"Poor old drunk still had it on!" said Fuzzy Spinks.
'That's still just circumstantial evidence," said Nate Farmer. "I suppose they checked the scummy thing for his girlfriend's fingerprints, huh?"
"Wouldn't put it past those squints at Internal Affairs," said Montezuma Montez.
Then Woodenlips Mockett gave up because he was the only one who didn't think Sergeant Ballew got railroaded on circumstantial evidence.
"I hear you're a golfer," Bullets suddenly said to Montezuma Montez.
"I play a little golf," said Montezuma without looking up.
"Sissy game," Bullets said. "I never played golf in my life."
"Too clumsy?" said Montezuma Montez, putting down his pencil.
Bullets said, "Any old man on crutches can play that game."
"I'll bet you couldn't hit a golf ball fifty yards," said Montezuma Montez.
"Fifty yards," said Bullets. Now he had the wetback! "You heard him, Fuzzy. He said I couldn't hit a golf ball fifty yards!"
"If you never played before, I know you couldn't hit one fifty yards, Bullets," Fuzzy Spinks said, peeking over his bifocals. "Not on one swing anyway."
Then there was money flying all over the squad room. Bullets was covering all bets. Woodenlips Mockett was whining about gambling in a police station. Everyone was yelling and hollering but Bullets Bambarella covered thirty dollars. Five minutes later there were detective cars squealing out of Hollywood Station speeding to the Los Angeles Country Club where Investigator Nate Farmer could never hope to join, in that he was a black man, but where he could arrange for Bullets to hit a ball on the driving range because Nate's cousin was a caddy there.
_ _ _
While half the detective division at Hollywood Station was at the Los Angeles Country Club watching Bullets Bambarella make an ass out of himself by swinging a golf club like a baseball bat and digging up the largest chunk of ethnically restricted turf that anyone had seen in recent memory, and while the other half of the detective division, including Valnikov and Natalie Zimmerman, were handling their routine investigations, a "sustaining" Pasadena Junior Leaguer was doing some detective work of her own. And was surprising herself at how well she was doing it.
Madeline Whitfield had not slept but she had vowed over coffee that morning that she was not going to take a drink until Vickie came home to her. And she wasn't going to just wait until that man called.
She checked the lost and found in the morning Times and discovered that there were two schnauzers reported lost. The first belonged to a Redondo Beach phone number. The second was a San Gabriel number, close enough to Pasadena to make Madeline hope that this was the owner of the dead animal, and that there might be a connection which would lead her somewhere. Madeline Whitfield made phone calls, prepared to take copious notes. Except that the first missing schnauzer didn't even have cropped ears. The second was pregnant. Madeline Whitfield was thinking that she might have been too hasty in her temperance vow. She was thinking about a double Scotch when another thought intruded. She phoned the Pasadena Police, the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Office, and the Los Angeles Police Department, inquiring about lost or stolen schnauzers.
"But we don't keep reports on lost dogs," said a Los Angeles Police Department clerk who was almost as lethargic as Officer Leonard Leggett.
"Yes, yes, I understand that," said Madeline Whitfield. "But I'm wondering if someone reported a schnauzer stolen. You see, this is a very valuable dog. It's possibly a champion, very definitely show quality. Perhaps you have a report of a dog like this being stolen?"
"Just a minute, lady," the lethargic clerk said grumpily. Then when the clerk came back he said, "As a matter of fact we did get a hit on a stolen schnauzer."
"Yes?" Madeline said.
"Hollywood," the clerk said. "There was a schnauzer reported stolen in Hollywood Division on January eighth."
"Yes! Yes!" Madeline cried.
"Do you want the report number?" the clerk said.
At 11:00 a. M. Woodenlips Mockett received a call at Hollywood Detectives.
"My name is Madeline Whitfield."
"Yes," Woodenlips Mockett said, wishing Captain Hooker would hurry up and get back from the hospital, because with Cromwell there holding his hand, and with the other lieutenant off sick, and with half the troops at some goddamn golf course watching Bullets Barbarella try to hit a golf ball, he was overworked. So far, he had had to make a pot of coffee and answer the phone twice.
"I'd like to inquire about a stolen schnauzer dog," the woman said. "I have a police report number."
"Where was the dog stolen, lady?" said Woodenlips Mockett. This kind of work was demeaning for a lieutenant. Demeaning!
