The Black Marble

by Joseph Wambaugh

  The meal ticket took with him to eternity no face whatsoever.

  And then, look out, Valnikov, here it comes! The sparkly flashes. It’s the morgue, all right. There. It won’t get away this time. Déjà vu. There’s a picture forming. He’s almost got it! It’s a pathologist and a …

  “Valnikov.”

  Oh, no, it’s the rabbit! He’s bounding through the snow!

  “Valnikov. Valnikov!”

  “Huh?”

  “Valnikov, the stoplight went from red to green to red. Do you hear the horns?”

  “Huh?”

  Now Natalie Zimmerman was frightened. “Never mind, Valnikov. Don’t tell me about Charlie Lightfoot. No murder. No dead bodies. Never mind, Valnikov, it’s all right!”

  “Huh?” Valnikov pulled into the traffic, ignoring the angry motorists behind him.

  “What did you say, Natalie?”

  “I said, tell me about burglary, Valnikov,” she babbled. “Tell me about burglary. I wanna learn.”

  The picture was gone. Gone again. Valnikov was sweating and trembling.

  “Burglary? Yes. As you know, I haven’t been working burglary too long, Natalie, I’m an old homicide detective …”

  “No homicide, Valnikov,” said Natalie Zimmerman, her eyes big behind the big glasses. “Tell me about burglary. What have you learned about burglary? I wanna be a good burglary investigator.”

  “Oh,” he said, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “Well, let’s see, I’ve learned that a competent burglar can get through any hole or opening that’s big enough for a human head. Isn’t that interesting?”

  “That’s very interesting. Very interesting. Let’s go get that coffee and bagel, Valnikov, then we’ll be just about finished for the day and we can go to the station.”

  “All right,” Valnikov smiled, the trembling almost stopped.

  If only she had a tape recorder. It was going to be hard to explain it to Hipless Hooker. How can you explain it unless you were there. But if he didn’t understand, she’d go to the area commander. She’d go, god-damnit!

  The delicatessen was busy even at this hour. It was one of the oldest in Los Angeles.

  One employee knew Valnikov, an old counterman. He had the whiskey voice and puffy eyes of a veteran alcoholic. Takes one to know one, Natalie thought, when he and Valnikov exchanged a warm greeting.

  “Hello, Sergeant,” the old man said with a wide peg-toothed grin.

  Why did all the old people respond to Valnikov? What was his age? Only forty-four? Why did old people treat him like one of their own?

  “Hi, Solly,” Valnikov said, shaking hands with the counterman, who dried his wrinkled hands on his apron.

  “I ain’t seen you in I don’t know how long, Sergeant,” said the counterman. His hair was straight and white and combed back flat. “I was awful sorry about Sergeant Lightfoot. I heard nothing until recently. I was sorry.”

  “Yeah,” said Valnikov. “This is my new partner. I work Hollywood Detectives now.”

  “A woman you work with?” said the counterman. “A pretty woman. You’re lucky, Sergeant.”

  Then a fifty-year-old busboy came out of the kitchen carrying a metal tray loaded with sandwiches. He was dark, with a flat nose, and shiny black hair, blacker than Philo Skinner’s dye job. He was short and squat, with no buttocks, wide hips and skinny legs. He was from the jungles of Sinaloa near Mazatlan, and was known as Indio.

  Valnikov smiled at him and said, “Hello, Indio.”

  “Sargento,” the Indian grinned, and there it was: Tijuana bridge-work. Gleaming.

  “I’ve been dying for an onion bagel, Solly. What would you like, Natalie?”

  “An onion bagel, please,” she said.

  “Coming up, Sergeant,” the old man grinned. “With cream cheese?”

  “Of course.”

  “Lox or herring?”

  “Lox for me, Solly.”

  “That’s right. It was Sergeant Lightfoot who liked herring.”

  “It was,” said Valnikov.

  Then Valnikov tried to light Natalie’s cigarette. “How do you like the smell of this place, Natalie?”

  “Smells fine,” she said.

  “I grew up in Russian Flats,” he said. “Over near Boyle Heights. We were Russians and Jews and Mexicans in those days. I knew Solly’s brother, owned a beer bar on Brooklyn Avenue in the old days.”

