The Black Marble

by Joseph Wambaugh

  By the time Natalie ran to the vacant lot, Valnikov had Elliott Jr. by the back of the neck with one hand and the spray can in his other. To the amazement of Natalie Zimmerman, and the dismay of Elliott Jr., and the delight of three winos who were not quite unconscious, Valnikov turned the spray can on Elliott’s fifteen-dollar haircut and didn’t release him until the can of silver paint sputtered and spit.

  With Natalie behind the wheel, they raced three blocks before Elliott Jr., dripping paint, reached the wardrobe truck bawling for his father. For two weeks, Elliott Jr. would be the only fourteen-year-old in Beverly Hills with gray hair.

  “Wow!” cried a flushed Natalie Zimmerman when they were racing up Spring Street.

  “Don’t turn here, Natalie,” said Valnikov. “Keep going.”

  “Wow, Valnikov!” she cried. “I hope nobody got our license number. Do you think the little germ knew you were a cop?”

  “I don’t think so,” Valnikov shrugged.

  Her glasses were askew and her buckskin Friz was hanging to her nose. She pushed them both up where they belonged and said, “Do you know what you just did?”

  “I painted his head,” Valnikov said.

  “You … I … I just lived my fantasy! Do you realize how seldom in a person’s lifetime that happens? I had a fantasy. I mentioned it to you. And then you let me live it!”

  “Why not?” he said.

  “Wow!”

  “Natalie, do you still want to go to the station? Or should we handle our calls first, or what?”

  She looked at him for a moment and said, “Let’s handle some of our reports first. Let’s make some calls. I don’t think I have to go back to the station just yet.”

  Then they were headed back outbound on the Hollywood Freeway. Valnikov stole occasional bleary-eyed glances at the legs of Natalie Zimmerman. She was awfully attractive, he thought. Even with her goofy glasses and dopey hairdo, she was an attractive woman. Valnikov wondered if she might go to the movies with him now that he had sprayed the kid’s hair silver.

  While Valnikov was trying to get up the nerve to ask Natalie Zimmerman again to go to a movie, Madeline Dills Whitfield was sitting in her living room beside the telephone, drinking Scotch and water at noon.

  The pet mortuary had already arrived and taken Tutu away.

  “We were saddened to hear about your dear Victoria,” the balding mortician said.

  “Yes, yes, please, just give her a nice burial. Send the bill to me.”

  “But, Mrs. Whitfield, your dog handler, Mr. Biggs, said you’d probably want to select the casket and …”

  “Something moderately priced,” Madeline said, not trying to conceal the double Scotch. “Something moderate.”

  “We have some very nice, reasonably priced caskets that …”

  “Yes, that’ll do. Yes.”

  “As to a burial service, would you like …”

  “No. No. No burial service. Bury her at once.”

  “But the grave site, Mrs. Whitfield. You should select her site, and we have to present the body of Victoria Reg …”

  “Bury her at once, do you hear me! Today. Any grave plot will do. A moderately priced coffin. Take her away now and do it!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Whitfield, yes. I understand perfectly. Yes, it’ll be done at once. And for the billing, should we …”

  “Send your bill to this address. Please, I’m not feeling well.”

  “You have our sympathy, Mrs. Whitfield, and be assured that Victoria Regina …”

  “Yes, yes, yes.”

  And now she sat by the telephone, waiting. Finally she called the kennel of Chester Biggs.

  “Chester?”

  “Mrs. Whitfield?”

  “Did that … that man phone? The man I mentioned yesterday? Richard?”

  “Just a minute, Mrs. Whitfield.”

  An interminable wait and then, “Mrs. Whitfield, my wife said a man did call, and she gave him your number just as you instructed.”

  “How long ago?”

  “She says an hour, Mrs. Whitfield.”

  “Thank you, Chester. Thank you. Good-bye.”

  An hour! Why hadn’t he called? Why? Is he trying to make her suffer? Is that it? Are people who do such things sadists as well as common criminals? Do they delight in torturing their victims? Would he torture Vickie for his own perverted enjoyment? Is Vickie being whipped? Or burned? Oh God!

  Madeline Whitfield spilled the glass of Scotch on the carpet and leaned across the arm of an old wingback chair, weeping.

