"Nicky leave a suicide note? 'I can't take no more of this shit life is handing me, so I'm gonna throw myself through the fuckin window'? You did it to the man in Haiwa-ya and you think, yeah, that's it, that's how to do it. Man, it's the dumbest idea I ever heard of."
Elliot felt like saying, You done? You through hearing yourself talk? But there was no point doing that. He kept quiet and drove along in the traffic like he was thinking of something.
What Elliot said after a few moments was, "I know how you want to do it." Like he'd just thought of it. "You have that gun. . . . I bet you like to walk up to Nicky in your boots and spurs and shoot him, pow, through the heart as he's watching you."
Raji was nodding. "I could."
He'd be picturing it now.
Elliot said, "Then why don't you?"
18
* * *
FROM THE SOFA, his head cushioned, he saw beams in the high ceiling, bare leaded windows, shelves of books, a stone fireplace, patches of color all around the room in flowering plants and paintings that were like posters; there were stacks of magazines, fat chairs in pale green patterns, umbrellas in a stand in the foyer, a hatrack. . . . Elaine appeared above him holding a drink, offering it.
"You don't have a TV set."
"In the bedroom. Is scotch all right?"
"Fine."
"I thought I had vodka. I guess I'm out."
She handed him the drink. He took a good sip and felt it burn—oooh, man—and raised his eyes again to see her watching him, her expression calm.
"What happened?"
He would tell her about it, but not yet. He said, "You look different."
"Do I?"
He liked the quiet way she said it.
"Elaine, there's nothing to worry about."
"Really?"
"But you do, you look different."
She shrugged in the loose cotton sweater, looking away and back again. The jeans surprised him. At the studio she wore suits and pushed the sleeves up; he'd watch her walk around the office barefoot talking and smoking, going over to her giant ashtray to stub out a cigarette, walk away and the cigarette would still be burning. She was the girl who ran production at a major studio and she was respected.
At home she was a softer version.
Looking at him with calm brown eyes.
He said to her, "Why you're just a girl," and had to smile, hearing himself.
She said, "Are you coming on to me, Chil?"
"I guess I am. But I'm not doing it on purpose. It's more like I'm reacting."
"To what?"
"You. You're coming on to me, aren't you? Like at lunch yesterday."
"Are you still kind of in shock?"
"My ears are ringing, but I feel fine."
She had not taken her eyes from him since looking away and back again. She said, "Can you stand up?"
He put his drink on the coffee table, his hands on his knees and pulled and then pushed himself up. They stood no more than a foot apart.
She said, "Look at me."
He didn't smile, but it was there.
"I'm looking."
She said, "I'm dying for us to kiss."
Serious about it but still girlish. Her eyes, her mouth right there, clean, not wearing lipstick.
He said, "I was thinking the same thing, Elaine," and slipped his hands around her slim body to bring them together, saw her eyes close and they kissed, got the right fit and then both were into it all the way until they came apart and looked at each other, both smiling a little, relieved there was no problem with breath or being too intense or sloppy. No, it was great.
Elaine said, "We could fool around a little, see where it takes us."
Chili said, "We fool around lying down we're there."
Elaine said, "Let's go take our clothes off," and led him upstairs.
* * *
THEY MADE LOVE and it went well.
They rested and made love again and it went even better, way better.
In the dark, arms around each other, he asked her if she was Jewish. She said yeah, all her life. He said he wondered because she kept saying Jesus a lot while they were doing it. She asked him what he was and he said mostly Italian. He asked her how old she was. She said forty-four. He said he was surprised she didn't duck the question, didn't even hesitate. She asked him why, what was wrong with being forty-four? Right after that she said she was thinking about having a cigarette. He said he thought she'd quit. She said she decided it would be okay on special occasions. Did he mind? He said no, not at all, he'd have a smoke too. He said unless she wanted to go for it again. She said they'd better not press their luck. Were his ears still ringing? He said just a little.
HE HAD TOLD HER it was a flash-bang that took him out of action, a concussion grenade. Like getting thrown against a brick wall only worse. Jesus, the sound it made . . .
