Morbid Curiosity: Erter & Dobbs Book 3

by Nick Keller

  Everything was finally right. The world was rebalanced. An accord between the forces of light and dark had been struck. Los Angeles was whole again. He had done his job. Now, it was oh, glorious sleep. This was going to be like humping heaven. What bliss. He closed his eyes. He let his mind go still. Perfectly still. And then…

  He exploded back to the here-and-now screaming the word, “Damage!” It banged around his room, echoing in his head—his goddamn, nonstop, spinwheel head.

  3 DAYS AGO. A WEDNESDAY.

  8:00 a.m.

  Homicide was buzzing, as usual. Phones rang. Detectives and cops bounced around in an early-morning frenzy. Shit was going down all over the city, and it all filtered right through Central Division.

  This early in the morning, Bernie tried to avoid eye contact as much as possible. But he wasn’t always successful. He caught sight of Detective what’s-his-name. Scotty. A red-headed kid too goddamn friendly to be a cop, always hosting poker games and Super Bowl parties at his house, always inviting the whole department over. He was also the overnight detective. He was on his way out.

  “Bernie Dobbs!” he said. The kid was also known for addressing people by their first and last names. Drove Bernie a little nuts.

  “Hey, yeah—” was Bernie’s usual reply.

  “You coming over this weekend? Saturday night, man. Poker night.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see, kid,” Bernie said dropping heavily into his desk chair and tossing his fedora, a gray wide-brim, up onto a hook.

  “Just the fellas,” Scotty said fading away.

  Bernie had no desire for poker. Just wasn’t his game. Plus, there would be a lot of other humans around. He was better with dogs. And goldfish.

  He booted up his computer. There were emails. Lots of emails. He scrolled through his inbox sharking for one email in particular. There was nothing, just a bunch of departmental shuffling. “Figures,” he mumbled. He picked up his phone, dialed his voice mail expectantly.

  “You have no messages.”

  “Mmm,” he growled and hung up. Maxx Ratt had left no emails, no messages. He checked in twice a month, and always at two a.m. He was a weird kid. But not this time. There was no word. It made Bernie grimace.

  Maxx Ratt. What a ridiculous name. In a city built on pseudonyms and nom-de-plumes, who would intentionally call themselves Maxx Ratt… besides 80’s wannabe rock stars and little Chinese ex-con under-covers? Bernie guessed it made sense. Maxx Ratt was exactly that—a rat who’d already racked up enough time at state to put himself on every probationary list in town. He was one of Bernie’s informants. Plus, he was Chinese. And he was overdue for a check in. Nice kid, if not a little dumb. Bernie would have to go hunt him down. At least it would give him something to do.

  “Bernie!”

  He looked over. Captain Heller stood at his office door. Heller was older than Bernie by almost a decade, maybe in his mid-fifties. At one point, Heller might have been a nice guy, but along with his captain title came politician. And he was no politician. It had made him serious and grim. It chopped his fuse in half, too. The guy was known for his blowing up.

  “Get your ass in here.”

  Bernie got up and moved to Heller’s office. “Good morning to you, too, Cap.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve had my coffee.” He shut the door. “You know a Maxx Ratt?”

  Bernie frowned. “Two X’s, two T’s?” He moved to a small coffee pot at the back of the office. It was mostly empty.

  “I don’t fucking know, Bernie. He left a voice message. Didn’t spell out his name.”

  Bernie turned around holding the pot in one hand, a Styrofoam cup in the other. “He called the department line?”

  “Yeah, he sure did, last night, two a.m.” Heller said sitting in his chair.

  Bernie said with a curious look, “That figures, but why’d he call you?”

  “Shit if I know. How do you know him—he an informant?”

  “Yeah. He’s got my direct line and my cell. I told him to call me.”

  “Sounds to me you’re lucky to hear from him at all.”

  “Oh yeah?” He poured the coffee. “Why’s that?”

