“Oh, God, a lottery!” Philo cried. He who lives by the bookmaker …
“I think you are a safe … how do you say?”
“Cracker,” Philo croaked.
“Yes, a safecracker. I think that you were cracking a safe and a watchman turned a dog loose on you and … tell me, Mr. Skinner, did you kill someone? A watchman maybe?”
Then while Philo was looking around the little hospital room at the Friday morning sky over Puerto Vallarta, at the smiling young doctor with eyes as brown as a dog’s, with eyes as oval and brown as …
“I killed Tutu,” Philo said.
“You what?”
“I KILLED TUTU!” Philo wailed, hollow-eyed and frightful. “And I cut Vickie’s ear off! And I shot … I shot …” But Philo couldn’t continue. His tears were scalding. Philo Skinner’s long bony frame was heaving and shaking the bed. Philo Skinner only stopped crying when he broke into a coughing spasm that almost strangled him.
A nurse came running in and the doctor said something in Spanish.
“Lean forward, a little, Mr. Skinner,” the doctor said. “Here, spit the phlegm in this tray.”
When Philo lay back on the pillow he could hardly see them through the tears. The nurse wiped his eyes and his mouth and said something in Spanish to the doctor.
The doctor’s oval eyes were round and electric now. Nobody was going to win this lottery! A mass murderer!
“Do you want to tell me about it, Mr. Skinner?” the doctor said. “You killed how many? And you cut off an ear?” The doctor couldn’t wait to tell the staff. The skinny gringo was another Charles Manson!
“Please, Doctor,” Philo sobbed. “I don’t wanna die here. I don’t wanna die in this foreign country.”
“You are not going to die, Mr. Skinner.”
“I don’t wanna live in a foreign country!” Philo cried.
“You are full of infection and you have lost blood and I believe you have a fairly serious lung disorder, but …”
“I wanna go home!” Philo wailed. “Call the Los Angeles cops, Doctor. Tell them to get me home.”
“Yes, but about all those you killed, can you tell me …”
“I’m an American,” Philo Skinner sobbed. “I wanna go home!”
16
Byzantine Eyes
On Friday, Valnikov got out of bed before noon and walked unsteadily around the room. Then he phoned his brother and told him to go to the apartment and bring him some clothes.
At 1:30 p.m. Alex Valnikov had come and gone, and his younger brother was walking around the ward in poplin slacks and an old sport shirt.
At 2:00 p.m. a nurse complained to a doctor that Sergeant Valnikov was checking out of the hospital whether they liked it or not.
At 2:30 p.m. Hipless Hooker called Valnikov’s room and ordered him to listen to his doctor.
At 2:33 p.m. Sergeant Valnikov informed Hipless Hooker politely that he had just retired from the Los Angeles Police Department and that Captain Hooker could start processing his retirement papers.
At 5:30 p.m., just after a blazing winter sunset in Los Angeles, Valnikov was sitting on the steps by the reflecting pool at the Los Angeles Music Center, listening to Horst, the fiddler, play Rimsky-Korsakov. Fifteen bucks’ worth.
Horst was getting tired. There was no one left at this time of day except this guy with the turban bandage who wanted Russian music. Horst asked him what happened to his head, but the guy just said, “An accident.”
Horst was happy to take the guy’s bread, but the fifteen bucks’ worth had just about run out and Horst had exhausted his Russian repertoire and didn’t want to start over again.
Valnikov sat with his back to Hope Street. He listened to a Gypsy violin and stared at the melancholy tableau of a fiddler, and beyond, in the dusk, the courthouse and the knight in chain mail with his hopeful document wrested from King John.
Then Valnikov heard a familiar voice: “They tell me it’s raining in Kauai.”
Valnikov turned and cried: “Natalie!”
“Sit down, don’t get up,” she said. “Oh, he hurt you! Oh!”
“Hurt? Hurt?” Valnikov cried, with the biggest dumbest smile she’d ever seen on him. “I’m fine! I’m swell!”
Then Natalie walked over to Horst, the fiddler, and said, “Your motor still running, Horst?”
“Huh?”
“We got any music left for the loot he’s laid on you?”
“This is it, lady, I gotta go home.”
Natalie Zimmerman took a twenty out of her purse and said, “Rev it up, Horst. Until this is gone.”
“Okay, lady,” Horst grinned. “Whadda ya wanna hear?”
“Gypsy,” she said. “Russian Gypsy.”
“Jesus, more Russian? Does it have to be Russian?”
“If you want the grease for your crank,” she said, brushing her Friz out of her eyes.
“How about ‘Ochi Chornyia’?” Horst suggested. “You know, ‘Dark Eyes’?”
“Okay, Horst, give us a shot of ‘Dark Eyes’,” she said, going back to Valnikov, who was standing on the steps, looking like a quiz show contestant.
“Sit down and rest yourself,” Natalie said, forcing him down on the steps. “You shouldn’t even be here. I heard you walked out of the hospital. I heard you retired. Was that for real?”
“I’ve had enough,” he said. “But you? You’re not going to Hawaii?”
“Waste of money,” she said. “I think I’d rather invest my savings in a music store or something.”
