Restless Waters (12 page)

But even these were dwarfed by a crate packed with bright green South American iguanas, each of which measured over five feet in length. They barely acknowledged the other reptiles, knowing that when it came to size they were clearly the winners.

I gazed about in wonder, feeling as if I’d stumbled upon Ground Zero for invasive species. Everywhere I looked, there was something new to see. Other cages held poison-dart frogs, silvery brown skinks, bird-eating Cuban knight anoles, ball python snakes, and blue and red Madagascar geckos. Last, but not least, I caught sight of twenty-five veiled chameleons. They were easily identified by the three-inch shield resembling a shark fin on top of their heads.

My own head was spinning, barely able to process it all, when an angry explosion of barking erupted behind me. I whirled around, my heart racing wildly. What I saw was a vision that had sprung to life from one of my worst nightmares. Five pit bulls, with lips pulled back and teeth bared, were flying through the air, their sights dead set on their target. These were no docile versions of Spam, but five hounds from hell, with only one thing on their mind: to attack and kill.

I grabbed a piece of plywood and held it in front of me like a shield, all the while knowing they’d slice through it as easily as a pack of karate champs. But there was nothing else with which to defend myself. Fear’s a strange thing. My heart beat so loudly that I could no longer hear the roar of their howls, and I had to tell myself to continue to breathe. As for my sight, it had narrowed to such a fine point that I was unable to see beyond a speeding blur of fur and teeth.

I said a quick prayer and braced myself for the worst when a voice, so low and rough it must have slithered up from the bowels of the earth, screamed out one single word.

“SPARTACUS!”

The dogs screeched to a halt, as if having hit an electrified fence. Even so, two of the beasts were unable to stop,
their bodies sailing through the air. They slammed into the board with such force that I was knocked off my feet. I held the plywood tightly against my face, fearing that I was about to be mauled. Opting for a face-lift was one thing. Undergoing reconstructive surgery was quite another. But all I heard was a chuckle, its resonance falling somewhere between a diesel engine and the rumble of an earthquake.

“It’s all right. You can get up now. Don’t be afraid. The dogs won’t hurt you,” instructed the voice that had issued the command.

Easy for him to say.

I lowered my wooden shield and caught sight of a guy who could have been part reptile and part human striding toward me. Oh yeah. And there were five vicious pit bulls cheerfully wagging their tails. This was what the legendary Charles Atlas might have resembled, had he been blown up into a giant Thanksgiving Day parade balloon. Stas Yakimov was a body builder who had clearly lost all control.

Yakimov’s arms stuck out from his sides, rather than placidly lying against his body. His muscles were so pumped that the veins popped up like lines on a 3-D relief map. As for his thighs, they rubbed together with the perseverance of a camper with two sticks determined to start a fire. The sound they produced was a
swish, swish, swish
, generated by a pair of nylon blue gym pants that fluttered against his Paul Bunyon–sized legs.

But what really caught my eye was that Stas had breasts nearly the size of mine. Even more demoralizing was that the he didn’t need a bra. An “Italian Stallion” T-shirt allowed me a glimpse of his rock hard pecs. Unbelievable. They never once jiggled as he walked. Had he been a girl, I’d have been totally envious. As things stood, I was pretty miffed.

An enormous neck held up a head that looked way too small for his body. It featured a face smothered with acne and a tongue that darted in and out of his mouth. But the real showstopper was the creation erected with his bleached blond hair. It had been gelled into a stiff fin that rose straight up in the air, mimicking the raised spine of a pissed-off komodo dragon. There seemed no question but that Yakimov was either working out twenty-four hours a day, or this guy was one hell of a serious steroid freak.

“You must be Gloria Gaines,” he said, holding out a hand. “I’m Stas Yakimov.”

I grabbed onto a paw the size of a baseball mitt and was almost lifted off my feet. The five pit bulls promptly began to snarl. Yakimov kicked at the hounds, who scurried away with their tails tucked tightly between their legs.

“Sorry about that,” he apologized. “I told Dwayne to make sure you came to the front door. Otherwise, the dogs are bound to think you’re a trespasser and are trained to attack.”