  “Is that so?” said Natalie Zimmerman.

  “Do you know why the old Russians and Jews got along so well in Boyle Heights?”

  “No.”

  “Because the Russians, like my parents, remembered how it was when they were fleeing the Bolsheviks. How the Jews gave them tea and bread. Not that the Jews were czarists, but they knew that some of the Whites were going to the magical place. To America. When I was a kid in Boyle Heights the Jewish kids used to think borscht was their food. Can you imagine?”

  “Is that so,” said Natalie Zimmerman, drinking her coffee and rehearsing the speech to Hipless Hooker. Look, Captain, if you won’t listen to reason, there’s always the area commander. I don’t like to go over your head, but …

  Then Solly gave Valnikov his tea. In a glass, Russian style. He remembered the old days too.

  “I sure miss Sergeant Lightfoot,” Solly said. “You know my grandson? The one I was worried always getting in trouble, that one?”

  “Yes,” Valnikov said.

  “Well, a grand job in a grand place, he’s got. A kettle wrench, is what.”

  “A kettle wrench?” said Natalie Zimmerman.

  “A kettle wrench,” Solly nodded. “You know, where they punch kettles.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s a cowboy,” Valnikov explained.

  “Oh.”

  “The kettles are on a wrench,” Solly explained.

  “Oh.”

  “He was always a better boy after you and Sergeant Lightfoot arrested him,” Solly said. “Excuse me. I got to go back in the kitchen. We got one dishwasher only today.”

  “Of course, Solly,” Valnikov nodded.

  Then another customer at the delicatessen counter said: “My bagel isn’t toasted well enough. Take it back.” He said it to Indio, who understood by his tone what the man meant. The man was older than the Indian, yet he wore a rainbow T-shirt, a bush coat, and pants carefully spattered with paint. In short, he was five years out of style and thought he was groovy. “Take this bagel back, it’s not toasted well enough.”

  Indio picked up the plate and started for the kitchen.

  The man said to his twenty-two-year-old female companion: “That’s the trouble with these greaseballs. Let them work in delicatessens, whadda you expect?”

  Natalie heard it and ignored it. Indio didn’t understand it. Valnikov looked perturbed. In a few minutes Indio brought back the bagel and placed it before the aging hipster.

  “It’s still not toasted right,” the man in the bush coat said. “What’s the matter with you? You don’t even speak English, do you? What are you doing working in a delicatessen anyway?”

  Valnikov put down his glass of hot tea and walked over two stools to the man in the bush coat and said, “What’s wrong with that bagel? Do you have a color chip to check your bagel with?”

  The man looked up at the lumbering man with blazing watery eyes and mumbled something unintelligible to his little girlfriend, who was reading Variety and wondering how she got hooked up with this schmuck in the first place.

  When Indio sheepishly picked up the dirty dishes and walked past Valnikov, the detective reached over and took the Indian’s arm. “Solly,” Valnikov said to the old man who spoke all the languages of Boyle Heights: English, Yiddish, Spanish. “Tell Indio for me that when Cortez came to the New World the Aztec emperor put a golden fingerbowl in front of him and the ignorant white man drank from it. Tell him that, will you?”

  Natalie Zimmerman’s mind was racing when they drove back to Hollywood Station. Captain, I have something important … somethin
g crucial … something … Captain, could you please excuse Sergeant Cromwell, this is private. Captain, if you don’t listen to me I’m going to the area commander … Captain, sit down. I know you’re retiring in a matter of weeks, but this is something you must deal with. Captain, Sergeant Valnikov is a raving lunatic!

  Except at that very moment, Natalie Zimmerman’s plans were being frustrated by none other than Bullets Bambarella, who was doing nothing more than being himself with an irate and very famous movie star who had come to Hollywood Detectives to complain about the arrest of his seventeen-year-old nephew on a narcotics charge.

  “The kiddie cops ain’t here,” Bullets Bambarella said, hardly looking up from his Playboy magazine, which he had concealed inside the Los Angeles Police Department Manual that he was allegedly studying for promotion.

  “Then I’d like to see the boss, whoever that is,” said the famous movie star. He had curly dark hair and of course showed beautiful capped teeth. He wore a red-and-white shirtsuit, with the flap pocket bearing his initials. His flared pants bore chalk-white piping around medium bells. He wore kangaroo boots with five-inch heels. In short, he was conservatively dressed for Sunset Boulevard.

