I push with my left palm and ease my shoulders an inch off the floor. The pressure is relieved from my cheek. I am sure the flesh will be red and stippled there. I am not young. My face is doughy and white. Tone has gone. But I can pass it off as razor burn, or bourbon. I focus again on the almost-fresh pack ten feet from me. Tantalizing, and for now as distant as the moon. But I will get there. Trust me.
I have no clear recollection of last night’s events. The details are for Mr. Rafferty to discover. I sow, he reaps. It is a partnership. But lest you misunderstand: My victims deserve to die. I am not a monster. I have many inflexible rules. I target only certain kinds of repulsive criminals; I never hurt women or children. I look for the people Mr. Rafferty can’t reach. And not hapless, low-level street pimps or escort bookers, either: I set my sights a little higher. Not too high, though: for that way lies frustration. Neither Mr. Rafferty nor I can get to the real movers and shakers. But there is a wide layer of smug, culpable people between the two extremes. That is where I hunt. For two reasons: I can feel a glow of public service, and, more importantly, such careful selection puts Mr. Rafferty in a most delicious bind. He wins by losing. He loses by winning. The longer he fails to find me, the more the city is relieved of bad people. The reporters he deals with understand, although they don’t say so out loud. Everyone—me, Mr. Rafferty, citizens, inhabitants—benefits from perfect equilibrium.
Long may it continue.
Now I have to decide whether to roll right or left. It has to be one or the other. It’s the only way I can get up off the floor. I am not young. I am no longer agile. I decide to roll left. I stretch my left arm high so that my shoulder goes small and I push with my right. I roll onto my back. A significant victory. Now I am well on the way to rising. I know that Mr. Rafferty is getting up, too, ready to start his day. Soon he will get the call: another one! Hung upside down, as I recall, zip-tied to a chain-link fence that surrounds a long-abandoned construction zone, gagged, abused, eventually nicked in a hundred places, veins, arteries, throat. I don’t recall specifically, but I imagine I finished with the femoral artery, where it runs close to the surface in the groin. It’s a wide vessel, and, given adequate pressure from a thumping heart, it spurts high in a wonderful ruby arc. I imagine the man jerked his chin to his chest to look up in horror; I imagine I asked him how he was enjoying his BMW now, asshole, and his big house and his Caribbean vacations and his freebies with the poor Romanian girls he imports with all kinds of false promises about jobs with Saks Fifth Avenue before turning them loose to perform disgusting acts for six hundred dollars an hour, most of which he keeps, until the girls grow too addicted and haggard to earn anything anymore.
Not that I care about either Romania or the girls. I have no enthusiasm for any part of Eastern Europe, and prostitution has always been with us. Although I know the man I tied to the fence also runs Brazilian girls, and I care for them to some slight extent. Sweet, dark, shy creatures. I partake regularly, in fact, in that arena, which is what led me to the man himself. A girl I rented, less than half my age, recited on request the menu of services she offered, some of which were truly exotic, and I asked her if she really liked doing those things. Like all good whores she faked great enthusiasm at first, but I was relentlessly skeptical: You enjoy sticking your tongue deep into a stranger’s anus? Eventually she confessed she was obliged to, at risk of getting beaten. At that moment the man’s fate was sealed, and I imagine I used a stick before I used the knife. I care about justice, you see, and the whole what-goes-around-comes-around thing.
But mostly I care about the equilibrium, and the partnership, and keeping Mr. Rafferty in work. He is a veteran homicide cop, my age exactly, and I like to think we understand each other, and that he needs me.
It is time to sit up. And because written narrative has its conventions, let me again be clear: A long time has passed. My thoughts, however presented on the page, have been halting and disconnected and have taken a long time to form. We are not talking about a burst of decisive energy here. This process is slow. I walk my hands back above my waist, I raise my head, I twist and lever, I sit up.
Then I rest.
And I confess: It is about more than just equilibrium and partnership. It is about the contest. Me and Mr. Rafferty. Him against me. Who will win? Perhaps neither of us, ever. We seem to be perfectly matched. Perhaps equilibrium is a result, not a goal. Perhaps we both enjoy the journey, and perhaps we both fear the destination.
Perhaps we can make this last forever.
I scan ahead through my morning tasks. The ultimate objective, as for so many, is to get to work on time. My day job, I suppose I should call it. Punctuality is expected. So less than an hour after sitting up I gather my feet under me and rise, hands out to steady myself against the walls, two staggering steps to establish balance, a lurch in the general direction of the living room, and the prize is mine: my morning smoke. I pull a second cigarette from the pack and close the lid so as not to see two busted teeth; I gaze around, trusting in the eternal truth that wherever cigarettes may be, there will be a lighter close by. I find a yellow Bic a yard away and thumb its tiny wheel; I light the smoke and inhale deeply, gratefully, and then I cough and blink, and the day finally accelerates.
