Then the phone rang and Cromwell grabbed it. "Yeah," he said. Then to Valnikov, "For you."
"Valnikov," he said, picking up his extension and punching the first line.
"Sergeant, this is Madeline Whitfield," she said, very tentatively.
"Mrs. Whitfield!" Valnikov said. "What happened? Did he call?"
"He called. Last night. At about two a. M. I . . . Sergeant, I'm sorry. I took him the money. He told me to drop it off on the bridge by my home. I did it. I assume he picked it up. I went back at daybreak and it was gone. I haven't slept a minute. I guess he got it. I . . ."
"Do you have Vickie?" Valnikov said and got Natalie's attention at once. He held his hand over the phone and said, "She dropped the money on him during the night."
"No," she said, her voice cracking. "He said he'll call me today. He promised he'll release her today. I just have to wait. I'm sorry, Sergeant. Well ... I wanted ... I know I probably did the wrong thing. I wanted to do it your way. Well . . . she's all there is in my life. Well ..."
"Don't cry, Mrs. Whitfield," Valnikov said softly. "I do understand. I don't blame you for anything. I do understand. Don't cry. Now now, it's going to be all right, I promise you. There'll be someone here all day who can get in touch with me. You call the moment you hear from him. Yes. Don't cry. I promise you it'll be all right."
When he hung up, Clarence took a drink of coffee and said, "I'll cancel the chopper and the surveillance teams."
"She doesn't have Vickie yet," Valnikov said. "Why didn't I think of that? Why didn't I anticipate that he might call during the night?"
"Because this guy doesn't do anything orderly," Natalie said. "He's erratic and messy and crazy and you can't figure him because of it. Don't worry about it. It's not your fault. You've done all you can do."
Valnikov was on his feet. "It's almost eight o'clock," he said. "I'm still going to contact Mrs. Gharoujian's dog handler. That man Skinner. I'm going to have a talk with him about all the guys who lived with Mrs. Gharoujian when he was showing Tutu. He's the only hope there is now. He's got to come up with a few names for us."
"Valnikov, it's over, forget it!" Natalie said. "She chose to pay the money. He'll probably release the dog like he said.
Or maybe the dog's dead. In either case, you've done all . . ."
"I'm going to Skinner Kennels," he said, looking through the phone book.
"Well, sit down awhile at least," Clarence Cromwell said. "It ain't even opened yet, if it keeps regular business hours. Sit down and drink your tea and relax a little bit. This ain't the Patty Hearst kidnapping. "
Which caused Natalie Zimmerman to say, "That is maybe the first time I ever agreed with anything you ever said, Clarence."
As the other detectives straggled in for the day, and as Natalie Zimmerman did their routine paper work and filing of crime reports, Valnikov drank tea and made secret notes and drew pictures of a schnauzer and a bird.
Natalie glanced over at the pad and recognized the dog. "What's that, your parakeet?" she asked.
He almost told her it was a Russian nightingale in a raspberry bush, but he looked up with sorrowful runny eyes and said, "Yeah, my parakeet."
Captain Hooker arrived rather early. He had a paper bag in his arms. It contained three bottles of Maalox. He figured that would keep his stomach quiet for a couple of days at least. But he was wrong.
First of all, Bullets Bambarella usually had a Twinlae with his morning coffee but couldn't afford one now, so he was grumpy. He had exactly two dollars and fifty cents to last until payday thanks to the bets he'd lost to the smirking Mexican, Montezuma Montez. Bullets was looking for trouble, right off the bat.
"How about lendin me ten bucks till payday, Clarence?" he whispered to the grizzled black detective.
"What for? You got some other bet you wanna lose to Montezuma?" Clarence snorted.
"Listen, Clarence, you ever hear of a good Mexican heavyweight? There ain't any. I think we could go up to the academy, get some boxing gloves and . . ."
"I don't want any of my men boxing," said Woodenlips Mockett, overhearing it. "Somebody'11 get hurt."
T could lick him, Clarence," Bullets whined. "You could make some money bettin on me!"
When Bullets had gone back to the residential burglary table Clarence said, "Humph! Young coppers around here, they jist wear me down, is what they do. I see them smart- walkin all over the Chinatown barrooms these days. Their gud-damn guns hangin out so all the girls know they're cops. Shee-it. They probably drink High-waiian punch on the rocks. They jist wear me down."
