the Black Marble (1977)

by Wambaugh, Joseph

  "What I'm hoping you might consider," Valnikov said, "is going along with a money drop. But trusting us to handle it for you. I want you to tell him you'll give him the money tomorrow. Tell him how much you have and that you'll he able to make the delivery tomorrow afternoon. Then we'll take over. We have helicopters and surveillance people who're expert at this sort of thing and . . ."

  "I don't know. I think I'd just rather not risk it," Madeline said softly. "I want to let you catch him but ..."

  "I thought that if you trust me, personally, I could coordinate the operation," Valnikov said. "If you trust my judgment I'll promise not to let anything happen to scare him off and endanger Vickie. I won't risk Vickie's safety. If I'm positive we can take him, we'll take him. If not, we let the money go. What do you say? Do you trust me?"

  She squeezed his forearm again, this time with both hands and whispered, "You know I do."

  "Oh, shit," Natalie muttered aloud.

  "I give you my word I'm going to return Vickie to you. I promise," Valnikov said.

  Then Madeline got tearful in spite of her best efforts, and Valnikov said, "Here, let me fix you some tea. Now now, Mrs. Whitfield. That's a brave girl. Now now."

  "It's a dog."

  "Pardon, Natalie?" Valnikov said.

  "It's a dog," said Natalie Zimmerman to no one. To everyone. "It's a dog we're talking about."

  "It's an extortion," Valnikov reminded her. "A felony."

  "It's a dog you two are talking about," Natalie Zimmerman said stubbornly. "You two have never been talking about an extortion. You two are talking about a dog. I'm not running into a burning house to rescue a bowl of goldfish. And I'm not going to sit here and let you two make me so . . . make me forget that we're all talking about a dog. A dog! Do you hear me!"

  But they didn't. Because Madeline Whitfield's tears had gotten the better of her and she was weeping on Valnikov's shoulder and Valnikov was patting her and saying, "Now now. I understand. You can be sure that I understand. Now now."

  At which time Natalie Zimmerman got up and stalked out the front door to pace in the driveway and smoke, and watch the sun set pink and gold on the defunct hotel over the ar- royo, over the picturesque Suicide Bridge.

  Natalie felt a twinge of shame and then a rush of remorse as the anger ran out of her. Jesus, she couldn't even manage a little bile at a time like this? She was letting a brace of loonies make her ashamed for not being like them? Ever since she had been teamed with Valnikov, nothing made any sense. Before Valnikov, she knew who she was and where she was going. In that short time she'd seen a man shot to pieces, seen a kid's head painted silver, dug up a dog that was buried next to a goddamn koala bear, or a yak, or whatever the hell. And everytime she tried to tell someone, another mental deficient, like Bullets Bambarella, would do something and they wouldn't listen to her. Nobody would listen to her. Now, Valnikov was talking about being a party to a money drop of twenty thousand dollars. For a dog. Explain that to the promotion board on your next oral exam, Natalie. Yes, sir, it just seemed like the thing to do at the time. Why did we willingly give the extortionist twenty thou? Because we didn't have eighty-five thou. If we had eighty-five thou like he demanded, we would have given him eighty-five thou. Because Valnikov and Mrs. Whitfield understood each other, that's why.

  Natalie scraped her shoes and coughed and made some discreet noises before she went back inside. Just in case the two psychos were relieving each other's tensions on the floor. Like schnauzers. Like they probably did last night. I understand you, Mrs. Whitfield. Sure.

  When she came back in the sitting room he had his suit- coat off and his tie loosened. Pretty chummy. Pretty goddamn chummy. Impulsively, she stepped back in the foyer and eavesdropped.

  Valnikov was saying, "I've thought about it a lot and I truly believe a person can come out of something like this a stronger person."

  "If I just get her back, Sergeant. If I just ..."

  "You will, I promise you," he said, taking her hand. "And about the other thing. Losing this house. Working. Listen, do you realize that in one year you could pick up enough college credits to get your state teaching credential?"

  'Teaching credential?"

  "Sure. With your fine education and sensitivity and intelligence, why you'd make a wonderful schoolteacher, Mrs. Whitfield. Just wonderful."

  "It's true I've always enjoyed the children at the Huntington Library," she mused.

  "That's the answer. Teaching," Valnikov said, her hand in both of his.

