the Black Marble (1977)

by Wambaugh, Joseph

  Philo was beside himself. He started yelling so loud that the bartender came over, banged on the door, and said, "Hey fella, there's ladies in this joint! Watch your language."

  And Philo almost yelled something at the bartender, but he remembered what happened to him today in a phone booth when he popped off, so he bit his lip and kept quiet. When he came back on the line he said, "You have thirty-five thousand for me at this time tomorrow night. Thirty-five and that's my last offer. You understand? I'm calling you at six o'clock tomorrow night and you're going to tell me you have the dough or I'm going to hurt that bitch. I never hurt an animal in my life, lady, but I swear I'll hurt your bitch if you don't have the dough for me by tomorrow night."

  " "All right, Richard, I'll have it," she said. "Good-bye." And she hung up the phone, walked back into the drawing room, threw herself on the couch and wept.

  Valnikov sat quietly and watched her cry. He blinked patiently from time to time.

  Finally, she said, "I . . . I've been try . . . trying to get a ... a job. I've never . . . never worked. This house . . . this . . . I'll have to be out in a year. I have . . . have enough in a trust fund to last till then. But I can't get it. I'd give it all to him. But I can't get it! It took a court order to get ... to get it for my mother's . . . her hospital expenses. Her funeral. I can't get ..."

  "Now now, Mrs. Whitfield," he said, sighing deeply. His eyes were sad and red. "Now now."

  "How does one find a job, Sergeant? Can . . . can you tell me? Where . . . what can I . . . what ..."

  "Now now, Mrs. Whitfield," Valnikov said softly.

  Then he switched off the light and lumbered to the couch and sat down. He started patting her on the back. Now now, Mrs. Whitfield. Now now.

  She didn't feel his hand at first, though it was a meaty hand. When she did, she sat up, but couldn't stop the tears.

  Then Valnikov put his arm around her and it startled her. Still she couldn't stop weeping. Then Valnikov put both arms around her and she wept on his chest. He kept patting her back, rather solidly, as though he was trying to burp her. Then she relaxed and he began patting her softly. Then he was holding her, rocking her, patting her ever more gently and she was catching her breath.

  Then she put both arms around Valnikov's neck and sat there crying in the darkness. Valnikov looked almost as sad as she. Now now, Mrs. Whitfield. Now now.

  Then, instinctively, Valnikov began kissing Madeline Whitfield on the salty cheek. Now now. Now now. And she tightened her grip on his neck and let him.

  Of course Valnikov could not have known that this woman had not felt a man's body in five years. He was only vaguely aware that he hadn't felt a woman's body since Thanksgiving weekend when he got drunk in a Chinatown bar and picked up a clerk typist from the police academy. Madeline turned her tear-drenched face to the detective and kissed his mouth. Valnikov responded. Then they were groping in the darkness on that damask sofa and she was saying, "Sergeant, Sergeant!" And he was replying, "Mrs. Whitfield, Mrs. Whitfield!"

  "Sergeant! Oh, Sergeant!" she cried.

  "Mrs. Whitfield," he cried. "I'll find your doggie, I swear!"

  "Sergeant!" she cried, and unhooked his gun belt.

  When he left her an hour later, he was filled with pity for this woman. She was sleeping soundly in her bed for the first time in days. He paused in the door to look at her naked body. She was a fine woman. He wished she could find someone from her station in life. She needed someone to care about. Something useful to do.

  Valnikov went home and before he slept he renewed his vow to find this lonely woman's dog. Then he went to sleep and dreamed of the rabbit.

  Chapter 11

  The Dog Lover

  Valnikov felt very strange when he awakened Wednesday morning. At first, he didn't know what it was. He got up, boiled water for the tea, fed and watered Misha and Grisha, cleaned their cage. He brought the morning paper in, sat down to read. Then he looked around the bachelor apartment. Nothing had changed. He still had the same clotheslines strung from the animal cage to the nail he'd pounded into the top of the door frame. Several pair of underwear and socks still hung on the clothesline. There was still a pile of dirty dishes on the sink which he washed one plate at a time when he was hungry. There were still stacks of records and album covers strewn around the room. But something was different. Then it dawned on him. There was no empty bottle of Stolichnaya either on the kitchen table or on the walnut veneer coffee table. And that gave him the big clue as to what was totally different this morning: He had no hangover!