  The teenage boy with him had dazzling real teeth, and wore a cotton safari shirt and faded jeans with belt loop legs that cost $130, hence were the most popular jeans in Baghdad. On the star’s other arm, completing the trio, was a buxom woman with a red bandana over her dark blond hair. She fidgeted with sunglasses which, of course, were on top of her head.

  “Well, whom can I talk with about this stupid arrest?” the movie star said to Bullets. “My nephew had a little angel dust. Big deal.”

  “You can talk to me, that’s whom,” Bullets Bambarella sighed, closing the book.

  “My nephew was arrested two hours ago and …”

  “Yeah, you said that,” Bullets yawned. “And I told you there ain’t no kiddie cops here right now. And your nephew ain’t here right now. So I guess there ain’t much I can do for ya.”

  “Look, Officer,” said the famous movie star. “My nephew was arrested because he was holding this angel dust for somebody else and my business manager was supposed to take care of this and if he doesn’t get here soon … Margo, take my car and go find that dumb shit.”

  Bullets watched the buxom lass and the movie star touch cheeks and kiss the air. Then she wriggled off to drive to the Sunset Strip and find the dumb shit.

  “I’ve got an uncle who’s a good friend of the district attorney and the chief of police,” said the famous movie star.

  “I got an uncle who’s a notary public,” Bullets Bambarella said. “How about givin me a break, fella. Come back later or somethin. Your nephew ain’t here.”

  “Do you know who you’re talking to?” said the young companion with dazzling teeth.

  “No,” said Bullets Bambarella, who was starting to get as pissed off as the famous movie star.

  “I don’t believe it,” the lad said to the movie star. “Do you believe it? I don’t believe it.” Then he turned to Bullets and said, “Have you ever been to a movie?”

  “Don’t tell me,” Bullets said. “He’s an actor. I shoulda guessed.”

  “I’m not wasting any more time with you. Get me your commanding officer,” the movie star said.

  “He ain’t here,” said Bullets.

  “Where is he?”

  “Captain Hooker’s off buying a yachting jacket,” Bullets said.

  “Is he a police captain or a sea captain?” the movie star snickered, causing his young companion to fall against him in a gush of giggles.

  “You an actor too?” Bullets asked the young man.

  “As a matter of fact he is,” the movie star said.

  Bullets examined the slender hips and torso of the young lad, who still had his hand on the movie star’s arm. The lad had a large head and a small delicate face.

  “Yeah, now I recognize ya,” said Bullets. “You’re one a Charlie’s Angels, ain’tcha?”

  Now the teenager was livid and looked as though he just might be crazy enough to attack Bullets Bambarella. “Bastard!” he said. “Ignorant bastard! I’ll have your badge!”

  Bullets then doubled his big fist and said, “Hey leading man, how’d you like me to make a character actor outta ya?”

  “You bastard!” the young man screamed, causing Clarence Cromwell to get up and come out from the squad room.

  “Bullets, gud-damn it, what’re you do-in?” Clarence demanded.

  “That bastard!” the young man shrieked while the movie star said, “Quiet down, Buddy, quiet down. Don’t let him get your goat. Remember, Buddy, sticks and stones, sticks and stones …”

  “Yeah and keep that in mind,” Bullets said, picking up a nightstick.

  “Who are these people?” Clarence demanded.

  “I dunno. Claim they’re actors. Look like a couple a interior dick-orators to me.”

  “I’ll have his badge, I’ll have his badge!” the young man sputtered.

  “Everybody quiet down!” said Clarence Cromwell, finally recognizing the famous actor. “You too, Bullets!”

  But it was too late. Bullets was having a good old time doing what he did best: causing a riot.

  “Hey, Clarence, I just thought a somethin,” Bullets giggled. Then he pointed to the movie star and said, “We oughtta book that man for burglary. Look at the age of his playmate. That’s illegal entry!”

  Captain Hooker came back in the station just in time to see the two actors raging at the reception desk, while Clarence Cromwell did his best to quiet everybody down. He’d had a long day and got the hell out because he recognized the famous actor immediately and started to get a headache thinking of the trouble this would cause him. Oh, God, is he the one nominated for an Academy Award?