The shower is soothing: I use disinfectant soap, a carbolic product similar to medical issue. Not that I carry trace evidence; I am not new to this game. But I like cleanliness. I check myself in the mirror very carefully. The carpet burn on my cheek is noticeable, but generalized, like a normal Irish flush; it is entirely appropriate. I part my hair and comb it flat. I unwrap a shirt and put it on. I select a suit: It is not new and not clean, made from a heavy gabardine that smells faintly of sweat and smoke and the thousand other odors a city dweller absorbs. I tie my tie, I slip on my shoes, I collect the items a man in my position carries.
I head outside. My employer provides a car; I start it up and drive. It is still early. Traffic is light. There is nothing untoward on the radio. The abandoned construction zone is as yet unvisited by dog walkers.
I arrive. I park. I head inside. Like everywhere, my place of employment has a receptionist. Not a model-pretty young woman like some places I have seen; instead, a burly man in a sergeant’s uniform.
He says, “Good morning, Mr. Rafferty.”
I return his greeting and head onward, to the squad room.
The Perfect Triangle
MICHAEL CONNELLY
IT WAS THE first time I had ever had a client conference in which the client was naked—and not only that, but trying to sit on my lap.
However, it had been Linda Sandoval who had insisted on the time and place to meet. She was the one who got naked, not me. We were in a privacy booth at the Snake Pit North in Van Nuys. Deep down I knew it might come to something like this—her getting naked. It was probably why I agreed to meet her in the first place.
“Linda, please,” I said, gently pushing her away. “Sit over there and I’ll sit here and we’ll keep talking. And please put your clothes back on.”
She sat down on the changing stool in the booth’s corner and crossed her legs. I was maybe three feet away from her but could still pick up her scent of sweat and orange-blossom perfume.
“I can’t,” she said.
“You can’t? What are you talking about? Sure you can.”
“No, if my clothes are on I’m not making money. Tommy will see me and he’ll fine me.”
“Who’s Tommy?”
“The manager. He watches us.”
“In here? I thought this was a privacy booth.”
I looked around. I didn’t see any cameras, but one wall of the booth was a mirror.
“Behind the mirror?”
“Probably. I know he knows what goes on in here.”
“Jeez, you can’t even trust the privacy booths in a strip club. But look, it doesn’t matter. If the California Bar heard this was how I conduct client conferences, I’d get suspended again in two seconds. You should remem
ber that yourself when you start practicing. The Bar is like Tommy, always watching.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll never be in a place like this again—if I get to practice.”
She frowned at the reminder of her situation.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get it handled. One way or another, it’ll work out. The information you’ve given me should help a lot. I’ll crack the statutes and check it out tonight.”
“Good. I hope so, Mick. By the way, what were you suspended for before? I didn’t know about that when I hired you.”
“It’s a long story and it was a long time ago. Just put your clothes on, and if Tommy gets upset I’ll talk to him. You must have guys that come in here and just want to talk, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but they still have to pay.”
“Well, I’m not paying. You’re paying me. This was a bad idea, meeting here.”
I picked up her G-string and silk camisole off the floor and tossed them to her. She put a false pout on her face and started getting dressed. I took one last look at her surgically enhanced breasts before they disappeared under the leopard-skin camisole. I imagined her standing before a jury someday and thought she was going to do very well once she got out of law school.
“How much will this cost me?” she asked.
“Twenty-five hundred for starters, payable right now. I can take a check or credit card. Then I go see Seiver tomorrow, and if it ends there, that will be it. If it goes further, then you pay as you go. Just like it works in here.”
She stood up to pull on the G-string. Her pubic hair was shaved and cropped into a dark triangle no bigger than a matchbook. There was glitter dust in it so the stage lights would make that perfect triangle glow.
“You sure you don’t want to take it in trade?” she asked.
“Sorry, darling. A man’s gotta eat.”
Once she snapped the G-string into place in the back, she stepped toward me and leaned down in an oft-practiced move that made her brown curls tumble over my shoulders.
“A man’s gotta eat pussy, too,” she whispered in my ear.
“Well, that, too. But I still think I’ll take the money this time.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
She stood up and raised her right foot, removing her spike. She wobbled for a moment but then steadied herself on one foot. From the toe of her shoe she pulled out a fold of cash. It was all hundred-dollar bills. She counted out twenty-five and gave them to me.
“I’ll write you out a receipt. Did you make all of that tonight?”
“And then some.”
I shook my head.
“You’re going in the wrong direction if you’re going to give this up to practice law.”
“Doesn’t matter. I need something to fall back on. I’m about to hit the big three-oh. And when you lose it, it goes fast.”
I appraised her flat stomach and thin hips, and the agility with which she raised her leg and put her spike back on.
“I don’t think you’re losing anything.”
“You’re sweet. But it’s a young girl’s game.”
She bent over and kissed me on the cheek.
“You know what?” she said. “I bet it’s the first time in the history of this place that a girl paid a guy off in a privacy both.”
I smiled and took two of my hundreds and slid them under the garter on her thigh.
“There. A professional discount. You being in law school and all.”
She quickly slid back onto my lap and bounced a few times.