They were sitting up in bed now, pillows bunched behind them, bareass under the sheet pulled up to cover part of them, a lamp on, Elaine smoking a cigarette from a new pack she opened—Chili noticing this—and Chili smoking a cigar, an ashtray on the bed between them.
"You could've passed it a hundred times and never noticed it. There's no sign, it could be anything—white stucco, maybe a restaurant at one time, before these ethnic wiseguys took it over. There's grillwork across the entrance to like a patio, and a small sign on it that says Yani's. A guy sits in there and checks you out; you look like a Slavic thug he opens the gate. Sin and I walk up—it's dark, the Ropa-Dopers and a couple more guys they brought along with shotguns, are hanging back, so the doorman doesn't see them. Sin goes, 'How you doing, comrade?' and sticks a big chromeplated .44 through the grill. Very cool about it. The doorman opens the gate and Sin motions to the Ropa-Dopers to come on. Now we're all in the patio, like a foyer, big double doors to the place right there in front of us. Sin cracks one of the doors a few inches and we hear music inside."
"Balalaikas?" Elaine said.
"I guess. I know it wasn't Eric Clapton. Sin pulls the door open and we're in. It was like a restaurant, a lot of bare tables, but no one sitting down. They were all standing around in the back of the room by a bar. Just men, maybe ten guys in clothes you haven't seen in twenty years, like it's the Misfits Convention, all these fuckin Clydes in one place. Except these Clydes are gangsters and they're all looking at us now like, what's going on? What're these gangbangers doing here? Bunch of colored guys wearing shades with guns in their hands."
"And you," Elaine said.
"Yeah, and me. Sin has his guys spread out, the guys with shotguns at both ends, the rest of them with high-caliber automatics, Glocks and Berettas, held down at their sides. Driving over Sin said he'd show a badge, tell 'em to get out the money they stole. He said if they don't—his exact words—'we start shooting the motherfuckers on their knees, one at a time till they get it out.' "
"What's the badge," Elaine said, "he's pretending he's a cop?"
"Yeah, and I had to go along, with no business being there, 'cause I'm the complaining witness. I told him, you show a badge these Russians'll go crazy, they hate cops. As it turned out, he didn't get a chance to show it or say one word to them. I see Roman Bulkin looking at me. He goes, 'What you bring these niggers for, in my place?' And that was it for conversation."
"The N word," Elaine said.
"Sin hears that, it's all he needs. No phony badges now, the Ropa-Dopers start shooting and the Russians are scrambling, getting out of there, some of 'em pulling guns. I see a couple of guys go down. I see Bulkin reach back, the guy behind the bar hands him something and Bulkin throws it at us. I see it coming end over end and I think, Christ, it's a stick of dynamite. It hits the floor and skids under a table that's right in front of Sin. Two beats at the most, nothing happens. And then, man, it explodes. There's a flash of hot light, like a spot coming on directly in your face, and then a bang. Elaine, a sound you wouldn't believe it was so loud, right in your face, in your head. It's like the sound is a brick
wall and it runs into you, not you running into the wall. I was blown off my feet into one of Sin's guys, hit him right in the face with my head. I'm lying there I see guys on the floor, couple of others stumbling around, the ones that somehow didn't get the full force of the concussion. I figured that's what it was, a concussion grenade, 'cause it wasn't the regular kind tears a person up or takes your head off. Guy keeps 'em behind the bar with the olives. I see one of Sin's guys with a shotgun; he was over to one side, leaning against the wall shaking his head. Now he starts firing, racking the gun and firing, racking and firing and I see Roman Bulkin go down, and another Russian as the guy keeps firing, drops the shotgun, picks up a piece from the floor and starts firing it. Sin was on the floor, most of 'em were. . . . I got out of there. I couldn't hear, I could hardly fuckin walk, I kept stumbling—oh, man, I'll tell you . . . But I made it to the car and got in. . . ."
"And you came here," Elaine said.
"Yeah, are you surprised? I am. I mean now that I think about it. I didn't wonder where I should go, I just came."