"On Vine Street. The Brown Derby."
"Okay," Woodenlips Mockett sighed, "lemme check for you."
He found the theft report in the control folder belonging to Valnikov and Natalie Zimmerman. "Yeah, wh'adda you wanna know?" Woodenlips Mockett sighed. He intended to take an extra long lunch break to make up for all this work.
"I'd like to speak to the officer working on that case," said Madeline. "Is he there, please?"
"No. His name's Sergeant Valnikov. He'll be back late this afternoon."
"I'd like to talk to him if it's at all possible," Madeline said. "It's important."
"Where do you live?"
"Pasadena."
"Pasadena! Listen, lady, that's a little out of our jurisdiction. Gimme your number, I'll have him call you." "Could you ask him to call me as soon as he can? I'll be here all day and I'm most anxious."
"Okay, gimme your number," Lieutenant Mockett sighed.
Ten minutes later, while driving on Hollywood Boulevard, Valnikov said, "Did you get that, Natalie?"
"Did I get what?" She was lost in a mad plan to go straight to Deputy Chief Digby Bates if she had to. God, what if Hipless Hooker was kept at the hospital? She'd have to go over Clarence Cromwell's head.
"We got a call to phone the station," said Valnikov, driving to the nearest call box on Sunset Boulevard.
A few minutes later Valnikov was talking on the field phone to Woodenlips, who was starting to calm down now that three teams of detectives had returned, gloating over all the money they'd won from Bullets Bambarella.
"Some broad in Pasadena gave me the number," the lieutenant said. "She might know something about a case of yours. A dog snatching from the Brown Derby."
"Yes," Valnikov said. "I thought the dog probably ran away. It's a valuable dog according to the report and ..."
"Yeah, yeah, that's the one," said Woodenlips Mockett. "Call this broad, will you? Get her off my back. I got enough pressure right now."
Then Valnikov couldn't make out the rest because Bullets Bambarella was in the squad room yelling to Montezuma Montez:
"Yaw a tennis player! Don't make me laugh!"
"Please, Bambarella," Lieutenant Mockett whined. "I can't hear myself talk. Did you get the message, Valnikov? Call this crazy dog about the goddamn lady!"
"That doesn't make much sense, Lieutenant," said Valnikov.
"Do you think anything makes sense around here!" Lieutenant Mockett cried. "How would yon like to get stuck with all the work while Captain Hooker goes to the hospital for an ache in his turn turn? Huh?"
"Okay, Lieutenant," Valnikov said soothingly. "I'll call her.
Don't let yourself get excited." Now now, Lieutenant. Now now.
When Valnikov returned to the detective car he found Natalie Zimmerman dashing off some confidential notes. Observations. About him.
"Natalie," he said, causing her to jump so suddenly her Friz bounced to the top of her head and down again.
"Yes?" she said.
"We got a strange call. Some woman in Pasadena wants us to call her about that dog that was stolen from the Brown Derby."
"What dog?"
"The theft report. You know? The one that came in yesterday morning?"
"Christ, Valnikov. You have time to read theft rep
orts? I mean they give you so many burglary reports you can't even count them, you gotta weigh them. And you have time to read plain theft reports?"
"I read all our reports," he shrugged.
"And you remember them?"
"I can't help remembering," Valnikov said. "I just remember things about my job. They just ... I just can't seem to get things out of my mind. Know what I mean?"
"Okay, big deal. We have a major crime about somebody stealing a dog?"
Valnikov shrugged again, and said, "I'll just run over to the gas station and use the phone. See what this is all about."
And while Natalie Zimmerman scribbled furiously, stopping every few seconds to blow her Friz off her glasses, Valnikov searched his pockets and found some small change to make a phone call which would profoundly affect the rest of his life.
"Hello, is this Mrs. Whitfield?" he said.
At first her heart stopped. No, it wasn't him. Richard's voice was high pitched. "Yes," she said. "This is Madeline Whitfield."
"This is Sergeant Valnikov, ma'am. Los Angeles Police Department. You allied for me?"
"Oh, yes!" she said. "Sergeant, I live in Pasadena. I found . . . found a little schnauzer. The poor thing was dying. It died just after I found her. I . . . well, I looked in the Times and I phoned several police departments and I understand you're investigating a case about a stolen schnauzer?"