Then Frick said to Frack, "Who smells so good, you or Irma?" And he bit the giggling policewoman on the shoulder.
"Me," said Frack, "and I don't know how to control it, neither."
Then Bullets interrupted them with an important announcement: "Italian food is the best in the world. Italians are gourmets. Mexicans eat horsemeat tacos."
"Bullets, is your mind gone, along with your paycheck?" said Clarence.
"I just heard that Montezuma is making enchiladas for the detective party next week," said Bullets.
"So what's it to you?" said Montezuma Montez, and all the telephone calls stopped as the squad room got ready for a fight.
"I won't have my men boxing," Woodenlips Mockett whined to Clarence Cromwell.
"Well, I don't wanna go to no party where I gotta eat horsemeat enchiladas," said Bullets glaring at Montezuma Montez.
Frick and Frack were now grinning back and forth from Bullets to Montezuma. There were secret bets coming out under the tables. "They're gonna fight, Clarence! You stop them!" Woodenlips Mockett cried.
Then Bullets said, "Italians are gourmets. Chefs. You probably never heard of eggplant parmesan."
"I heard of it," Montezuma said.
"Put my eggplant and your enchilada side by side, your enchiladas gonna taste like horseshit."
"fm somewhat of a gourmet if I do say so," said Dudley Knebel. "fd like to try them both."
"So would I," said Irma Thebes.
"Could you be a fair judge, Dudley?" Bullets challenged.
"Perfectly," said Dudley Knebel.
"Me too," said Irma.
"I think I could go for it too," said Nate Farmer. "But I think we should be able to write our opinions secret, so no hard feelins later."
"I'll read the findings," said Max Haffenkamp, "and just say which dish the judges picked. "
"Okay," said Bullets. "Clarence, will you loan me twenty bucks?"
"I'll take five a that," said Frick.
"I'll take five," said Frack.
"Who wants thirty bucks?" said Bullets. "Payable on payday?"
"Covered!" said Montezuma.
"Well, that does it!" said Clarence Cromwell with utter, lip-curling contempt. "You don't have to worry about a fist- fight no more, Lieutenant. It's down to a fiickin bake-off!"
Captain Hooker came out of the office, heading for the hot plate. He was going to pour some water into his powdered chocolate.
"Everything going smoothly, Clarence?" he said, mixing the brew.
"Fine, Skipper," said Clarence.
Dudley Knebel said, "Oh, Captain. You know that market they robbed three times this month? The one on the Boulevard? Well, the commander called and suggests we stake it out this Thursday. Maybe the computers told him."
"Now if the computer could jist do the stakeout . . Clarence grumbled.
"Clarence will coordinate it for you," Hipless Hooker said. He didn't have time for any of this. He had to go buy a new pair of deck shoes, the land real yachtsmen wear.
"Yeah, but Captain," Dudley Knebel persisted, "the commander says we should put an undercover cop behind the counter. You know, dressed like one a the clerks? Because they pistol-whipped the last three clerks and he figures a cop should be there."
"Great," Clarence Cromwell snorted. "Let a cop get pistol- whipped instead of a clerk."
"Yes, yes," Hipless Hooker said impatiently. "Well, just pick someone to masquerade a
s the clerk. Police work entails some risks once in a while."
"Yes, sir," said Knebel. "But the crooks been in there three times. They know all the clerks. The commander said to put in a guy who actually resembles the oldest clerk and let the poor clerk work another part of the store."
"Well for heaven's sake, can't you find an officer who resembles the old clerk?"
"Yes, sir," said Dudley Knebel. "The commander says that you look just like him."
Captain Hooker had to go home that morning with a dreadful tummyache. Which in no way affected Valnikov's police career this time. Valnikov's destiny was in other hands.
At 9:15 a. M. Valnikov finished drawing his eighth nightingale in a raspberry bush. By now Natalie guessed that he was not drawing parakeets.
Valnikov jumped up and said, "Clarence, I'm going to that kennel and talk to Mr. Skinner. I just can't sit around. If Mrs. Whitfield calls, get me on the radio or call me at the kennel. I wrote the number down on my note pad." Then without looking at her he said softly, "Natalie, maybe you wouldn't mind staying and doing our paper work this morning? I won't be . . . needing you."
"I wouldn't mind," she said, not looking at him either. And all the non-looks and averted eyes were not lost on Clarence Cromwell, who just shook his head and said, "Gud-damn! Don't notliin ever work out right for nobody in this gud- damn world!"
