Then the whimpering beside him made him look down at the mutilated schnauzer. “You … you’re under arrest,” Valnikov gasped.
“You … you catch me first,” Philo wheezed, picking up the suitcase, shocked to discover that he couldn’t lift it with one hand now.
“Don’t … don’t,” Valnikov said, feeling himself getting dizzy again. “Give up, Skinner. Give up.”
Philo almost vomited again when he looked at his bloodstained crotch. Please let it be there, God! Oh, please! He found that he could pick up the lightweight suitcase if he used both hands. The last thing he said to Valnikov was: “You tell them … tell them that Philo Skinner never … never hurt an animal in his life!”
Then while Valnikov tried to scale the last wall of steel mesh, he heard Philo in the doorway grunting and wheezing as he picked up the flight bag, dragging the suitcase with one hand. He heard glass breaking as Philo made his way through the debris in the grooming room.
Valnikov was sick and reeling from vertigo when he reached the top bar. He knew he had one surge left, only one. He yelled and felt like the blood would burst from his nose as he pulled his heavy body up, up, until his bloody fingers gripped. He kicked and lunged and got his toe hooked over the top. He couldn’t rest. He had to keep the momentum of the last surge. It helped to yell, with the bellowing dogs, and then he was balancing on the top. But there was nothing left. He couldn’t climb down, he couldn’t hang and drop, he just had to risk it. He let his feet fall and followed with the rest of his bulk and dropped stiff-legged, sending a shock through his skull. Then he fell on his back and lay there.
The dogs seemed quieter now, and then he heard the engine of the El Dorado grinding. Philo Skinner in his panic had flooded the engine. Valnikov looked at Vickie still huddled in panic and terror. Poor thing, he thought. Poor tortured little …
“Now now, Vickie,” he said. “Now now. You’re going home.”
Philo Skinner sobbed in desperation, turned off the key, and forced himself to sit while the carburetor drained. He looked at his face in the rearview mirror and couldn’t believe what he saw. He’d seen starved scabby mongrels that looked better. The mucus clotted in his windpipe and he gagged.
Valnikov staggered down the long aisle between the animals, determined not to faint, forgetting for a moment who he was pursuing and why. He reached the door before Philo tried again. If Philo had turned and seen the detective, with his trousers flapping in shreds, one coat sleeve totally gone and the other hanging from the elbow, the detective with his face grimy and caked with blood and dog food, Philo might have panicked and flooded the El Dorado again. But he didn’t even see his pursuer staggering toward his Cadillac. He looked at the ignition and turned it. The engine roared.
Philo screamed with joy and squealed away, never seeing the relentless bloody crab falling on his face in the parking lot of Philo Skinner, Terrier King.
15
Paradise
Philo Skinner was halfway to the airport before he had even a remote idea of what he was doing. It wasn’t the incredible exhaustion, nor the horror, nor the pain that revived him. It was the smell. The smell of stale sweat, the smell of blood and fear. Mostly it was the smell of dog shit. Philo Skinner had excrement in his hair, on his pants, on his bare chest. It was mashed into the hair of his armpits where the clothing was torn away. It was even in his pockets!
Philo turned off the San Diego Freeway and drove aimlessly for twenty minutes in an area he didn’t know. Then he found a public park. He circled the park several times until he found a rest room. He parked the car in the shade of an elm tree and when there were no passersby in sight, he got out of the car and hobbled across the green expanse toward the park rest room, dragging both suitcase and flight bag.
Five minutes later, Philo Skinner was standing stark naked in the rest room, bathing himself with paper towels and harsh hand soap in one of two rusty sinks. He cried out often and sobbed in relief when he got all the dried blood off his wounded genitalia and saw it was still there. But it would be out of action a long long time. The foreskin was ripped and already swollen purple. His testicles were still intact, but his upper thighs on both sides were mangled and still bleeding. He knew he needed suturing. Philo Skinner had doctored many injured dogs in his time and had a very good idea of what dog bites could do. His hands were a bloody mess, as were his knees and chest. One eye was blue and green and swollen shut and he knew he would need more sutures behind his ear where he could hardly stem the flow of blood.