As Horst burst into twenty bucks’ worth of “Ochi Chornyia,” Natalie moved close to Valnikov and said, “Do you know the lyrics to this one?”
“I can speak them to you,” he said. “I’m not in very good voice but …”
Then Natalie moved even closer. He looked at her big goofy glasses, at her brown eyes behind them, and translated from the Russian. “Dark eyes, passionate eyes, fiery and beautiful eyes. How I love you …”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Go on.”
“The rest of the song is sad, like all Gypsy songs,” he said joyfully.
“Then don’t tell it to me,” she said. “We’ll settle for that part.”
“You have eyes like the Virgin on the ikon,” he said. “The Byzantine eyes. The sweet Byzantine eyes!”
She put her head on his shoulder and those Byzantine eyes started to fill up while Horst played and eavesdropped.
“I thought I’d picked the black marble,” Valnikov said.
“I don’t wanna be like Charlie Lightfoot,” Natalie said.
“You’re not anything like Charlie Lightfoot,” Valnikov said.
“Andrushka!” Natalie said, and it melted him.
He kissed her gently. She kissed him passionately. Then they lay back across the steps while Horst pretended to look elsewhere.
They faced Hope Street and kissed to a Gypsy violin.
“Andrushka!” she cried.
“Natasha!” he cried.
Then Horst got awfully nervous and started looking around. It was dark now, thank goodness. Good thing there weren’t any bystanders around. Still, there was a lot of light from the reflecting pool.
“Hey, lady, I can’t afford to get in trouble with the management around here,” said Horst.
Natalie broke the kiss to say, “Keep it in gear, Horst.”
Horst thought of the twenty scoots and kept playing. But finally they were getting too playful.
“Hey!” he said, stopping the music. “Why don’t you two go to a motel or something? I’ll refund part of your money.”
Valnikov didn’t even hear him. Valnikov was hearing nightingales singing in the raspberry bush. Natalie didn’t break their kiss but she felt for her purse. She pulled out her service revolver and put it on the step beside her. Then she broke the kiss.
“How would you like a hole in your fiddle, Horst?”
“My God, lady! My God!” Horst cried. “That’s a gun! Hey, lady! I don’t want any tr
ouble! Hey, lady!”
“Then you better crank it on, kid,” Natalie said, tapping the revolver, biting on Valnikov’s lower lip until they were lost in another interminable kiss.
Horst was so scared he could hardly finger the violin. His fingers were so sweaty they were slipping off the strings. Every time he thought about picking up his top hat full of money, and the violin case, and folding chair, and running like hell, he’d look at the gun lying there beside the two lust-crazed maniacs.
“Hey, lady!” Horst cried, playing an off-key “Ochi Chornyia.” “Gimme a break!”
Then he looked in the shadows and saw their hands roving, caressing. Heard the kisses and moaning.
“Oh, Andrushka!”
“My Natasha!”
“You two oughtta be ashamed!” Horst whined, still playing. “A cop might come along and think I’m involved in this.” Then he looked at the gun. “In fact I wish a cop would come along!”
“Andrushka!” Natalie cried.
“Natasha!”
“And they say my generation’s going to hell,” Horst whimpered.
Horst stole one last glance at the gun, gleaming malevolently by the light from the reflecting pool. Horst suddenly felt he might wet his pants. Why is there never a cop in this town when you need one? Horst looked at the madman with her. Christ, his head was all swathed in a bandage turban. He probably just had a lobotomy. No sense even trying to talk to him. And the female thug with the gun was obviously more dangerous.
So there was nothing to do but play “Ochi Chornyia” until they either shot him dead or let him go. Horst locked his knees and concentrated on controlling his bladder and played his violin gamely.
All he ever wanted to do was become a doctor and help people. And maybe make twenty grand a year on unreported fees he didn’t have to claim on his income tax so he could buy a Porsche Turbo. And maybe pad the medicare statements here and there to make enough to buy a ski boat with a 454 Chevy engine. Jesus, he was a humanitarian!
His bladder was about to explode. Horst groaned and looked at the night sky and concentrated on one brave star which had penetrated the smog. Horst whined aloud to that hopeful star. Horst asked the timeless, universal, unanswerable question. “Why do I always have to pick the black marble?”
The lovers never heard him. They heard a Gypsy violin, and Russian nightingales and their hammering hearts.
“Andrushka!”
“My Natasha!”
“Oh, Andrushka!”
HARBOR
NOCTURNE
Joseph Wambaugh
Mysterious Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
New York
Copyright © 2012 by Joseph Wambaugh
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003 or [email protected].
