Josh Stallings - Beautiful, Naked and Dead

Rafael Hakobian’s house was on the crest of the hills. In front of a security gate I spoke into a video camera and waited. A deep voice told me to follow the driveway up to the house. What a house it was, a three-storied box that looked more like a motel than a home. It had to be five thousand square feet of ugly gray stucco with balconies jutting out at odd angles, as if added on as an after thought. The windows were all multi-paned and looked expensive but the brushed aluminum they chose for the frames made them look cheap at the same time. The garden was all grass, not a flower in sight, just a huge expanse of rolling green. In the center of the lawn a tall maiden stood on the back of a sea serpent spraying water up into the air, the mammoth fountain looked painfully out of place in front of the modern house. Beyond the house the view was magnificent, all of Glendale spread out below us and past that, the gleaming glass towers of downtown. Two men, only slightly smaller than Mac trucks stood waiting for me. I’m a big man and not too used to being looked straight in the eye. Under their matching black collar-less jackets were large, not so hidden pistols.

“Here to see Mr. Hakobian,” I said, their expressions didn’t change. I climbed off the Norton and they moved in blocking my path. One of them held a small metal detector, with a flick of his finger, he motioned for me to raise my arms. “Big talkers huh?” I said, the huge man just stared at me with cold dead eyes. So I lifted my arms away from my body and let him give me a quick sweep with the metal detector. The thing went wild when they got to my leg. Both men tensed. “It’s bolts in my leg. Motorcycle accident, titanium rod in the femur, two bolts in the knee,” I told them, but they didn’t relax a bit. “You got a scalpel I’ll show you,” I said with a grin.

“Drop you pants,” one of them said in a thickly accented growl.

“Fuck off.” I said, turning back towards my bike. “Tell your boss it was nice not meeting him.” Two huge hands clamped down onto my shoulders spinning me around and locking me in place, my face inches from his ugly mug. I rocketed my knee quickly up into his crotch, he gasped a stream of hot garlic breath into my face. I pulled the short barreled heavy frame.357 from under his arm, smashing the pistol into the side of his face. He stumbled back and went down. His twin was reaching under his coat when I pulled the hammer back and drew a bead on his forehead. “You really want die over this shit, Huh? Do it! Keep moving that hand and see if I give a fuck.”

“Yuri, kak dela?” A voice came from the front door. I flicked my eyes over long enough to see a large barrel-chested man in a silk shirt.

“Tak sebe,” the standing twin said with a small shrug.

“Horosho,” the man in the doorway said, “Vlady?” The twin on the ground groaned pulling himself up, a burgundy bruise was blooming on his cheek from his eye to his hairline and he was having an uncomfortable time walking. He looked at his boss and tried to force a smile.

“Mr. McGuire, please either shoot my worthless bykis or come inside for a drink,” the man at the door said disappearing into the shadows of the house. Looking from one thug to the other I smiled briefly then opened the cylinder of the.357 and dropped the shells on the ground. Walking toward the house I tossed the revolver over my shoulder in the general direction of the stumbling giant.

The entryway was built to impress, marble tiles and a vaulted ceiling that went up the full three floors, in the center of it hung down a huge crystal chandelier. Tall Chinese vases held dried flowers and gold mirrors flanked the walls in thick ornate frames. The entryway alone was bigger than my entire bungalow. Two slender legs appeared from above, stepping silently down the plush carpet of a wide curving staircase. Bare feet and legs made long by the short purple leather skirt they disappeared into. A tight baby doll tee-shirt with the word “Brat” stretched across her teenaged frame, big-chest, tiny waist, and about a can and a half of hair spray struggling to control her hair. There’s something sweet about a teenager wanting so bad to be a woman and having no idea what it entails. Long black wild hair framing a sad face. Fresh makeup covering a bruise on her left cheek. Her feet left small tracks in the freshly vacuumed white carpet. Hitting the marble floor of the entryway she looked up, surprised to find me there watching her. I shot her my best smile, the one I wish said I’m ok I don’t eat the young. Looking me over she raised her nose in the air like she smelled a bad fish.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked.

“No one important.”

“That’s an understatement,” she said without a hint of humor.

“Maral!” At the sound of her father’s voice her face flashed from arrogance to fear to complacence all in the flick of an eyelid. Without a glance in my direction she walked out of the room.

In a large library, Rafael Hakobian sat in a deep red leather club chair smoking a cigar and looking me over. Behind him the walls were filled with leather bound books I was sure he never read, like everything else in this house it was all for show. “Sit, have a vodka and tell me what you are here for,” he said motioning me to the chair across from him. From a crystal decanter he poured a tall shot of clear liquor into a shot glass and passed it to me.

“To your health, Mr. Hakobian,” I said and powered down the shot. He smiled and drank his. He poured us each another.

“I would drink to your health, but I despise hypocrites,” he said. “And as I may have to kill you, that would be the wrong toast. So we say udachi! Good luck!” Raising his glass we drank again, and again he filled our glasses.

“Kill me huh?”

“Neizvestno, chto teper’ budet.” He blew out a slow stream of blue cigar smoke.

“What’s that mean?”

“There’s no knowing what will happen now. You think that decrepit Italian can protect you here?”

“No, said he wouldn’t. Said I was on my own. He also said you’d probably kill me for coming.”

“This didn’t scare you?”

“Not much. It’s not like I have some swell life to protect.”

“Ha, have you ever been to Russia?”

“No.”

“Too bad, you would fit in very well with all the other weak fatalists.”

“Fatalist, just another word for nothing left to lose,” I said with a smile.

“You think this shit is funny?”

“Yeah, I do. You’re all puffed up showing me how tough you are. Why bother, you want to put one in my brain and drop me off the hill, nobody would give a damn, some would celebrate.”

“Why do you tell me this?”

“I don’t think you have any reason to kill me. That, and I think you know it’s going to cost you heavy to do it. I won’t go down easy.”

“Provda, so why are you here, Mr. McGuire?” he said letting a fresh stream of smoke slip towards the oak-paneled ceiling.

“This,” I said, handing him the skinny boy’s driver’s license. “Two Armenian punks have been poaching on the girls at the strip club where I work.” He turned the license over in his hand looking at it carefully.

“And this involves me how? An Armenian farts in an elevator and the feds come looking for me. You think I have time to worry about what every Armenian does in all of California?”

“Yes I do. Personally, I don’t think an Armenian steals a glance without you hearing about it.”

“Ha, you think I am very powerful, omnipresent almost? And then you blame me for these wild young fools?”

“I don’t blame you for anything.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Out of respect. I’m going to put them down. I thought if they were with your crew I’d give you fair warning.”