Why, that lying little bastard
, I thought, making sure to keep a smile plastered on my face. No wonder Rasta Boy had looked so happy as I drove away from The Sugar Bar. He’d planned to get rid of me.

“He probably just forgot,” I said, and pretended to brush it off.

But Yakimov had a lethal security system. It explained how he was able to keep all these reptiles outside without being robbed.

“Dwayne tells me that you have a pet store on the mainland,” Yakimov said, checking out my physique.

It was at times like this that I wished I were more pumped up. I was daydreaming about what body parts I’d improve when Stas reached out toward me. I nearly jumped, wondering what he was up to. His hand encircled my bicep, and gave the muscle a squeeze.

“You must work out,” he declared. “You have well-toned arms.”

“Why, thank you,” I responded, and began to blush.

I couldn’t have been more flattered if I were a schoolgirl. What I didn’t tell him was that it came from wrestling lowlifes like Rasta Boy.

“So, where did you say your pet store was again?” he asked, getting down to business.

“East Meadow, Long Island,” I replied, figuring it was a safe bet that he’d never been there.

“East Meadow? Sounds like a nice quiet place,” Yakimov responded, slipping into salesman mode.

Just as I’d thought. He clearly didn’t know the area.

“I don’t usually work with small individual stores,” he continued. “I generally prefer to deal with only the larger chains.”

“Really? Why is that?” I asked.

“Because they don’t give me any trouble. You know what I mean? They order in bulk, pay on time, and that’s that. No fuss, no muss, no pain in the ass,” he explained.

Stas was decked out in a variety of gold baubles, making me wonder if he and Dwayne patronized the same jeweler. A necklace the size of a snow-tire chain hung from his neck. It matched the heavy link bracelet on his arm, and the solid gold
S
weighing down his ring finger.

“Then your business must be very lucrative,” I responded, blatantly gawking at his jewelry.

Stas followed my gaze and laughed. “You bet it is. I made close to four hundred thousand dollars last year.”

Yikes!

“You grossed all that just from selling reptiles?” I asked, in amazement.

No wonder invasive species were booming in Hawaii, with that kind of money to be made.

“Who said anything about gross? I’m talking net,”
Yakimov bragged, lightly fingering his massive gold necklace. “And yeah, it’s mainly from selling reptiles, along with one other sideline that I’ve got going.”

“And what might that be?” I casually inquired.

“Nothing you’d be interested in” he said matter-of-factly.

That’s what
he
thought. In any case, the invasive species trade was more lucrative than I could ever have imagined. I was equally struck by the fact that Yakimov felt safe enough to speak about it so openly. He’d obviously never been hassled by state or federal authorities, regardless of what the law might be.

“Well, you have quite an impressive array of lizards and my clientele goes nuts for this stuff. So why don’t we talk prices and see if we can’t do some business? My store might not be large, but I move an amazing amount of inventory. Plus, if things work out, I have friends in other states that might also be interested,” I added, hoping to sweeten the pot.

“All right, then. Let’s get down to it,” Stas agreed, rubbing his ring as if for good luck.

We walked by cage after cage, as Yakimov rattled off prices.

“These rosy boas generally go for forty-five dollars, while the panther chameleons are one-hundred twenty bucks apiece. Those Jacksons over there? They sell for fifty-five smackers. As for the bearded dragons, they usually run forty for males and sixty for females.”

I quickly realized why Yakimov was doing so well. His prices were better than any I’d heard on the mainland.

“Of course, that’s if you’re buying in bulk,” he clarified. “You know, like a Pets Galore or Leapin’ Lizards chain. But you seem like a nice woman, so I’ll give you a special introductory deal. After that, we’ll see what happens based on how much you order and if you bring in
other clients. Who knows? Maybe I can even come up with some better prices.”

Stas was definitely savvy when it came to doing business.

“Do you mind if I jot those numbers down?” I asked, trying to keep them straight without wanting to make him suspicious.

“Of course. Go ahead. Be my guest,” he magnanimously said. “Now see these beauties over here?”

We stopped in front of a crate of veiled chameleons. They stared at me reproachfully, as if aware of my secret.

“These are my pride and joy. They’re a hot, hot item on today’s reptile market. In fact, I can barely keep up with the demand for them.”