  At that moment, Victoria Regina of Pasadena was reluctantly taking a bite of boiled horsemeat from the tobacco-stained fingers of Philo Skinner, who had been trying to feed her for the last two hours.

  “That’s it, sweetie,” Philo said soothingly. “Philo won’t hurt you. Philo loves you. Philo loves all little terriers and you’re so pretty.”

  He was at the end of the 175-foot aisle dividing the kennel. The last of thirty-two dog pens on each side of the long, low-roofed building had been reserved for Vickie who spent the first night of her life since weaning outside the bedroom of her mistress.

  “Philo loves you, sweetie,” he said, tempting the little schnauzer with a chunk of boiled liver. She approached him tentatively as he squatted outside the pen, handing the meat through the mesh.

  “That’s yum-yum,” Philo said, as Vickie accepted her second nibble of meat and wrinkled her nose at the smell of Philo’s endless cigarette chain. “You’re going to be just fine, sweetheart,” Philo said. “Here’s another bite of yum-yum, and then Philo’s going to call your mommy and your mommy’s going to give Philo eighty-five dimes, and Philo’s going to send you home wagging your tail. Okay, sweetie?”

  After Philo was satisfied that Vickie was eating all right, he went to the office to make the call. Mavis had been hard to get rid of today.

  “Philo, I know we’re going broke around here, but I can’t understand why you gave that Pattie Mae the day off. I mean we still have twenty-five dogs out there in those sixty dog runs, you know.”

  “Only twenty-five dogs,” Philo sighed, trying hard to keep from laughing with joy. “Never been so bad, this business. Just trying to save a few bucks, my love.”

  “You save money?”

  “Things are awful tough, my love. I can take care of twenty-five dogs easy.”

  “Sure isn’t like you, Philo,” she said suspiciously, “wanting to do all that work. You got something on your mind? Maybe you got Pattie Mae coming back here this afternoon and you don’t want me here?”

  “Oh, please, please, please!” Philo cried, lighting a cigarette with the butt of the last. “The last thing on my mind is pussy, goddamnit!” And at least that was the truth.

  “Well, if I ever catch you, Philo, it’s all over. You understand? You listening to me, Philo?”

  Stripping, stripping, stripping. She never got tired of it. Well, two more days. Wednesday should be time enough. The Thursday flight to Puerto Vallarta would bring him in there just in time for a margarita at sunset.

  She got the call at 2:50 p.m. He was speaking soft and had his voice muffled, like in the movies.

  “This is Richard.” Burton that is, get it? He was so excited he wanted to giggle insanely.

  “Yes? Yes?”

  “Have you told anyone? The police?”

  “No one, I swear.” Madeline, who had been getting desperately drunk, was now sweatily sober.

  “I want eighty-five thousand dollars.”

  The number was so great, she was sure he said eighty-five hundred. She was expecting him to demand more than five thousand, so she wasn’t too surprised. “Yes, yes,” she said eagerly. “I can get it by tomorrow. Perhaps by tonight if I …”

  “Shut up and listen to me,” Philo said excitedly, speaking with the mouthpiece wrapped in a paper towel. He was in a cocktail lounge, two blocks from Skinner Kennels. The barroom was practically empty midday, but still he jumped at every sound the bartender made.
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  “Yes, I’m listening,” she said.

  “I want the money in tens and twenties and no more than two packages of fifties.”

  “How’s Vickie? Is Vickie all right?”

  “Listen to me, goddamnit, if you ever want to see your Vickie again.”

  Then Madeline started to cry and Philo Skinner realized he had to alter his technique. “Damn, lady, calm down. Listen, get hold a yourself. Your bitch is okay. She’s fine. Cut it out, will ya?”

  “Yes … I’m … I … yes … please … don’t hurt her. Please!”

  “Hurt her! Goddamnit, lady, I’m no criminal! What the hell’s wrong with you? I never hurt a dog in my life. Get hold a yourself, lady.”

  “Yes … I’m sorry. All right. I’ll get the eighty-five hundred and then where do I take it?”

  The line was silent for a moment and Philo Skinner said: “That’s eighty-five thousand, lady. Eighty-five thousand!”

