Shining City

by Seth Greenland

  “Kostya?”

  Silence. Marcus walked past the clothes rack and looked into the office. No one was there. Probably nothing, he thought. He sat at his desk and turned his computer on, doing some shoulder lifts to ease the muscles in his upper back as he waited for the machine to boot up. Marcus clicked on his e-mail icon and checked his inbox. There were fifteen new e-mails. He quickly scanned the list and was not at all pleased to see that MannishBoy24 had written him again. Marcus highlighted the re: line and clicked the mouse.

  Breeze, I told U something U would not like was going 2 happen. The next time I do this I will be aiming at U. Close down your business and go 2 China. Learn 2 use chopsticks. If U stay in LA U will not B happy.

  He sat up in his chair. This person, whoever he was, had ramped up the threat level exponentially. And what had occurred that MannishBoy24 was referring to? What had MannishBoy24 done? His eyes shot around the room. Everything appeared normal. Then it struck him. Jan! He reached for his phone, nearly fumbling it in his nervousness. She answered on the third ring.

  “Where are you?” he nearly barked.

  “I’m at the plumbing supply store on Van Ness.” If she heard his sigh of relief, she did not comment on it. “Why?”

  “What are you doing?” he said, trying not to convey the dread he had been feeling until five seconds ago.

  “Choosing spigots. Is everything okay?”

  “It’s fine, it’s fine.”

  “We agreed we were going to renovate the downstairs bathroom before the bar mitzvah, didn’t we? You signed off on it.”

  “I know, I know. I was just calling to say hi.”

  Marcus hung up the phone and attempted to quiet his rampaging nervous system. Not only was Jan still alive, she was selecting spigots. That was a relief. He walked toward the front of the dry cleaner where the sun refracted crazily through the windowpane, throwing jagged shadows against the side wall. Marcus hadn’t noticed shadows like that earlier, serrated, gray on white. He looked from the wall to the ceiling to the window, where he saw three bullet holes. Somehow he had missed them before. The image of Jesus was untouched. Moses, too. Ditto Buddha. But on the wall behind the counter he saw the painting of Vishnu, whose contemplative expression remained unchanged despite the bullet lodged near his third eye.

  Marcus fought the impulse to throw himself on the floor. He knew it was irrational, since the shooting had already occurred. Instead, he walked back to his office, pulled up MannishBoy24’s e-mail and reread it. Then he called Kostya, who was driving to a restaurant supply store in Anaheim. Marcus apprised him of the situation and asked his advice. It was simple:

  “Get out of business before you get killed.”

  “I’m not ready to do that.”

  “Then buy a gun, Gangstaboy.”

  Marcus sank back into his chair.

  I don’t know if I can play the game at this level. But we need the money. It’s not like I can just get a job. I can’t get a gun. I’ve never held a gun. What if I have to use it? I don’t even know if I could wave it around. What if it went off? What if I accidentally shot myself? Can I shoot anyone? What would that be like? Pointing a gun at someone and pulling the trigger, bang. And what if I killed them? Could I live with myself, or would I be tormented by it for the rest of my life? What would a reasonable man do? Am I even a reasonable man any more? These people aren’t reasonable, but they’re serious. I’m serious too. I’m running a business here. This is how I make my living, and I can’t let myself be intimidated. I have to do something, show strength. They sense weakness, these kinds of people. It’s a scent. They smell it. Am I perspiring? Don’t perspire. Stop! You can handle this. Calm down calm down calm down. Breathe breathe breathe. There, that’s better. All right. You don’t have to get a gun. Not yet, anyway. Should I tell Jan what happened? I can’t tell Jan. Am I betraying her if I don’t tell her? No! I can’t tell her. I’ll deal with it.

  Marcus reflected on what he’d done since he took over the business, the employment benefits he’d enacted, the money he’d brought in. A surge of confidence shot through him, a sense of authority commensurate with his level of achievement.

  Turning his attention back to the computer, he moved the cursor to the REPLY icon and typed I’m not going out of business right now. Let’s meet and talk this over. I’ll bring the bill for the new window.

