"I'm sure that Grisha is a boy," he answered finally. "I'm not really positive about Misha." He looked at her with grave blue eyes and thought that if you look very closely you can see a gerbil's dick, but not a parakeet's peter. But he couldn't say that to her.
"I see," Natalie said.
"Well now," Valnikov said cheerfully. "Shall we make our first call on a burglary victim?"
It was an interminable work day for Natalie Zimmerman. Hollywood had never looked seedier. Even the downtown area, "the sewer" as the cops called it, had never looked this bad to her. She had long since decided that Hollywood is a slum. At least parts of it. The "swells" of filmdom's Golden Age would be shocked: massage parlor girls flaunting their wares in doorways and windows. Dirty book stores. Clean book stores. More dirty book stores. Magazine stands, mostly dirty. Trolling homosexuals, both butch and queen. Jockers in leather and chains. Hustling black pimps. Listless whores, all colors. Paddy hustlers, pigeon droppers, pursepicks, muggers. Don't walk the Boulevard at night and expect to see Robert Redford, baby. Hoo-ray for Hol-lywood!
Business burglary. She despised it. A public relations job. Ought to hire the Rogers and Cowan Agency. "Unknown suspects broke into victim's place of business using a half-inch screwdriver. Property missing: IBM Selectric typewriters." Sell like hell. Every "honest" businessman in town will lay two hundred on a runny-nosed hype, no questions. Roll of stamps: same thing. Easy to peddle. Got to take a discount but what the hell. Took the office petty cash of course. Maybe took an adding machine if he was big and strong. Those goddamn IBMs are heavy. Same old bullshit, over and over. Why the masking tape? The scumbag dropped it. Uses it to tape the window when he breaks it out to reach inside. No falling glass. Watch out for scumbags who carry masking tape, dearie. They can also tape up your little mouth and eyeballs and then start operating your Selectric. (Why scare the shit out of the victim? Because she was so miserable, that's why.) Sixty-six thousand burglaries in this town last year, lady. No, that doesn't count car theft. That doesn't count robbery. That doesn't count half a dozen other kinds of larceny. That's just burglary. Just breaking and entering! How many detectives work burglary? Oh, in the whole damn city about two hundred, maybe. How's your math? Two hundred divided into sixty-five thousand is what? Not to mention the other larcenies the same dicks handle. And the arrestees they have to process. And the long days in court. Solve the crime! Recover your stolen property? How's your math, lady?
A dreary endless slogging death march. That's business burglary with Valnikov. Unknown suspects. Who ever saw a burglar? Like fighting ghosts. And Valnikov. A ghost himself.
Gas stations. A guy doesn't pay for his gas, peels out and beats the proprietor out of eight bucks. Who gets the crime reports? Business burglary. Trouble is there's always a suspect. The victims get his license number. Run the license, call the suspect. Where was your car Tuesday night at ten o'clock? Your son, Harvey? Uh huh. And how old is the little zit-faced, coke-snorting, hash-smoking son of a bitch? Seventeen? Yes, well he didn't pay for his gas at Seymour's Shell Station, corner of . . . Yes, that's right, little Hah-vey just didn't pay. (God, she hated transplanted New Yorkers.) No, no mistake. They took his license number. Yes, you take care of it with Seymour and we can close out our report. We won't arrest Hah-vey this time. Thank you very much.
A collection agency. Furniture movers. Paper shufflers. Business burglary. What a thrill. And this was only the first day! Why me!
But Valnikov didn't mind. He leisurely passed the time of day with every victim of every petty crime report they handled. Natalie was mad enough to spit. Especially, when they were an hour and a half past what should have been their lunch break and he gave twenty minutes to the sixty-five- year-old proprietor of a second-hand store on Western Avenue. She'd been burglarized three times in five weeks. Every time she picked up some decent merchandise, a hit-and-run window smash.
"Sergeant," the Filipino woman said, "I can't go on like this. I can't make enough to pay my utilities even. Do you think I could get a job with the police, maybe?" She brightened and said, "Maybe a crossing guard for school kids. I ain't too old, am I?"
"No, I don't think so. I see lots of old people," Valnikov said. "I can check. I can get an application sent to you."
