The boss duly stormed out of his office, revved up his gold cart, and floored it to the third hole. A vaguely Asiatic-looking man was sitting with his back against a tree, smoking. An enormous dog lay asleep next to him.
“Hey, you,” the boss said. “What do you think you are doing? Dogs are not permitted on the course. Clean that filth up, take that animal, and leave at once, before I call security.”
“I lost my ball,” Oleg said flatly.
“You what? You are not even a member.”
“My ball is in the water.”
“Listen, you fucking serf. If you don’t…”
The boss suddenly found himself unable to speak. People often have trouble articulating when Caucasian sheepdogs are standing on their throats.
“No, you listen. The ball belongs to Khuy Zalupa. Heard of him?”
The boss nodded as best he could.
“He wants it back. Today.”
Oleg whistled softly and Bolshoi backed off. He sat, looking at the boss with eyes like a tramp looking through the window of a rotisserie.
“How will I recognize the ball? There must be thousands in there.”
“It has red writing on it.”
“It might have dissolved.”
“That’s your problem. Bring them all.”
“But I’ll have to drain the pond. It will take…”
“Put it this way. I don’t have some balls by five o’clock…neither will you.”
***
It was difficult to conceive that the same blood ran through the veins of Hyatt Breek and Khuy Zalupa. In fact, it was difficult to conceive they were the same species. Hyatt was strikingly good-looking. He had high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes, and thick black curly hair that made him look like a gypsy, an effect enhanced by the large gold hoop he wore in his left ear. He had a slight, androgynous body and spoke with a quiet voice. People thought he was shy, but he wasn’t. He just didn’t see the point in talking to anyone unless they had something constructive to say, or could discourse about concepts that interested him personally. That left out ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the population.
Hyatt was Khuy’s sister Alyona’s boy, recently graduated with distinction from MIT. If you wanted to discuss the Dirichlet boundary condition, or maybe chew the fat about the Nambu-Goto action, or perhaps shoot the shit about Riemann surfaces, Hyatt was your man. If you wanted to talk about anything other than quantum mechanics and string theory it was like trying to get a conversation out of a vacuum-packed clam.
Hyatt and Khuy were staring out of the grimy window of Khuy’s office, into the grim gray courtyard below. An ugly, discolored sleet fell. It made Hyatt wish he had stayed in Massachusetts. Below them was a battered ZiL truck filled with golf balls.
“There they are.”
“We need a Geiger counter,” said Hyatt.
“No problem. I have one.”
“There is a problem.”
“Vhat?”
“You can’t touch it. When the guy smacked the ball it ruptured the shield. The radiation is deadly. Anyone who touches it will die. It won’t be safe until it’s in the R3. It’s very simple to do, but you need someone ignorant enough to do it.”
“No problem. I have someone.”
***
It was lucky for Crispin that he had drunk so much, although it could be argued that if he hadn’t drunk so much he wouldn’t have ended up in the slammer in the first place. But he was lucky insofar as he was bailed out before he was sober enough to fully comprehend where he was, or what kind malodorous new-meat-devouring miscreant guttersnipes were casting their predatory eyes upon him. It was actually the owner of the club who bailed him out, after the outraged patrons threatened to pull the joint down around his ears for calling the cops. The owner even went so far as to offer Crispin a gig, to which Crispin, who by that time was starting to recover his wits and his wit, replied by telling him he would not sully his cherub butt cheeks in such a third-rate fleapit and, speaking of ass cheeks, did the owner wish to kiss them both, just the one, or would he prefer right in the crack, before flouncing off to hail a cab.
When he got back to the apartment he found Asia in such a terrible state of distress that all remaining vestiges of inebriation evaporated and he was suddenly as sober as a guest at an Amish wedding.
“Oh, Asia,” he said, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never, ever done anything like that before. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please forgive me.”
Asia stood up and ran over to him. She put her arms around him and clung to him hard, as if in fear of falling. “Crispin,” she sobbed. “Crispin. It’s not you. You didn’t do anything. It’s Baby Joe.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing. He didn’t do anything.”
