at her side, this weird look in her eyes. Like I don’t matter.
Then her face starts to melt and blood shoots out of her eyes like from red faucets. She cups her hands to catch the blood, splashes it all over her face, and then throws some at I wake up sweating. My head hurts, my arms hurt, my stomach kills worse than ever, I can’t breathe.
I’m in a dark box with cold, hard walls. Glass walls. Trapped, like a bug in a jar-I really can’t breathe-no air holes in the box. No matter how hard I suck in the air, it won’t feed my lungs-then I see it. Crack at the top of one glass wall. A window left a little open.
Car window.
I’m in Sam’s car. The backseat. Must have fallen asleep under the blankets.
It’s making me sick being cooped up here. I want to break out, but the alley at night, who knows what’s out there? At least let me open the window a little wider-nope, electric, they don’t budge.
My Casio says 8:19. The Jews have been praying for a while. When they finish, Sam will take me with him. He’s a stranger, and I don’t know anything about his house, but there’s no other place to hide, not with that $25,000 reward.
Maybe I should try to get the money, like Sam suggested… no, the police would never give it to a kid. Even if they did, Mom and Moron would find out and take it all and I’d be back in the trailer and they’d have dope money.
I could call the police without telling them who I was, let them know I saw PLYR 1 stab Lisa. But what if they had a way of tracing the phone and PLYR found out and went after me?
Who saw me and gave them my face for that picture?
No, I’ll just keep my mouth shut. If I dream about Mom again, I’ll try to figure out what it is I want to convince her of.
CHAPTER
64
Land of the free, home of the stupid.
In the cramped storage room behind the souvenir shack, Vladimir Zhukanov finished the vodka and wondered if he’d been an asshole to leave Russia.
At least there he had a uniform, a purpose. There was always someone who needed controlling. Even more now, since capitalism was sinking its claws in. The gangs were taking over, and half the gangsters were ex-police. He could’ve found something.
In America, he had no respect, only stupid dolls. Stupid nigger cop ignoring him, then taking his information to the TV, the black bastard.
Anonymous tip. Meaning they didn’t want to pay him.
One thing: It proved he’d been right about the kid. Like there’d been any doubt-that dimple in the chin, just like the drawing. Scratches on his face, what you’d expect in someone hiding in a forest. Zhukanov’s father had told him stories about forests, the war. Militiamen chasing Yids through clumps of wintering birch. Bare trees, iron sky, the marriage of bayonet and flesh, crimson stains on snow.
Anonymous tip. The TV news meant competition for the twenty-five thousand. Only one competitor so far, but he was trouble enough. Fat guy in filthy leather, walking up and down the walkway with the kid’s picture.
From his station behind the counter, Zhukanov watched the big pig. Up and back, up and back, walking laboriously, breathing hard in the heat. Growing visibly pissed off as the day wore on and he got nothing but head shakes and blank stares.
The first time the guy waddled toward the souvenir shack, Zhukanov made sure to be in the back room, examining the day’s receipts, trying to figure out how much he could skim and get away with. The second time, though, he was up front, counting trolls, making sure no one had ripped him off.
The big pig said, “Hey, man,” and shoved the picture in Zhukanov’s face. Zhukanov shook his head dismissively-it wasn’t even worth talking about-but the guy just stood there.
“You didn’t even look at it, man.” Breath like a toilet. Zhukanov refused to dignify the question, picked up a Malibu troll. “Want to buy something?” His tone making it clear that the guy couldn’t afford a lousy toy.
The fat guy tried to give him the evil eye. Zhukanov almost laughed out loud. Big but flabby. Back in Moscow, he’d trampled runny-shit like this half-drunk.
Finally the guy jiggled off. What an imbecile.
Still, it was competition. He’d have to be sharper than ever.
Now it was dark and all the retail shops were closed; the only things open were the cafes on the north end of Ocean Front. And the Yid church a few stores south. Bunch of old Yids in there wailing, plotting, whatever the hell they did when they got together.
He had skim money in his pocket, the vodka had awakened his senses, and he was hungry and horny and getting angrier by the minute at the nigger cop and everyone else who was conspiring to deprive him of what was rightfully his.
Tomorrow, he’d call the newspapers and tell them the truth about the anonymous tip, how stupid cops didn’t respect dutiful citizens.
No, no, not yet-that would focus more attention on the walkway, bring in more problems. He’d give the nigger one more chance. What was his name, he had the card, somewhere… not in his pockets. Maybe he’d left it in the back room.
Slipping behind the curtain, he searched among the clutter but didn’t find it. No matter, he’d ask around, a bald nigger detective, someone would know him. Then a man-to-man talk. Maybe offer him a piece of the twenty- five. If that was the only way.
If the nigger still didn’t cooperate, he’d go to the papers-no, the TV stations. Get in touch with one of those blondies who read the news, tell her the truth. Maybe some big-shot movie producer would be watching and say, “Hey, this is a good idea for a movie.” Arnold Schwarzenegger, a Russian cop, comes to America to show the stupid Americans how to- Did they do that one already? It sounded familiar. No matter. With movies, you had something good, you did it again.
Publicity. That was what he needed.
On top of the money, he’d be the hero, trying to find the kid, solve a crime, but no one listened and “Hey, man,” said a voice from up front.
Fatso.
How had he gotten in? Then Zhukanov realized he’d forgotten to pull down the shutters and lock up. He took another swallow of vodka.
“ Hey! You back there, man?”
Stupid asshole. Get rid of him and find some place to eat and drink. Zhukanov put on his Planet Hollywood jacket and tapped his front pockets. Cash in the right front pocket, knife in the left. Cheap Taiwan blade-he carried it with him for the walk from the shack to his car, sometimes with an unlicensed 9mm. Part of the back-room arsenal: nunchucks, a sawed-off baseball bat, age-blackened brass knuckles he’d inherited from his father. So far, the only thing he’d had to use was the bat, as a warning to kids with itchy fingers, but you never knew. The gun was back home. Cheap junk. It had jammed, and he had it on the kitchen table, trying to figure out what was wrong
