The Black Marble

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “Sounds like you could get a bad case of emphysema, all that milkweed blowing through the air,” Natalie said, smiling at the waitress who set the last vodkas before them.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But, Natalie, the Paris of the North! Imagine a place with streets full of silky snowdrifts! In the hot August sun.”

  “I’m sure it’s fantastic,” she smiled, the warmest smile she had ever shown him, and it set his heart pounding. “Na zdorovye! That’s mel-looooooow!”

  “Ah, yes,” he agreed when the vodka was flowing through him.

  She looked at his dumb kid grin and said, “Why did you say your father died before your brother was born? That’s impossible, you know.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes, you did. The first day we worked together. You’ve been … okay today. But sometimes you say things like that.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Does vodka drinking make you … confused the next day?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “When did your father die?”

  “In 1941. I wasn’t quite eight years old.”

  “What did he do in this country?”

  “Anything he could,” Valnikov shrugged. “He never really learned much English. He had been a career soldier. He was a young captain in the czar’s army.”

  “I see,” Natalie said, feeling her speech getting thicker. “Do you think you meant his spirit died before your brother was born? Maybe during the Revolution when his whole world was going to hell?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember saying that.”

  “Do you ever notice your mind wandering? Maybe find it tough to understand or answer questions?” Natalie’s elbow slipped off the table and her face almost went in her plate.

  “I think you’ve had enough vodka,” Valnikov observed.

  “You got your case to solve, I got mine,” she said belligerently. “Let’s go to my place.”

  “Your place!”

  “No, on second thought, I can solve my place, I mean, case, better at your case, I mean place. Let’s go to your place.”

  “My place?”

  “You got any Russian vodka at your place?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think you should have any more.”

  “Okay, but I wanna go to your place. You gonna refuse a lady?”

  Valnikov drove bleary-eyed down the hill to the Sunset Strip, careful not to run over any kids eating raisins and nuts. He spotted a flower child in bib overalls and rubber fishing boots. The flower child was doing what flower children so often do on the Strip—selling flowers. Little bunches of forget-me-nots and violets.

  Valnikov weaved to the curb and jumped out of the car. When he came back he had a bunch of violets in his hand.

  “Maybe you won’t let me light your cigarettes, but you can’t refuse me this,” he said. “I’m not being chauvinistic or anything. Honest. It’s just that Russians love to give flowers.”

  “Valnikov,” she said, shaking her head and pressing the violets to her face. “You’re a crazy crazy man, do you know that? I’ll bet you would run into a burning house to save a bowl of goldfish.”

  When they were parked in front of Valnikov’s furnished rooms on Franklin Avenue, he got thinking how the bachelor apartment looked. The daybed was, of course, unmade. The underwear and socks were still strung from the cage to the door. The pile of dishes in the kitchen. My God! Were the toilet and sink clean?

  “Uh, Natalie, could you just sit here for a minute and finish your cigarette? Give me a couple minutes to straighten things out.”

  “You live upstairs, Valnikov?” she asked, a bit anxious about negotiating any stairway at this time. Now her fingers had feeling, but her toes were numb.

  “Number twelve, right at the top of the stairs and turn left. Just give me two minutes, okay?”

  “Two minutes,” Natalie said, rubbing her nose which also had lost feeling. Stolichnaya. Siberia. Oblivion.

  Valnikov didn’t take the stairs any too gracefully himself. He had lots of trouble finding the lock. Then he was in and running through the apartment, grabbing underwear and socks and dirty dishes. He tossed the underwear and socks in the oven and the dirty dishes in the refrigerator. He picked up dozens of loose records off the floor and stacked them on the tired and shabby coffee table. He pulled up the cover on the daybed, smoothed hastily over the lumpy sheets, tossed the sleeping pillow under the daybed and arranged some throw-pillows for atmosphere. Then he saw that two of the pillows had tomato soup on them. He put them on the floor and kicked them under the daybed too. He heard Natalie climbing the stairs with no little effort. He dashed in the bathroom and inspected the toilet, shower, and sink. Okay except there was toothpaste smeared all over the sink. He grabbed a bath towel, did a quick wipe of the sink and ran into the kitchen, tossing the towel in the refrigerator with the dirty dishes. He was out of breath when she knocked.