"Yes," Valnikov hesitated. "Actually, we haven't had time to contact the victim yet. To tell you the truth I just figured her schnauzer ran away or got lost. That's usually the case, and ..."
"Can you tell me about tie schnauzer, Sergeant?" Madeline Whitfield said quickly. "I know it's a bitch. Does your report describe her?"
"Well, not really, ma'am. Actually, I don't even know what a schnauzer looks like, to be honest."
"Does the report say that she's show quality? A champion perhaps?"
"Yes," Valnikov said. "The report does say she's valuable and has been in various dog shows."
Then the line was dead for a moment as Madeline tried to feign nonchalance. "Yes, show quality. That certainly sounds like the poor little schnauzer I found. Tell me, Sergeant, who is . . . was the owner?"
"Let's see, the report's in the car, ma'am. A woman in Trousdale Estates. That's in Beverly Hills."
"Could you give me her name and number, Sergeant?" Madeline said. "I'd like to ask her a few questions."
"I'd better have her phone you," said Valnikov. "We're not supposed to give out a victim's phone number. You understand. Did the dog have a collar?"
"No," said Madeline. "But perhaps the owner could describe the schnauzer. I happen to know a lot about this breed. I have a miniature schnauzer of my own."
"Okay, ma'am, I'll have the owner call you this afternoon. I'll be back in the station about four p. M. and ..."
"No!" Madeline cried, and then she said calmly, "No, Sergeant. Please. Could you have her call me right away? This is urgent. I . . . I'm a dog owner myself and I know what this means. Please."
Til call her right away," said Valnikov.
"Thank you, Sergeant," said Madeline Whitfield.
"You're welcome."
Valnikov was almost out of change. He managed to scrape up enough for die second call. The phone rang seven times. He was about to hang up, when a young man answered. "Yeah?"
This is Sergeant Valnikov, Los Angeles Police Department."
"Yeah?"
"I'm investigating a theft of a dog. Is this the residence of Millie M. Gharoujian?"
"Just a minute." The line was quiet, then a muffled voice said, "Millie, it s for you. Some cop about Tutu."
"Hello," a husky voice breathed.
"Ma'am, this is Sergeant Valnikov, Los Ang-"
"Yeah, okay," said Millie. "You find Tutu?"
"Well, a lady in Pasadena thinks she might have your dog, ma'am. I'm sorry to say she found a champion class schnauzer that fits the description. But the poor dog died and ..."
"Yeah, is it my Tutu?"
"I don't know, ma'am. She left her name and number if you'd care to call her."
"Look, pal. What's your name?"
"Valnikov, ma'am."
"Yeah. Listen, pal. I'm seventy-six years old."
"Yes, ma'am," said Valnikov.
"Well, you just interrupted the best . . . Look, I happen to be having a grand time and you have to interrupt it. Is this what I pay taxes for?"
"No, ma'am," said Valnikov.
"Okay, now look. My dog was snatched or ran off or whatever, last week. She's a three-year-old schnauzer that cost me upwards a twenty grand before I say, Millie, why you blowing all this dough on a goddamn dog? Get it?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"So look, I already made an insurance claim. If the dog's dead what the hell can I do about it, Sergeant?"
"I don't know, ma'am," said Valnikov. "Could you describe your dog? This lady seems terribly concerned and ..."
"Jesus Christ!" Millie Muldoon Gharoujian cried. "I got two kids here that look like they were carved by Michelangelo and I'm supposed to worry about a dog!"
"She had no identification, I take it," said Valnikov.
"She had one white toenail on her left rear foot," Millie said gruffly. "My ex-dog handler, a jerk named Philo Skinner, used to paint that toenail black before the dog shows. Now please, Sergeant, I appreciate your dedication, but can I get back to my business with these boys? Don't you have any respect for senior citizens?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Valnikov. "Yes, ma'am."
"It took long enough," said Natalie Zimmerman when Valnikov returned to the detective car.
"Do you mind if we go back to the station? I have to call this lady from Pasadena again and I'm out of pocket change."
While Valnikov made his call at Hollywood Station, Natalie Zimmerman used the time to phone the hospital. She was told that Captain Hooker had just suffered an attack of stomach gas. He was with Sergeant Cromwell and was presumably resting easily. Natalie Zimmerman put in a call to the area commander, who was out to lunch. Then she returned to the burglary table where Valnikov was talking to Madeline Whitfield.