  “Listen.” He turned his desk phone around.

  Bernie placed the pot back, now empty, looked around and said, “You got cream and sugar?”

  “No, goddammit, I don’t have any cream and sugar. What am I—your local coffee bar? I don’t do soy, low-fat or lattes either. You gonna listen to this or not?”

  Bernie put the cup of coffee down. No cream, no sugar, no coffee. He sat down empty handed. “Okay.”

  Heller jabbed the v-mail button on his phone.

  “You have one remaining message.”

  A beep. A voice. Hard consonants, long syllables, no L’s. Definitely Chinese: “Hey, Big Bernie! This Max. Maxx Ratt. Hey, look man, I know you pissed at me. I get you, baby. I try to meet up, you know. Shit going down though. I got something. It’s good. But, I need time, my man, like couple days. Maybe week. I get back with you, man. I make you promise, yes? Yo, peace out, Big Bernie.”

  Bernie said, “Is that it?”

  “That’s it. What do you make of it?”

  “A bunch of bullshit. He’s dodging.”

  “Why?”

  Bernie motioned with his hands. “I don’t know. Probably slinging again. Kid’s going to break my heart, I can tell.”

  “Chinese network? Asian persuasion?”

  “If he’s back in at all, he’s small time, street level, but he’s in pretty deep. Got an uncle or something.”

  “He’ll go back to prison if he doesn’t get himself killed,” Heller warned. “He any good?”

  Bernie’s eyes went up, thinking. “He’s been useful, and he’s careful. More trouble than he’s worth, though.”

  “Know where he is?”

  “Got a couple ideas.”

  “Okay, go get him, see what he’s got. I don’t care what it is—Chinese smugglers or down home criminals, whatever. If it’s good intel, use it. If it’s no good, bring his ass in.”

  “He’s my guy, Cap,” Bernie rebuked.

  “I don’t give a shit if he was your best buddy from pee-wee league. If he’s got nothing, bring him in.” Bernie capitulated with a humph and left.

  Wednesday. 9:08 a.m.

  Yale Boulevard in Chinatown L.A., just south of the 101, was always a nightmare for cops. Everything was a mishmash of eclectic, unilateral architecture, high-density housing and an endless webwork of back alleys and narrow throughways. Street vendors were everywhere clucking and shucking, but so were roaming, cautious eyes. No one trusted anyone, especially outsiders.

  Bernie banked his big, gold 1994 Crown Vic up next to a Chinese eatery called Lin-Chow’s. It had a yellow-tiled roof reminiscent of the forbidden city back in the motherland half a world away with towering shrubs and a family of granite carved lions out front. It wasn’t quite lunch hour yet, so the place was closed.

  Bernie looked in through the glass window at the entry door. A woman was busying herself behind a café-style display row, preparing for the day’s crowd. Bernie recognized her. It was Jiun, Maxx’s mother. He knocked on the glass. She looked up, tilted her head, then recognized him. Bernie watched her fade nervously back into the kitchen. He stepped back ready for the unsavory, hand on the butt of his .45 revolver. Anything was possible in this neighborhood.

  Someone approached through the window and the door opened. A short, bald guy with tiny black eyes, perfectly Chinese in their carnivorous curiosity. He looked up at him, way up, sweat sparkling on his scalp and cheeks. Bernie’s six-and-a-half feet made the guy look like a child as he loomed over him.

  “Yeah. What you want?” the man said.

  “Hello, Mr. Chow. I’m looking for—”

  “He not here.”

  “Who not here?” Bernie said.

  “Who you want?”

  “Who you think?”

  “I not know, but he not here,” Mr. Chow repeated.

/>   “Yeah, bullshit he not here. Open up.”

  A flash of motion back in the restaurant caught Bernie’s attention. It made him jerk back. Someone was fleeing out the back. He shoved the door open with a bang making Mr. Chow yell, “Out, you get out!” But sure as the sun shines in L.A., there went Maxx Ratt streaking out the back.

