"I think you are a safe . . . how do you say?"
"Cracker," Philo croaked.
"Yes, a safecracker. I think that you were cracking a safe and a watchman turned a dog loose on you and . . . tell me, Mr. Skinner, did you kill someone? A watchman maybe?"
Then while Philo was looking around the little hospital room at the Friday morning sky over Puerto Vallarta, at the smiling young doctor with eyes as brown as a dog's, with eyes as oval and brown as . . .
"I killed Tutu,'' Philo said.
"You what?"
"I KILLED TUTU!" Philo wailed, hollow-eyed and frightful. "And I cut Vickie's ear off! And I shot ... I shot ..." But Philo couldn't continue. His tears were scalding. Philo Skinner's long bony frame was heaving and shaking the bed. Philo Skinner only stopped crying when he broke into a coughing spasm that almost strangled him.
A nurse came running in and the doctor said something in Spanish.
"Lean forward, a little, Mr. Skinner," the doctor said. "Here, spit the phlegm in this tray."
When Philo lay back on the pillow he could hardly see them through the tears. The nurse wiped his eyes and his mouth and said something in Spanish to the doctor.
The doctor's oval eyes were round and electric now. Nobody was going to win this lottery! A mass murderer!
"Do you want to tell me about it, Mr. Skinner?" the doctor said. "You killed how many? And you cut off an ear?" The doctor couldn't wait to tell the staff. The skinny gringo was another Charles Manson!
"Please, Doctor," Philo sobbed. "I don't wanna die here. I don't wanna die in this foreign country."
"You are not going to die, Mr. Skinner."
"I don't wanna live in a foreign country!" Philo cried.
"You are full of infection and you have lost blood and I believe you have a fairly serious lung disorder, but ..."
"I wanna go home!" Philo wailed. "Call the Los Angeles cops, Doctor. Tell them to get me home."
"Yes, but about all those you killed, can you tell me ..."
"I'm an American," Philo Skinner sobbed. "I wanna go home!
Chapter 16
Byzantine Eyes
On Friday, Valnikov got out of bed before noon and walked unsteadily around the room. Then he phoned his brother and told him to go to the apartment and bring him some clothes.
At 1:30 p. M. Alex Valnikov had come and gone, and his younger brother was walking around the ward in poplin slacks and an old sport shirt.
At 2:00 p. M. a nurse complained to a doctor that Sergeant Valnikov was checking out of the hospital whether they liked it or not.
At 2:30 p. M. Hipless Hooker called Valnikov's room and ordered him to listen to his doctor.
At 2:33 p. M. Sergeant Valnikov informed Hipless Hooker politely that he had just retired from the Los Angeles Police Department and that Captain Hooker could start processing his retirement papers.
At 5:30 p. M., just after a blazing winter sunset in Los Angeles, Valnikov was sitting on the steps by the reflecting pool at the Los Angeles Music Center, listening to Horst, the fiddler, play Rimsky-Korsakov. Fifteen bucks' worth.
Horst was getting tired. There was no one left at this time of day except this guy with the turban bandage who wanted Russian music. Horst asked him what happened to his head, but the guy just said, "An accident."
Horst was happy to take the guy s bread, but the fifteen bucks' worth had just about run out and Horst had exhausted his Russian repertoire and didn't want to start over again.
Valnikov sat with his back to Hope Street. He listened to a Gypsy violin and stared at the melancholy tableau of a fiddler, and beyond, in the dusk, the courthouse and the knight in chain mail with his hopeful document wrested from King John.
Then Valnikov heard a familiar voice: "They tell me it's raining in Kauai."
Valnikov turned and cried: "Natalie!"
"Sit down, don't get up," she said. "Oh, he hurt you! Oh!"
"Hurt? Hurt?" Valnikov cried, with the biggest dumbest smile she'd ever seen on him. "I'm fine! I'm swell!"
Then Natalie walked over to Horst, the fiddler, and said, "Your motor still running, Horst?"
"Huh?"
"We got any music left for the loot he's laid on you?"
"This is it, lady, I gotta go home."
Natalie Zimmerman took a twenty out of her purse and said, "Rev it up, Horst. Until this is gone."
"Okay, lady," Horst grinned. "Whadda va wanna hear?"
"Gypsy," she said. "Russian Gvpsv."
"Jesus, more Russian? Does it have to be Russian?"
"If you want the grease for your crank," she said, brushing her Friz out of her eyes.
"How about 'Ochi Chomyia'?" Horst suggested, "You know, 'Dark Eyes'?"
"Okay, Horst, give us a shot of 'Dark Eves,'" she said, going back to Valnikov, who was standing on the steps, looking like a quiz show contestant.