  When Natalie Zimmerman came back and hurried to Hipless Hooker’s office, she saw no one but Bullets Bambarella waiting sulkily for Clarence Cromwell. When Clarence finally came storming into the captain’s office pointing a finger at Bullets Bambarella, Natalie knew that another day had passed.

  She could hear Bullets through the open door saying, “But Clarence, you just can’t please some people! Those two fruitcakes came in here and started pickin on me!”

  “SHUT UP, BULLETS!” Clarence yelled as everyone signed out quietly and went home, including Natalie Zimmerman, who left talking to her Friz.

  And Sergeant A.M. Valnikov had his police career extended for yet another day.

  The phone call was late. It came at 6:45 p.m. Madeline Whitfield had drunk seven cups of coffee and had not had a Scotch since early afternoon. She was stunned at her reserve of strength. She was cold sober.

  “This is Richard,” the voice said. Philo Skinner still spoke through a paper towel. Now he was talking from a telephone booth in a service station some three blocks from Skinner Kennels.

  “Yes. Yes! How’s Vickie?”

  “Vickie’s fine. When do I get the money?”

  “Please, you’ve got to listen to me, sir.”

  “When do I get the money?”

  “Sir. I’ve been thinking all afternoon of ways to make you understand. I’ve got to be blunt and honest. Lots of people like me live in these Pasadena mansions with barely enough to …”

  “When do I get the money, you lousy cunt!” Philo screamed into the mouthpiece. Then he got hold of himself, and looked around as though he could be heard by the passing cars in the early hours of night.

  Madeline was determined to be reasonable and calm no matter how the man terrified her. “Sir, if you could come here and talk to me face to face, I could explain to you. I could show you my financial records. You’d understand how it is. Eight-five thousand dollars! Why it’s …”

  “You rotten stingy cunt!” Philo Skinner was beside himself now. She could hardly understand him. “You want this bitch in one piece? You want this bitch alive? You … you … don’t try to pull that shit on me, you rotten cunt!”

  Madeline s
tarted to break, but only for a few seconds. The reserve of strength, where did it come from? A word from Edna Lofton at the Valley Hunt Club could set her off on a binge for three days, and yet, this very minute, with Vickie’s life in the balance, she could deal with this madman, with this criminal. Madeline Whitfield had some presence. Madeline Whitfield was starting to have a little regard for herself.

  “Please, listen to me,” Madeline said. “Sir, I … I’m sure I can get some money for you. I’m sure I can borrow ten thousand dollars. Believe me when I tell you that I have just a little over five thousand of my own that I can get my hands on quickly. I can borrow ten. You’ll have just over fifteen thousand dollars. I can get it for you by tomorrow. I can have it for you by the time the banks close tomorrow. I can …”

  “Okay, now you listen to me.” Philo had dropped the paper towel and was croaking into the mouthpiece. “I’m giving you until three o’clock tomorrow. When the banks close I’m calling you. You’re going to tell me where I can pick up the eighty-five thousand …”

  “Sir! Please believe me …”

  “Shut up!” Philo screamed. “Shut your fucking mouth!”

  When it was quiet Philo broke into a coughing spasm. Madeline heard the extortionist spit a wad of phlegm. Then he came back on the phone wheezing, and said, “If you don’t have some good news for me, I’m cutting off one toe of your precious bitch and I’m sending it to you.” Philo had seen that in a movie. “One toe at a time.”

  “Oh, please!” Madeline almost broke. Almost. She sat for a moment and took hold and said reasonably, “I’ll do what I can, sir. I’ll liquidate everything I can as quickly as possible. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “If you even think about calling the cops …”

  “I won’t call them, sir. I give you my word. Don’t hurt my Vickie. Please.”

  Philo was a nervous wreck when he got back to the kennel. He was late with the feeding. When he opened the door leading from the grooming room to the long rows of dog pens the animals went crazy.

  Jesus. Only twenty-five animals. It wasn’t his fault he had to resort to crime. He hadn’t so much as cheated on his income tax before now. Well, maybe a little, but he was no criminal. What could a man do? With economic conditions like they were, what could a man do? It wasn’t his fault.