  “Awe hell!” Bernie bemoaned and barreled after him. He smashed his way through the dining area knocking tables out of his way, and shoved through the back door. He ended up in a rear courtyard with a tall wood slat fence all grown over with ivy. Maxx was there worming his way over the fence. He was much younger, much smaller. Quicker, too. And very Asian. He dropped down on the other side.

  “Shit,” Bernie said and charged to the left punching open the exit gate. The cheap locking hinge snapped away and Bernie exploded out into the street. Maxx was up ahead picking up steam. Bernie growled. He was excellent in a foot chase, up to about six feet. After that, it was all huffing and puffing—all those cigarettes and shooters.

  He had leverage, though. He was a cop. Maxx wasn’t. So fuck this running shit.

  “Are you serious, Maxx?” he yelled. “Are you sure you want to go running from me, you little ferret?”

  Up ahead, Maxx heard. After a few steps he came to a jogging stop. Slowly he turned around and faced Bernie from fifty feet, flapping his arms defeated. That’s right—there would be more to lose by running, whether he got away or not.

  “Yeah, get your ass back here.”

  “Bernie, man, I just get scared. I mean nothing, you know.”

  “Scared of what?” Bernie demanded. “What’re you into, ya little dork?”

  “Nothing,” he said stopping well short of Bernie’s reach. “I into nothing, I tell you.”

  “Yeah, bullshit, Maxx. You got me all running and shit—I don’t run! Especially after little Chinese people. Now get in there and get me some water.”

  Wednesday. 9:15 a.m.

  The inside of Lin-Chow’s was exactly what Bernie might have expected. One of the main walls had some earthy-colored mural of an ancient dynasty emperor. Small, intimate tables were set around with a wood mesh barrier separating the kitchen area. Paper balls with light bulbs hung from the ceiling. Lighting was low.

  Maxx came out from the kitchen with a glass of water. Ice cubes chinked around inside. Bernie grabbed it and gulped, then set it down as Maxx took a chair opposite him. Bernie wiped his mouth and got right to business. “Alright, Maxx, you little shit bird, what do you got for me?”

  Maxx was twenty-four, but he looked twelve and weighed a buck eighteen, maybe. Already he’d done three years in a minimum security facility. Not the hardest time, but hard enough for a guy like him. He was quicker than slick shit, but not very tough. And with nowhere to run in a prison block, Bernie was sure he’d had some real bad days.

  The kid leaned forward exaggerating his excitement. “Okay—I’m working on this thing. It’s going to be big, like you, Bernie.”

  “Big like me, huh. What is it?”

  Maxx sat back. “I—I can’t tell you yet. But it will.”

  “You can’t tell me? You’re an informant. Telling me is what you do.”

  “No, Big Bernie, I tell you, I can’t tell you.”

  Bernie thudded a fist onto the table. “You better start telling me more than a bunch of bullshit.”

  “Hey!” came from the kitchen. Bernie looked over. Maxx’s mother shook a finger at him frantically. “You no talk like that. We have customers in very soon. You no say that.”

  Bernie gave an incensed chuckle and said, “You don’t want me saying things like bullshit?”

  “No, you no say that!”

  “How about ass hat or sumbitch, can I say that?”

  Maxx said, “Big Bernie, please. My mom—you know.”

  Bernie took a big breath. “Fine.” He turned and addressed her through the kitchen pass-through. “No bad words. Sorry for leaning on my rather uncooperative informant with harsh language, ma’am.” He looked back at Maxx. “Now… what you got?”

  “I have this other thing.”

  “No. I don’t want this other thing. Tell me what you got.”

  “Bernie…”

  “Tell me.”

  “Big Bernie, please…”

  Bernie pounded the table again—Whop! “Tell me!”

  Maxx shot a look toward the kitchen, then back. “Okay, I say, okay. There’s a payoff happen. It happen all time. Regular thing.”