“Did something happen to him?” Crispin said, suddenly anxious.
“No. No. It’s not that. It’s…I…Oh, Crispin.” Asia’s shoulders began to heave and she lost control.
Crispin led her to the sofa and sat her down. He bustled off into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of gin and two glasses. He poured a formidable measure into each, handed one to her, and said, “Okay, missy. Now you just drink this, and then tell me what all this sobbing is about, hmn?”
Asia took a huge slug from the glass, and gulped and swallowed some more. When she came up for air she said, “Crispin, I made such a terrible mistake. I’ve been such a fool. I told Baby Joe we were through.”
“You what?”
“I told him it was over. That I couldn’t love him anymore. You should have seen the look on his face. And now he’s gone. And I love him and I want him back.”
Crispin scooched closer and put his fat hand on top of hers. “Listen. I don’t know what this is all about, but you can sort it out. Everything will be all right. We’ll go home, and you can go to him and make things right again. He’ll understand.”
“No, you don’t understand. He’s not going home. He’s going to Russia. To Moscow.”
“To where?”
“To Moscow. He came and told me that he had to go. That it was something to do with some government agents, and national security, and something that had happened in the past, and that he had no choice. But I didn’t want to listen. And now he’s gone. And what if something happens to him? What if something happens to him before I can tell him how sorry I am?”
“Nothing can happen to Baby Joe. That’s why he’s Baby Joe.”
“It can. He’s hurt. He’s angry. He’s not thinking straight. You know how he gets when he’s angry. What if something happens to him because of me?”
“Asia. He’ll be fine.”
“But what if he isn’t? Anyway. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going.”
“Going where?”
“Moscow. I’m going to find him and tell him how sorry I am. To tell him I want him back.”
“Asia. Are you out of your tiny bayou brain? How will you find him? He could be on his way back already.”
“I have to try, Crispin. Do you understand? Do you get it? I have to try. I’ll go insane otherwise. I can’t stand this. I really can’t. I’m going, and that’s it.”
Crispin looked at her hard. He tipped his glass back, drained it, and filled it again. “Oh, well. At least I’ll get to wear one of those darling Dr. Zhivago fur hats.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Listen, missy. If you think for one minute I’m going to let you go gallivanting around in Russia all by yourself, you’ve got another think coming.”
***
Monsoon had suffered a terrible fall from grace. That was because Grace was almost six-foot-three and two hundred and twenty pounds, and Monsoon was only five-eight and a welterweight, so he’d had to stand on a chair to give it to her from behind, and she had bucked him off. Monsoon thought it was because he had hit the spot, and Grace let him think it, but actually it was because she was trying to get the job over with so she could get home in time for
her favorite soap.
Monsoon was about to climb back into the saddle when Khuy Zalupa walked into the room and told Grace to blow. And he didn’t mean in any sexual connotation. Grace blew. Monsoon didn’t. His frustration was hard to hide, but he covered it with a towel. However, he soon had that shrinking feeling when Zalupa said, “You no work for me no more.”
The circuits in Monsoon’s brain fried a fuse somewhere in between beg and plead and he just stared in helpless silence.
“No. Now we partners. Here. We drink to success.”
Zalupa pulled a bottle of Stoli from behind his back and offered it to Monsoon. Monsoon’s brain fired up again and switched itself to obsequious mode.
“Wow, Mr. Zalupa, I don’t know what to say.”
“Call me Khuy. I need favor.”
“Sure. Er, yeah. Anything.”
“But first have bad news.”
Monsoon’s brainpan went on the blink again.
“You fren. Elmo. Dead.”
“Dead?”
“Da. Have stroke on golf course. One stroke too many, da? Ha ha ha.”
“Er, yeah. Er, ha ha.”
“Da. Anyway. Fuck him. Dead is dead. He was partner. Now you. Make much dollar.”
“Oh, great. So, er, what do I have to do?”
“Take care of nephew few days. Jus’ come from America. Like speak English.”