"You knew I'd take care of you," Elaine said. "But how did you find the house? You knew where I live?"
"Loma Vista off Mountain Drive. Three years ago, I dropped off the first draft of Get Leo. I knew I'd recognize the house, big English-looking place. Somebody famous used to live nextdoor."
"Dean Martin, they were two doors down. What about the police?"
"None in sight when I left."
"What happens now?"
"We turn on the news at eleven."
"Is this in the movie?"
"You better believe it. After all I went through?"
"You realize you're writing the script now, making things happen."
"Yeah, but they're all in character, Elaine. I'm not making anybody do anything they don't want to." He looked at her with a nice smile. "You want to try again?"
"Are you serious?"
"Nothing wrong with trying."
Elaine opened the drawer of the night table, felt around inside and turned to him with two white tablets in her hand.
"Take one."
"What is it, an upper?"
"A breath mint."
19
* * *
DARRYL HOLMES CALLED HIM Thursday morning at the Four Seasons. Chili wasn't back yet. When he got to the hotel about eleven he checked his messages, returned Darryl's call and got snapped at by his only friend on the police.
"Where've you been?"
"What do you mean, where've I been?"
"The L.T. wants to know you coming down to Wilshire or should I have you picked up."
"Is the L.T. standing there?"
"I'll give you one hour."
ORGANIZED CRIME was back in a corner of the Barney Miller squad room, down an aisle of desks and files to Darryl's place. Chili sat down, then had to wait while Darryl stared at him. Was it disappointment on his face or what?
"You saw it on the news? Read about it in the paper this morning?"
Chili said yeah, he did, instead of acting dumb saying "What?" and wasting time.
"Five men shot to death," Darryl said. "Three of the Russians, Roman Bulkin one of them. Two more Russians in serious condition at Cedars, hit with a shotgun, but no shotgun on the premises. Two rappers known as D-Block and The Hole, both shot dead as they lay on the floor, executed, hollow-point rounds through and through found under the floor. Sinclair Russell's in the I.C. unit at Cedars with a fractured skull, jaw broken in two places, most of his teeth gone. . . . They must've thought he was dead, the reason they didn't execute him, like the other two. A couple more of his people are being treated for severe concussion. It was determined they got in the way of a flash-bang. You know what a flash-bang is?"
"I've heard the name."
"You hear it all right, deafens you. How'd you work it, get the rappers and the Russians together?"
Chili said, "I'm not gonna tell you."
And got the stare again.
Chili said, "You think I'm crazy? I'm gonna incriminate myself? I'll tell you, Darryl, if it's between you and me, but not if you write it up and give it to the L.T. You don't want to be in that position, do you? So let's forget it."
"I'm investigating a multiple homicide. You understand? It's my case. There's no way I'm gonna overlook any part of it."
"I'm not making a statement. I don't have to. You got people who were there."
"Couple of Russians who don't speak English and won't talk to the interpreter."
"So work on 'em."
"Or I can put you in a line-up, see if the witnesses pick you out."
Chili said, "The guys that shot the rappers lying on the floor, stunned, they're your witnesses? What're you after me for? I'm the guy they were trying to kill."
"I don't want you"—Darryl sounding tired now—"but I got to take it wherever it goes."
"Darryl, bring the two Russians up, no bond. Put 'em the fuck away and close the case. A gangland shooting. I still have Raji and Nicky or whoever hired Joe Loop after me. Doesn't a victim have any fuckin rights?"
Darryl gave him the stare again for what it was worth, then pulled a file folder on the desk over in front of him and opened it. "You want to know about Raji. I go over to the Gang Squad so maybe I can skip the computer. I'm not real good with machinery. I go over there, 'Who knows a Raji?' The sergeant says, 'Which one you looking for?' So I have to go to the machine and pull up Rajis." Darryl glanced at the file folder. "The one you know is Robert Taylor."
"He uses that too?"
