4

IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG FOR Nikolay and Pavel, two ex KGB employees, or whatever was used now in Moscow, to appear after the closing for Coin-A-Matic. Farrell guessed that the previous owner of Coin-A-Matic hadn’t told the truth about them, but then who would tell a prospect buyer that a shakedown of three hundred dollars a month for protection was part of its normal business expenses. So, that’s what you get, thought Farrell, for trying to appear legitimate. He should have known by his accountant’s voice when the accountant had said, “You want to do this? Own this outfit? I don’t advise it.”

“I’ll take a chance,” said Farrell.

“Sign here,” said the accountant.

Farrell wondered if the accountant, Myron Lee, took his short-sleeve rayon shirt home and washed it every other day, or if he had a collection of shirts that always seemed to be on their second day. Myron twitched when he spoke, a heft of one shoulder, as though what he was thinking gave him a little shock. He blinked and told a joke when he was uneasy, as though a laugh helped.

Farrell signed. Myron Lee said, “Well, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“We’ll see,” said Farrell.

“Sometimes you don’t want to see,” said Myron.

Myron twitched. Tucked his chin down so his wattle quivered.

“There were two lawyers who had just won a big case. They went to the beach.”

“And?” said Farrell as he put his copy of the signed agreement in his jacket pocket.

“So, they are on the beach and see two figures in the distance. They get closer. The lawyers see it’s two women. They don’t have any clothes on. One lawyer says to the other, ‘Maybe we can screw them.’ The other lawyer says. ‘For what?’”

Farrell’s laugh was sincere, but a little bleak.

“Good luck,” said the accountant. “I’ll be here to do the books.”

The building for Coin-A-Matic had been built for small manufacturing, made of cinder blocks with a double door in front so trucks or vans could go in and out. It used to house something called Movie Air, which made large fans that made a breeze for a movie set, or could be set up so an actor’s hair would heave a little at the right moment. The fans had been about eight feet across, and the propellers inside looked as though they had come from an airplane, like a De Havilland Beaver. The building cost little to rent, since it was in the clutter belt south of Santa Monica Boulevard. Not dead yet as a neighborhood, but on life support. Just the way Farrell liked it. No one took anything too seriously in a place that was on the verge of becoming a slum.

Farrell had hired an old friend from Hollywood High to run the vending machine business day to day. Bob Marshall was in his thirties, and he had the limp of a man with a prosthetic leg. Marshall was short, heavy, and had been a child actor on a TV series called San Pedro Blues. He had lost a leg on a motorcycle a few years ago, and now he held up his socks with thumbtacks on his wooden leg. His childhood acting career was long gone, and he spent his time reading science fiction novels, which he bought by the pickup truck load, then, after reading them, sometimes two a day, he’d take the load back to a store on San Vicente, where he exchanged the books in his truck for half what he had paid, then loaded up his truck with a new supply.

After the closing, Farrell found the truck parked in front of the building where Coin-A-Matic had its office. Bob Marshall’s back was to the street as he looked at some of the new titles in the bed of the truck.

“Hey, Bob,” said Farrell. “Let’s look around. It’s all mine.”

“Good, good,” said Bob.

Bob dropped a yellowed book into the orderly piles of them in the bed of the truck.

“Still reading sci-fi,” said Farrell.

“Couldn’t live without it,” said Marshall.

Farrell put the key into a small door that was set into a larger one at the front of the building.

“This place used to make fans,” said Farrell. “For artificial wind.”

Farrell opened the door. Inside some vending machines were along one wall, and along the other wall cases of Doritos, Oreos, cheese in orange crackers, bacon-flavored chips, all in small bags that went into the machines. A workbench was next to the machines, and above it were tools, wrenches, pliers, a set of Allen wrenches, ball-peen hammers and mallets, crescent wrenches, and an ohmmeter and other electronic devices to check the wiring of the machines. A laptop was on the workbench, and it plugged into the back of the newer machines to run diagnostic software. Sometimes a motherboard had to be replaced in a vending machine. Bob Marshall, after losing a leg, had spent a lot of time tinkering with machines, and he said he should be able to fix what went wrong. He said that this business, vending machines, was “all maintenance.” Bob Marshall smiled when he said this and he said, too, that he “was just glad to have a job.” It made him feel more real, he said.

The first week, Marshall drove the Coin-A-Matic van over the route, up the Cahuenga Pass out to Ventura and the Valley, which was, according to the previous owner, “A ghetto of vending machines.” Marshall filled the machines, took the bills out of the sheet metal box where they fell after being put into the machines, and brought the money to the building south of Santa Monica Boulevard. “Just like hammering nails,” he said. Farrell did the books. When he’d redeposited fifteen thousand of that twenty thousand dollars he hadn’t given to Mary Jones, he’d also deposited the first haul from Coin-A-Matic. The woman with the cancer tan at the Bank of America took the cash without any curiosity, although she said, “If you’ve got a vending machine business, you should get a device to count money. Saves time.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Farrell.