  'Teaching. It is a possibility," she said eagerly. "Yes, it is! But ... I wonder. Could I stay in this area? Would I be . . . embarrassed, moving, say, to a small apartment?"

  "I think you should stay, Mrs. Whitfield," he said quietly. "From what you've told me, Old Pasadena isn't a place. It's a way of life. Your way of life. Maybe being a Russian I can identify in some ways. There's tradition here. Manners. Gentility. Order. Where else in Southern California are you going to find all that in these times? Old Pasadena is a good way of life for someone like you. My mother would have liked it. I think I'd like it too."

  "If I'm interrupting anything I can go back outside," Natalie said to her Friz, causing them both to jump apart. Pretty chummy. Pretty goddamn chummy.

  "Come on in, Natalie," Valnikov said. "It's almost time for him to call."

  "You do the listening," Natalie said, sprawling on the settee, determined at least to demand overtime pay for all this.

  "I think we should both listen," Valnikov said. 'There's another extension in the bedroom."

  Ah-hah, you son of a bitch! How do you know about the bedroom? Then remorse again. Why was she letting this lunatic liaison get her mad? Simple. Valnikov infected everyone. You're around him awhile, you start getting as nutty as he is. The hell with it. Now, she'd feel no guilt when she told them about his mental condition. None at all. Sorry, Valnikov, but it's simply a matter of survival. Natalie Zimmerman's!

  "Okay, I'll listen on the bedroom phone,'' Natalie smirked.

  "Unless you'd rather use the bedroom, Valnikov?''

  _ _ _

  Philo Skinner at that very moment was answering the extension in his bedroom. He held his hand over the receiver and whispered in desperation: "Arnold! You shouldn't call me at home!''

  "That's exactly what I told you, Philo,'' the voice said. "Last week when you called me at home and talked me into letting you get down on the Vikings, and now it's Wednesday and I still ain't got my fifteen dimes."

  "I told you the escrow money won't clear until Thursday, goddamnit!" Philo croaked. "I agreed to bump you a hundred a day. You want my blood?" You want my foreskin, you murderous fucking lake!

  "I want your balls, Philo, you don't pay," he said.

  Philo was right! The nigger with the knife!

  "Why do you talk to me like this, Arnold?" Philo whined.

  "Because it's Wednesday. And tomorrow's Thursday. And I carried you so far I need a head doctor, is why."

  "So tomorrow I pay. Goddamnit, Arnold, I thought we were friends?"

  "Business friends, Philo," the voice said. "Business friends. Tomorrow a man's coming to your house in the afternoon to close our transaction."

  "Not my house, Arnold! Not my house!"

  "The kennel, then," said the voice. "In the afternoon."

  "Make it after two," Philo whined. "Make sure Mavis is gone. After two o'clock?"

  "We are gonna close our transaction tomorrow afternoon, Philo, one way or the other."

  "I know that, Arnold. I know!"

  "Good night, Philo."

  Philo cut himself twice while shaving. He gave up and wiped the lather off his chin stubbles. He doused on half a can of baby powder but it couldn't dry the sweat pouring from his bony torso. Philo put on his polyester suit and a tapered orchid shirt. He hung his gold chains around his neck and teased his blue-black hair and started for the door.

  But Mavis said, "Philo, I think I'll go to work with you tomorrow. I'm getting sick a soap op
eras all day. Maybe I'll do some bookwork."

  "Christ, Mavis!" Philo said. "What kinda bookwork you think we got with twenty-five lousy dogs in the whole kennel? I told you there ain't enough work for even one kennel girl the way things are these days. Christ, I can't even keep busy with the grooming. Why you wanna hang around and go crazy too?"

  "Just to be together, Philo. You're so jumpy lately. I know business is eating at you, but things'll work out. Business is funny."

  "Yeah, well, I gotta run out get a few packs a cigarettes."

  "Why you getting dressed up to buy cigarettes?"

  "Christ, just cause I'm living like a bum don't mean I gotta dress like one. Get off my case, Mavis!"

  "You been acting awful funny the last several days, Philo," Mavis said, turning down the television volume with a remote control. "If I didn't trust you I'd think you were maybe nesting with some little bird."

  Then Philo lost his temper. "That does it! I'm going out to buy cigarettes. I'll be back within twenty minutes. You time me with a stopwatch. You and me been married six years. You tell me, can I run out of this house, drive somewhere, for five or ten minutes, meet some bird, take her to a motel, and come back here in twenty minutes? You tell me that's possible, you dumb shit!"

