Chapter Twelve

Things turned worse and worse at the Glasnost Hotel. Then, just when it seemed that things couldn't get any more worse, they turned even more worse. The Amerikans talked of lawsuits and lawyers, the Russians talked about broken promises. Things turned so bad that Rodion the janitor threatened to sober up and quit. Rassolnikov finally called an emergency meeting.

The Peace and Friendship Meeting Room filled up with red-faced Amerikans and Russians, and soon they were pounding their fists on the tables, stamping their feet, and screaming at one-another. Koshka cowered in the corner.

"You lazy, inefficient, crack-pot commies!" screamed a teary-eyed Winston Hale. "Oh, how I--I hate you! All of you!"

"Alright! Silence!" yelled Rassolnikov, jabbing his finger in the air. "Do you hear me? I demand silence!"

"We hear you!" came a voice from the back of the room. "But drop dead! We're not doing anything more you tell us!"

"Yeah!" came a rumble from the crowd. "Yeah! You assigned us to this god-forsaken job! It was a very special mission, you said. It's for the history books--the record books, you said. There'll be special bonuses for us, the workers! You promised us tools. We didn't get any. You want us to build hotel suites? You don't give us materials. No wood. No metal. No plaster. And now you got no workers to go with your no wood and no metal and no plaster and no materials! We're leaving!"

"You have to wait for things, just like I do!" Rassolnikov commanded. "All those things are coming, in due time! You have to follow directives!"

"No, you have to follow directives! We have to go home!"

It was chaos in the Russian section. It looked like a wrestling match would break out any minute.

"I told you things would come to this!" Rassolnikov muttered, jabbing Perezhitkov in the side. "This is what happens when you don't tend to your workers! I told you--put up an honor board! List the workers who over-fulfill their quotas. Put up posters to boost morale! A few slogans here and there--they can do wonders. They get the blood going! It's good for the peons. And now, look what's happened! It's an uprising, that's what it is."

"It's payday," answered Perezhitkov. "They want to get paid. And the money hasn't come through."

"Why not?"

Perezhitkov shrugged his shoulders. "Call it perestroika, or post-perestroika--whatever you want. But nothing works anymore."

Rassolnikov turned red and grabbed him by the collar. "Look, you slimy peasant! You don't know how important this is!"

Perezhitkov's face turned red and he tugged at his collar, then he held onto Rassolnikov's hands as if in an embrace, all the while pleading for Rassolnikov to let go.

Rassolnikov throttled him harder. "Look! This hotel might not open on time, you know! And if it doesn't, I'm going to blame everything on you!"

"Devil, begone! D-e-v-i-l, l-e-a-v-e!" It was a shout from the Amerikan sector, at the other side of the peace and friendship room. The tall kofboi had slipped into one more of his seizures. His hands waved in the air. He jumped up and down, waving his white hat. "D-e-v-i-l-s, l-e-a-v-e!"

His wife tugged at the white coat tails. "Come on honey! Quiet down now!" She whispered something in his ear.

"D-e-v-i-l-s, l-e-a-v-e!" he repeated.

The doors to the Peace and Friendship Meeting Room opened. In strode Osip the former waiter and Johnny Frisco.

"Alright, boys, let's shut up now!" said Johnny.

The Amerikans turned suddenly quiet. Even Billy Bob Buck took to whispering. "Devils, leave! Devils begone!"

"Alright, comrades!" yelled Osip. "Settle down. We've got business here!"

"Where's our paychecks?" demanded a worker.

"Yeah, where's our bonuses?"

"And our tools?"

"The plaster?"

"The power cords?"

"The drills?"

"The hammers?"

Osip shot his hands up into the air. "Alright! Alright already! Now, listen to me! You get paid this afternoon at exactly four o'clock!"

"Ura!" A cheer went up.

Osip waved it off. "You get paid at four. And you get a giant bonus too, but only if you've unloaded five truckloads of material and tools that are headed this way, right at this very moment, up Popov Street!"

"Ura! Ura!" A chorus of cheers went up, just like in the old Eisenstein movies. Fur hats and caps flew into the air. "Ura!" Workers hugged one-another.