  When Marcus was pricing chicken at the supermarket later that day, his BlackBerry started vibrating. He immediately opened the message when he saw it was from MannishBoy24. The text read: Come 2 my house at 9:00 this evening. 2438 San Mateo Drive, north of Sunset. This did not strike Marcus as a good idea, for the simple reason that it left him wide open to being stuffed in a car trunk, driven to the desert, and killed. Whatever was going to happen, he would not allow MannishBoy24 to get the drop on him. Common sense said this meeting needed to take place at a neutral site. He didn’t want to go to a bar or a restaurant, in the event he was too tense to eat or drink. An open place like a park or plaza would allow MannishBoy24 to slip away quickly in the wake of any mayhem. Marcus racked his brain for an alternative location for their sit-down, someplace he could feel safe. He began tapping on the small keyboard with his thumbs as he moved to let a fat woman in a leopard-print blouse push her shopping cart past him. Your house does not work. Meet me at 4:00 tomorrow afternoon … He gave the location, hesitated a moment, then punched in Remember—I know where you live. For all Marcus knew, the address his correspondent had provided was a false one and the whole thing was meant as a setup. But that did not matter; what mattered was that Marcus be perceived as a man with cojones.

  After he clicked SEND, he cogitated again on the matter of a gun. MannishBoy24 would be packing. Still, Marcus did not like the idea of being armed. The possibilities for disaster were epic. And what was the point of having a sit-down if he needed to come heavy? He solved the conundrum by asking Kostya to accompany him.

  That night, Marcus reaffirmed his decision to not inform Jan that the dry cleaner had been shot up as a warning. Nor did he tell her he was going to meet the perpetrator, since she might consider it a less-than-sterling example of strategic planning. So he was caught unaware in the kitchen the following morning when she looked up from her egg whites and told him that they had a parent-teacher conference after school that day, at the same time he was supposed to be meeting MannishBoy24.

  “I can’t be there.”

  When Jan asked him why not, Marcus said he had a pressing piece of business to attend to. His back was to her as he removed two pieces of wheat bread from the toaster and began to apply vegan butter to them. Nathan hadn’t come down for breakfast yet, and Lenore had smoked a particularly potent strain of weed the previous evening and was currently lying in bed, her brain waves barely measurable.

  “What’s so pressing that you have to miss a parent-teacher conference?” Her query was met with silence. Marcus placed the slices of toast on a plate and poured himself a glass of orange juice. “Marcus…?”

  “I’ve been getting these e-mails…”

  “What kind of e-mails?”

  He told her someone wanted Smart Tarts to cease operations, and he was going to meet with this person face to face. She looked at him askance.

  “What if it’s a cop?”

  “I don’t think the police send e-mail to people they’re thinking about busting.”

  “Maybe it’s a sting.”

  “I’m going to a meeting. It’s not a sting. You don’t have to worry.”

  “About what?” Nathan said as he entered the kitchen.

  “Nothing,” Marcus said. Nathan went to the cabinet, removed the Cheerios, and poured himself a bowl which he drowned in milk. “Why is it whenever you guys are having a conversation and I ask you what it’s about, the answer is always ‘nothing’?”

  “You don’t have to worry about it. That’s all,” Marcus said. Jan was partially mollified by the news that Kostya would accompany him, but she was still not comfo
rtable when he left.

  Color Me Mine was a do-it-yourself pottery studio in Brentwood. It was located in a three-tiered mini-mall, and Marcus had attended a birthday party there for one of Nathan’s friends several years earlier. It was patronized mostly by families and couples who came in, selected bare cups, plates, pots, vases, or bowls, and painted colorful designs on them. It was where Nathan had made the ceramic cup that said DAD. Marcus knew the place would be crowded after school let out. He and his adversary would be left alone, as long as they were seated at a table with art supplies.