  "I guess not," she said sweetly. "You couldn't even get a hard-on in half a day, come to think of it. In fact I ain't seen one in three months!"

  Thank you, Mavis, he thought when he squealed out of the driveway in his El Dorado. It all comes down to an erection. I'll remember that in Puerto Vallarta when I'm screwing their serapes off, you miserable cunt!

  _ _ _

  The call was late. It came at 6:25 p. M.

  "Hello."

  "This is Richard. I want the money tonight. Get a pencil and paper. Here's the instruc-"

  "I don't have the money tonight. I'll have it tomorrow."

  "What!"

  Very quickly she said, "I'll have the money tomorrow afternoon. I'll have it then but it's only twenty thousand dollars. I won't lie to you, that's how much I was able to borrow. I'll bring it wherever you say."

  Twenty thousand dollars. He was stunned. Twenty thousand. Enough to pay off Arnold and five left over. Five thousand wouldn't begin to pay off his El Dorado! Five thousand wouldn't begin to pay his delinquent payments on the kennel! Five thousand wouldn't pay the balance of his income tax! (None of which he planned on paying anyway after he got the ransom.) Five grand! How long could he live in Puerto Vallarta on five grand? He was stunned.

  It was fortunate that he had picked a remote telephone booth beside a service station that closed early on Wednesdays because he was screaming: "YOU CUNT! YOU WON'T GET AWAY WITH THIS! YOU WON'T! YOU CAN'T TREAT ME LIKE THIS! I WON'T LET YOU GET AWAY WITH THIS! YOU WAIT! I'M GOING TO CALL YOU BACK IN TEN MINUTES!"

  Then, Philo Skinner, hardly aware of what he was doing, was speeding through alleys in his El Dorado, throwing up sparks in the night, clanging over holes in the asphalt and bumps in the pavement, roaring through backstreets toward Skinner Kennels. Philo screeched to a stop in the parking lot, stumbled from the Cadillac, ran to the door with his jangling keys, and in a moment, was gasping and wheezing through the grooming room loping toward the kennel where twenty- five dogs went mad with joy, anger, or fear, depending upon their dispositions.

  Philo unlocked the last dog pen but nearly lost Vickie, who went running toward the rubber doggie door and the gravel dog run outside, which was littered with defecation now that Philo Skinner was too busy being a criminal to clean up dog crap.

  He grabbed her as she was almost through the doggie door and she growled but did not bite him, having gotten used to his rancid tobacco smell these past days. Then Philo ran to the office beside the grooming room, and throwing caution to the winds, picked up his own telephone.

  _ _ _

  Valnikov knew that Madeline's conversation had driven the extortionist to some desperate move, but he also knew that there was nothing to do but wait.

  "Can't we trace the next call, Sergeant?" Madeline said fearfully. "He's going to do something terrible!"

  'They can only trace calls easily in the movies," Valnikov said. "A phone trace is terribly complicated and has to be set up well in advance. We just have to wait."

  They didn't have to wait long. She picked it up on the first ring. "Yes."

  "Okay, you cunt," he snarled. "Now listen to this." And Philo Skinner held Vickie s mouth to the receiver and pinched the tender flesh around her vagina.

  The little schnauzer yelped and began to whine.

  "That's your Vickie, mommy. You recognize her voice, you cunt?" He had to drop the phone and cough until he spit a wad of phlegm in the wastepaper basket.

  Madeline was trying to suppress a scream and it was only Valnikov's strong steady gaze and his reassuring nod that kept her from doing it.

  "I . . . please ... I don't know what Vickie sounds like ... on the phone."

  Which caused Natalie Zimmerman to put her phone down on the bed and walk downstairs to the drawing room, because she was absolutely certain now that she was the only sane person left in Los Angeles County. They were talking to the kidnapped dog.

  "Listen, mommy, you miserable cunt!" And he pinched the animal brutally and Vickie yelped louder and began to cry.

  "I take your word!" Madeline cried. "I believe you! I believe it's Vickie! Please don't!" And Valnikov couldn't hold her back this time. She began sobbing. But she was still holding the phone. Still listening and trying to answer.