"Man, I like that guy!" said Johnny Frisco. "We're gonna get things done now!" Nick and Johnny Frisco hugged and kissed.

Billy Bob leaned towards his wife. "So it's gonna work, honey pie? We're gonna get paid in big money? Good ole U-S-of-A greeenbacks?"

"Yes, dear. Now hush!" whispered Mrs. Billy Bob.

"And, and our other mission--the big mission?" asked the reverend.

Mrs. Billy Bob's face turned to metal. "I told you never to mention that!" she said through gritted teeth.

The reverend smiled a weak smile.

Even Winston Hale looked moderately happy. "Well!" he gushed. "I may not approve of this Osip person's methods, but I certainly approve of his results! I just hope he can finish the hotel on time."

"You mean--you mean--th-there's a doubt?" stammered Mrs. Billy Bob.

"Oh, honey, there's more than a doubt!" confessed Winston Hale. "I heard Rassolnikov yelling at that fat Perezhitkov. He said the hotel might not open on time, or might not open at all."

Mrs. Billy Bob's mouth fell open, as if its hinges had just given way, and she looked at her husband. His eyes rolled upwards in prayer.

Just then, there was a rumble in the court yard.

A round-face lady with red cheeks came huffing into the room. "Trucks, my friends! Trucks! A whole convoy of supply trucks!"

"Ura! Ura!" said the Russians.

"Hurray! Hurray!" said the Americans.

The crowd pushed out the doorways. Only a solitary cat remained. And Billy Bob Buck and Mrs. Billy Bob.

"Why, if this thing falls through, if the--if this hotel don't open on time, we're done in!" the reverend lamented.

"I know, honey pie," said Mrs. Billy Bob. "I know."

"Devils, begone!"

"I know." She took her husband by the arm and her mouth went to his hear. "You know, honey? I think it's time to talk to our friends, Mr. Sam Monella, and Miss Kay Pasa, the Cuban."

"We have our mission!" said the reverend. "We must not fail!"

Koshka was torn. Two paws wanted to run off in one direction, the remaining two paws in the other. He longed to witness the celebration of the arrival of the supply trucks. Such festive occasions happened so seldom, especially since they canceled the contrived parades of the Brezhnev era.

Yet, something alerted him, making his ears pop up and rotate. His sharp cat instincts told him it was very, very important to follow the reverend Billy Bob Buck and the Mrs. Billy Bob.

They were up to no good, they were. And it would take a Wonder Cat to find out exactly what they were up to.

#

"Ura! Ura!" went the cries throughout the building. "The materials are coming, just like Osip promised! We get paid too!"

Perezhitkov and Osip ran out to greet the convoy.

Upstairs, Anna met David on the landing. "What's all the noise down there?' she asked.

"A convoy's on the way. With the materials and tools."

"So I suppose my aunt will be driven out soon?"

"Not if I can help it!"

Anna's eyes glistened. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I've tried talking to Rassolnikov about it. I want to suggest reserving a part of the third floor for your aunt, for the Baron too. But Rassolnikov won't talk to me. He keeps putting me off."

"So?"

"I'm threatening to go over his head. I sent him a note, telling him I'm going to write to the Moscow delegation--you know, those short men in black suits who were here."

"Well, I hope it leads somewhere," Anna said. "You know, they could have their hotel and still not kick her out. I feel so sorry for her. She has nothing left but her memories and her apartment."

"Well, that's not quite true," David said boldly. "She has you."

Anna's face turned red.

"And that's quite a lot, I should think," he added.

#

"I wish this stupid project would get moving faster!" said Winston Hale to himself in the hallway on the second floor.

"Why's that?" asked Mrs. Billy Bob. She was passing by, with the reverend Billy Bob on her arm.

Koshka followed close behind.

"Why what?" demanded Winston Hale.

"Why you wish the stupid project would get moving faster. You were talking out loud, you know."

"Oh!" said Winston Hale. "Why, yes--I'm glad it's moving so it can get finished, so I can get out of here and go back to California."

"And you think the hotel will open?"

"Yes, eventually, I suppose."

"But not on time?"

Winston frowned. "Hardly. But what's a month or two, in the long run?"