"No, man, it's the name on his birth certificate. He's Robert Taylor. Did some B&Es, stole cars in a ring and sold 'em, did some county time. After that on the printout Robert Taylor becomes Reggie. Reggie Jackson, Reggie Miller—I think 'cause he was given a movie star name at birth he has to pick celebrity names as his a.k.a.s, like they his peers. Shows no imagination till he thought of Raji. Now the man shows up as a low-grade pimp. Got caught up a couple times in sweeps, but nothing on the book the past two years."
"Doesn't use a last name."
"Just Raji. Like Liberace. Which reminds me, the guy that works for him—you know Elliot?"
"Yeah, the gay Samoan."
"That's what I was coming to. See, once I find out Raji pimps I talked to Vice. I learn Raji represents some strippers and has this gay bodyguard named Elliot Wilhelm."
"It's not his real name."
"I know that, he was born Willie Willis. But why would a man who says he's Samoan want to be called Elliot Wilhelm?"
Chili said, "If your name was Willie Willis . . ."
Darryl stopped him. "See, what's interesting about Elliot, he did time at Kulani Correctional, that's in Hawaii, for throwing a man out a tenth-floor hotel window. Then got in trouble inside, became violent, broke a guard's arm, almost killed a couple of inmates with a shank."
"So he's not the kind of guy you want to piss off," Chili said, thinking about the screen test he's offered the guy. "Elliot's dying to get in pictures. That's why he made up the movie star name."
"Yeah? Can he act?"
"I think that's what he's been doing. Throws a guy out a window—but you talk to him, he acts like a two hundred and sixty pound teddy bear. He's from Hawaii?"
"Committed the crime there, and that's where he was convicted. So now there he is hanging with Raji, you can't miss him, so Vice checked him out. His mama's African-American, Marcella Willis, lives in Compton. She names the child Willie and tells him his daddy's Samoan, in the U.S. Navy when she consorted with him. Says they were going to get married, but as soon as she had Willie the man walked out on her, went back to Samoa. She said the man's only half Samoan if that, but he was big. Willie's in his teens, he changes his name and decides to go find this man supposed to be his daddy, but only gets as far as Hawaii. See, Elliot likes the idea of being Samoan without knowing anything about their culture or ways. He kind of looks like he's Samoan, he's big enough, but that's about as far as it goes."
"Whatever he i
s," Chili said, "his sheet is a lot more impressive than Raji's—compare a violent offender to a guy who deals hot cars and hookers."
"He could've been the one," Darryl said, "shot the Russian in your house. You thought of that?"
"But then where does Joe Loop come in? I like the scenario we've been going with. It was Joe shot the Russian and then was killed with his own gun."
"Well, that could've been Elliot, with his violent nature took Joe Loop out. Even beat him up first, 'cause his boss Raji told him to."
"You accuse me of plotting," Chili said, "now you're doing it."
"Is that right? I thought I was putting a case together, trying to solve a homicide. Get it closed and work on the Russian shootout before some more pile up on me. My wife wants to know how come I'm putting in so much overtime lately. I told her 'cause Chili Palmer's making a movie."
THIS MORNING, waking up with Elaine, it was in Chili's mind that waking up with a woman for the first time could be an experience in itself, not always remembered as part of spending the night. You could wake up and not recall the woman's name exactly; was it Joanne or Joanna? You could wake up to a woman snoring with her mouth open and wonder if it was the same woman you met in the cocktail lounge last night who reminded you of a movie star whose name you couldn't think of at the time, and still couldn't. Waking up with Elaine before she woke up and looking at her lying there, he had vivid recollections of the night before. And when he touched her face and she opened her eyes she wasn't self-conscious about it or coy. She looked at him and said, "You're still here," and smiled. Then when he smiled she said, "What're you thinking?" He told her that line from Casablanca came to mind but felt he could do better. She said, "The curtain line? That's a hard one to beat." He said he wanted to think of something original. She said, "Well, did you have a nice time?" He told her he had a wonderful time, terrific, and that he felt—it was funny, but he felt that being good friends first and then going to bed . . . Elaine stopped him, saying, "Don't strain yourself, Chil. Listen, 'wonderful' and 'terrific' are fine."
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