Josh Stallings - Out There Bad

“Exactly.”

“Not a telephone pole, it’s a Russian cross. You’d know that if you weren’t a heathen.”

“Fine, church boy, so what’s it mean?”

“Old country bullshit. The Vors would mark the girls in their stable. A warning to other pimps to keep them from poaching.”

“Fuck me.”

“Yup, and they will. These guys are ruthless in ways you can’t even imagine. Best plan, forget the girlie.”

“Not an option.”

“Always an option. Put one foot in front of the other ‘til this is a bad memory. Or is she that fine?”

“She is, if she’s real. If she’s playing me, I’m fucked.”

“Either way you’re fucked, boss. You want me to ride along?”

“Unless you got something better to do.”

“Nothing that can’t wait.”

At nine PM, I loaded my Smith amp; Wesson snub nosed.38 and dropped it into the pocket of my black leather sports coat. I slipped a Buck knife into my Levi’s then laced up my steel-toed Docs. If the shit went sideways, I was going to be ready this time. I picked up Gregor; no bulge showed under his wool greatcoat, but I knew he had his CZ 9mm strapped up under his arm.

Hitting the freeway, I cranked up Amanda Palmer, piano, accordion, hell, even ukulele, all in a punk sound — it was as if the decadent Germany of the twenties had been brought back and replayed through a busted speaker. It was one of the few CDs Gregor and I could agree on. Left alone, I would have played The Clash’s Give ‘Em Enough Rope . Bar none, the single best record ever made. Perfect for the necessary mind-set I was looking for, fuck ‘em all and let god sort it out. Someday, I would convince Gregor of the importance of The Clash, but it didn’t seem like this was the time. Settling into a groove on the freeway, I concentrated on the music. Trick was to let the sound take my head off the present situation. When you have no facts, it’s best not to let your mind make shit up. Conjecture killed more good men than bad intel.

I parked down a side street around the corner from Fantasia’s. Moving in the shadows, I scanned for the marauding Mercedes Benz. I couldn’t see Gregor but I knew he was somewhere on the street with his eyes on me.

“Anya called in sick, said she was visited by the monthly red tide,” Mac told me as we leaned against the bar. “Lot of that going around on Sunday nights. Slow as frozen molasses.”

“Got an address on her?”

“No, wouldn’t give it up if I did.”

“Fair enough. Her friend, the Russian redhead, she come in tonight?”

“Tatyana? Sure, she’s in the lap room. You wanna dance, just wait ‘til her man of the moment is broke.”

I waited for the time it took to drink two cokes. I turned down several offers to have my world rocked by the bored dancers. Finally, the curtains parted and Tatyana led a rumpled looking older gentleman out. She was a zoftig little girl, maybe five feet five and that was in heels, she had copper-penny colored hair cut in a short bob. They had only taken a few steps before I was at her side.

“Sorry, pal, I’m on a dinner break, you’ll understand I’m in a hurry,” I said, taking her hand.

“Sure, um, alright, I guess,” he stammered.

She followed me into the VIP room. I snapped the curtain closed behind us.

“You want a dance? Or maybe something more pleasing?” Her voice was a practiced combination of raw lust and innocence. Her accent was thick, but designed to be charming and exotic. Sitting down on one of the sofas, she looked up at me, wide eyed.

“Where’s Anya?” I stood over her.

“Who?” She looked at my bruised jaw. “I know you.”

“Let’s cut through the bullshit, I saw you in the car with Anya. Where is she?”

“Victor’s going to kill you.”

“He your pimp?”

“He’s our driver. Keeps us safe from crazy Americans who don’t know a fuck is a fuck, not a love affair.” Her young eyes had turned cold and jaded. “Now you want a dance or a blow job or a fuck? No? I go back to work.”

She started to stand. Placing a hand on her shoulder, I held her in place. My free hand snatched her purse off the sofa. “I’ll scream,” she said unconvincingly.

“And I’ll clue Mac in on your side action… Your choice.”

“You have no idea who you are fucking with.”

“That’s right, I don’t.”

“They can reach out and flick, your life is over, no one can stop them. You are a walking corpse, but you don’t know it.” Her eyes were beady and lifeless.

“If I believed every person who told me I was dead, I wouldn’t have made it out of the fifth grade.” She shrugged and studied her fingernails with practiced indifference. I rifled through her bag and came up with a cell phone, a wad of bills, a counterfeit driver’s license with an address in Brentwood and a postcard from Moscow. The note on the back was all squiggles, backward letters and too many consonants to make sense, but the address was in English. It was in West Hollywood’s Little Kiev, not far from where Victor and the giant had braced me.

“All I’m going to do is make sure Anya’s ok. If she’s copacetic, I’m gone and you’re free to continue business as usual. But if you get stupid and call Victor, folks are going to die.” I dropped a fifty and walked out, hoping she was smart or scared enough to keep her mouth shut.

“This goes down twisted, we could wind up in a lake,” I said.

“Pravda,” Gregor said.

“You want to wait here, call in the cavalry if I need it, cool with me.”

“What fun would that be?”

We had been watching the house for the past hour. It was a two story faux Tudor mansion, the rolling lawn guarded by a tall iron fence. We had circled around the back alley and discovered that that too was covered by an equally formidable fence.

“Bolt cutter?” Gregor said, looking at the locked front gate.

“Not yet.”

“What’s the plan, boss?”

“We wait.” Which we did. Around midnight, there still hadn’t been any movement from the house other than a few upstairs windows going dark as the occupants went to sleep. I sent Gregor out for coffee while I slunk down behind an overgrown hedge across the street.

He hadn’t been gone five minutes when the black Mercedes appeared. The giant and Victor were in the front. On the dark street, I couldn’t see who was in the back, but I’d bet the ranch whoever it was was lovely, young and partied for a price. They stopped in front of the gate while it slowly rolled open. As they drove in, I ran across the road, slipping through the gate as it slammed closed. Ducking to the right, I pushed in behind a thick line of cypress. I could hear several car doors open from the back of the property, then all went silent. From an inner courtyard, a fountain splashed and the crickets rejoined their song.

“Hey gulla boi, you ready to die?” Victor slipped out from behind a tree, pointed a large automatic at my head.

“Only if you’re ready to kill me,” I said.

“I think I am… Da, why not.” His thumb snapped off the pistol’s safety. There was a whistle of wind and a heavy object connected with the back of his bald head. His eyes shot up and his body went limp. As he fell to the ground, I saw Gregor standing behind him with bolt cutters in his hand.

“Can’t I leave you alone for one minute, boss?”

“Apparently not.” We pulled Victor to his feet. He was groggy and didn’t seem to be able to focus his eyes. Slipping his piece into my belt, we dragged him towards the back of the house.

A large shale turnaround separated the house from a free-standing six-car garage.

“Where is Anya?” I asked Victor, slapping his face hard to make sure he was paying attention. His head lolled, indicating a short stone stairwell leading down under the house.