  Marcus and Kostya arrived a little before four. Kostya looked the place over and told Marcus to sit alone. He would observe the meeting from a discreet distance and remain as inconspicuous as a 6′4″ Russian with dreadlocks could manage. There was a children’s birthday party going on with a dozen eight-year-old girls, and after Marcus selected the vase he was going to paint for Jan, he sat two tables away. Four mothers of the party attendees and two Hispanic caregivers had elected to stay for the party, and a few of them eyed Marcus suspiciously. Who was this middle-aged man decorating a vase by himself at Color Me Mine? But Marcus was wearing soft-leather loafers, khakis, and a navy blue sweater. He looked like a local father whose therapist had told him arts and crafts might distract him from his worries and after a few minutes they lost interest in him. The ever-resourceful Kostya had noticed a Help Wanted ad in the window and was seated at a nearby table filling out a job application. No one gave him a second glance. Marcus arranged several small paper cups filled with paint in a semicircle in front of him. He had all the primary colors. Dipping his brush in the green, he began to daub paint on the side of the vase.

  “Breeze?”

  He glanced up and saw a woman in a loose flower print dress that stopped modestly just above her knees. She was somewhere near thirty. Her thick honey-blonde hair hung down to the middle of her back and framed a pretty face with a light tan. She had blue eyes, and her lips were lightly glossed with a shade of coral lipstick. The expensive-looking black boots she was wearing added an inch to her modest height. She held an unpainted plate between her hands and smiled. Marcus wondered if this was one of the mothers from the birthday party. But hadn’t she just called him Breeze?

  “Have we met?”

  “I’m Malvina Biggs.” He regarded her quizzically. “MannishBoy24?” Marcus nearly dropped his paintbrush. “All right if I sit down?” She had a non-regional English accent, devoid of class significance. Sitting opposite him, Malvina picked up a paintbrush, dipped it in the little container of red, and went to work on her plate. Marcus stared at her. Attractive in a Los Angeles bohemian-with-ten-credit-cards way, she had the confident air that accrues to those who simultaneously ooze sex and money.

  “What should I call you?”

  “Malvina’s fine.”

  “Biggs … Biggs …” Marcus said, staring at her face. There was something vaguely recognizable about it, but he couldn’t possibly have met her before. “That’s a familiar name.”

  “I’m Terry Biggs’s daughter.”

  “No kidding?”

  Malvina smiled. She was always happy when someone in America had heard of her father. Terry Biggs was the British actor famous for a series of knockabout comedies he made in the 1950s and 60s known as the Right You Are films. Shot in black and white, and featuring titles like Right You Are, Constable; Right You Are, Prime Minister; and the immortal Right You Are, Nurse, they had been a sensation in the Commonwealth countries and utterly unknown everywhere else. There had been a Right You Are festival at Berkeley, and Marcus had enjoyed several of the films, which were broad and silly.

  Marcus shook his head slightly, as if to reorient himself. The funny man with the gap-toothed grin and little mustache had a daughter who was shooting bullets through his window? It didn’t compute. He had no idea what to say, so he blurted out: “How’s your dad?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, well. My inheritance was his cinematic legacy, and now … here we are.”

  “How did you get my e-mail address?”

  “So, Breeze,” Malvina Biggs said, ignoring his question. “What are we going to do?” She was painting calligraphy, her delicate wrist hovering over the sinuous black lines.

  “I don’t even know what this is about.”

  “The business you’re running has become a problem. The health care, the retirement … I don’t provide those. I hear you have a book club. I mean, fucking hell!”

  “You’re a …?

  “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Terry Biggs’s daughter…”

  “Yes, and he wanted to be doing King Lear with the Royal Shakespeare Company. We all make accommodations,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I had staked out an exclusive piece of real estate in this business, and then you come along. Several of my girls have gone to work for you in the past few months.”

  Marcus had no idea who these former subcontractors of Malvina’s could be. He didn’t ask about employment history during the interview process.

  “That’s the free market,” he said.