Both Mrs. Billy Bob and her husband shuddered.

"Why, we--we want it to open right on time, exactly on time, just as was planned, so we can get back to our flock," said Mrs. Billy Bob.

"I want to get back too, believe me!" said Winston Hale.

"To what?"

"Well, I don't know."

"You know," said Mrs. Billy Bob, lowering her voice. "You might just want to consider coming in with us."

Winston looked into Mrs. Billy Bob's face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what I mean," she said in measured tones. "Think about it real hard. We may not be such enemies after all, you know."

With that, Mrs. Billy Bob led her husband to their flat.

"Hmmmm," said Winston Hale to himself, scratching his head. "I wonder just how much, or how little, she meant by that."

#

Koshka followed the two Texans down the hallway to their flat. A minute later, Mrs. Billy Bob peeked out of the doorway, and looked in both directions. "It's clear, honey," she whispered. "Everybody's outside with the convoy."

With that, the two of them crept up to the fifth floor by way of the black entrance. Koshka followed. The reverend was breathing hard and clutching his chest. "God, I hate steps!" he said. "Especially commie Russian steps!"

"Oh, hush up!" huffed Mrs. Billy Bob. "We're almost there."

They walked down the long hallway. Koshka followed. Mrs. Billy Bob looked both ways, and then knocked twice on a dirty door. There was a squeak and a buzz, then the door popped open on its own. The reverend and the Mrs. walked through two grimy wooden double doors, into the tiny apartment of Sam Monella, the Italian Communist. The room was empty, except for a tiny crooked wooden table and a sagging metal cot. On a stained, striped mattress lay a short, heavy-set man in a moustache. His head rested back on a stack of greasy pillows. He was smoking a cigar, reading a newspaper with thick Roman letters that said something like "l'Osservatorio Romano."

Koshka slipped in just as Mrs. Billy Bob shut the double doors. He took up position in the shadows under the table.

"Devils!" said the reverend Billy Bob.

Mr. Monella flicked his cigar ash on the floor and kept on reading.

"Devils!" the reverend Billy Bob said louder.

"Hey, I know already!" said Mr. Monella. "Just you keep 'a quiet about it, eh?"

"What the reverend is trying to tell you, Mr. Monella," said Mrs. Billy Bob. "Is that there is a problem."

"What? You no pay me the money?"

"We have the money," she said. "The problem is--we don't think this hotel project will ever be finished, or if it will be finished, if it will be on the time-table we've arranged."

Mr. Monella continued reading the newspaper. "So, that's not part of our deal."

"In a way, it is. It certainly is. If the project isn't finished on time, then it won't open on time. And if the project doesn't open on time, then there may not be visit. And without the visit, then--well, the plan is off."

Koshka looked quizzically at Mrs. Billy Bob, who now was making less sense than her husband ever did.

"Look 'a here!" said Mr. Monella. "You wanna talk about the plan? You gotta have the Cuban lady here too."

Mrs. Billy Bob excused herself and left the room. Two minutes later, there were two soft knocks on the door. Mrs. Billy Bob re-entered. Next to her stood a tall, thin woman with red hair, redder lipstick, and big freckles, like red and purple blotches. She was wearing a flak jacket and black mesh stockings.

"Okay," said Kay Pasa, the Cuban, looking first at Sam Monella, then at Mrs. Billy Bob. "What for you call us here, eh?"

"Our plans have to be changed," said Mrs. Billy Bob.

"The devils! The cursed devils!" said the reverend.

"I see!" said Kay Pasa. "The old man--he go completely loco now, heh?"

"The cursed devils!" said the reverend.

"That's not the point!" said Mrs. Billy Bob. "The point is. The hotel project might not ever be finished, I'm afraid. At least, it won't be done on time, so there may be no official visit."

"So? These new Russians, what do you expect? You take away their Marxist ideals, and look what you get, eh?"

"That's not really the point," said Mrs. Billy Bob. "We can have moral discussions later."

"You are the ones with the moral cause! The ones with the high opinions!" said Kay.

All the while, Mr. Monella puffed on his cigar, his buried in his "l'Osservatorio Romano."