  Then he panicked for a second and ran to the seven-foot animal cage. Thank God! It didn’t look too bad.

  “Gavno,” said Misha to his master, who was indeed thinking about gavno on the cage floor.

  Valnikov threw open the door and held the screen door for her. “Welcome, Natalie,” he puffed. “I don’t get too many visitors, I’m afraid. But welcome!”

  Natalie weaved sideways as she crossed the room and sat on the only upholstered chair, cracking a loose record in three places.

  “Oh, sorry!” Valnikov said, when she jumped up. He picked up the broken disc and said, “Mussorgsky. Not one of my favorites anyway.”

  “That’s a lumpy-looking couch,” she said.

  “That’s a daybed,” said Valnikov. “Let me smooth it out.”

  “Why?” Natalie said suspiciously, missing the cigarette with her match again. “You think I’m going to lie on your bed?”

  “No!” Valnikov cried.

  At which time Natalie got up and sat on his daybed. “Lumpy,” she complained.

  “I can smooth it out,” he said quickly.

  “Not with me in it, pal,” she said.

  “Of course not!”

  “For chrissake, Valnikov, sit down!”

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “I’d like some vodka. Russian vodka.”

  “How about some tea?”

  “Well shove it, then! I can get vodka somewhere else!”

  “I’ll get you some vodka,” said Valnikov, disappearing into the kitchen.

  “How about some Gypsy music?” Natalie said, knocking the sparks from her cigarette all over his napless carpet. “Whoops!”

  “Voice or violin!” Valnikov yelled from the kitchen.

  “Both! Shoot the works!” Natalie said imperiously.

  While she brushed off the sparks from his daybed, Valnikov poured the vodka and selected the records. First balalaika. Why not? Then some folk music. Happy music. Then … Gypsy.

  When the first record played, Valnikov suddenly felt giddy and whimsical. He couldn’t remember when he’d had so much fun! He was standing in the middle of the floor with a half-empty vodka glass in his hand.

  The Russian baritone began with a lively song. Valnikov said, “It’s called ‘Kogda Ya Pyan.’” Then to her astonishment, Valnikov began a dance for her, translating the Russian lyric as he hopped and whirled.

  First the Russian baritone, followed by Valnikov translating: “I shall drink and drink … and I am always drunk … there is nothing I am afraid of …”

  “Sing it, Valnikov!” Natalie yelled, clapping her hands as Valnikov danced.

  The Russian and Valnikov sang: “There is nothing I am afraid of!”

  “Sing it, Valnikov!” Natalie ordered, spilling her vodka and pouring some more.

  Valnikov danced with his vodka glass tight in his teeth, no hands. Then Valnikov fell down on the daybed next to Natalie.

  He stripped off his suitcoat and unbuckled his gun belt. The gun and belt went flying into the overstuffed chair.

&nbs
p; “Wait a minute, Valnikov,” Natalie Zimmerman warned. “Keep the rest of your clothes on!”

  But Valnikov wasn’t even listening. He was up again. He loosened his tie and threw it off. He rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. Like many burly men, Valnikov was light on his feet. He began dancing to the lively beat of “Kak U Duba Starovo.”

  “Dance, Valnikov!” Natalie giggled while she clapped. When the song ended he fell on the daybed again.

  “That was terrific!” Natalie yelled. “You’re terrific!”

  “I am?”

  “You’re a terrific dancer!”

  Then a Gypsy woman, who sounded like a man, began singing. Valnikov turned serious and poured more Stolichnaya for both of them. Gypsies. God help us. Gypsies.

  “What is it, Valnikov?” she said.

  “I don’t know. I just get sad with the Gypsies.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I’m supposed to, probably.”

  “You’re a lousy American, Valnikov.”

  “Listen to this!”

  A Gypsy baritone began singing “Starinye Vals,” The Old Waltz.

  “That’s the most beautiful waltz I’ve ever heard,” said Natalie Zimmerman.