"Sit down and rest yourself," Natalie said, forcing him down on the steps. "You shouldn't even be here. I heard you walked out of the hospital. I heard you retired. Was that for real?"
"I've had enough," he said. "But you? You're not going to Hawaii?"
"Waste of money," she said. "I think I'd rather invest my savings in a music store or something."
As Horst burst into twenty bucks' worth of "Ochi Chomyia," Natalie moved close to Valnikov and said, "Do you know the lyrics to this one?"
"I can speak them to you," he said. "I'm not in very good voice but ..."
Then Natalie moved even closer. He looked at her big goofy glasses, at her brown eyes behind them, and translated from the Russian. "Dark eyes, passionate eyes, fiery and beautiful eyes. How I love you ..."
"Yes," she whispered. "Go on."
"The rest of the song is sad, like all Gypsy songs," he said joyfully.
"Then don't tell it to me," she said. "We'll settle for that part."
"You have eyes like the Virgin on the ikon," he said. "The Byzantine eyes. The sweet Byzantine eyes!"
She put her head on his shoulder and those Byzantine eyes started to fill up while Horst played and eavesdropped.
"I thought I'd picked the black marble," Valnikov said.
"I don't wanna be like Charlie Lightfoot," Natalie said.
"You're not anything like Charlie Lightfoot." Valnikov said.
"Andrushka!" Natalie said, and it melted him.
He kissed her gently. She kissed him passionately. Then they lay back across the steps while Horst pretended to look elsewhere.
They faced Hope Street and kissed to a Gypsy violin.
"Andrushka!" she cried.
"Natasha!" he cried.
Then Horst got awfully nervous and started looking around. It was dark now, thank goodness. Good thing there weren't any bystanders around. Still, there was a lot of light from the reflecting pool.
"Hey, lady, I can't afford to get in trouble with the management around here," said Horst.
Natalie broke the kiss to say, "Keep it in gear, Horst."
Horst thought of the twenty scoots and kept playing. But finally they were getting too playful.
"Hey!" he said, stopping the music. "Why don't you two go to a motel or something? I'll refund part of your money.'
Valnikov didn't even hear him. Valnikov was hearing nightingales singing in the raspberry bush. Natalie didn't break their kiss but she felt for her purse. She pulled out her service revolver and put it on the step beside her. Then she broke the kiss.
"How would you like a hole in your fiddle, Horst?"
"My God, lady! My God!" Horst cried. "That's a gun! Hey, lady! I don't want any trouble! Hey, lady!"
"Then you better crank it on, kid," Natalie said, tapping the revolver, biting on Valnikov's lower lip until they were lost in another interminable kiss.
Horst was so scared he could hardly finger the violin. His fingers were so sweaty they were slipping off the strings. Every time he thought about picking up his top hat full of money, and the violin case, and folding chair, and running like hell,
he'd look at the gun lying there beside the two lust- crazed maniacs.
"Hey, lady!" Horst cried, playing an off-key "Ochi Chornyia." "Gimme a break!"
Then he looked in the shadows and saw their hands roving, caressing. Heard the kisses and moaning.
"Oh, Andrushka!"
"My Natasha!"
"You two oughtta be ashamed!" Horst whined, still playing. "A cop might come along and think I'm involved in this." Then he looked at the gun. "In fact I wish a cop would come along!"
"Andrushka!" Natalie cried. "Natasha!"
"And they say my generation's going to hell," Horst whimpered.
Horst stole one last glance at the gun, gleaming malevolently by the light from the reflecting pool. Horst suddenly felt he might wet his pants. Why is there never a cop in this town when you need one? Horst looked at the madman with her. Christ, his head was all swathed in a bandage turban. He probably just had a lobotomy. No sense even trying to talk to him. And the female thug with the gun was obviously more dangerous.
So there was nothing to do but play "Ochi Chornyia" until they either shot him dead or let him go. Horst locked his knees and concentrated on controlling his bladder and played his violin gamely.
All he ever wanted to do was become a doctor and help people. And maybe make twenty grand a year on unreported fees he didn't have to claim on his income tax so he could buy a Porsche Turbo. And maybe pad the medicare statements here and there to make enough to buy a ski boat with a 454 Chevy engine. Jesus, he was a humanitarian!
His bladder was about to explode. Horst groaned and looked at the night sky and concentrated on one brave star which had penetrated the smog. Horst whined aloud to that hopeful star. Horst asked the timeless, universal, unanswerable question. "Why do I always have to pick the black marble?"
The lovers never heard him. They heard a Gypsy violin, and Russian nightingales and their hammering hearts.
"Andrushka!"
"My Natasha!"
"Oh, Andrushka!"
the Black Marble (1977) Page 34