Mrs. Billy Bob shivered, as if a cold draft had somehow caught her in the stuffy, smokey room. "We are here for an explicit purpose, and you two have been recruited for a very specific purpose. And you will be paid, thank you! And thanks to millions of god-fearing Christian souls who have tuned into our programs, who have donated their coins and their savings so that the word of Jesus might spread-"

"Oh, cut it, chicken lady!" said Mr. Monella. "What's 'a the problem here?"

Kay lit a long cigarette, throwing the match to the floor. "We can't talk in this place, for Christ's sake! Who knows how many times this room is bugged?"

"The room is safe," said Mr. Monella, putting down his newspaper. "The room here is safe--you can believe 'a me. We are more secure here than on the streets or anywhere else in this city. I have equipment to make sure." He nodded towards the television set, pressed his finger onto a black dot in his hand, and a blue dot blinked across the screen. "Don't 'a you worry. It is safe, so let us have our little talk, make it short, get the hell out 'a here, and leave 'a me in peace." He turned towards Mrs. Billy Bob. "Your husband's gone a'crazy. So, that means you a' backing out?"

"No!" she insisted.

"You gotta the money?"

"Yes."

"Lemme see."

"Not until you've--you've accomplished your mission."

"I need an advance."

"You--your organization. You got your advances in Rome, in Vienna too. The rest gets paid as soon as you do what you've been commissioned to do." She turned towards Kay. "And that is the problem. If this hotel project is not finished on time, or, if it is not finished ever--which seems more and more likely every day--then there will be no official visit. And you will not be able to do your job."

Kay put her cigarette out on the floor. "You think we don't do our job? Don't you worry about us!" She looked at the reverend, then crossed her eyebrows, and shrugged. "Your husband, he's loco. But me, I am not loco. We want it done as much as you. For different reasons, but why you think we join with you, eh? We like gospel ministers and chicken salespeople, you think?"

"We are on a mission from the Lord!" said Mrs. Billy Bob.

"Devils!" said the reverend, his hands shooting up towards the ceiling. "The Russian communists are out to steal the minds and hearts of our young ones! They have a satellite in space now that's sending down brain-washing messages every day. And then there's rock-and-roll and drive-in movies and hamburger stands with women in tight skirts!"

"Hush, honey!" pleaded Mrs. Billy Bob. "It's the nineties, remember?"

The reverend's body twitched. "The twist! That evil dance is the invention of Communists, my friends! And the congress! It's infiltrated. And the United Nations? It's an association of genuine Russian communist infiltrators right in the middle of New York City, the Sodom and Gomorrah of the modern world!"

"Honey, hush!" implored Mrs. Billy Bob.

"They're poisoning the minds of our youth! Elvis Presley is a paid Communist sympathizer."

Mrs. Billy Bob marched up to her husband and put her mouth next to his ear. "Honey!" she shouted. "It's the nineties now! Not the fifties!"

"The cursed devils!" said the reverend. "Hollowed-out pumpkins! Whitaker Chambers! All of 'em! Commie devils!"

"You hush now, honey, you hear?" said Mrs. Billy Bob. "It's the 1990's now, honey pie." She shook him by the lapels so hard his hat tilted back at a dangerous angle.

"Oh, yes! Oh!" said the reverend finally, his wide eyes looking around the room. "Viewership is down! Stations are closing. The amusement park--it's in trouble." His voice dropped, like on a phonograph player running out of power.

Mrs. Billy Bob shook her head and turned towards Sam Monella. "See what it's done to him?"

"He's a nut. That's what I see."

"Oh, if you'd been through what this poor dear man's been through!" she wailed. "He's worked so hard all his life! And now, his ministry failing! Gross receipts are way down! Why, we have a whole warehouse full of video tapes! We can't sell them--much less give them away! And," she sobbed. "They're foreclosing on the warehouse!"

"What's 'a the tape?" asked Mr. Monella, puffing on his cigar.

"Godless Communism, Secular Humanists, and Our Glorious, Vulnerable Youth."

"Ugh!" said Kay Pasa.

