“Cops,” Philo gasped. “Cops.” He tried to get up but dropped to one knee, retching again. The second of his three polyester leisure suits, this one a cobalt blue, was absolutely drenched. Philo’s shoes squished when he got to his feet staggering against the phone booth.
“The cops’re coming, you coyote!” Bessie lied. “I hear the sirens. Now we’ll see what they do to coyotes that pick on ladies.”
“Cops,” Philo muttered. Then he was off in a loping, squishy retreat to his El Dorado, which was parked in the alley.
Philo Skinner had driven two blocks before he realized there were no red lights in his rearview mirror. He pulled to the curb and leaned out the window. His tortured lungs were half full of water. He lay back against the leather Cadillac seats and pressed on his scrawny chest trying to give himself artificial respiration. Then he leaned over and out the passenger door, and moaned, hoping the water would trickle out his mouth.
An old pensioner was pushing home a shopping cart full of groceries when he saw a half-drowned man leaning out the El Dorado. The pensioner stopped the shopping cart and shuffled over to Philo, looking down at him curiously. The Cadillac was dry but the man was soaked and dripping.
“Looks like you run yourself through a car wash, sonny,” the old man observed. “It’s the car you’re supposed to wash, not yourself.”
“Ooooooooooohhhhhh,” Philo Skinner moaned, sounding for all the world like Hipless Hooker with a bellyache.
“What’s the matter, boy?” the old man said, sucking on a lipload of snuff.
“Ooooooooohhhhhh,” Philo answered.
“Well, I gotta go, sonny,” the old snuff-dipper said. “I was you, next time I drive through the car wash, I’d call a lifeguard.”
And while Philo Skinner was wishing he had the strength to start his Cadillac and run over the cackling snuff-dipper, Mavis Skinner was embarked on a little investigation of her own.
That goddamn Philo was acting awful strange lately. She’d bet he was playing around with some little bird at the kennel. Probably had that Pattie Mae coming in every day for some stud service. Probably buying her pretties with what little money the kennel took in. Well, Mavis Skinner wasn’t going to put up with any little birds around her nest. She decided to pay Philo an unannounced visit.
She was disappointed not to find his car there. She unlocked the office and didn’t find any little birds nesting. There was nothing unusual but an uncommonly bad stench coming from the dog pens. Philo hadn’t been cleaning them like he said he was. The lazy asshole!
Then a station wagon pulled into the driveway. A man and a woman got out, leading a 110-pound German shepherd. They walked through the door in front of the animal, who carried his ears back and his tail tucked low. The enormous shepherd had an L-shaped scar over his right eye. His snout was crossed by another scar that drew a blue line from his eye to his scarred, curling lip. He had wary amber eyes. Mavis didn’t like him one goddamn bit.
“Yes?” she said to the smiling couple who were dressed like a Hawaiian vacation.
“We’d like to board our Walter for two weeks,” said the man. “We’re going on a Caribbean cruise. The whole family.” The thought of it made him grin wider.
“Well,” Mavis said, studying the fearsome beast, “we specialize in terriers here.”
“You only board terriers?”
“No, we board all breeds, but to tell the truth, sir, that looks like an attack dog to me.”
Then the woman stopped smiling and said in a high voice, “Oh, Walter’s rehabilitated.”
“Rehabilitated?”
“He used to be a guard dog, but that was years ago. Why, he’s a family pet. Our children ride him like a pony, and box his ears, and kiss him on the nose, and …”
“That dog’s been mistreated,” Mavis said, pointing at the scars. “I dunno …”
“Believe me,” the man said, releasing Walter’s lead, “this dog’s perfectly gentle. We’ve adopted four animals from the S.P.C.A. Walter’s our pride and joy. He’s been tamed with love. He’s a family pet.”
But Walter hadn’t always been a family pet and Mavis knew it by looking at him. He had been seized by court order five years before with thirteen other half-demented brutes, the property of another half-demented brute who owned a guard dog service and “trained” his animals with a three-foot length of ordinary garden hose, loaded with ordinary chunks of lead. Walter had a short unhappy career guarding industrial building sites before the court order brought him to the animal shelter and eventually to the home of the adopted parents who were determined to turn a snarling monster into a lap dog. And they did. He was seven years old now and it was the first time Walter had been away from his adopted family. It was the first time he was to be caged since his hateful formative time in guard dog service. Walter was indifferent to Mavis, but he didn’t like cages. Not at all. The bad old days.