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
FIRST EDITION
ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-2610-8
Mysterious Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Distributed by Publishers Group West
www.groveatlantic.com
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As ever, special thanks for the terrific anecdotes and great cop talk goes to officers of the Los Angeles Police Department:
Randy Barr, Jeannine Bedard, Jennifer Blomeley, Adriana Bravo, Kelly Clark, Pete Corkery, Dawna Davis-Killingsworth, Jim Erwin, Brett Goodkin, Jeff Hamilton, Brett Hays, Craig Herron, Jamie Hogg, Mark Jauregui (ret.), Rick Knopf, Rick Kosier (ret.), Fanita Kuljis, Cari Long, Rich Ludwig, Al Mendoza, Buck Mossie, Thongin Muy, Julie Nelson, Scarlett Nuño, Al Pacheco (ret.), Victor Pacheco, Bill Pack, Helen Pallares, Jim Perkins, Robyn Petillo, Kris Petrish (PSR ret.), Brent Smith, Bob Teramura, Rick Wall, Evening Wight
And to officers of the Los Angeles Port Police:
Kent Hobbs, Ken Huerta, Rudy Meza
And to officers of the San Diego Police Department:
Michael Belz, Matt Dobbs, Mike Fender, Doru Hansel, Fred Helm, Jeff Jordon, Charles Lara, Lou Maggi, Adam Sharki, Mike Shiraishi, Merrit Townsend, Steve Willard (S.D. Police Historical Association)
And to Debbie Eglin of the San Diego Sheriff’s Department
And to Erik Nava and Ken Nelson of the San Diego District Attorney’s Office
And to Mike Matassa (ret.) of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives
And to Danny Brunac, longshoreman of San Pedro
HARBOR
NOCTURNE
ONE
“SO NOW I’M like, a hottie hunk on account of my fake foot, is that what you’re telling me? I’m all irresistible or something?”
“It’s not that you’re irresistible,” the young sergeant said. “It’s what your prosthesis represents to certain people, those who suffer from a kind of paraphilia. Specifically, their disorder is called apotemnophilia.”
“And what’s that mean exactly?”
“The manifestation of a desire so intense that therapists have a hard time even explaining it, possibly a desire with a powerful sexual component. It’s a fascination with amputation that sometimes goes so far that the person wants to be an amputee.”
Sergeant Thaddeus Hawthorne was a twenty-eight-year-old UCLA graduate who, like thousands of Angelenos before him, had learned that his BA degree in the liberal arts had very little practical application in the job market of the twenty-first century. He had tested for, and joined, the LAPD just shy of his twenty-second birthday because of the good pay and job security. He had a very high forehead, and a sparse dark mustache crowded the limited space between his long, bulbous nose and upper lip. He anxiously looked from one blue uniformed cop to another as he spoke, both sitting across the table from him in a booth farthest from most of the bustle on this Friday evening at Hamburger Hamlet.
The recently appointed sergeant, who had just finished his probationary period at Van Nuys Division as a patrol supervisor before transferring to Hollywood Division, knew he should use “college talk” sparingly, if at all, in the company of street cops, especially this pair of weathered surf rats with their doubtful smirks and sea salt stuck to their eyebrows and lashes.
They were several years older than he, both being divorced womanizers, and they unnerved him with their reputations for sneaky get-back when it came to supervisors they didn’t like, especially young supervisors.
“You mean there’s nobody else but him that can do it?” the taller one said, nodding toward his partner.
Sergeant Hawthorne knew that this tall one had been driving during the fateful pursuit a year prior where his partner had suffered a hopelessly smashed foot in a traffic collision. It had ended with the pursued killer in a stolen van being shot to death by Officer Britney Small, then a probationary boot, currently working Watch 5 along with these two.
The sergeant said, “Your partner happens to be one of the few law enforcement amputees in all of California. It would be greatly appreciated by everyone in the Hollywood vice unit if we could eventually get the guys bankrolling their operation, and I’d certainly write you a glowing commendation that would look good in your personnel package.”
Sergeant Hawthorne looked uncertain
ly at his massive burger, wishing he could cut it in half but not daring to, not when the tall cop across from him was effortlessly mashing his with one big paw and tearing into it like a wolf.
The taller of the suntanned cops scoffed at that lame enticement of a written attaboy but flashed a grin at his partner, saying, “See, dude? I told you when we got our new foot, fame would follow.” Then he told the sergeant with pride, “You should see when this crusher catches a juicy at Malibu. He can even, like, hang three inches of our fiberglass foot and rip that kamikaze just like always. My pard’s got a pair hanging on him!”
The sergeant was trying to figure out exactly what the hell the tall one had just said to him when the shorter one said, “Carbon, not plastic. The surfing skate is made from carbon and polyurethane, not fiberglass.” Then he told the sergeant, “I got two models. The on-duty foot is way different and fits real good in my boot, and it’s pretty easy to run on.”
The tall one said, “You should see all the Emmas in butt-floss bikinis start jiggling their chesticles when they ogle the robo kahuna with the bionic hoof. It’s all beer, bubble baths, and blow jobs for him. Me, I’m happy just to get his leftovers.”
“He’s always pimping me out at Malibu,” the shorter one said dryly. “He, like, tries to sell them on sympathy disrobing for a handicapped kahuna.”
Bewildered by the surfer-speak and opting instead for flattery, Sergeant Hawthorne said to the shorter one, “I think it was pretty gutsy of you not to take a medical pension and retire when the accident happened. A lot of officers would have.”
That didn’t work. Both cops shot the sergeant a snarky look that said, “We don’t quit, dude,” and the shorter one said, “What you want me to do is way twisted. Even for Hollywood, this is sick shit.”
The Black Marble Page 35