  “You are stepping on my toes. That is not acceptable.” Marcus felt her stare and tried to concentrate on the flower he was painting. It had a curved green stem and fat blue petals. He was detailing the third petal with a daub of yellow when a shadow suddenly washed over the table where they were sitting. Marcus looked up and beheld the largest human being he had ever seen. He was well over six feet tall and weighed at least four hundred pounds. His dark, curly hair was pulled into a loose pony tail, and his round nut-colored face had Asian features. The black nylon jersey he was wearing fought a losing battle with his immense bulk, which strained against it insistently. His arms hung off his shoulders at odd angles to his huge torso. The fluorescent light glinted off a piece of gold dangling from his ear. Was that a Star of David?

  “I need quarters for the meter,” he said to Malvina Biggs.

  “Breeze, this is Tommy the Samoan.”

  Marcus nodded, but the man paid no attention. While Malvina dug into her purse, Marcus glanced over at Kostya, who looked up from his employment application and shrugged as if to say What do you want me to do? Malvina handed several coins to the giant, who departed wordlessly.

  “I hate valet parking,” she said. Marcus was glad Kostya had a gun. The girls at the birthday party two tables away were singing a song about rabbits and apples.

  “I’m going to keep doing what I’ve been doing,” he said evenly.

  “This is a dodgy business. The people are shits. You seem like a nice guy, so I can talk to you like a human being. I probably won’t have you killed because, really, why would I risk that? The bullets were only for show.” She finished the Chinese character she had painted, picked up the plate, and held it away from her so she could examine it. Not entirely satisfied, she dipped the brush back into the black paint and extended one of the lines slightly.

  “What does that mean, that thing you just painted?” Marcus asked.

  “Long life. Cool, yeah? It was taught to me by this artist in Hong Kong. You should have moved to China when you had the chance.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “People talk. I like this place,” she said, looking around. “You can have a little time to wrap your operation up, all right? I don’t want to be unreasonable. But please don’t let Smart Tarts—brilliant name, by the way—don’t let Smart Tarts be in business in … oh, what shall we say? … in two weeks?” Malvina got up from the table. Marcus followed suit.

  “It’s been a pleasure to meet you,” he said, “and as much as I’d like to say yes, fine—what I’m going to say is kiss my black ass.”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “Only the black part.”

  Malvina was not pleased to hear this. She nodded, pushed her chair under the table, turned, and walked out, her hips swishing under the sheer material of her dress. Marcus was so pleased with h
imself, he forgot to give her the bill for the window.

  He was still on a high from the meeting, so Kostya’s announcement came as an unwelcome surprise.

  “You’re quitting?”

  The two of them were seated outside a frozen yogurt shop three storefronts down from Color Me Mine. Kostya licked his vanilla cone and nodded. His dreadlocks bounced lightly with the movement of his head. It wasn’t as if Marcus couldn’t run the business, particularly now that Jan was aboard. But Kostya’s presence, with its implicit ties to the ancien regime, was comforting and Marcus was loath to let it go.

  “Why now? Because of Malvina?”

  “I said I would work to make money to open ribs place. Now I got money. You think about getting out too, Gangstaboy. Why you want to mess around with peoples bring big-ass Samoans to meets? You know what that mo’fucka do to you?” Kostya made a series of hand motions intended to convey the idea of limbs being separated from torsos.

  “That’s why I had you there.”

  “I ain’t no bodyguard, Breeze. I’m a lover.”

  Marcus licked his cone pensively. He knew Kostya was right, that he should probably think about wrapping things up. But, Malvina aside, everything was going so well right now that if he remained in business a little longer, he could take care of Nathan’s college tuition.

  “You’re sure you won’t stay?”

  “I give you two weeks’ notice.”

  Marcus still had not informed Jan about the gunshots at Shining City and this contributed to the sanguinity with which she received his report about how he had handled Malvina Biggs at their meeting. But she did not take the news about Kostya’s imminent departure as well. They were in their bedroom getting dressed to go out to dinner when Marcus told her he had quit. She stopped applying eyeliner and looked at him.

  “It’s a disaster.”

  “No, it isn’t. We’ve been running things.”