  He had worked, and kept company with Madeline Whitfield until midnight. He had come home and gone to bed. He had not had a single glass of vodka. Remarkable! He got up, went into the bathroom, tossed two hand towels off the metal arm that dangled in front of the medicine cabinet. He examined his eyes. They were slightly red but dry. He looked well. He felt well. He celebrated by making himself two scrambled eggs and rye toast. He drank three cups of tea and had a glass of orange juice. Then he took a shower and ironed a clean shirt. He tied his tie carefully so the collar button didn't show. He put some tonic on his hair and combed it, careful to get a straight part.

  He felt like a new man when he walked out that door. He couldn't wait to tell Natalie. They were going to catch a criminal.

  When Valnikov got to the station, things were about to get tense. Bullets Bambarella had lost two weeks' pay in the last two days by making bets with Montezuma Montez. Aside from that, Bullets had had a lousy night with a cop groupie from downtown.

  Bullets had Clarence Cromwell cornered at the burglary table when Valnikov got himself a cup of tea. Bullets was saying, "... so I take this broad home. You know her, Clarence?"

  "Yeah, yeah, she works the D. A.'s office," Clarence sighed. All these young lads got woman troubles and who do they bring them to? Clarence Cromwell, that's who. "Bullets, do I look like the fuclan Ann Landers of Hollywood Detectives, or somethin?"

  "But, Clarence, listen! She's a sicko. Some kinda fruitcake or somethin. She plays with her own clit when I'm lovin her up. Can you believe it? Then . . . get this . . . she starts suclan on her own big tit! I says to this freako, I says, 'Hey. Whadda you need me for?' She says, 'Come to think of it, dummy, I don't.

  "Yeah, this is very interestin, Bullets. I mean, there ain't nothin I'd rather do than talk about your sex life but ..."

  "Then I done it!"

  Suddenly the scowling black detective stiffened and said, "You done what, Bullets?"

  "Nothin much. I just got mad. I just threw her in the swimmin pool, is all."

  "Jesus! You had me scared for a minute. I can't be coverin for you anymore, Bullets!"

  "I know, Clarence, and I just wanted you to know how it was."

  "I don't think she can bitch too much, you just threw her in a swimmin pool."

  "Thanks for being so understandin, Clarence," Bullets breathed.

  "Nothing but whackos in Hollywood anyway," said Montezuma Montez, overhearing Bullets' problems. "Over in East L. A. you pick up a Mexican chick, you buy a six-pack a beer and have a great old time in a drive-in movie. In Hollywood you pick up a broad you gotta spend thirty bucks on dinner. Then to satisfy her you gotta go down to Western Costume and rent a werewolf mask and spend the night whopping each other over the head with live kitty cats. I wanna transfer back to Hollenbeck," said Montezuma Montez.

  But Bullets was ready for trouble. "Yeah, that's just like a spic to say that," Bullets sneered. "You get the wrong hole with those Mexican broads you end up with a blister on your joint, all the chili seeds they eat. I'll take a Hollywood girl any old time."

  "Oh, yeah?" Montezuma said. "Well lemme tell you about this Hollywood lady I picked up the other night. Said her folks were from Venice. Not Venice, California. Venice, Italy. Had her little two-year-old spumoni sucker in the car when I picked her up at the tennis court," said Montezuma.

  'That's a filthy lie," said Bullets Bambarella, and Clarence Cromwell finally said, "W
ill you two please shut up!"

  "It's gotta be a lie, Clarence," Bullets argued. "You think a spic can play tennis?"

  "Better than any dago I ever seen," said Montezuma Montez.

  Then Bullets turned to Montezuma and said, "I never played tennis in my life and I could probably beat you."

  "I could beat you left-handed," said Montezuma Montez.

  "Gotcha covered, dummy!" Bullets yelled in triumph and suddenly Montezuma Montez was looking down at forty borrowed dollars, thinking he may have gone too far.

  Then money was flying all over the squad room and Lieutenant Mockett was whining to no avail about illegal gambling, and four cars full of detectives went speeding to Hollywood High School for a bizarre one-set tennis match in stocking feet, suits, and ties, between two clumsy buffaloes, one of whom was playing with the wrong hand.