Natalie was leaning against a ramshackle dress rack, smoking, bored stiff, when she heard the tea pot whistle. She walked over to turn it off and saw a dish behind the hot-plate burner. There was a fork on the plate and what looked like corned beef hash. There was a half-empty can of dog food beside the hot plate.
The woman saw Natalie looking at it and scurried behind the counter, pushing everything back and covering it with a towel.
"My dog . . . my doggie's outside . . . I . . . well . . ."
"Yes, of course, Mrs. De la Cruz," Valnikov said, with his weary nod of the head. "I was telling Sergeant Zimmerman just this morning that every business person around here should have a watchdog. Wasn't I, Natalie?"
And Natalie had a dash of resentment to add to her frustration because a rummy like this saw something quicker than she did.
"I'll be very grateful if you could send me the application, Sergeant," she said to Valnikov, her dentures clicking. "I could dye my hair, pass for fifty-five, if there's an age limit."
"You just let me check on it for you, Mrs. De la Cruz," Valnikov said, patting her hand.
"I used to be an actress," she said to Natalie. "I can play any Asian. Trouble is, not too many good parts for Chinese, Japanese anymore. Lost my SAG card even. No Japanese parts."
Valnikov was reminded of something when she said "Chinese." There it was again. The sparkly flash bulbs. The picture almost formed. An Asian doctor. The morgue? He heard snatches of conversation. Chinese . . . Japanese . . . Japanese parts? Sony? Panasonic? Was her television on the blink?
"It's time to go, Valnikov," Natalie said, grabbing her partner's arm, as Mrs. De la Cruz looked questioningly at the confused detective.
"You won't forget to call me, Sergeant?"
"No ma'am, I won't," Valnikov said over his shoulder. "I think you'd make a super crossing guard."
"I'm getting hungry, what say we grab a bite." Natalie said after they got back in the car. She realized she had almost two hundred minutes left in this endless first day.
"Fine with me," Valnikov smiled. "Where would you like to go?"
"Well, I'd like to go to Sergio's Le Club, but I understand they're having another Save Harry Whatzisface party there today," she snorted. "Every guilt-ridden Hollywood liberal will be there. And that's just about all of them. Or we could ..."
"Who's Harry Whatzisface?"
'The guy who played in Deep Throat. Don't you even read the entertainment section of the paper?"
"No."
"Hollywood folks stomping for our civil liberties and the creative freedom of all artists? You know, so Linda Lovelace can go down on Hai ry and Harry am go down on Linda and Big Brother can stop repressing us and King Kong can bugger Godzilla? Don't you read the paper?"
"Deep Throat was the guy in the Watergate case, wasn't he?" Valnikov answered.
"Valnikov, have you ever seen a porno movie?"
"No, I haven't been to a movie in, oh . . . When was Nicholas and Alexandra out?"
"Several years."
"I haven't been to a movie in several years."
"What do you do with your time?"
"I listen to music. Or I go to a basketball game."
"Start the car and let's go eat, Valnikov."
"Oh, yes, sorry." He started the Plymouth, flicked on his turn signal, gave an arm signal, looked out the window craning his neck, then pulled into traffic at three miles per hour, while Natalie rolled her eyeballs. He turned on the blinker, made an arm signal, changed into the curb lane and stopped. "Did you decide where you want to eat?"
"Well, since we probably can't get an 'A' table at Chasen's and my favorite maitre d' isn't at the Rangoon Racquet Club anymore, and since we're six days from pay
day and I've got about three goddamn dollars in my purse, what say we have a pizza?"
But he was wandering again. The sparkling lights were shimmering. He was trudging across the great trackless Steppes. A wasteland. The picture was dappled, formless. He saw ... a rabbit in the snow.
"Would you say that again, please?" he mumbled.
"Pizza. Let's get a pizza." She couldn't keep her eyes off him. Couldn't wait to talk to Hipless Hooker. She was positive now that it wasn't speed. And it wasn't barbiturates. His pupils weren't dilated or contracted. No, he was spaced out on some sophisticated drug she wasn't familiar with. Some kind of dope that didn't take his pupils up or down.
Ten minutes later they were parked under a pepper tree near the observatory silently eating their pizzas. Still she watched him. He'd been raised by someone with table manners all right. It was rare to see a man eat anything with such delicacy, let alone a pizza. He chewed small bites thoroughly and dabbed at his lips with a paper napkin when there was nothing there. He was solicitous, asking whether she would like a bit more cream or sugar for her coffee. Whether her pizza was all right. Isn't it going to be a lovely day despite the smog? Then: "Were you married a long time, Natalie?"