In the second week, in the evening, Farrell was at the office of Coin-A-Matic. Bob said one machine was “wonky,” but he could fix it.

Nikolay and Pavel walked from their car, a black SUV, which they had parked across the street. Nikolay wore a tight T-shirt and looked as though he didn’t realize the benefits from lifting weights were limited, and walked with a gait that wavered from side to side, not a swagger, but something that made Farrell look at him more directly. Pavel was heavyset, too, but more from pelmeni and vodka, heavy in the stomach, short legs, his face marked with acne scars. Nikolay was taller but seemed to be Pavel’s older brother. Maybe it was just the expression, which reminded Farrell of the glance of a python. Not mean spirited, really, just all business. They had moved from Russia to Queens, and then from there to LA, where they thought it would be easier to make money.

Nikolay stepped through the small door in the large one at the front of the building.

“Let me introduce myself,” said Nikolay.

“Yeah,” said Pavel. He touched his gray skin and those scars that looked like a relief map of the moon. “We’ve got to talk.”

“Oh, shit,” said Farrell.

“That’s right,” said Nikolay.

“Who are these guys?” said Marshall.

“Who are we?” said Nikolay. “Let me explain.”

It took about twenty minutes. They stood in the main room with the supplies for the vending machines, next to the bench with tools for repairing them, and it came down to three hundred dollars a month, “regular,” said Pavel, and Farrell stood there, nodding, yes, yes, yes. Nikolay and Pavel already had a list of the places that had machines from Coin-A-Matic, and knew, too, which customers were difficult. For instance, there was a man from India who had a mini-mart on Ventura Boulevard, and he was flirting with signing with someone else. So, Nikolay said, “When an Indian in Studio City calls, you better treat him right.”

“I noticed him,” said Bob Marshall.

“That’s good, my friend. That’s very good,” said Pavel.

“Word gets around,” said Nikolay. “You know, if someone has a complaint. And, if someone has a complaint, then that means I have a complaint. Because if you lose business, then I lose business.”

“Exactly,” said Pavel.

Then Pavel and Nikolay went out the door with that swaying, vain gait, as though they had just had a large and very satisfying meal, and they left behind them an expensive scent that hung in the air like an invisible feather boa.

Marshall said, “Why did you go for this?”

Farrell opened the small door and stared at the two of them as they got into their black SUV.

“I can’t have any trouble,” said Farrell.

“Then why are you laughing,” said Marshall.

Farrell went on, that deep, constant laugh echoing in the small warehouse. The boxes of chips, the cases of water and Coke and Red Bull that gave off the reassuring scent of cardboard.

“That laughing is making me uneasy,” said Marshall.

“So,” said Farrell. “I try to do the right thing. To pay taxes on what I make, and I get this? And you ask why I am laughing?”

“These guys don’t look funny to me,” said Marshall.

“No,” said Farrell. “I guess not.”

The van for Coin-A-Matic, which was parked near the front door, was new. Farrell looked at Marshall.

“You aren’t having any trouble driving this?” said Farrell.

“No,” said Marshall. “It’s an automatic. No trouble.”

“The route is okay? No problems?” said Farrell.

“Not until these two,” said Marshall. He gestured toward the door.

Farrell put his hand to the side of one eye where the tears had collected.

“I wish you wouldn’t laugh like that,” said Marshall.

“If an Indian guy calls from Studio City,” said Farrell. “Let’s try to keep him happy.”

“I can handle it,” said Marshall. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“You can never tell,” said Farrell.

Marshall pulled up his pant leg, took out the thumbtack that held up his sock, pulled the sock up, and put the thumbtack in. It had a red head, and the socks were blue.

“I think I’m going to go home,” said Farrell.

“What are you going to do?” said Marshall.

“Read Thucydides,” said Farrell. “Think things over.”

“Like what?”

How much longer is it going to be until Terry Peregrine gets into more trouble? What Mary Jones is doing? When the card is going to come?

“T-t-his and that,” said Farrell.

“Yeah, I know,” said Marshall. “I got some good books in the bed of my truck. You know what? I’ve got a copy of Tau Zero.”

“Tau Zero,” said Farrell. “No kidding.”

“A classic,” said Marshall.

“So, stick with the route,” said Farrell.

“No problem,” said Marshall. “Piece of cake.”