Philo urinated in the sink and cried out in pain. Then he opened the suitcase and used two of his brand-new thirty-dollar body shirts as diapers. He couldn’t afford to arouse suspicion by bleeding all over the seats in the airport lounge. He tied both shirts around him like loincloths, put on the new pants and cursed because he had bought them so stylishly tight. Like everything else it had seemed like a good idea at the time. He put on the jacket of his new leisure suit and planned to keep it buttoned since both new shirts were wrapping his groin. This left him without shirt, socks and shoes, as there was no way he could use his time and waning energy to clean the blood and feces from his imitation alligators.
Fifteen minutes later, a clerk in a men’s store just off the San Diego Freeway was surprised to see a man who looked like he just played goalie without a mask stroll into the store barefoot and shirtless. The customer was easy to please, and didn’t even care that the patent-leather shoes failed to coordinate with the leisure suit.
The clerk noticed that the man’s flesh was gray where he wasn’t bruised, and that a trickle of blood leaked down behind his ear. Philo noticed too and bought a dozen handkerchiefs which he jammed in his pockets. He paid in cash and limped out of the store, pausing in the doorway to double up in pain. Then he went next door to a liquor store and bought four packs of Camels which he figured would see him through the next twelve hours.
At 2:00 p.m. Philo Skinner was limping up to the Mexicana Airlines desk at Los Angeles International. He dabbed often at the flow of blood behind his ear. It would stop temporarily and then start leaking. He felt soppy between his legs and knew he was bleeding again down there. Philo Skinner knew he was hurt.
When he put the flight bag through the x-ray he panicked for a second. Did he leave his ballpoint pen in there? Was there any metal in there which might cause them to open it? He was ready to faint when he got through the x-ray check. A woman in a uniform handed him his flight bag.
Each step was agony now. Philo was limping to his terminal when he spotted a skycap carrying some bags toward the front.
“Hey, pal,” Philo croaked. “If you’ll run quick and get a wheelchair and help me to my gate, I’ll give you twenty bucks.”
The skycap looked at Philo’s battered, sweaty, gray face and said, “Man, you’re hurtin. You better let me git you a doctor!”
“Hey, I just had a little traffic accident, that’s all,” Philo wheezed. “I been checked and I’m okay. Look, get that wheelchair and it’s worth thirty bucks.”
“Okay,” the skycap said. “Be back in five minutes.”
Philo sat and waited and watched passengers being checked for guns and bombs and wished he had a gun or bomb. He’d come this far. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to make it. He’d rather be dead than go to prison. He felt so sick he thought he might die. He wanted to die in Puerto Vallarta. To die with his dream. In paradise.
“Ready, mister?” the skycap said and Philo opened his eyes. The skycap was standing there with a wheelchair.
“Yeah,” Philo said. “Could you do me one more favor? Light me a cigarette. I ain’t got a match.”
The skycap wheeled Philo, smoking and coughing, through the terminal to his gate. The skycap was reluctant to leave Philo.
“Hey, you sure you oughtta be takin this flight?” the skycap paid. “They ain’t gonna let you on this flight, bad as you look. Not if you can’t make it on your own.”
“I’ll make it,” Philo said, giving th
e skycap two twenties. “Keep the change,” Philo said. It was the biggest tip he ever gave in his life.
“Anything else I can do, mister?”
“One more thing, pal,” Philo croaked. “Use a couple bucks a that tip and bring me a drink. Straight whiskey. Put it in a paper cup or something so you can get it here.”
“You got it, mister,” said the skycap, who was gone and back in five minutes.
Just a moment before the public address system announced that the 3:00 p.m. Mexicana Airlines flight was boarding, Philo Skinner had stemmed the blood behind his ear. He had dabbed at his face with what was left of his dozen handkerchiefs. The sweat would alert them to his condition more than the swollen battered face. He put on his bubble sunglasses and looked down, frightened to see a tiny bloodstain starting on the crotch of his polyester pants. Why had he picked a cream-colored suit? Why couldn’t he have picked red? Why couldn’t he have done a lot of things?
Why did he always have to pick the black marble?