"Which time, first or second?"
"Oh," he shrugged. "Let's say the second."
"What is this, a contest?"
"I was married sixteen years," he smiled, careful to swallow his food before speaking.
"Good. You win."
"Pardon me?"
"Never mind," she said, waving at the air. "I was married three years the first time and two years the second time. My daughter's from the first. My second didn't want me to be a cop and tried to make me quit. I stayed a cop. I have a twenty-one-year-old daughter away at college and I don't have a parakeet or a Goebbels."
'That's gerbil," he corrected her gently. "A soft g as in gentle. Goebbels was a Nazi who killed lots of Russians. My little gerbil is a Russian rodent. Would you like more cream for your coffee?"
"No, thank you."
"Would you like to see a movie?"
"What?"
"I gather you like movies. I asked if you'd like to see a movie."
"Now?"
"Of course not." Valnikov smiled, sipping at his tea.
It looked ridiculous! He was a hulking man with a broad Slavic forehead and he drank his tea like a grand duchess, for God's sake.
"What movie're you talking about?"
"Oh, whatever you like," he shrugged. "I don't know what's playing. You mentioned Deep Throat. "
"Deep Throat! You're asking me to go with you to a porno movie!"
"Oh, I thought that's what you liked to see. You don't want to see Deep Throat?"
"I saw it. Twice. On dates with horny policemen who insisted. Jesus Christ, put a cigarette in your mouth, Valnikov!"
"Pardon?"
"Typical macho cop. A freebie cup of coffee, a cigarette, and a hard-on. I was starting to think you were a little strange. I guess you're normal enough."
"Pardon?" Now Valnikov had lost the thread again. It was unraveled and he hadn't the faintest idea why she was upset, why she was raising her voice.
"You've been working this division one month, " she smirked. "We've hardly said more than a good morning before today. We've been partners for, oh, four hours. And you think you can dance me into a porno movie for a nooner?"
"Did I say something wrong?"
"Oh, Jesus Christ!" she sneered, shoving the paper cup into the bag. "Let's finish handling our calls."
Valnikov sipped the rest of the coffee but his lunch was ruined. He knew for certain that he had offended her but didn't know why. He was troubled and didn't know what to say to make it right. The sparkling motes were swimming. He did the only thing he could. He started all over again. "Natalie, would you like to see a movie?"
She whirled in her seat, eyes narrowing behind the oversized glasses. She viciously brushed back a wisp of frizzy, buckskin hair.
"Do you mean now?"
"Oh, no. We're on duty. I meant tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or sometime. It doesn't matter. I haven't seen a movie in ... I don't know how long."
"You don't know how long." "No."
"Several years. Since Nicholas and Alexandra."
"Yes, so I can wait. Maybe next month sometime?"
Oh, shit. She turned back and watched the foot traffic sliding by in the shimmering smog. She lit a cigarette. "Valnikov, do you want to take me to a porno? I mean a dirty movie? Is that it?"
"Well, I'd rather not see a dirty movie," he said, wiping his watery eyes on his shabby coatsleeve. "But if that's the kind of movie you like, I'm willing. I just thought maybe you were lonely and I felt sorry for you."
"How dare you!" Natalie screamed, in consummate frustration, making Valnikov hit the brakes, almost causing a van to rear-end them on McCadden Place. "How dare you say that to me! You don't even know me!"
"Did I say something wrong?"
"Wrong! You feel sorry for me! You want to take me to a porno house!"
"No, I've never even been to a porno house. I just gathered that's what you'd like. I mean, you said two policemen took you to this dirty movie so I thought maybe you liked it, and, well, if that would make you happy, I just thought ..."
Natalie was going to scream when they got a radio call.
"Roger that, Natalie," he said, wondering why she was yelling.
"What . . . what ..."
"We just got a call," he said. "Roger it, please."
"6-W-232 roger," she mumbled into the mike, and now she was looking dazed.
"Western and Romaine, see the vice officer. That was the call, Natalie. Wonder why they want a burglary team? Oh well, that's what makes our job interesting, eh?" He looked at her and smiled and blinked, his cinnamon hair blowing back from the gust of wind as he suddenly "speeded" up the detective car. Now they were going fifteen miles an hour.