'That's right," Valnikov said into the phone. "The schnauzer had one white toenail on her left rear foot. What color are they normally? Black? Yes. Did you notice if the dog had one white toenail? You didn't notice. That's too bad. Where's the dead dog now? A what? A pet mortuary? Yes, I know where that is. Do they cremate them or bury them or what? They embalm them? Animals? Really? Well, the lady who reported the stolen schnauzer doesn't seem to care very much whether it's her dog or not. That's right. She really doesn't want to bother talking to you. I don't understand either. Yes, I'm a pet owner. I have a parakeet and a gerbil. A gerbil. No, it's a gerbil. Indigenous to southern Russia. For now I don't know what else I can do. Yes, that's all right, ma'am. Yes. Good-bye."
After he hung up, he looked at a totally frustrated Natalie Zimmerman.
"Would you like to go to lunch now?" he asked. "I have a surprise for you. A very unusual place to eat."
"What the hell!" she said to her Friz. "Let's go, Valnikov. I'll probably get botulism. Why do I always have to pick the black marble?"
He was driving the detective car along Pico Boulevard in a neighborhood she didn't know very well. He'd gone to Vermont and was now heading back west. The Cuban storefronts lined the street. There was Rosario's Boutique. Not like the boutiques in Beverly Hills. Rosario's was a storefront ten feet wide. The most expensive item cost $13.95 and Rosario's did not take credit cards. They passed a liquor store which carried a big window placard advertising Silox Super-X, Cockroach Control Overnight. Guaranteed! There was a storefront advertising Consulto Espiritual, in case you cared to know the mysteries of the past and future. The present was of not much interest to the spiritualist.
Then thriftshops and wooden buildings which should have been demolished. Vacant lots. Then another Cuban spiritualist who, incredibly enough, offered in addition to herbs and medicines-religion. The sign simply
advertised: Martas religion. Natalie Zimmerman thought that was honest enough.
Then past a huge primitive mural on the side of a building depicting dark Latin faces under Mexican sombreros, with eyes like Russian ikons, and letters emblazoned: tierra y LIBERTAd! Leaving Valnikov uncertain as to whether the tierra y lihertad was the dream of the Cubans of the neighborhood, or the Mexicans depicted thereon. No matter. All Latinos dreamed of tierra y lihertad regardless of their homeland, and, like the Russians, had seen precious little of it in the course of history.
And then, between Mariposa and Normandie, the import stores which advertised Greek, Arab, Armenian, Persian, Turkish, Italian, Soviet imports. These stores were located strategically near St. Sophia's, the huge-domed cathedral for the Greek Orthodox of Los Angeles. Amidst the food stores there was an international record store which offered tapes and records to the ethnic shoppers.
When Valnikov pulled to the curb and parked, she heard and smelled the exotic.
"I buy my music there," Valnikov said, pointing to the record store from which balalaikas throbbed. Valnikov was beaming. They usually played bazouki because Greek customers far outnumbered Russian.
Ts this a restaurant?" Natalie asked, as Valnikov led her into the smallest of the stores. There were powerful odors of black and green olives, goat cheeses from five countries, oils and wines, pastries and breads, meats and spices from the nations of the Mediterranean. And in this particular store, some foods, some wines, some vodka from the north.
"Andrei Mikhailovich!" a man behind the counter thundered. He wore a meat-stained apron, and a tunic which marked him as a Molokan to those who knew.
Tosif!" Valnikov grinned, and then a big man came out from the back room. He was wearing a blue sweater and spoke unaccented English. He was close to 280 pounds and stood well over six feet tall. His hair was nearly white but he had the same broad Slavic forehead as Valnikov, and the same kind of ingenuous grin which Natalie decided was more childlike than dumb.
He said, "Where you been for three weeks, you little jerk?" And he grabbed Valnikov, puckered, and kissed him smack on the mouth. They embraced and bobbed around for a few seconds. Dancing bears.
Then he gave Valnikov a crack on the shoulder and reached out with a sweep of an enormous arm, half crushing the astonished Natalie Zimmerman, and kissed her smack on the mouth. "Hello, good-looking," he said. "You smell like a cop to me. And that's a sexy smell!"
the Black Marble (1977) Page 20