Yakimov ran a hand lightly over his spiky blond hair. The chameleons seemed to nod their own fins in agreement.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get them out of Saudi Arabia and Yemen these days? I’ll tell you. It’s damn near impossible. Let me fill you in on something else. You have these babies in your store window and they’ll be snapped up faster than you can say Al Qaeda. In fact, I’m going to make you a terrific offer. Order ten or more, and I’ll let you have them for the same price I give Pets Galore. One hundred twenty-five bucks a piece. Be sure to write that down,” Stas instructed, stabbing a sausage-sized finger at my pad.

What a guy, what a guy,
I thought, and quickly made a note of it.

“I’m going to give you another hot tip,” Yakimov said. His tongue nearly darted in my ear as he pulled me close, as if to tell me a secret. “Advertise them as ‘bin Laden’s beasts,’ and I guarantee you can jack the price up to three hundred and fifty smackers each. All the local yahoos will be buying them faster than if they were hotcakes. Pretty smart idea, huh?” he said with a laugh.

His muscles had a life of their own, as they jumped and jerked and vibrated. The guy would have made a hell of a Chippendale dancer with this kind of muscle control. As it was, I half expected him to turn into the Hulk and rip off his clothes.

I pulled away, pretending to take a closer look at the chameleons.

“That’s terrific, Stas. They’re definitely on my ‘to buy’ list. In fact, I’m thinking of ordering two dozen,” I replied, figuring that ought to make him happy.

I was right. Stas wrapped his arms around me, nearly breaking my bones.

“See how well we’re getting along already?” he cheerfully said, his fingers prancing up and down my spine.

It actually felt pretty good, and was one way of getting a free massage. However, Yakimov seemed to be getting the wrong idea about us. I placed my hands against his chest and pushed him away.

“What’s the matter? Is something wrong?” Stas asked, scrunching his face until his acne turned into one giant pimple.

“I have to admit, I am a little worried about something,” I said, pretending to pout the slightest bit.

“Don’t be silly. You’re in Hawaii and you’ve just met
me
. What could possibly be better?” Stas modestly countered. “Unless you’re concerned that I’ll sell to competitors in your area. In which case, you’ll have to make it worth my while.”

I didn’t even want to ask what he meant by that.

“My concern is if you’ll be able to meet my demand,” I retorted, giving his chain a yank.

“Oh you are, are you? Why? Are you all that insatiable?” Yakimov asked coyly. “Because I have something that will take care of that.”

Oy veh.
Now I got it. He was out to prove himself more of a sex toy than Rasta Boy.

“Very funny, Stas,” I responded, and shot him a withering look. “I’m talking about the reptiles. You have such a large and unusual assortment that I’m worried what will happen if
your
suppliers dry up.”

“That’s something you don’t have to fret your pretty little head about,” Stas said with a wink.

“And why is that?” I questioned, ignoring his sexist comment.

“Because I’m growing them right here on Oahu,” Yakimov revealed, proudly puffing out his already enormous chest.

“That’s amazing,” I responded, feigning astonishment. “How did you ever manage to do that?”

Yakimov’s cockscomb stood up a bit straighter, as if pleased that I was impressed. “I’m a friendly guy. I go and talk to people at bars in Waikiki. You never know who you might meet. It turned out, one of my “new friends” was a reptile wholesaler who was vacationing in Honolulu. We had a couple of drinks and soon he started to tell me his life story.”

It seemed that Yakimov and I used some of the same techniques. Stas placed his hands on his hips, so that the veins in his arms popped out and stood at attention.

“It didn’t take long for him to complain about having to place five-dollar-a-minute phone calls to Madagascar to try and track down lizards,” Stas continued. “Not only that, but he was handing out hundred-dollar bribes just to get the damn things shipped over to him. Except that half the time, people would take his money and never send the critters. He said he’d gotten tired of it and asked if I’d like to take a shot at raising them here in Hawaii. I thought, why the hell not? So, he smuggled a few over. The next
thing you know, I’ve got myself a booming business,” Yakimov crowed. “Best of all, there’s not much overhead since everything is ranched in the wild.”

Now all I needed were the names of those people that Yakimov dealt with on a regular basis. I figured that should be easy enough to learn in another visit or two.