"What?" Woodenlips Mockett said.
"Nothin," Clarence Cromwell grumbled. "Nothin, gud- damnit!"
_ _ _
Philo Skinner had not been able to sleep for a day and a half. Nor had he shaved. He was wearing a pair of brushed denims and a striped turtleneck sweater. He hung his new imitation gold chain outside the sweater. He had bought the clothes this morning the moment the stores opened. He had a battered suitcase, which usually stored dog powders and lotions, packed with new clothing. He wasn't even going home. He also packed a hair dryer which had dried a thousand dogs but never a human head. He couldn't find another thing he cared to take. He was sure he could outfit himself in a fancy Puerto Vallarta hotel cheaper than here. That peso devaluation was going to make his twenty thousand look pretty good. Pretty damn good! He glanced in the mirror and his spirits fell for a moment. He looked terrible: eyes baggy and sunken, cheeks hollow and gray and bristling. Hands gray and scaly. The tension had taken a great toll on the Terrier King.
He had thought about driving the El Dorado across the border and trying to sell it in Tijuana to some Mexican crook. He quickly dismissed that idea, having heard about gringos being robbed and murdered down there these days. Just his luck to have them discover he was carrying twenty K and cut his throat.
He couldn't stop trembling, more from exhaustion than excitement. Mavis said yesterday she would be in this afternoon. Well, let her come. He wanted to leave her a note but couldn't think of anything sarcastic enough. He parked the El Dorado in the rear of the kennel, out of sight. He didn't want any new customers today.
Only one thing left: the schnauzer. Philo had to take the bitch and drop her someplace and phone the Whitfield broad. Then he was going to the airport. They'd find the car in a few days. They'd probably find out he took a Puerto Vallarta flight. So what? A guy with lots of debts bugs out. Happens all the time. There was absolutely no connection widi the dog snatching so there'd never be a cop looking for him. And Mavis could find some other sap to work the kennel, to slave like a goddamn sled dog. Of course Arnold might find out Philo had booked a flight to Puerto Vallarta. So what? That was a long way from here. Arnold was a two- bit bookmaker. The kike and the nigger with the knife wouldn't dare try anything on the Mexican Gold Coast. They don't put up with crooks down there. Let Arnold try. Philo'd have the Federates on him. Dig a grave, smoke a cigarette, and adios, Arnold, you fucking vampire.
Then he heard a car door slam. The door of the detective car slammed shut on the dream of Philo Skinner. He looked out and didn't see a detective. He saw a burly man with wild cinnamon hair and a slouchy walk, coming right for the front door.
He knew who it was at once, this brawny stranger! He was the nigger and the kike! It was Arnold's gunsel. Arnold crossed him up, that slimy bloodsucker. He said a man would come that afternoon, not morning! Philo peeked through the shade and the man got closer.
This gorilla wouldn't listen to reason! They never do in the movies. He'd just start tearing the place apart looking for money. He'd find the flight bag with the twenty K. After he cut Philo's throat! Then Philo tried to calm himself. No, it's just a customer, that's all it is. Just someone who wants Philo to take care of his fucking Irish setter for a couple weeks. That's all it is. The man was at the door now. He was knocking. Philo peeked through the blind and looked for a telltale bulge under his arm. The suit hugged his husky torso pretty well. There was no bulge. Philo was imagining things. Jesus! He had to keep his mind together. He'd be on that plane in a few hours. Then the man knocked again. Still Philo peeked. Go away, asshole. Take your flicking Irish setter and . . . Then the man pulled open his jacket to get a notebook. Philo saw it. It was on his belt. A gun! It is one of Arnold's gunsels! He wont cut Philo's throat! He'll shoot his balls off!
Philo Skinner knocked die metal grooming table clear across the room when he ran for die office. The table clashed to the tile floor and knocked bottles smashing against the wall. Philo grabbed the suitcase and the flight bag with the money. He slipped on the shampoo, which was all over the floor, and fell hard, cutting his hands before he got to the kennel door.
Valnikov heard the commotion and tried the door. It was locked. He heard the dogs barking and howling and heard someone running in the kennel. He thought that he had stumbled into a burglary in progress! Someone was ransacking Skinner Kennels! Then he heard another crashing sound as Philo Skinner slammed into the steel-reinforced back door, double keyed on both sides. Security, Philo. There's lots of thieves in this world. And you just caught one, Mavis. Thanks for everything! You cunt!