“We’ll be glad to pay you a premium for taking Walter,” the man said, “although he’s perfectly safe to handle.”
“A premium,” she said. The magic word. Oh, what the hell.
So Walter had a new home temporarily. And it was to have a profound effect on Philo Skinner’s future. Destiny.
When Horst was finished with a very mediocre “Dance of the Comedians” he cleared his throat and Valnikov started to reach in his pocket.
“Wait,” Natalie said. “What’s he want, more money?”
“It’s okay, he’s worth it,” said Valnikov, but she put her hand on his arm and said, “We’ve had enough music. Don’t spend any more money.” Then she turned to the young man and said, “Thanks, kid, it was great.”
The bearded young fiddler shrugged and began putting away his instrument.
“He ever play for free?” Natalie asked, devouring her fourth cabbage roll. The bread was incredible with the cabbage rolls and butter.
“Well, no, but it’s all right.”
“A pre-med student, huh? He’s a future sawbones, all right. Get the money before the operation every time. Well, music or no music, it’s been a memorable lunch.”
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it, Natalie,” Valnikov said, gathering up their paper and leftovers. “You know, it’s almost end-of-watch. Time passed so fast today!”
Natalie Zimmerman was feeling even more miserable about everything during the drive to the station. Jesus, she had to do it. Nothing personal, Valnikov. You’re a decent guy. Nothing personal. It’s just that you’re nuts. Turn around now and let Natalie Zimmerman split your skull with a cleaver. Whack! Let your partner do it to you. It’s for the good of the police department, Captain. Valnikov is insane and anyone can see it if he spends more than an hour with the guy. But you see, sir, nobody spends any time with the poor slob. He’s a loner. Not even his brother can get a handle on him. He’s off and running, but if you corner him, sit him across the desk, get the doctor to start with the questions, you’ll see it. He’s on the verge of a breakdown. Hell, he’s already broken down. He’s … I don’t know … he’s limping along, Captain.
He can fool you sometimes. Because he’s considerate, and thoughtful. Yes, you were right, he is a gentleman, and no, not many partners I ever had were gentlemen, and … God! She thought of Valnikov talking with the old people. No, she couldn’t tell about spray-painting the little germ, because, God help her, she loved that. That’s the point. A madman can infect people with his madness if you’re with him long enough. You get a little crazy too. That’s the point!
“That’s the point,” she said. Damn! Now he had her talking to herself.
“What’s the point, Natalie?” Valnikov asked pleasantly, driving west on Fountain Avenue, into the sunset.
“Who knows,” she muttered. “What’s the point? Did you ever figure that out, Valnikov?” Now Natalie Zimmerman felt like crying because she didn’t want to do it and she had to do it. ‘What’s the point, Valnikov? All those things you talk about, all the killers you and Charlie Lightfoot hunted. All those murd
ered children. A Braille reading book. Was there any point, Valnikov?”
“There is no point, Natalie,” Valnikov said matter-of-factly, both hands tightening on the steering wheel, driving as always, fifteen miles per hour. “There’s no point and that’s the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“That there’s no point, Natalie. That’s the point.”
“Oh, Christ, Valnikov, let’s go home.”
“Okay, Natalie, we’re home.” And he wheeled into the police parking lot at Fountain and Wilcox.
Valnikov was just about ready to ask her to go to that movie when a man in a corduroy sport coat with leather elbow patches walked up to their car.
He was taller and younger than Valnikov. He looked like an average jock, maybe a college football coach. He wore a button-down blue shirt and regimental necktie. He had lots of teeth.
“Jack!” Natalie said. “What’re you doing here?”
“You’ve been wanting to see the musical at the Shubert? Well, guess who has tickets in the orchestra? That means an early dinner, so let’s just go from here.”
He threw his arm around her and kissed her cheek.