When he hobbled toward the Mexicana jet, he said, as casually as possible to a young man who looked like a student on holiday, “Hey, pal, how bout letting me just lean on your arm when we board this plane? See, I had this car accident and I’m not feeling too good.”
The stewardess assigning the seats said, “Are you all right, señor?”
The handkerchief, wiping his face every few seconds, couldn’t keep it dry. The pain was so terrifying that the sweat poured with every step. “I’ll be okay, soon as you fix me a margarita,” Philo grinned. “I had a car accident this morning but the doc says I’m fine. Just bring that margarita as soon as you can.”
“I’m sorry, señor, but we are out of margarita mix.”
“No margarita?” Philo croaked, limping down the aisle to his seat in first class.
“I can feex you a nice Bloody Mary,” she smiled.
“Blood,” said Phil. “Just a bourbon and water.”
“Right after takeoff, señor,” she said.
“Right after takeoff,” said Philo Skinner, his mouth as dry as a tomb.
Valnikov was never fully unconscious. He was never fully conscious either. He saw Clarence Cromwell in the hospital room. And Hipless Hooker. He didn’t see Natalie. They were talking to him. He couldn’t understand everything they said. Clarence kept grinning and patting Valnikov gently on the arm and saying, “They don’t make em like this no more. Fuckin kids with peanut balls think they’re cops!”
Then Hipless Hooker left, but Clarence stayed.
“Did you get Skinner, Clarence?” Valnikov said, coming out of the sedative mist. He had been in some trackless wasteland, it seemed. But at least it wasn’t Siberia.
“We’ll git him, Val,” Clarence said. “Don’t you worry, we gonna git that sucker. The little dog’s back with her momma at least. She called about you, maybe ten times. Wants to send you flowers and visit you and have the chief give you a medal or a ticker-tape parade or somethin. Last time she called she said for me to say to you that Vickie’s gonna be okay and that she’s gonna be okay too. Whatever that means.”
“I think she will be okay,” Valnikov nodded. “Did Natalie call?”
“She, uh, she sends her … wishes for uh … you to git well. I called your brother, but the doc says no visitors till tomorrow. I figured I ain’t exactly a visitor and I knew you’d wanna know what’s goin on when you came around.”
“Do I have a phone in here, Clarence?”
“Course you got a phone, fool!” Clarence grinned. “You think I’m gonna let them put a ace detective in a room without a phone?”
“Dial Natalie for me, will you?”
“I don’t know her number.”
“Sure you do. You have all our phone numbers in your little notebook. The one in your coat pocket.”
“Oh, yeah,” Clarence said glumly, taking out the notebook.
While he dialed, Valnikov touched his head. It was swathed in a bandage that covered his left ear. Some hair stuck out on top. He had some pain in his knee, and his shoulder and ribs hurt, but he didn’t really feel as much pain as he expected.
“Natalie?” said Clarence, scowling. “This is me, Clarence. Jist a minute.”
He handed the phone to Valnikov, who took it and said, “Natalie?”
“Valnikov!” she said, “I was worried! How are you? They said for us not to visit you until tomorrow! I would’ve come!”
“I know you would, Natalie,” Valnikov smiled. “How are you?”
“We heard you have a concussion. And there was gunfire! A dead dog. Did you shoot him?”
“No, Skinner did. Natalie, are you … well, when do you leave for Hawaii?”
“Valnikov,” she said softly, then the phone was quiet. In the background Valnikov heard the voice of Captain Jack Packerton saying, ‘Who’s that, Natalie? Who’re you talking to?”
“My partner,” she said. Then to Valnikov: “We moved up our plans. We’re going tomorrow. We had our reservations changed. It was tough to do, but we were told that in two weeks there might be too much rain in that part of Kauai. Rain would ruin our vacation.”
“Yes, of course,” Valnikov said.
“Clarence Cromwell fixed it so I could leave tomorrow.”
“Yes, he’s a good man to work for,” said Valnikov.
“I wouldn’t have gone without checking on you though. I was going to stop tomorrow to see you. Our flight isn’t until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes, that’s the best time to fly,” said Valnikov.
“Well, I better let you rest. You take care, huh? Would you like to have visitors tomorrow? I could bring some books or …”
“No, I don’t think so, Natalie. I think I’ll just rest tomorrow. You have a good time in Hawaii, okay?”