"Our ministry's nearly in ruins!" said Mrs. Billy Bob. "And it's hurt our franchising too! Receipts are down. People aren't eating steak-fried chicken or chicken-fried steaks!" Her hands went to her face. "It's ruined! All ruined! And just a few years ago, we had empires of evil to combat, we had Red Army threats, we had infiltration!" She clasped her hands. "It was--oh, so glorious and wonderful! And now--and now, we're reduced to--to this!" She pointed at her husband.

"Devils!" said the reverend Billy Bob, still twitching. "Fluoridated water permeating the pure, wholesome, tight bodies of our nation's youth! Communist ideas taking hold in their fertile, nubile brains!" He stomped his feet on the carpet. "Send in your contributions now, brothers and sisters! There is a burden upon our land and upon our hearts! Save the world from godless communism!"

"Why the hell a nut like that come 'a here?" asked Sam Monella.

"For the same reason you came!" said Mrs. Billy Bob through her tears. She gritted her teeth, as if preparing to bite into a thick piece of gristle. "To get rid of the person responsible for this--this mess!"

Koshka's ears pricked up.

"Si! Si!" said Kay Pasa. "He gives a bad name to everybody in the movement! He's a capitalist in sheep's clothing--that's what he is! He is ruining the movement!"

"Yeah. That man--he gotta go," said Sam Monella, nodding. "The brigade agrees. The movement suffers! We had everything--cells, movements, demonstrations! Now everybody--they falling over one-another, trying to open up shops and trade with 'a the capitalist empire! It's 'a no good for the brigade! It's 'a no good for nobody!"

Koshka couldn't believe his ears.

Sam Monella reached under his mattress and pulled out a long shiny object. "See, it's 'a my friend! Uzi, here--he wait until time is right. Then, bang! No more glasnost! No more perestroika! Back to the good old days!"

"Back to the good old days?" asked the reverend Billy Bob.

"Yes, honey," said Mrs. Billy Bob, patting his coat sleeve. "Back to the good old days of glory! Hallelujah!"

"Whoopie hallelujah!" said the reverend. His hat waved high in the air.

"Si! Si! Viva la revolucion perpetual!" said Kay Pasa. "Down with the turncoat leaders!"

"We just getta him here," said Sam Monella. "Just 'a you wait. Come February twenty-one, and Uncle Uzi--he take 'a care of him forever!"

"It's back to the good old days, honey!" said Mrs. Billy Bob.

"Whoopie!" said the reverend.

Koshka was shocked. He had heard enough. Now was the time for action! He, and he alone--the Wonder Cat--could save the leader, the world! He dashed towards the door.

"Eh, it's a cat! I hate cats!" said Sam Monella, pointing a thick finger at Koshka. "It is a bad sign, no?"

"It's just a cat--uno gato!" said Kay Pasa. "You just make sure your Auntie Uzi is ready when the time comes!"

"Uncle Uzi!" said Sam. "But you gotta catch 'a that cat!"

"Why, it's just a li'l ole cat!" said the reverend.

"No!" said Sam. "It's 'a like he was listening. Like 'a he knows something!"

"It could be a devil!" said Mrs. Billy Bob. "Or a robot communist spy!"

Kay Pasa lunged for the cat. She was not quick enough. Mrs. Billy Bob lunged, but two thick locks of stiff hair fell to her forehead, obscuring her vision. "Why I'll get that beast yet!" she said. "I know those cats--they're friends of the devil! Always have been! Always will!" She dashed towards the door, holding onto her hair with one hand and grasping forward with the other.

Koshka slid out between the double doors. He dashed across the landing, faster than he, or any other cat, for that matter, had ever dashed. With a swish of air, he was down six flights of stairs, applying the brakes in the foyer.

"What the hell was that?" asked Johnny Frisco. He was standing at the bottom of the stairway, a highball glass in his hand.

"That's a screwdriver, boss," said Nick. "Just like you asked--vodka, a shot of orange juice. No ice though."

"No, dummy! That!" said Johnny Frisco, pointing towards the fleeing Koshka.

"That's just a cat," said Osip. "There's a whole pack of them here. They crawl all over the place." He shrugged. "Now let's get back to our deal, Mister Frisco. We need more advances, or the whole thing falls through."

