Chapter 7
GOZAN AND KHEZIR had returned to the Beverly Hills Hotel after their long day as guests of the LA Pig D. They found their bungalow locked, their luggage in the baggage room in the main building, and a few bulked-up security guards loitering near the front desk.
Gozan paid the bill, noting the charges for damages, which made him smile. If they’d had more time, they could have really trashed the place.
The two men had already booked the Presidential Suite at the Beverly Hilton, and as they went outside to their rental car, Khezir peed into a potted palm. The bellhop screamed as Khezir laughed and jumped into the car.
It was funny. Khezir was really funny.
Gozan drove them to their new hotel, and after they showered and changed, they were ready to party.
At present, Khezir was half drunk, but Gozan was largely sober and he was behind the wheel of their rented Bentley GT convertible, an absolutely astounding car.
The light changed at the intersection of Merv Griffin and Wilshire, and Gozan stepped on the accelerator. The tires squealed, the car jumped forward, and the Sumaris headed toward the heart of Beverly Hills.
What Gozan liked enormously was the splendor and history of this town. He thought about all the silent-movie stars who’d lived here in the 1920s, when his father’s father was driving goats through the rocky hills of Sumar.
And he thought with affection about his nephew Khezir.
Khezir played “crude” perfectly, but he was extremely smart. He was demonstrating his theatricality now, shouting out the names of the famous places as they passed them, the bars and shops and roads, and he yelled out insults at the other drivers. “You drive like you are a thumb up my ass.”
Gozan laughed.
The streets were bright with beautiful people in their exotic cars. Gozan took a right turn onto Elevado, another right onto North Rodeo Drive, which was, at this point, a residential, tree-lined avenue with two lanes in each direction divided by a low, grassy median.
There were magnificent houses here, but too close together, like fancy ladies at the fence of a racetrack. The money, the opulence, the fair-haired people living on a fault line. These Americans always amused him.
He sped up, letting the car out at eighty, edging up to eighty-five, Khezir screaming his delight. There was a stoplight up ahead and a convertible was in the next lane over, a blue Ferrari with two honey-blond girls in the front seat. Gozan pulled up next to it.
Khezir called across the gap between the cars, “Hello, sweeties. You are so beautiful. Come with us to dinner. We are very rich. We have money to burn.”
The girls turned, looked with amusement at the passengers in the Bentley, possibly took in the decal Gozan had slapped on the windshield: Diplomat. Kingdom of Sumar.
The blond girls laughed together, and then the girl who was driving said, “Not interested. At all.”
The light changed, and the women in the blue sports car took a left turn toward West Hollywood. Khezir said to Gozan, “These sweeties are a good omen of things to come. However, I most liked that girl driver. I could see her under me.”
He broke into Sumarin and described to Gozan in explicit terms what he would do to her. These were not completely fantasies, as Khezir was practiced in the art of performing sex while delivering pain. It was what turned him on.
Gozan switched on the music and it drowned out Khezir’s words. There was a strategy, of course. And Khezir was ingenious, but he was young and could sometimes be a loose rocket.
Gozan had to make sure he didn’t blow up the plan.