Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [90]
They set up the chairs. Ivan Denisovich’s umbrella kept dragging his bargain Sav-On chair with every gust of wind, no matter how he positioned it.
“Sit down, I’ll fix it when I’m done,” said Grigory Petrovich, untying the fishing rods.
“As if I don’t know how. Look at this wind. We’ll catch pneumonia here, thanks to your stupid plans,” mumbled Ivan Denisovich.
His friend ignored him, adjusting his Lakers cap that was clipped to the back of his shirt.
Ivan Denisovich ripped the umbrella off his chair. Why would he need it anyway? People know too much here. Cancer? Crap. Too much information leads to panic. He was old enough to die of natural causes before skin cancer would catch up with him.
He sat down in his chair, enjoying the view. The sun heated up his face, but it was still a winter sun, caressing, not brutal. He took off his hat and let the sun tickle his bald spot. Funny, even now with nothing left to live for, it was hard to let go of all this: the expanse of the ocean, the hazy sprawl of the beach, the seagulls, the annoying rumble of the rollercoaster at the end of the pier. It was good to be alive. No, he was not ready. He got up and covered his head, protecting it from the sun.
“Here, put some on.” He handed a tube of Coppertone to Grigory, who was already casting his rod on the water below, a cigarette hanging off his lower lip. “You should quit that crap, especially with your heart!”
“Hand me a beer. And stop being my wife.”
“Where is it? I just put the cooler right here.” Ivan Denisovich searched behind the chairs. The cooler had vanished, and so had the two hobos. He peered at the crowd and spotted the two emaciated figures in dirty clothes escaping down the pier.
“Grisha, look!”
Grigory Petrovich pulled on his glasses and immediately dashed after the hobos. “Dergy ih! Pivo! Moyo pivo!” he yelled in pursuit, his sandals flapping against his heels.
People stared at him and made way, probably thinking another nut had been prematurely released from a psychiatric hospital. The hobos were younger and faster. The cooler was the only thing slowing them down, because it had no handle. They opened it on the run, each grabbing a can of Coors and a foil-wrapped sandwich, and threw the cooler on the ground. The ice spilled onto the asphalt with a loud crashing sound that made everyone turn.
“Beer, my beer!” Grigory yelled in English, but too late. He slowed down and grabbed his chest.
The crowd disapproved generally, of both the hobos and this gibbering old fool. Ivan Denisovich watched, afraid to leave the rest of their stuff behind.
“Grish, come on, nuuh, forget the beer,” he called. “Grisha, what’s up? You sick?”
Grigory Petrovich coughed, holding his chest, then made a sign to his friend to wait. People stopped gawking and went back to minding their own business. A woman in a flowing florid dress picked up the cooler and the bottle of water that had rolled out, and together with her toddler carried them over to Grigory.
Nodding at them, Grigory searched in his pockets with one hand, and revealed an old melted Tootsie Roll. He handed it to the mesmerized boy, who automatically stretched out his hand, but the mother deftly snatched it and smiled at Grigory.
“The hell with you,” he sighed, and walked back to Ivan Denisovich.
“Grish, you all right?”
“I’m dandy,” replied Grigory, pale and still panting.
“Sit down.” Ivan Denisovich pushed forward the chair, which immediately tipped over.
“A-ha-ha-ha!” exploded Grigory, and went into another coughing fit.
Ivan Denisovich handed him the recaptured bottle of water.
“The hell with it all.” Grigory picked up the chair. “It’s just too bad about the beer. The beer was a nice touch.”
Ivan Denisovich patted him on the back. “Let’s go, Vanya,” he said. “Let’s go to Plummer Park and play chess.”
Ivan Denisovich lived near Plummer Park in West Hollywood, and he often came here to listen to the mellifluous simmer of Russian speech and the sound of dominoes slammed against the table