  “My God!” she cried. “That’s impossible. Eighty-five thousand? I don’t have eighty-five thousand dollars! I wouldn’t know where to begin to get eighty-five thousand dollars. Please, sir. I beg you …”

  “You lying bitch!” Philo screamed, then he caught himself and opened the phone booth door to peek at the bartender. “You lying bitch,” he whispered. “I know about you. You’re rich, goddamn you. Don’t gimme that shit, you want your fucking schnauzer alive.”

  “Please, sir, please …” Then Philo had to wait while she wept again. “My God, sir … please … I beg you …”

  Philo Skinner was starting to sweat in the phone booth. He lit a cigarette, still afraid to open the door. He began suffocating himself. His eyes were raw from the smoke by the time Madeline stopped crying and was able to talk.

  “Lady, I know damn well how much you’re worth. I saw your goddamn house. I know you’re rich. Rich! I know you can get a measly eighty-five thousand. Now if you care for this bitch a yours, you’ll do exactly like I say.”

  “Listen, listen to me,” Madeline begged. “I’d give you anything. I swear. Anything! But you must believe me. I don’t have eighty-five thousand dollars. This … this big house … there’s no furniture upstairs. I keep it closed off. I had to refinance it last year. I five on a small trust fund. Please …”

  “You cunt!” Philo screamed. “You rotten filthy lying cunt! You get the money and have it by noon tomorrow. I’m going to start working on this bitch a yours at noon tomorrow. I’m going to call you at six p.m. tonight and see what progress you made. You understand? And you better have something to tell me, hear? You hear?”

  “Yes!” Madeline wailed. “Yes!”

  “And one last thing, take care a that little schnauzer bitch you have with you. Keep your handler away from her so he doesn’t see she’s not your Victoria. I’ll give you further instructions on what to do with her when I call you tonight.”

  Before Madeline could tell him the schnauzer was dead, he hung up.

  Philo Skinner was still trembling with rage and frustration when he got back to the kennel. The cunt. The rotten miserable stingy lying rich cunt. Imagine, trying to flim-flam Philo Skinner like that. All these rich cunts were alike—stingy. Philo had pampered their goddamn dogs for twenty-five years and they were all alike. Spend twenty grand a year to show a single dog, and throw a Gainesburger to the dog handler. Well, this cunt wouldn’t get away with that.

  Philo Skinner sat down and began rehearsing his next telephone call. Imagine that, trying to flim-flam Philo Skinner, Terrier King!

  Madeline was devastated when the terrifying extortionist hung up. It was a full hour before she could get up from the sofa where she lay, intermittently weeping and drinking.

  She didn’t pour a second drink. Instead, she began thinking. She surprised herself in that she began formulating a plan. She was filled with dread and overwhelming fear and yet she began to formulate a plan to deal with this extortionist. She found some strength she didn’t know she had. The money was totally out of the question. She knew from her year-end audit that her net worth was around forty thousand dollars. That included the surrender value of her insurance policy, a second-trust deed, an inflated value on what was left of the antique furniture, her car, what little equity was left in the house after refinancing, and an arbitrary value placed on the small balance of the trust fund. Until now there was the dream, the fantasy, that after Vickie won Madison Square Garden, a man would rescue her, a widower with a substantial fortune. They would meet at The Sign of The Dove restaurant …

  Immediate liquidation would take weeks! She would have to explain it to the extortionist when he called again. He’d have to listen to reason. Perhaps she could borrow nine thousand. Perhaps ten thousand, at the outside. There was Ariel Went worth. Her husband was the chairman of the board of … which bank was it? Ariel might be able to help her get a loan. A very quick loan. Ten thousand dollars.

  The alternative was the police. She was tempted to call them. She went to the phone three times. Each time, she returned to the first plan. The loan. She started to call Ariel. No, first she had to reason with the man who had Vickie. Make him see. Surely, he would see. He wasn’t a monster. He said he’d never hurt an animal in his life. She remembered him saying that. It was all she remembered, but he did say that. She drank no more that day. She sat in the living room waiting for six o’clock Waiting for sundown. Waiting for the call.

