the big blustery blond Polish kid. She’d fallen under the intellectual spell of the mild and acerbic little Czech kid. Worst of all was the crazed, pistoltoting Serbian kid, who had gotten her into big trouble.
Now the German One was meekly sniffling under Tamara’s dressing-down. It had everything to do with some Turk.
Leggy patted the German One’s dirndled shoulder. “How’s life treating you, German One?”
“I love him.” She sniffled.
“I see. And what does your mom say about that?”
“Mamma hates him!”
“Well, see, that’s your story all over. Nothing new there.” He turned to Tamara. “How’s she holding up?”
“I guess she’s all right,” shrugged Tamara, “she’s just young and stupid.”
“Come on, German One,” Leggy coaxed. “We’re depending on you to pull us through. You’re our rock, girl. You’re our locomotive! Nobody holds your past problems against you anymore! You’re all grown up and responsible now! You’re as sound as the mark! You’ve become our Sensible One.”
The German One wiped her eyes, disturbing thirty dollars’ worth of layered gloss, mascara, and metallic dust. “You think so?” she said, touched.
“Absolutely, babe.”
She scowled. “I’m all right. But the American One’s acting like a stupid bitch!”
“Not again,” Leggy said.
The German One stamped her dainty leather boot. “She’s high on coke and she owes me a lot of money, Leggy!”
“I’ll straighten that out for you, German One. Chin up! Shoulders back! Big smile! I need a word with Frau Dinsmore here.” Starlitz took Tamara aside.
“It’s true. The American One is impossible,” Tamara hissed.
Leggy considered this. It was bad news. “How many American Ones does this make for us now?”
“This is your sixth American One, you big fool! Why can’t you get us an American One who can do the job? Do something right for a change! Try something different!”
Leggy was perturbed. Despite his best, repeated efforts, he somehow had never been able to get an American One to fully click with the group. Maybe it was the fact that America was basically nine different cultural regions. Big continental empires always had weird demographics. “How bad is she?”
“She is totally terrible! The American One is sloppy, rebellious, lazy, and disrespectful!”
“Oh, well.”
“And she believes her own press releases.”
Leggy was startled. “Christ, that’s serious!”
“I’m sick of your stupid American One! It’s time for you to do something! We have a big event coming in Istanbul, and she’s dragging all the other girls down.”
“Tamara, I’ll look after that problem. There’s gotta be some kind of workaround there. Cheer up. I’ve got a big new development in G-7 backstage personnel.”
Tamara looked skeptical.
“This is gonna be a big personal surprise for you.” Starlitz offered Tamara a friendly leer. “Does the name ‘Pulat Romanevich Khoklov’ ring a bell?”
Tamara considered this, her tight face bleak. “ ‘Khoklov’? Is that a Russian name?”
“Of course it’s a Russian name! I’m talking about Pulat Khoklov, the romantic war hero. The flying ace! He used to fly Ilyushin-14s out of Kabul.”
Tamara was skeptical. “Why are you telling me about some pilot?”
“He’s not
some
pilot, Tamara, he’s
your
pilot! Khoklov used to work for you and your husband! He flew contraband into Azerbaijan, during the war! He’s your kind of guy, babe!”
“Leggy, I have plenty of men already. I have too many men. I don’t need your ‘my kind of guy babe.’ ”
“But you and Khoklov were a hot item! He fell for you like a ton of smack! Last time you saw Pulat Romanevich, you were humping him in the back of a bus!”
Tamara’s taut face grew stiff. “I don’t like that kind of language!”
Starlitz was pained. “Look, Tamara, I wouldn’t make this up—I was
there in the bus with both of you
. Think back! Nagorno-Karabakh in the
Now the German One was meekly sniffling under Tamara’s dressing-down. It had everything to do with some Turk.
Leggy patted the German One’s dirndled shoulder. “How’s life treating you, German One?”
“I love him.” She sniffled.
“I see. And what does your mom say about that?”
“Mamma hates him!”
“Well, see, that’s your story all over. Nothing new there.” He turned to Tamara. “How’s she holding up?”
“I guess she’s all right,” shrugged Tamara, “she’s just young and stupid.”
“Come on, German One,” Leggy coaxed. “We’re depending on you to pull us through. You’re our rock, girl. You’re our locomotive! Nobody holds your past problems against you anymore! You’re all grown up and responsible now! You’re as sound as the mark! You’ve become our Sensible One.”
The German One wiped her eyes, disturbing thirty dollars’ worth of layered gloss, mascara, and metallic dust. “You think so?” she said, touched.
“Absolutely, babe.”
She scowled. “I’m all right. But the American One’s acting like a stupid bitch!”
“Not again,” Leggy said.
The German One stamped her dainty leather boot. “She’s high on coke and she owes me a lot of money, Leggy!”
“I’ll straighten that out for you, German One. Chin up! Shoulders back! Big smile! I need a word with Frau Dinsmore here.” Starlitz took Tamara aside.
“It’s true. The American One is impossible,” Tamara hissed.
Leggy considered this. It was bad news. “How many American Ones does this make for us now?”
“This is your sixth American One, you big fool! Why can’t you get us an American One who can do the job? Do something right for a change! Try something different!”
Leggy was perturbed. Despite his best, repeated efforts, he somehow had never been able to get an American One to fully click with the group. Maybe it was the fact that America was basically nine different cultural regions. Big continental empires always had weird demographics. “How bad is she?”
“She is totally terrible! The American One is sloppy, rebellious, lazy, and disrespectful!”
“Oh, well.”
“And she believes her own press releases.”
Leggy was startled. “Christ, that’s serious!”
“I’m sick of your stupid American One! It’s time for you to do something! We have a big event coming in Istanbul, and she’s dragging all the other girls down.”
“Tamara, I’ll look after that problem. There’s gotta be some kind of workaround there. Cheer up. I’ve got a big new development in G-7 backstage personnel.”
Tamara looked skeptical.
“This is gonna be a big personal surprise for you.” Starlitz offered Tamara a friendly leer. “Does the name ‘Pulat Romanevich Khoklov’ ring a bell?”
Tamara considered this, her tight face bleak. “ ‘Khoklov’? Is that a Russian name?”
“Of course it’s a Russian name! I’m talking about Pulat Khoklov, the romantic war hero. The flying ace! He used to fly Ilyushin-14s out of Kabul.”
Tamara was skeptical. “Why are you telling me about some pilot?”
“He’s not
some
pilot, Tamara, he’s
your
pilot! Khoklov used to work for you and your husband! He flew contraband into Azerbaijan, during the war! He’s your kind of guy, babe!”
“Leggy, I have plenty of men already. I have too many men. I don’t need your ‘my kind of guy babe.’ ”
“But you and Khoklov were a hot item! He fell for you like a ton of smack! Last time you saw Pulat Romanevich, you were humping him in the back of a bus!”
Tamara’s taut face grew stiff. “I don’t like that kind of language!”
Starlitz was pained. “Look, Tamara, I wouldn’t make this up—I was
there in the bus with both of you
. Think back! Nagorno-Karabakh in the
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