“Captain Packerton, meet my partner, Sergeant Valnikov,” she said. “Uh, Captain Packerton commands West Valley Station.”
“Pleased to meet you, Captain,” said Valnikov, smiling with very sad eyes.
“Valnikov,” Captain Packerton nodded, shaking hands perfunctorily. “Let’s go, Natalie. Your partner can check you out.”
“Jack, I’ve got to talk to Captain Hooker first. I can’t leave just yet.”
“Yes you can, Nat,” Captain Packerton said, and this time he pulled her brazenly into him. “I’ve already talked to your lieutenant. He knows you have a hot date. Balinkov here will be glad to clean up your paper work, won’t you, Balinkov?”
“Yes, Captain, I’ll be glad to,” said Valnikov, gathering up the work folders and case envelopes which had fallen out of his cheap plastic briefcase. Then the burly detective turned his back and began trudging toward the station. The vent in his old suitcoat had split and his handcuffs were hanging out. The threadbare suit now looked as though he’d taken it out of a washer.
“Jack, I simply must talk to Captain Hooker. It’s urgent.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
“I can’t talk about it. A personal problem.”
“Yeah? Well, it’s impossible anyway. He left with some black detective, I forget his name.”
“Clarence Cromwell.”
“Yeah, him. Something about a sale on fishing equipment at a discount store.”
“Goddamnit!”
“Talk to him in the morning. Let’s go to dinner and see the show. Then maybe to your place,” he grinned.
He swept her along toward his car, which was parked in front of the station on Fountain Avenue. They passed Valnikov, who was shuffling along thinking that maybe he’d buy a bottle of Stolichnaya and pick up a hamburger and listen to some records tonight. Like any other night. Maybe he’d listen to the great Chaliapin sing the death scene from Boris Godunov.
“See you around, Balinkov,” Captain Packerton said when they breezed by. He had his arm around Natalie’s waist and she was having trouble matching his long strides.
She turned and looked at Valnikov, who smiled his dumb kid smile and waved his plastic briefcase, and lumbered into the station, watching the ground as he walked.
“Phone call came in for you, Val,” Max Haffenkamp said when Valnikov sat heavily at the burglary table. Next to the empty chair belonging to Natalie Zimmerman.
“Thanks, Max,” Valnikov said, looking at the number which seemed familiar. Of course. It was that Pasadena number he called today.
“Broad sounded like she mighta been crying,” Max Haffenkamp said.
“Crying,” Valnikov mumbled. A little vodka tonight. A little music. The death of Boris Godunov. Natalie seemed genuinely to like the music today. She could learn about music very quickly. She had a good mind and was a sympathetic person, you could tell. She and that Captain Packerton made a handsome couple. They were probably going to get married or something. Stolichnaya.
“She said the call was very important, Val,” said Max Haffenkamp.
“Sure,” Valnikov said. “I’ll call her right away.” He misdialed the number twice. He couldn’t help thinking of how Natalie looked when she smiled. She had only smiled twice in the three days they’d been partners. She didn’t smile much, but when she did …
“Hello?” the voice cried.
“This is Sergeant Valnikov, ma’am.”
“Sergeant!”
“Yes.”
“I have to see you at once!”
“At once?”
“Sergeant, I’m in trouble. Terrible trouble. I haven’t been honest with you. Oh, God!”
“Trouble?”
“Sergeant, you have to come to my house. I lied to you. My schnauzer, my Vickie, was stolen from me Sunday at the dog show. And a man has been calling me. He wants a great amount of money to return Vickie. Please come!”
“How much does he want?”
“Eighty-five thousand dollars!” she cried.
“For a dog?”
“Yes,” she cried. “It’s insane. I mean I don’t have it. If I had it I’d give it to him.”
“You’d give him eighty-five thousand dollars?”
“Yes! Yes! But I don’t have it! I don’t …”
“One moment, please,” said Valnikov. He opened his work folder to the theft report from the Brown Derby. It was getting confusing. “Ma’am,” he said. “I have a theft report from a restaurant in Hollywood. You say your dog was stolen at a dog show?”
“Yes!”
“Where was the dog show?”
“The Sports Arena!”