The vice cop was about twenty-five years old. He wore his auburn hair in a huge Afro which he had done once a month at a beauty parlor on Sunset where he got a police discount. He was shirtless in a leather vest and wore five strands of beads around his neck. He recognized Natalie but didn't know Valnikov.
"You working burglary?" He-leaned in the detective car window from the street side.
"Whaddaya got?" she asked.
"Maybe something for you. There was a pawnshop burglary about three weeks ago. Down on Melrose, I think."
"Western Avenue," Valnikov said.
"Yeah, that's right, on Western," the vice cop said, nodding his shaggy head. 'They ripped him off for some shotguns, one a double-barreled custom job with silver inlay ..."
"Mother-of-pearl," Valnikov said.
"Mother-of-pearl?"
"Yes," Valnikov said.
"Was it your case?" the vice cop asked.
"No, I just remember the report."
"And you remember for sure it was mother-of-pearl?"
"Yes," Valnikov said, wiping his eyes.
"Okay, guess this ain't from that job." He held up a silver- inlaid, double-barreled twelve-gauge, the walnut rubbed smooth from years of loving care. "I'll just book it and let robbery try to make it on some other job. Just thought it might have been from that pawnshop burg, is all.
"What's happening here anyway?" Natalie asked. There was an ambulance in front and a crowd of onlookers from the surrounding homes. There were seven men being loaded into the black-and-whites. "Somebody get shot?"
"No, but he might wish he had," said the vice cop.
"Catch the suspect?"
"Yeah, lies the suspect," the vice cop said, pointing to the blanket-covered man being bandaged by a paramedic as two policemen helped lift the gurney into the ambulance. "Thought he was Jesse James. Decided to take down a crap game that floats in this apartment about every Wednesday. We been staking out next door since this morning, and damned if Jesse James here doesn't come crashing in the room just as we were about to make a little gambling bust. He leaps
up on the table and fires his twelve gauge into the ceiling to get all the players' attention. I was next door alone, almost messed my pants. While I'm trying to call on the CC unit for some help, he gets carried away with scaring everybody. He's not satisfied that the players're shaking and begging so he fires another round to make them move a little quicker."
"And that's just a double-barreled shotgun," Natalie observed.
"Yeah, and one by one, all the players noticed that too. They say the last thing old Jessie James says is 'Uh-oh.' And that may be the last thing he ever does say. They got through with him, his head squirms around like a water bed. Well, does your heart good once in a while to see justice done. Makes you think God ain't dead after all."
When they were back on Vine Street stopped behind a fender-bender traffic accident, Natalie said, "Did you really remember that Western Avenue pawnshop burglary?"
"Yes," Valnikov said.
"You must read hundreds of burglary reports."
"Yes."
"What was unusual about this one?"
"Nothing," he shrugged, at last his eyes starting to clear from the havoc of Russian vodka.
"Then how do you remember?"
"I always remember crime data. I don't know why. I've been a detective so long I just seem to remember."
Memories. Twenty-two years a policeman. Fifteen of them working homicide downtown. Homicide. The first team. The varsity. Shootings, stabbings, rapes, mayhem. Torture murder, extortion murder, kidnap murder, sex murder. Domestic murder: husbands, wives, mothers, fathers. Who said a father never killed his seed? Valnikov knew better. But mothers were more innovative murderers of little children. Lots and lots of child murders. Whodunits, howdunits, why- dunits. The Stinker Squad. Corpses. The faces of corpses: bewildered corpses, winking corpses, grieving corpses, laughing corpses, screaming corpses. There was no predicting the expression a corpse would wear to eternity. At times there were just chunks of corpses, slivers of corpses. Sometimes just heads. Remember Homer from Hollenbeck?
Sergeant Ambrose Schultz was the cutup of the Stinker Squad. He loved a good joke. They had been trying to help solve a headless whodunit in Hollenbeck Division for two months. Finally someone informed on a woman who poisoned her unfaithful boyfriend named Homer, and who beheaded the corpse with a shovel, which took an hour of relentless hacking but got rid of her tension. Then she preserved the lover's head in a crock of formaldehyde. (Why? they asked. You often discovered the who and the how but less often the why. Who can say why? Why anything?)
the Black Marble (1977) Page 8