"YOU CUNT!" Philo screamed, and twenty-five animals went mad. A Welsh terrier began barking. A Great Dane started bellowing. A malamute howled like a wolf. Then other voices joined the chorus. Mavis couldn't have heard Philo's hysterical obscenity if she were in the grooming room.
Neither could Valnikov. All he heard was a burglar trapped inside, trying to get out. Perhaps more than one burglar. He drew his revolver and kicked the door beside the lock. The jamb splintered but it didn't open. He backed up, took a step and kicked again and the door fell off the hinges and crashed on the overturned grooming table. The clashing crashing splintering sound made Philo and the dogs howl all the louder.
Philo dropped his suitcase but clung to the flight bag. He ran desperately back, back toward the grooming room. There was only one potential weapon in the kennel, and it was 100 feet bajk down the narrow aisle between the pens full of bellowing beasts.
Philo Skinner was holding his chest, fighting back a coughing spasm. He felt a ball of phlegm as big as a fist ripping free from his lungs and rising in his throat. Yet he couldn't make a sound. Arnold's enforcer was creeping through the grooming room. Philo could hear his quiet steps on the broken glass. Philo held his breath as much as possible. The wheezing sounded deafening to him even in the din from the frightened animals. Philo removed a small fire extinguisher from the wall and backed into the shadows, into an alcove near the side door leading to the fenced exterior aisle on the periphery of the dog runs. Philo almost kicked over a mop and pail of water. The chunk of black phlegm was rising, rising, choking him. Please! Just a few seconds more!
Then Valnikov cautiously opened the door to the kennel. The dogs in the near cages saw this stranger with a gun. A Doberman started going berserk slashing at the chain link with his teeth. Philo Skinner backed against a concrete wall, saw the gun of Arnold's enforcer, and thought he would strangle before the bullets tore through his tortured lungs.
Valnikov saw a T-shaped aisle at the far end of the kennel where Philo had dropped his suitcase. Valnikov started to move toward the suitca
se when Philo's survival instincts took over. Valnikov saw a blur from the corner of his right eye. He turned but not fast enough. The fire extinguisher caught him on his broad forehead, over his right eye. Philo had swung with all his strength. It was enough. Valnikov fell back heavily against the first dog pen and went down on the concrete floor. He dropped his gun, but instinctively fell on top of it.
Philo Skinner was stopped by the chunk of poison in his throat. He started to gag and cough and gag some more. He leaned against the wall and gagged it out. A hunk of phlegm like a black golf ball splattered on the concrete floor. Valnikov was groaning and flopping on the floor like a beached baby whale.
Both men were acutely aware of their danger and both tried to recover first. It was Philo who at last caught some life-saving oxygen in those creaking lungs. He took as many sweet breaths as he dared and leaped forward. He picked up the fire extinguisher. He raised it over his head and Valnikov was just able to raise his left arm in time. It cracked down on his forearm and Valnikov cried out.
The dogs were by now frothing and screaming and running in circles, sensing a death struggle in their midst. The Do- berman was past madness. His foam white lips and gums were bleeding from gnawing on the chain-link dog pen. Without knowing why, the Doberman lusted to be part of the kill. He was not an attack dog, but smelling blood and seeing the frenzied thrashing of two men at his feet, he wanted to kill without reason.
Philo wheezed and gulped and raised the fire extinguisher again. Valnikov held up the wounded arm but the fire extinguisher crashed into the arm and his head, near the temple. The cowlicks immediately became matted with blood as the vessels burst. Blood was running down Valnikov s face and neck. He bellowed like the Great Dane and rolled over on his stomach, on top of the gun. He groped under his stomach for the gun when Philo attacked again. Philo missed Valnikov's head this time but the fire extinguisher smashed into Valnikov's right shoulder and his fingers became paralyzed for a moment. He couldn't pick up the gun.
Philo had now fallen on top of Arnold's assassin. He couldn't move the heavy man, but he punched at the broad head weakly with his bony fists. He thrashed and whimpered and pulled on the assassin's bloody hair but there was no moving a man who weighed more than a St. Bernard. Philo then reached under Valnikov, under his belly. Valnikov's half-paralyzed fingers and Philo's tobacco-stained fingers fought over the revolver.
the Black Marble (1977) Page 31