“Yeah. Yeah. No problem. How old is he?”
“Nineteen. But very shy.”
Zalupa’s phone rang. He said, “Von moments.”
Monsoon reached for the bottle. His mind was racing, and so was his pulse. The pulse was winning. He was trying to figure the odds on this one. Generally news is either good or bad. It seemed like good news, so why did it feel so much like the old stinkeroo? So I’m a fucking babysitter now? Who is the little shitbird, anyway?
Zalupa hung up.
“You must to take very good care of Hyatt. Iz very special boy.”
“Oh, I’m sure. I mean, if he’s your nephew, he must be.”
“Da. Hyatt genius. Was millionaire when seventeen years old.”
Hyatt immediately got promoted from little shitbird to fine-human-being-and-honored-guest status.
“Jesus H fucking Christ. Where did he get the dough? I mean, er, oh, very impressive.”
“He one smart fuckmother. Invent gay social network site. Sell it for serious shitload before even leave school. Know what he do then? Buy school, shitcan all teachers, and torch joint.”
“Sounds like my kind of kid. When do I meet him?”
“Arrive in afternoon. Make sure take good care. Don’t do nothing make me dissolve partner.”
“Ha ha. I think you mean partnership, Khuy.”
“No. I mean fucking partner.”
Zalupa stood up and, without another word or a backward glance, lumbered off to leave Monsoon to suck on the vodka and wonder what the fuck the four flushing, double-dealing, dice-shaving, card-palming, bill-rolling bastard fates were trying to pull this time, and what his chances were of coming out not only with his jeans pockets filled, but still in possession of an ass to put in them.
When Alyona disappeared from Khuy Zalupa’s life without a word, and stubbed out what remained of the light in his soul like a cigarette in a cheap ashtray, he never considered what had happened other than as an abandonment and a betrayal. It was his natural instinct to think in those terms, and that she had left him because she just didn’t care, and rage overcame reason.
It was only much later that he allowed himself to concede that he actually never knew what had happened to her, and to ponder other alternatives. By that time he was in such a position of power and influence that nothing could be hidden from him. He could exhume the past like a corpse and reach into the bowels of the city, grasping the secrets of his enemies and drawing them out like entrails, smashing down the doors of closets and dragging the dusty skeletons into the light. But all he was able to discover was what had not happened to her.
Until the day someone brought him a marriage certificate, showing that Alyona Constantinovna Timovitchka had been wed to one Ferris A. Breek, Jr. of the USA, in the Cathedral of Our Lady of Kazan in St. Petersburg, on February 17th, 1994.
***
What the fuck are you supposed to say to a painfully shy, naïve nineteen-year-old, whose life experience consists of cyberspace and hand jobs? What possible common ground could there be? Where was the point of connection? And more importantly, where to begin to try and prize some of the sucker’s moolah from his hot, sweaty little grasp?
Hyatt had shown up and introduced a new card to the game, one that Monsoon might be able to finagle up his sleeve; the trick was to ingratiate himself with the nerdy nephew. If he could manage that, he might be able come out of the deal with some sauce and some bread to spread it on.
So the kid was a computer whiz, with an education and more degrees than a thermometer. So fucking what? Monsoon was a doctorate in devious and a Bachelor of Arts in bullshit, with the moral standing of a slum landlord, and the day that he couldn’t outsmart some acne-ridden cyber geek would be the day he hung up his loaded dice.
When Hyatt walked through the door, Monsoon slapped his best reassuring good-ol’-uncle-Monsoon smile on his kisser, held out his hand, and said, “Hi there, Hyatt. I’m Monsoon. It’s really very nice to meet you. Your uncle has told me all about you. How’s your English?”
“Better than yours, nigger. Where’s the fucking bar?” Hyatt said, ignoring Monsoon’s hand and brushing past him into the room.
Monsoon quickly perceived that Hyatt’s US education had been a little light in the Martin Luther King department. He tried again. “Er, Hyatt, huh? Unusual name for Russian.”
