Hollywood Station (25 page)

"No, I like my T-shirts stiff enough to bust a knife blade," he said. "Makes me feel safe around all those greaseballs at Pablo's Tacos." He was thinking, When Cosmo pays me, bye-bye, Olive. Barnacles are less clingy than this goofy bitch.

He lit a smoke while he drove and, as so often happened since his thirtieth birthday three years ago, he started feeling nostalgic about Hollywood. Remembering how it was when he was a kid, back in those glorious days at Hollywood High School.

He blew smoke rings at the windshield and said, "Look out the window, Olive, whadda you see?"

Olive hated it when he asked questions like that. She knew if she said the wrong thing, he'd yell at her. But she was obedient and looked at the commercial properties on the boulevard, here on the east side of Hollywood. "I see . . . well . . . I see . . . stores."

Farley shook his head and blew more smoke from his nose, but he did it like a snort of disgust that made Olive nervous. He said, "Do you see one fucking sign in your mother tongue?"

"In my . . ."

"In English, goddamnit."

"Well, a couple."

"My point is, you might as well live in fucking Bangkok as live near Hollywood Boulevard between Bronson and Normandie. Except here, dope and pussy ain't a bargain like over there. My point is that gooks and spics are everywhere. Not to mention Russkies and Armos, like those fucking thieves Ilya and Cosmo, who wanna take over Hollywood. And I must not forget the fucking Filipinos. The Flips are crawling all over the streets near Santa Monica Boulevard, taking other people's jobs emptying bedpans and jacking up their cars on concrete blocks because no gook in history ever learned to drive like a white man. Do you see what's happening to us Americans?"

"Yes, Farley," she said.

"What, Olive?" he demanded. "What's happening to us Americans?"

Olive felt her palms, and they were moist and not just from the crystal. She was on the spot again, having to respond to a question when she had no idea what the answer was. It was like when she was a foster child, a ward of San Bernardino County, living with a family in Cucamonga, going to a new school and never knowing the answer when the teacher called on her.

And then she remembered what to say! "We'll be the ones needing green cards, Farley," she said.

"Fucking A," he said, blowing another cloud through his nose. "You got that right."

When they reached the junkyard and he drove through the open gate, which was usually kept chained, he parked near the little office. He was about to get out but suddenly learned why the gate was open. They had other security now.

"Goddamn!" Farley yelled when a Doberman ran at the car, barking and snarling.

The junkyard proprietor, known to Farley as Gregori, came out of his office and shouted "Odar!" to the dog, who retreated and got locked inside.

When Gregori returned, his face stained with axle grease, he wiped his hands and said, "Better than chaining my gate. And Odar don't get impressed by police badges."

He was a lean and wiry man with inky thinning hair, wearing a sweatshirt and grease-caked work pants. Inside the garage a late-model Cadillac Escalade, or most of it, was up on a hydraulic lift. The car lacked two wheels and a front bumper, and two Latino employees were working on the undercarriage.

Olive remained in the car, and when Gregori and Farley were alone, Farley presented a stack of twenty-three key cards to Gregori, who looked them over and said, "What hotel do these come from?"

"Olive gets them by hanging around certain hotels on the boulevards," Farley said. "People leave them at the front desk and in the lobby by the phones. And in the hotel bars."

Then Farley realized he was making it sound too easy, so he said, "It's risky and time-consuming, and you need a woman to do it. If you or me tried hanging around a hotel, their security would be all over us in no time. Plus, you gotta know which hotel has the right key cards. Olive has that special knowledge but she ain't sharing it."

"Five bucks apiece I give you."

"Come on, Gregori," Farley said. "These key cards are in primo condition. The perfect size and color. With a good-looking mag strip. You can buy those bogus driver's licenses from Cosmo and they'll glue to the front of the card just perfect. They'll pass inspection with any cop on the street."

"I don't talk to Cosmo in a long time," Gregori said. "You see him lately?"

"Naw, I ain't seen him in a year," Farley lied. Then, "Look, Gregori, for very little money every fucking wetback that works in all your businesses can be a licensed driver tomorrow. Not to mention your friends and relatives from the old country."

"Friends and relatives from Armenia can get real driver's license," Gregori said imperiously.

"Of course they can," Farley said, apologetically. "I just meant like when they first get here. I been in a couple of Armenian homes in east Hollywood. Look like crap on the outside, but once you get inside, there's a fifty-two-inch TV and a sound system that'd blow out the walls if you cranked it. And maybe a white Bentley in the garage. I know you people are real smart businessmen."

"You know that, Farley, then you know I ain't paying more than five dollars for cards," Gregori said, taking out his wallet.

When Farley accepted the deal and was driving back to the boulevard to score some crystal, he said to Olive, "That cheap communist cocksucker. You see what was up on that lift?"

"A new car?" Olive said.

"A new Escalade. That Armo gets one of his greasers to steal one. Then they strip it right down to the frame and dump the hot frame with its hot numbers. They search every junkyard in the county till they find a wrecked Escalade. They buy the frame, bring it here, and reassemble all the stolen parts right onto their cold frame, then register it at DMV. It's a real Armo trick. They're like fucking Gypsy tribes. Cosmo's one of them. We shoulda nuked all the Soviet puppet states when we had the chance."

"I'm scared of Cosmo, Farley," Olive said, but he ignored her, still pissed off at the price he got for the key cards.

"Hear what he called his dog? Odar. That's what Armenians call us non-Armos. Fucking goat eater. If I wasn't a man of property, I'd get outta Hollywood and away from all these immigrant assholes."

"Farley," Olive said. "When your mom left you the house, it was paid for, right?"