  The rest of the day for Natalie Zimmerman meant burglary investigation, pure and simple. Which meant public relations. An offer of sympathy to the victims who didn’t really have any hope for the return of the merchandise. A few tips on how to prevent future breaking-and-entering, a crime report number for the sake of reporting the loss on a tax return or to an insurance company. Was the fingerprint man here yet? He said he didn’t get any latent prints? No, they seldom leave prints, even if they don’t use gloves. Sir, it’s very very hard to get good lifts unless a surface is hard, smooth and clean. Yes, I know they get fingerprints in the movies from cotton handkerchiefs. Yes, I know that in the movies the detective caught a rapist by getting a fingerprint from … What? From a woman’s tit? That’s ridiculous!

  A typical day for an investigator of business burglaries. They called on six victims and got not a single lead of any kind.

  “No clues for the clues closet,” Natalie Zimmerman smirked when they finished their fourth victim contact.

  “Do you want to stop for some food?” Valnikov asked.

  “I’m not hungry,” she said. How could she be hungry? How could she get Captain Hooker away from Clarence Cromwell long enough to inform him about today? Valnikov was cracked. Over the edge. Just get him talking about his old homicide cases, Captain, if you don’t believe me. Watch what happens to him when he starts talking about that.

  But what if he doesn’t always react the way he did today? A Braille reader. Charlie Lightfoot. Sobbing as he dreamed about some goddamn rabbit. What if he could fool Hooker, whose attention span on anything outside of that goddamn boat of Cromwell’s was about three minutes? What if he doesn’t always go whacko when you make him remember the bad old days?

  “Valnikov?”

  “Yes?”

  “Let’s just go stop somewhere, anywhere. Get a cup of coffee and a doughnut, or something.”

  “How about a deli on Fairfax? I could go for a nice onion bagel,” Valnikov said pleasantly. His eyes were starting to clear up, the whites no longer laced with red webbing.

  “Okay,” she said, and then she said, “Valnikov, do you remember what we were talking about this morning?”

  “What’s that, Natalie?” he smiled.

  She hesitated an instant, took a breath and bit the bullet: “We were talking about Charlie Lightfoot. About murder. Suicide. Dead bodies. Dead children. Your old job.”

  Corpses. There were stacks of corpses in the morgue. Corpses all around. In the autopsy rooms. In the coolers. In the halls. Tags on toes. Bulges under the sheets.

  That one’s a woman. Si
licone. Look at the boobs. Like twin Everests. Ever rest, baby. What good did all that silicone do you? And that one. Under the sheet and stiff as a catfish. He’s got more sticking out than we do alive, eh, Valnikov? And that one. The body’s only four feet long. A boy or a girl? Is that the one came through on that West L.A. crime report? You know, the little girl, her mother used to trade for dope? You know the one? The one mom used to loan to the dyke? You know the one? The one the dyke started to sleep with when she was six years old, and then mom started battering when the dyke got tired of her? The one they used to photograph being screwed by the dyke’s dope customers? The one mom used to take her empty spike (No heroin today, you little bitch, it’s your fault. You could have kept her happy if you wanted to.) and ram the empty spike under her toenails and through her eardrums? You know the one?

  Corpses in the morgue. A class of student nurses being taken through the morgue by an orderly who relishes their horror. Goremore is there cutting off fingers.

  A little white around the gills, aren’t you, girls? If you get tired, don’t lay down on those tables, girls.

  Of course he takes them right into an autopsy about to begin. One he knows about. This fellow loves his work. He loves to take student nurses on tour. Look at that one. A ragpicker the cops found after three weeks in a boxcar.

  Goremore winks. Come closer, girls. Look. He’s a black man but his face is white.

  His face! His face is moving!

  No, it’s not moving, girls. It’s covered with a swarm of maggots. The maggots are moving, girls. He’s a maggot meal ticket.

  Grab that girl! Goddamnit, Goremore, she fell on her head, you dumb shit!

  And then Goremore says, Fuck it, I ain’t no tour guide anyway, just as they jerk on the chin to see if the throat was cut, and the jaw rips loose. Half a pound of maggots sail in a heap and go plop on the tile floor. A second student nurse falls down beside the maggots. The fat and loggy maggots look at her curiously. But in their dim maggot brains they retreat and stay coiled, and writhing, and crawling on top of each other. Even maggots need maggots, after all.