  "YOU LIED TO ME!" Philo shrieked. "Twenty thousand! You miserable cunt. It ain't enough. It ain't enough to get me anywhere. I'm going to do it. I swear to you I never hurt an animal in my life but I'm going to kill this bitch. NOW!"

  Madeline said, "Wait! Wait! You've already killed once. Don't do it again. The little schnauzer you drugged. It's dead. Don't hurt another one!"

  Then Philo gasped and had to cough and wheeze and catch his breath. And Valnikov listened.

  "You're lying!" Philo finally said.

  "I'm not," Madeline said. 'The drug you gave her was too much. She died. There was nothing I could do."

  "Dead?" Philo mumbled. Tutu was dead? The only creature in the world who loved Philo Skinner?

  Valnikov was astonished. He motioned Natalie over to his phone. They stood together cheek to cheek and listened. The extortionist was crying!

  "You rotten lying welsher," he sobbed. "You lied to me. You been lying to me all along. You been lying to me!"

  "Please ..." Madeline said. "Please!"

  Philo Skinner threw the phone down on the desk, and still holding the whimpering schnauzer in his arms, ran crying into the glooming room and pinned Vickie on the metal table. The plucky little animal sensed danger and began to growl fiercely. When he removed one hand she bit him on the other and hung on. But Philo felt little pain, only rage. He reached for the instruments on the counter as Vickie snarled and chewed. He tried for the stripping knife. He couldn't reach it. He got his hand on the straight razor. Vickie growled in panic now, and still sobbing, Philo Skinner aped notorious kidnappers of recent history. Philo Skinner was a copycat.

  He held Vickie s head on the metal table with his bleeding arm and sawed through the gristly flesh of her right ear. The gristle crackled when the razor sawed through. Vickie released her bite involuntarily and blood from Philo's hand ran down her throat as she screamed at the incredible pain. Philo didn't stop sawing until the razor was screeching across the stainless steel of the table. Then he looked down in horror at the bell-shaped schnauzer ear lying in blood.

  Philo threw Vickie off the table and she hit the tile floor, still screaming, getting up, listing, staggering, falling to one side, instinctively trying to rub the devastating pain away on the slippery tile floor, leaving a trail of blood across the tile as she flopped like a fish on her bloody head. When she found herself in the corner of the room she rammed her head against the wall several times trying to escape. She let loose with a whine so
loud and shrill that Philo had to hold his wounded hand over his left ear when he picked up the telephone. Then she balled up and tucked the amputation far beneath her as though she were ashamed of it.

  Philo Skinner was panting and sobbing and gasping for air. "I . . . did it, you miserable woman!" he said. "I . . . you . . . you made me do it!"

  "Vickie's dead. You killed Vickie," Madeline said, knowing it wasn't true, able to hear a dog screaming in the background.

  "I cut off her ear!" Philo Skinner cried. "You made me do it! It's your fault!"

  "Spare her lifer Madeline begged, and even Natalie Zimmerman was impressed. Madeline Whitfield was on her feet, wiping her eyes. She was gaining control and the extortionist was going to pieces.

  "Spare her life, Richard," Madeline repeated. "I'm going to take the twenty thousand dollars tomorrow. Tonight. Wherever you say. I don't care when. I'll pay it for Vickie's life. Where shall I take the money, Richard?"

  Philo couldn't think. His hand hurt like hell. He was afraid for a moment that the tendon was severed, but he saw he had good finger movement. Vickie was still screaming pit- eously and Philo slammed the office door shut. Still she screamed.

  "No, not tonight," he said. "Not tonight. Tomorrow. I'm going to call you tomorrow morning. Eleven o'clock. I'll tell you then. Bring the twenty thousand then."

  "Yes, Richard," Madeline said, nodding at the mouthpiece. "Yes. I'll be here. I have the money. I'll do whatever you say. Yes."

  When the phone went dead, Madeline sat down. She stared at Valnikov. Then at Natalie. Then at the phone.

  Valnikov said, "We'll be here at nine a. M. with some other officers. Tomorrow he'll want the money. He'll decide that twenty thousand is better than nothing. In any case, you can observe the precautions we're going to take, and then you can decide whether or not to let us keep you under surveillance when you make the money drop. It'll be up to you. I promise." When he finished talking, Valnikov walked over and knelt in front of Madeline. "Do you understand me, Mrs. Whitfield?"

  "Yes, Sergeant," she said.

  "I'll be with you tomorrow morning. Don't be afraid."