“That’s in Southwest Division, ma’am.”
“I don’t know about such things,” she cried. “Please, I need help!”
“Yes,” Valnikov said. “I’ll get you some help, but first I have to know who to call. Let’s see, your dog was stolen in Southwest. A man is extorting you by telephone at your home?”
“I thought about the F.B.I., Sergeant!”
“Yes, well they do get involved in kidnapping, ma’am. But I don’t believe the Little Lindbergh Law applies to Scotties.”
“Schnauzers.”
“Not even to schnauzers, ma’am,” Valnikov said patiently.
“I NEED HELP!” Madeline wailed.
“Let me call you right back, Mrs. Whitfield,” said Valnikov. “Just stay calm and I’ll call you right back.”
When Valnikov did his best to explain the complicated problem of Madeline Whitfield to Woodenlips Mockett, the lieutenant started to get a stomachache like Captain Hooker’s.
“Could you go over the whole thing one more time, Valnikov?” said Lieutenant Meckett, feeling the stomachache worsen. “Start with the dog theft at the Brown Derby.”
And he did. Again. When Valnikov was finished with the story, Lieutenant Mockett showed his expertise at civil service. He could pass the buck with the best of them.
“It’s simple. We don’t have to handle it!” Lieutenant Mockett cried, and his woodenlips almost grinned in triumph.
“I realize, Lieutenant, that the dog theft took place at the Sports Arena,” said Valnikov slowly.
“That’s Southwest Division. They can handle it,” said Lieutenant Mockett quickly.
“And the extortion took place in Pasadena. At least the calls are received in Pasadena.”
“Let Pasadena P.D. handle it,” Lieutenant Mockett said quickly.
“Except that the jurisdiction from where the original crime emanates should handle the entire crime,” said Valnikov.
“That’s Southwest Detectives. That’s Southwest!” Lieutenant Mockett cried. “The dog was snatched from the Sports Arena!”
“Yes, sir,” Valnikov said, blinking patiently, “but this lady seems to believe that the dog they switched on he
r was definitely of championship caliber. And there’s only one dog like that reported missing in the entire Los Angeles basin. And that’s the dog that was stolen from the Brown Derby. So maybe Mrs. Whitfield is on to something. Maybe the extortionist did steal Mrs. Gharoujian’s schnauzer as the first step in his extortion plan. If so, Hollywood Detectives would probably be the jurisdiction to follow through on the entire investigation. And that dog theft at the Brown Derby belongs to me.”
Lieutenant Mockett was quiet for a minute as the psychosomatic stomachache worsened. Then he said, “You actually want to handle the case, Valnikov? A dognapping? Don’t you have enough to do?”
“Well, I’ve been involved on the periphery and … well, the poor woman sounds so desperate.”
“A dognapping. And you want to handle it,” said Lieutenant Mockett, who could not understand why anyone under any circumstances would want to do work he didn’t have to do. “You must be nuts, Valnikov.”
And at last, someone agreed with Natalie Zimmerman, who was not present to hear it.
“Well, sir, I don’t have anything else to do tonight.”
“No overtime, Valnikov,” Woodenlips Mockett warned. “The commander’s been bitching about paying overtime. No overtime. That’s out.”
“I won’t put in for overtime, Lieutenant,” Valnikov promised.
“You won’t put in for overtime?” cried Woodenlips Mockett. “You must be nuts, Valnikov!”
“Yes, sir,” said Valnikov. “So if it’s okay, I’ll drive to Pasadena now and be present when the extortionist calls.”
“I got a feeling we shouldn’t get involved in this. It’s always best never to get involved in cases unless you’re absolutely sure you can’t get out of it. I just wish I knew for sure the dead dog is the one stolen from Hollywood.”
“Tell you what, Lieutenant. I’ll find out somehow. And if it turns out the dead dog isn’t the one belonging to Mrs. Gharoujian, I’ll turn the case over to Southwest Detectives.”
“Okay, okay,” Lieutenant Mockett said, holding his psychosomatic stomach. “Do you have an Alka-Seltzer? Does anybody have an Alka-Seltzer? Ooooohhhh!”
The Black Marble Page 23