“Monsoon, huh? Good name for a chimpanzee. Where’s the fucking bar, I said?”
Monsoon indulged himself in a little not-so-amateur psychology. Hostility brought on by social inadequacy, which leads to rejection, which reinforces hostility. “The bar’s this way, kid.”
“I’m not a kid.”
Ah-hah. Anxiety caused by perceived inferiority resulting from lack of respect from peers, as manifested by inability to get within firing range of sophomore snatch.
Monsoon waited until Hyatt had poured himself a scotch big enough to prove that he was a big drinker, then played his ace. “So, Hyatt. Ever been laid?”
Hyatt spun around, his florid face a picture of angst and outrage, but before the venom could leave his lips, Monsoon said, “Ace.”
Ace walked into the room from the bathroom. Ace was employed by Zalupa in the “hospitality industry,” so to speak, and Monsoon knew exactly which buttons to press there. She was five-ten, had long, golden hair, was wearing nothing but stockings, suspenders, and stilettos, and had E=MC2 written in lipstick on her left breast. Hyatt was a goner from the moment he laid his eyes upon her.
***
The scene in the small park located on a quiet street in the town of Tiburon, Marin County, was a sequence edited from the whirring spool of the American Dream, the epitome of a safe, sunny, suburban idyll, with the golden sun floating down through the pines, and the kids splashing in the fountain and playing ball on the grass, and the bees buzzing in the manzanitas.
It had been Sunday, and across the street, in front of the sprawling, relentlessly tidy white houses, on precise, obedient lawns, under red tiled roofs or in the shade of the palms, people sat in deck chairs, or washed their cars, or chatted with neighbors across the fence. It was the timeless embodiment of success and peace and contentment.
Alyona Breek, or Ally as she was now called, had sat on a wrought iron bench, watching Hyatt playing catch with his friends. He was comical in his clumsy ineptness, and she’d smiled. And then suddenly she’d shivered, as if some abrupt and grave presentiment had crept in to perturb her mind, and in that instant, the sky had seemed darker, as if some cloud had loomed into view. She’d felt a presence, and was afraid, and her eyes had scanned the deep shade under the tre
es behind the swings and roundabouts, as if in fear of some beast that lurked there.
She’d called out to Hyatt, and he stopped and turned to look at her. She stood and ran toward him. As she crossed the path, a shadow fell across it and lay before her, stark and forbidding against the bright sunlit pavement. She’d looked up, and put her hand to her mouth to stifle her own scream.
Before her stood her brother.
***
Monsoon didn’t really see the fucking point, but hey, so far so good. He had Hyatt eating out of his hand, and the way he had it figured, Hyatt was not only the key, he was the lock, the box, and the fucking treasure. If it made Hyatt happy, he was quite happy to sort through a few golf balls for a while. But the golf balls were nasty, man. All covered in slime and scales and shit. And they stank. Like dead fucking fish or something.
Monsoon looked around the room. It was some kind of weird Frankenstein laboratory. Bizarre Star Wars shit. Something that looked like a giant camera, another thing that looked like a blender, only not one that you’d want to mix your banana daiquiri in. And the light was just plain spooky, a kind of ghastly grayish-green like the lamps themselves were sick. In one corner some kind of overalls were hanging on a rack, and underneath was a row of white Wellington boots. On a shelf above were rubber gloves and dark specs like welding glasses.
Well, if he was going to have to sort through what appeared to be at least three thousand skanky golf balls, there was nowhere in his contract that said he had to get covered in shit doing it. He grabbed a pair of the dark glasses, and a pair of gloves, and sifted through the boots until he found his size. The overalls were a no-go. They only had giraffe size. Who were the lab techs, the fucking Detroit Pistons? He scratted around until he found a white plastic apron hanging from a hook. He slung it around his neck and tied it. He knew he must look like a complete doofus, but what the hell. Nobody was watching, and it was better than getting fish shit all over his one and only shirt.
The Chameleon Fallacy (Big Bamboo Book 2) Page 19