"Of course it was paid for. Shit, when my parents bought the house, it only cost about thirty-nine grand."

"You could sell it for a lot now, Farley," Olive said. "We could go somewhere else and not do this thing with Cosmo and Ilya."

"Pull yourself together," he said. "This is the biggest score of my life. I ain't walking away. So just deal with it."

"We could stop using crystal," Olive said. "You could go into rehab, and I really think I could kick if you was in rehab."

"Oh, I see," he said. "I've led you into a life of drugs and crime, is that it? You were a virgin cheerleader before you met me?"

"That ain't what I mean, Farley," she said. "I just think I could kick if you did."

"Be sure to tell that to the casting director when he asks you to tell him all about yourself. You were a good girl seduced into the life by a wicked, wicked man. Who, by the way, provides you with a house and car and food and clothes and every fucking thing that makes life worthwhile!"

Farley parked four blocks from Hollywood Boulevard to keep from getting a ticket, and they walked to one of the boulevard's tattoo parlors, one owned by a member of an outlaw bikers gang. A nervous young man was in a chair being worked on by a bearded tattoo artist with a dirty blond ponytail wearing a red tank top, jeans, and sandals. He was drawing what looked like a unicorn on the guy's left shoulder.

The artist nodded to Farley, dabbed some blood from his customer's arm, and said to him, "Be right back." Then he walked to a back room, followed by Farley.

When Farley and the tattoo artist were in the back, Farley said, "A pair of teens."

The artist left him, entered a second room and returned in a few minutes with the teeners of crystal in plastic bindles.

Farley gave the guy six twenty-dollar bills and returned to the front, where Olive stood admiring the design on the young man's shoulder, but the guy just looked sick and full of regret.

Olive smiled and said to him, "That's going to be a beautiful tattoo. Is it a horse or a zebra?"

"Olive, let's go," Farley said.

Walking to the car, Farley said, "Fucking bikers're lousy artists. People get bubbles under the skin. All scarred up. Hackers is what they are."

They were halfway home and stopped at a traffic signal when Olive blurted, "Know what, Farley? Do you think it might be a little bit big for us? I mean, trying to make Cosmo give us ten thousand dollars? Don't it scare you a little bit?"

"Scare me?" he said. "I'll tell you what I been thinking. I been thinking about pulling the same gag on that cheap fucking Gregori, that's what I been thinking. Fuck him. I ain't doing business with the cheap bastard no more, so I wonder how he'd like it if I phoned him up and said I was gonna call the cops and tell them what I know about his salvage business. I wonder how he'd like reaching in that fat wallet and pulling out some real green to shut me up."

Olive's hands were sweating more now. She didn't like the way things were changing so fast. The way Farley was changing. She was very scared of Cosmo and even scared of Ilya. She said, "I think it will be just awful to meet with Cosmo and collect the money from him. I'm very worried about you, Farley."

Farley looked surprised and said, "I'm not stupid, Olive. The fucker robbed the jewelry store with a gun. You think I'm gonna meet him in some lonely place or something? No way. It's gonna happen in a nice safe place with people around."

"That's good," Olive said.

"And you're gonna do it, of course. Not me."

"Me?"

"It's way safe for you," Farley said. "It's me he hates. You'll be just fine."

At seven that evening, Gregori phoned his business acquaintance Cosmo Betrossian and had a conversation with him in their language. Gregori told Cosmo that he had had a visitor and had bought some hotel key cards from Farley, the dope fiend that Cosmo had introduced to him last year when identification was needed for employees working in Gregori's salvage yard.

"Farley? I have not seen the little freak in a very long time," Cosmo lied.

"Well, my friend," Gregori said, "I just need to know if the thief can still be trusted."

"In what way?"

"People like him, they sometimes become police informants. The police trade little fishes for big whales. They might consider me to be a whale."

Cosmo said, "You can trust him in that way. He is such a worthless addict that the police would not even want to deal with him. But you cannot lend him money. I was stupid enough to do that."

"Thank you," Gregori said. "Perhaps I could buy you and your lovely Ilya a dinner at the Gulag some evening?"

"I would like that, thank you," Cosmo said. "But I have an idea. Perhaps you can do something for me?"

"Of course."

"I would be very grateful next month on a night I shall designate if you would call Farley and tell him you need more key cards because several new employees have arrived from Mexico with family members. Offer him more than you paid today. Then tell him to deliver the cards to your salvage yard. After dark."

"My business is closed before dark. Even on Saturday."

"I know," Cosmo said, "but I would like you to give me a duplicate gate key. I will be at the salvage yard when Farley arrives."

"Wait a moment," Gregori said. "What does this mean?"

"It is only about the money he owes me," Cosmo said reassuringly. "I want to scare the little dope fiend. Maybe make him give me what money he has in his pocket. I have a right."

"Cosmo, I do not do violence, you know that."

"Of course," Cosmo said. "The most I will do is to keep his car until he pays me. I will take his keys and drive his car to my place and make him walk home. That is all."

"That is not a theft? Could he call the police?"

Cosmo laughed and said, "It is a business dispute. And Farley is the last man in Hollywood to ever call the police. He has never worked an honest day in his life."

"I am not sure about this," Gregori said.

"Listen, cousin," Cosmo said. "Drop the key at my apartment after work this evening. I cannot be there because of other business, but Ilya will be there. She will make you her special tea. In a glass, Russian-style. What do you say?"

Gregori was silent for a moment, but then he thought of Ilya. That great blond Russian Ilya with her nice plump, long legs and huge tits.

He was silent too long, so Cosmo said, "Also, I will give you one hundred dollars for your trouble. Gladly."

"All right, Cosmo," Gregori said. "But there must not be violence on my property."

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."