“Thank you, Sweetie. That’ll make Tommy happy. But are you sure I can’t do something for you? I think you’re feeling the urge.”
She bounced up and down a couple more times centered on me. She was feeling my urge all right.
“I’m glad Tommy’ll be happy. But I better go now.”
Late the next morning, I walked into Dean Seiver’s office in the district attorney’s office in the Santa Monica Courthouse annex. I carried my briefcase in one hand and a bag from Jerry’s Deli in the other. More important than the files I had in my case were the sandwiches I had in the bag. Brisket on toasted poppy-seed bagels. This was what we always ate. When I came to Seiver about a case, I always came late in the morning and I always brought lunch.
Seiver was a lifer who had always called them like he saw them, regardless of the whims of politics and public morals. This explained why after twenty-two years in the DA’s office he was still filing misdemeanors off cases spawned in the unincorporated areas in the west county.
This is also why we were friends. Dean Seiver still called them like he saw them.
I had not been here in a while but his office had not changed a bit. He had so many cases and so many files stacked on and in front of his desk that they created a solid wall that he sat behind. He looked up and peered over the top at me.
“Well, well, well. Mickey Haller.”
I reached over the wall and put the bag down on the small workspace he kept clear.
“The usual,” I said.
He didn’t touch the bag. He leaned back and looked at it as if it was a suspicious package.
“The usual?” he said. “That implies routine, Haller. But this is no routine. I haven’t seen you in at least a year. Where you been?”
“Busy—and trying to keep away from misdemeanors. They don’t pay.”
I sat down on the chair on the visitor’s side of his desk. The wall of files cut off most of his face. I could only see his eyes. Finally he relented and leaned forward and I heard him open the bag. Soon a wrapped sandwich was handed over the wall to me. Then a napkin. Then a can of soda. Seiver’s head then dropped down out of sight when he leaned into the first bite of his sandwich.
“So your office called,” he said after taking some time to chew and swallow. “You’re representing one Linda Sandoval on an indecent exposure and you want to talk about a dispo before I even file it. Remember, Haller, I have sixty days to file and I haven’t used half of them. But I’m always open to a dispo.”
“Actually, no dispo. I want to talk about making the case go away. Completely. Before it’s filed.”
Seiver’s head came up sharply and he looked at me.
“This chick was caught completely naked on Broad Beach. She’s an exhibitionist, Haller. It’s a slam-bang conviction. Why would I make it go away? Oh, wait, don’t tell me. I get it. The sandwich was really a bribe. You’re working with the FBI in the latest investigation into corruption of the justice system. I didn’t know it was called Operation Brisket.”
I smiled but also shook my head.
“Open your shirt,” Seiver said. “Let me see the wire.”
“Settle down, Seiver. Let me ask you, did you pull the case after my office called?”
“I did indeed.”
“Did you read the deputy’s arrest report and did you compare the information to the statute?”
His eyebrows came together in curiosity.
“I read the arrest report. The statute is up here.”
He tapped a finger on his temple.
“Then you know that under the statute the deputy must visually observe the trespass of the law in order to make an arrest for indecent exposure.”
“I know that, Haller. He did. Says right in the report that she came out of the water completely naked. Completely, Mick. That means she didn’t have any clothes on. I think it’s safe to say that this academy-trained deputy had the skill to notice this distinction. And by the way, do you know how cold the Pacific is right now? Do you have any idea what that would do to a woman’s nipples?”
“Irrelevant, but I get the picture. But you miss the point. Read the report again. No, wait. I have it right here. I’ll read it to you.”
I took the first bite of my own sandwich, and while chewing it pulled the file from my case. Once I swallowed I read aloud the arrest summary, which I had highlighted when I had reviewed the case file the day before.
“‘Suspect Linda Sa
ndoval, twenty-nine years of age, was in the water when responding deputy responded to call. Multiple witnesses pointed her out. R/D told suspect to come out of the water and suspect refused several times. R/D finally enlisted help of lifeguards Kennedy and Valdez and suspect was physically removed from the ocean where she was confirmed as completely naked. Suspect willingly dressed at this time and was arrested and transported. Suspect was verbally abusive toward R/D at the time of her arrest and during transport.’”
That was all I had highlighted but it was enough.
“I’ve got the same thing right here, Haller. Looks like slam-dunk material to me. By the way, did you see that under occupation on the arrest sheet she put down ‘exotic dancer?’ She’s a stripper and she was out there getting rid of her tan lines and she broke the law.”
“Her occupation isn’t germane to the filing and you might want to look again at the report there, Einstein. The crime of indecent exposure was created by your own deputy sheriff.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter if multiple witnesses pointed her out to him or that they saw her frolicking naked in the surf. Under the statute, the deputy can’t make the arrest based on witness testimony. The arresting officer must observe the actual infraction to make the arrest. Pull down the book and check it out.”
“I don’t need the book. The deputy clearly met the threshold.”
“Uh-uh. He clearly didn’t observe the infraction until he had those two brave lifeguards pull her out of the water. He clearly created the crime and then arrested her.”
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