  “Do you waltz?” Valnikov asked.

  “Yes.”

  He went to the turntable and moved the arm back to the beginning of “Starinye Vals.” The Gypsy sang. Valnikov bowed and extended his arms. Natalie Zimmerman stood unsteadily and leaned toward him. He was a powerful leader. He led her gingerly around the debris in the tiny cluttered apartment while the Gypsy sang.

  “The snowstorm howls behind the windows,” Valnikov said, translating the lyric. “And no sound of the waltz is heard.”

  “Valnikov!” she said, and pulled away from him, sitting down on the lumpy daybed. “What’s happening to me!”

  “And I was young.” He translated the Gypsy’s lyric.

  “Valnikov!”

  “And I loved you so much!” he said, translating the lyric.

  “Do you have any more vodka? I’d like some more vodka!”

  “Of course,” he said politely, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Is the bathroom through this door, Valnikov?” she yelled while he was pouring the drinks.

  “You can’t miss it in this place,” he said. “It’s to the left.”

  She rinsed her face in cold water, dried, put on fresh lipstick and examined her watery eyes. My God, what’s happening to me? Valnikov’s a madman. But what’s the matter with me? When she returned a Gypsy woman was singing as though her heart were breaking. Valnikov was dancing drunkenly in the middle of the floor.

  “Valnikov, you’re so funny,” Natalie said while he swayed with the music. She was nearly as tall as he. “Stand up straight for once, why don’t you?”

  “I don’t care about standing straight,” he said, swaying to the music, eyes closed.

  “You’d be almost six feet tall if you’d stand straight,” Natalie said. “And you must weigh 220 pounds. You should be taller.”

  “I don’t care if I’m six feet tall,” Valnikov said, squatting on his haunches, trying some prisiadka kicks that put him temporarily on his ass.

  “Valnikov!” Natalie shrieked. “This is hysterical!”

  “The nightingales sang in the raspberry bushes!” Valnikov cried.

  “What?” She poured his glass full of vodka as he got up, dancing.

  “I said the nightingales sang in the raspberry bushes,” Valnikov said. “Who but a Russian would write a lyric like that?”

  And while a Gypsy baritone sang, Natalie smiled and said, “Is that what the song says?”

  “The leaves of the poplars rustled,” Valnikov translated. “In the leafv forest young girls greeted the horsemen with song.”

  “That’s what he’s singing?” Natalie demanded.

  Valnikov nodded and danced with his eyes closed.

  He opened his eyes when the Gypsy stopped singing. Valnikov replayed the Old Waltz. She stood before him with her arms beckoning. He took her and they waltzed, careful to avoid the cage and coffee table.

  “Tell me what the lyric says,” she whispered.

  “On a spring night an unknown voice sang the beautiful melody.” Valnikov talked while the Gypsy sang.

  “This is a lovely waltz,” Natalie whispered, as they whirled slowly in the tiny apartment.

  “Gavno!” said Misha, watching the dancers.

  “And I was so young,” Valnikov translated. “And I loved you so much!”

  “I’m awful mad at you for laying Mrs. Whitfield last night, Valnikov,” Natalie whispered as they waltzed.

  “You are?” he said, light-headed, dizzy.

  “Yes, I’m goddamn mad.”

  “Why, Natalie?”

  “Because you’re a police officer,” she snapped. “It reflects badly on the whole police department, damn it. Screwing on duty!”

  “I’m sorry, Natalie,” he said. “That was a very unusual night for me.”

  “I forgive you,” she said in his ear while the Gypsy sang. “What did that Gypsy say about nightingales, Valnikov?”

  “That the nightingales sing in the raspberry bushes,” Valnikov murmured against her cheek.

  “Damn right they do,” said Natalie Zimmerman, blowing her Friz out of her eyes. And suddenly kissing Valnikov’s burning earlobe.

  He was ecstatic. He never dared dream. “Natalie!” he cried.

  Then she cried: “Andrushka!”

  “What! What did you say!”

  “Andrushka!” She kissed him and bit his ear.

  The sound of her saying it nearly moved him to tears. “Natasha!” he cried.