Johnny Frisco moaned.

Koshka came to a rest under the crooked scaffolding holding up one crooked wall. He caught his breath and smoothed down his fur. How could one cat prevent an assassination of a human? Had it ever been done before? A plan was needed--a foolproof one.

Slam! Comrade Rassolnikov walked through the front door, a pile of snowflakes adorning, like epaulets, each shoulder of his leather overcoat.

"Things in order here?" he asked.

"Yes, Comrade Rassolnikov," said Osip.

Rassolnikov shook his finger at Osip's nose. "Don't ever call me comrade, okay?"

"Okay. But you want the job done--you need Osip. Don't forget it-"

"Oi! Just don't call me comrade!"

Write a note! That was it, Koshka decided. Just like Pimen the cat had done to the Byzantine Princess in the Cat Chronicles. Leave an unsigned note late at night. Tell them about the plot. About the reverend and his wife. About Kay Pasa and Sam Monella. They wouldn't believe any of it, probably, he decided. After all, denunciations and anonymous complaints, although prevalent still, were entirely out of favor. The Uzi! That was it! Tell them about Uncle Uzi under Sam's mattress! Once they found the weapon, they would believe it, all of it!

There was no time to lose. Koshka needed pen and paper--better yet, a typewriter! Yes, a typewriter! He'd slip into the office right at that moment, then wait until everyone was asleep. Even in total darkness, his keen cat eyes and docile paws would type out the appropriate message! Success depended on dogged determination, on taking risks, on acting fast--in short, on being a Wonder Cat!

He crept towards the office as fast as he could, making sure to stick close to the wall, out of the light.

"What's that?" Rassolnikov called out.

"I think it's called a cat," answered Osip. "Unless they's re-named that, like they've re-named this city and everything else."

"I told you to get rid of that god-forsaken fat petty demon!" shouted Rassolnikov, his face and neck reddening. "Get that thing out of here now, this instant! I hate cats! Especially fat, sneaky, big-eyed monsters like that beast!"

Koshka leapt into the air and headed for the exit. Success depended on flexibility as well as on dogged determination, he decided.

Damn! A firm, bony hand wrapped tight around his mid-section, lifting him into the air. "I got it!" said Osip.

Koshka struggled, but Osip had a firm grip on him, out of the way of any claws. Koshka wiggled and wiggled, but all in vain. He knew how Lizzie the England cat felt, when captured.

"Good!" said Rassolnikov. "Now get rid of it."

"How?"

"I don't care! Just kill it!"

"I--I can't kill any cats!" said Osip. "In the village where I come from--well, it's bad luck to kill a cat!"

"Why you disgusting pre-revolutionary peasant-in-disguise!" Rassolnikov shouted. "Kill that damned cat or I'll have your head!"

"How?"

"Drown the damn thing! Then bury it in the back yard."

"The ground's frozen solid."

"Then throw it in the god-forsaken river!"

"It's frozen too."

"Dig a hole with your ugly pointed nose--I don't care! Just kill that damned cat!"

"Yes, boss." Osip stepped from the room, holding Koshka tight with both hands.

Osip stomped out to the yard, his breath making clouds of white fog. Koshka howled a warning out to the other cats, until Osip put his hand over his mouth. No cats came to the rescue. No Avvakuum. No Misha or Grisha. No Feofan Lapa or other Yauza River elders. No Masha to sound the alarm. Just an unconcerned Hagia Sophia, sitting on the rooftop in the frigid night air, swirls of smoke from the chimney curling around here. Hagia Sophia, the silent witness. Koshka tried howling again, but Osip's hand grew tighter across his face.

Osip tromped through the yard, his boots cracking across the brittle snow. "Sorry, cat. I hate doing this, but an order is an order, you see. So when you come back in another life, in another form, you just remember that Osip, the waiter from Volikolomsk, did only what he was told to do, okay?"

Koshka looked up with pleading eyes at his captor.

Osip turned his face away, but his hand tightened around Koshka's belly.

To Chapter Thirteen

Back to Home Page for The Cat At The Glasnost Hotel

Back to Home Page for William Jack