  Natalie Zimmerman, wearing a new side-pleated skirt and matching cardigan jacket, came to work five minutes late, and was almost knocked to the floor by the thundering herd charging out of the station to the tennis match.

  She was relieved to see that Hipless Hooker was also late. She was not going to fail today. She was going to grab him by the goddamn throat if she had to, the minute he came in the door. And then she was going to walk him into the office and put a chair in front of the door to keep out Clarence Cromwell. Then they were going to talk about Valnikov.

  The reason she was late was that she had only gotten three hours' sleep, what with Captain Jack Packerton jumping on her every two hours or so to prove he still had it even though he'd just turned forty. She felt like telling him it would be the last all-nighter until he accepted impending middle age. And all the time he didn't know that Natalie Zimmerman had much the same fear because she had failed at orgasm the last five times.

  What the hell, Jack, let's just live together. I've been divorced twice now and . . . Live together? Natalie, I'm a captain! Have you read the latest memorandum from Chief Digby Bates about moral rearmament? Do you know what would happen if a captain was found living in sin? Christ, I'd rather risk another divorce than face the alternative! Do you know that I stand a very good chance of being a deputy chief someday? What're you trying to do to my career? Live together? Without benefit of clergy? I WANNA BE A DEPUTY CHIEF!

  And all she wanted to be was an Investigator III who wasn't lonely and who could have an occasional orgasm. Yet she was an Investigator II, and hadn't had one lately, and was working with a closet madman, and there was no help on the horizon.

  She was telling all this silently to her Friz when Valnikov set a cup of coffee in front of her. He was looking all spruced up today for some reason. Just her luck. The day she vowed to expose him is the day he picks to get all gussied up and comb his hair. Well, it didn't matter whether he looked like a madman or not. He couldn't fool anybody if they just pushed the right buttons. Tell me about your dream, Valnikov. Is it Bugs Bunny? Peter Cottontail? Tell me about a rabbit that makes you cry. Jesus, he was smiling that big goofy kid smile.

  "We have a real case to work on, Natalie." he said. "Would you care for a little cream or sugar?" "No."

  "I just finished telling Clarence about it."

  And hearing his name, Clarence Cromwell came over and sat on Valnikov's table. "Mockett wants to know if you're putting in overtime for last night."

  "No," said Valnikov.

  "Okay, that'll keep him happy. I'm gonna have Max Haf- fenkamp handle your cases for today and maybe tomorrow. I might go out and help him. But that's it. We can't be makin no major crime outta this extortion."

  "Extortion?" said Natalie.

  "I'll tell you all about it," Valnikov said. "It's a pretty big one. Eighty-five thousand dollars."

  "Yeah, but its over a clog, Val. Keep that in mind. It's only a gud-damn pampered dog."

  "I appreciate your handling my regular workload, Clarence," Valnikov said, and Natalie was shocked to see that even his blue eyes were clear this morning.

  "One thing you gotta do first, Val," said Clarence. "Mockett says you make sure that dead dog is the one from the Brown Derby. Go to the pet mortuary and see if they haven't disposed of it yet. Have that broad from Trousdale . . . what's her name?"

  "Millie Gharoujian."

  "Yeah, you have her or somebody identify that dead dog. If it ain't from the Brown Derby, you turn the whole thing over to Southwest Detectives or Pasadena P. D. Them's orders from Mockett. First order he gave this month. We gotta humor him."

  "Okay, Clarence," Valnikov said. "Let's go, Natalie."

  "Wait a minute," she said, brushing her Friz out of her eyes. "Clarence, where's the captain? I have to talk to him and I'm not going anywhere until I do!"

  "Gud-damn, Natalie!" Clarence sneered, standing up and putting his fists on his hips, the twin magnums dangling im- potently beside his barrel chest.

  "Gud-damn, what!" she sneered right back. A black General Patton!

  "Is it that same thing you been complainin about the last three days, Natalie?"

  "Yes it is," she said, looking involuntarily at Valnikov, who busied himself with a follow-up report, too polite to pry.

  "Well, this is a hell of a time," Clarence snorted. "You got an extortion to work on and you wanna go runnin to . . . "

  He was interrupted when Natalie jumped to her feet. She jumped because Hipless Hooker came flying through the door and ran across the squad room. He was holding his stomach and was followed by a young woman in a yellow pantsuit, walking like a robot, wearing a neck brace.