  “All time…”

  “Every month. It come soon.”

  “Okay—payoff. What do you mean?”

  “I not sure. That why I need more time.”

  “Sounds like drugs. Is it top brass?”

  “No. Like, uh…”

  “It’s midlevel,” Bernie guessed.

  “Yeah, midlevel I think. But big money, I think.”

  “Midlevel.”

  “Yes. Big money.”

  “Okay, I’m listening, kid. What’s the product?”

  “I not know.”

  “You not know, huh. Where does it go down?”

  “I not know.”

  Bernie flashed a hand at him impatiently and cried, “Well, what do you know?”

  “Need more time.”

  “Need more time?” he said getting angry. He leaned back sucking his teeth, thinking. He had orders. Either the kid was good for intel, or Heller wanted him brought in. “I’ve heard this line a thousand times, Maxx. You think you’re the only informant trying to sell a bunch of bullsh—” he glanced toward the kitchen, then back, and said, “—doodoo?”

  “Say what?”

  “You bull-doodoo’ing me, Maxxy? You stringing me?”

  “No, I not string you.”

  “You got nothing, man. You’re wasting my time.”

  “No, big Bernie!”

  “Nah—it’s time to go. Get up.” He got to his feet, plopped his fedora on his head.

  “Where we go?” Maxx cried getting desperate and looking straight up at him.

  “Station time, Maxxy pad. No more street for you. Let’s go.”

  “No, I tell you truth!”

  “I’m smelling bad fish, and I’m smelling it deep,” Bernie said in a snarl. He took a breath, looked at the kitchen. Mama-san was looking on, half angry, half nervous. He calmed, sat back down and put his hat back on the table. “Okay, kid, last chance. What’s this other thing?”

  Maxx sat forward feigning his earlier excitement. “Oh yes, this for real. I know a guy. They say Armenian. He’s not so up and up, you know? He was talking on phone at Devro’s. He go there all time. Everything quiet, everything secret. I see his phone. I see his caller. It say a name. It say…” he leaned further forward and whispered, “Mitchel Brinkman.” It came out like Mitchoo Bwinkman. But Bernie was good at context. Mitchel Brinkman.

  Mmm—he was more interested in the Armenian.

  “Who’s this guy, this Armenian?”

  “Oh, he not so nice, you know. He handsome. He have hair like this…” and he indicated a long ponytail. “They say Armenian. But very bad. He very bad.”

  “Not so nice, huh. That tells me jack sh—doodoo.”

  “You trust me, big Bernie. You need to look at Mitchoo Bwinkman. He up to no good.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I not know. He sound white.”

  “He sound white. You kidding? That’s my lead?” he said getting irate again.

  “It good lead, man,” Maxx insisted.

  Bernie took a huge breath. By rights, he should take the little twit in. It was, after all, his orders. But he simply didn’t want to. Dumb kid wouldn’t last long. He felt pity for the little puke, anyway. Bernie figured he’d take his chances with Heller, for the kid’s sake. He leaned forward making mean eyes and pointing a finger right at his little nose and said, “Alright, Maxxy, I’m going to give you a chance. I’m checking out this Mitchel Brinkman, but if he doesn’t pan out, if he’s a doodoo lead, I’m busting
your caca-talking butt. You got it?”

  “I got it, big Bernie, I got it.”

  “And one more thing. You check-in in three days. I want everything you got on this payoff, you hear? When, where, everything. If you don’t…”

  “Yeah, okay, no problem, big Bernie,” Maxx assured him.

  Bernie gave him a doubtful look and said, “Alright.” He slapped a contact card on the table. “And next time, call my line, Maxx. Leave the department out of it, okay?”

  “I got you, I got you, baby.”

  He gulped down the rest of the water and stood, stuffing the chair back under the table and dropping the hat back on his head. As he walked out, mama-san clucked in a piercing way, “Now you leave my son. You leave my shop. You get fuck out!”

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