  He was the most tender and unselfish lover she had ever known. He kissed her body everywhere and endlessly. He caressed her everywhere and endlessly. He whispered to her in Russian and English. She didn’t know if the words were his or the Gypsy’s who sang to them through it all. Natalie Zimmerman had four orgasms, only one less than she didn’t have all week with Captain Jack Packerton.

  Every few moments she cried: “Andrushka!”

  “Natasha!” he replied. “Oh, my Natasha!”

  “Andrushka!”

  At about the same moment that Natalie Zimmerman was having her fourth orgasm, Philo Skinner, who hadn’t had one in three months, was sitting in the little office beside the grooming room, drinking Canadian bourbon by the light of a desk lamp, doodling on a note pad, staring at the telephone.

  The whiskey was helping him to stop thinking about what he’d done. He wondered if she was able to sleep but he couldn’t bring himself to go back in the kennel and look at her. He had arrived at a decision.

  His Mexican tourist card had long since been arranged. There was a daily Mexicana Airlines flight at 3:00 p.m., a flight which would have him gliding over the subtropical paradise, over white beaches and warm ocean just after sunset, as he’d dreamed it. He wouldn’t have seventy thousand dollars as he’d dreamed it, but he wouldn’t have five thousand either. He was going to have twenty thousand. He was going to stiff Arnold and take the bundle and run. He smiled grimly and hoped the other bookmakers cut Arnold’s balls off. Let the kike and nigger come looking for Philo tomorrow afternoon. At about that time he’d be high over the Gulf of California. Drinking margaritas.

  Of course he could never come back to his country. That made him sad. But then, never is a long time. Maybe Arnold would die, the bloodsucker. Philo Skinner might be back one day. He’d take that twenty K and run it up ten times that much in two years. There were investments to be made in a country like Mexico, and he could outsmart any greaseball that ever lived. Philo Skinner would probably own half of Puerto Vallarta before long.

  Then as Philo drained the paper cup and started to pour some more bourbon he had a terrifying notion. Christ, what if she had second thoughts? What if she decided a one-eared dog was worth nothing to her? What if all that talk about Vickie being like a kid to her was just talk? What if s
he was really a celebrity-hungry cunt like most of them, who didn’t give a schnauzer’s shit about their animals as long as Philo made them win? Twenty thousand for a maimed animal? Why did he tell her he mutilated the schnauzer? Why did he mutilate the schnauzer? He’d never hurt an animal in his life!

  Before he’d made a conscious choice, Philo had the phone in his hand and was dialing the number he knew so well.

  She lay awake in the moonlight, on satin sheets damp with tears. She sensed who it was. Their conversation was grimly subdued this time. They were both exhausted.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s Richard.”

  “I know.”

  “Get dressed if you’re not. Get the money.”

  “All right.”

  “How big is the bundle?”

  “Not large.” It was surprising what a small bundle twenty thousand dollars made.

  “Can you put it in a shopping bag?”

  “Yes, easily,” she said.

  “Okay, put it in a shopping bag. No, a plastic bag. Do you have any plastic trash bags?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Put it in the plastic bag. Wrap the bag good and tape it shut. Make a neat bundle.”

  “Yes.”

  “Drive … let’s see … drive east on the Suicide Bridge. Drive slow.”

  “Yes.”

  “When you get to the east end of the bridge, toss the bundle out the passenger side of the car. Carefully. So it falls in the street.”

  “Yes.”

  “There shouldn’t be a single car on that bridge at this hour. Don’t most of you people in that area use the freeway instead of the old Suicide Bridge?”

  “Yes. There won’t be anyone on the bridge.”

  “If there is, if you see another car’s lights, don’t drop the money. Go home and wait for my call. Understand?”

  “Yes. When will you bring Vickie home?”

  “I won’t bring Vickie home. You’ll get a call from me tomorrow at noon. I’ll pick a safe place for Vickie near your home. Maybe a church or a public building. I’ll tie her up there and I’ll call you and tell you where.”

  “How is she?” Madeline stifled a sob, remembering the horror of that last call.