  "Clarence!" Hipless Hooker cried, but Natalie Zimmerman beat Clarence to the captain's office.

  "I just gotta talk to you today, Captain!" Natalie cried.

  "Not now, Natalie," Hooker whimpered. "Clarence, this lady was waiting for me at the desk when I came in. She claims she was out on a date with Bullets Bambarella last night. She works for the district attorney's office. She wants to sue us for half a million dollars!"

  "Let's all go in and quiet down," said Clarence, smiling at the woman in the neck brace.

  "Bullets told me about it, miss," Clarence said placatingly, "but I didn't know he hurt you. He said he just pushed you into a swimmin pool."

  "He did!" Hooker cried. "But her apartment was two floors up!"

  "I got a whiplash," the young woman said, "and Bullets is not gonna get away with it."

  "Oooooooooohhhhh, my stomach," Hooker suddenly moaned.

  "And I was wearing a good wristwatch and my contact lenses at the time," the girl said, sitting down gingerly.

  "Yeah, well I think we can clear this up," Clarence said as he closed the door in Natalie's face. "You see, Bullets really cares about you a lot. He told me."

  _ _ _

  It was starting to seem like a dream to Natalie Zimmerman. Destiny and Bullets Bambarella were conspiring to save Valnikov from his fate. And here they were driving up the hill, high to the top of Trousdale Estates, overlooking Hollywood and Beverly Hills. Natalie Zimmerman was starting to believe she would never be rid of the man next to her, driving all of fifteen miles per hour.

  "It's beautiful up here on top of the smog, isn't it?" he said amiably, as she sat and smoked and thought about sex without orgasm. And the black marble.

  "Yeah, beautiful."

  "Mrs. Gharoujian must be very rich."

  "Jesus!" said Natalie, coming out of her funk when she saw the contemporary home of Millie Muldoon Gharoujian on the cul-de-sac overlooking all of Baghdad. There was a Silver Shadow Rolls-Royce in the driveway, and a chauffeur in a black cap. He was nineteen years old and had shoulder- length blond hair hanging from under his cap. He got out of the car when they pulled up to the gate.

  Valnikov held his badge out the window and the chauffeur nodded and opened the gate. There was a granite fountain in the center of the circular drive. On it was a plaster sculpture of David. With an erection. A stream of water flowed from the erection. In the fountain, a boa constrictor writhed and rubbed his scales against the granite bowl and got a suntan,
compliments of Millie Muldoon Gharoujian.

  When Natalie pushed the doorbell, the chime played a chorus of "Roll Out the Barrel." Then the door was opened by a houseboy with a 29 waist and 19-inch arms. The house- boy was eighteen years old and was a runner-up in a Mr. California contest.

  "Mrs. Gharoujian is expecting you," he said, admitting them into the living room overlooking the cantilevered, clover-shaped swimming pool.

  The living room was white. White sofas filled seventy square yards of room. White wall-to-wall carpet buried Natalie's heels. White slumpstone fireplace. White baby grand ingeniously built so that it could play as well as any upright player piano when Millie wasn't too tired to pump the white enamel foot pedals.

  The white walls of the living room were covered with gilded antique mirrors and paintings of nudes, men and women. Over the fireplace was an enormous painting of a reclining Millie Gharoujian when she was thirty years old and still looked like Harlow. The painting was done in 1932.

  Then the east wall, which was all mirrors, opened. Millie came briskly through the mirrored door. She had had five face lifts over the past twenty-five years, and in a huge silk kimono barely covering the breasts which hung like twin punching bags, she looked not a day over seventy-two. She was perspiring and red-faced and petulant.

  "Sergeant, I told you on the phone, I already reported that schnauzer to my insurance company. It's a closed incident, far as I'm concerned. I appreciate you're a good cop and all that, but why don't you gimme a break? I got something in there hung like ..."

  "Yes, yes, yes!" Valnikov cried, not wanting Natalie to hear about Michelangelo penises. "But, Mrs. Gharoujian, if you could just come with us. The pet mortuary is only twenty minutes from here and we'd bring you right home as soon as you say if it's your Tutu or not. And ..."

  "Leave here? Now? Sergeant, you gotta be kidding! With what I got waiting for me on that water bed in there?"