“Okay, Valnikov. Be seeing you.”
“Be seeing you,” he said, handing the phone to Clarence, who hung it up.
Clarence said, “Hey, guess what? I decided I’m gettin sick and tired a sittin around on my ass runnin that division. I wanna do some detective work again. I was hopin you and me might team up a few days a week. Couple a real ball-bustin cops! How bout that!”
“Great, Clarence,” Valnikov mumbled. “Sounds great.”
“Okay, you git some sleep now, hear? I’ll come see you tomorrow. Doc says he’s on’y gonna keep you maybe a day or so. Git some sleep, hear?”
“What time is it?”
“Ten o’clock,” Clarence said.
“Night or morning?”
“Night. This is still Thursday. All you lost is an afternoon.”
“That’s all I lost,” said Valnikov.
Philo Skinner didn’t come soaring in over white beaches and crashing surf at sunset. It was after dark when they touched down, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Philo Skinner was slumped in his seat, with his head on a bloody pillow, trying to keep from vomiting. He was burning with fever and making all the first-class passengers around him sick by coughing up endless phlegm balls and spitting into a towel.
The stewardess had not noticed the serious condition of the gray feverish man until they had passed the point of no return. She advised the pilot, who came back to talk to him.
Philo nodded in answer to most of the questions. “I got in a car accident yesterday. Been in the hospital but I’m okay. I’m okay, god-damnit!”
At one point, while Philo slept fitfully, moaning in pain, the stewardess gently removed the flight bag from his lap and put it on the floor under him. The battered man had not released his death grip on the flight bag since boarding. She was afraid of it. Some sophisticated explosives could get by the detector. She opened the flight bag and then closed it quickly and took it forward to the captain, who asked that a radio message be relayed to Los Angeles. The captain believed they had a wounded bank robber aboard.
There was an ambulance waiting when the plane touched down. At about the same time that Valnikov lay staring at the ceiling in the police ward at Central Receiving Hospi
tal, Philo Skinner was being admitted to the Hospital Seguro Social. Philo had not seen the beach and surf nor even the sunshine in Puerto Vallarta. Philo’s fever was more than 104 degrees, though they measured it in centigrade and only translated it to Fahrenheit when he demanded to know. Philo Skinner requested that someone from the American consulate be brought to him immediately.
Philo had been asleep for hours but was awakened by a throbbing in his penis. The throbbing became warm, then white hot. He cried out and a young man walked in. The man was in street clothes. He was short and slender, had a small moustache and black hair bright and shiny under the white light.
“I am Doctor Rivera,” he said in nearly unaccented English.
“It hurts,” Philo sobbed. “Down here.” He had to reach with his right arm since the other contained an intravenous needle. He patted the bandages between his legs. “Is it … Oh, please! Is it …?”
“Still there?” the doctor smiled. “It is still there, Mr. Skinner. But you have been mauled pretty badly. You won’t be having much of a sex life for a while, but yes, it is all still there.”
“Thank God,” Philo sobbed. “Doctor, I hurt!”
“You are urinating,” the doctor said. “I had to put a catheter in you. You are a sick man, Mr. Skinner.”
“Where’s my … my flight bag?” Philo croaked.
“Mexicana Airlines has seized your flight bag, Mr. Skinner,” the young doctor said. “There is a receipt for almost twenty thousand dollars from Mexicana Airlines. They have seized your flight bag pending an investigation with the American authorities.”
“Oh, God!” Philo cried.
“Tell me, Mr. Skinner,” the young doctor said, curiously, “are you a bank robber or what?”
“Oh, God!” Philo cried.
“You may as well satisfy my curiosity,” the doctor shrugged. “I am sure the Los Angeles Police or the F.B.I. or someone is after you. A man with animal bites and multiple contusions and lacerations? A man with a bag full of money? We have a little … how do you say … lottery going on. Some of the doctors and nurses think you are a bank robber. But I don’t think banks employ police dogs in Los Angeles. I went to Loma Linda University and I never saw a police dog in a Los Angeles bank.”
The Black Marble Page 34
