"American Express? All look alike, don't they? Don't leave home without it. I never looked at the names on them. Once we almost got caught with one a those American Express cards. It didn't work."
"Whadda you mean, didn't work?"
"It was a few days before she died. We went to a very nice restaurant on La Cienega. Ate about a hundred bucks' worth a food and she gave the waiter an American Express card and pretty soon he came back and he goes, 'There's something wrong with this card. Please talk to the manager.' "
"What happened then?"
"She got real huffy and snatched the card outa his hand and pulled a hundred and ten bucks outa her purse and threw it at him and said we were never coming back. He was apologizing to us all the way to the door. She was beautiful!"
"And maybe it was this card?"
"Maybe," he shrugged. "Same kind. She said she only kept them a few days after she stole them. Said tricks usually thought it over a few days before they figured out a good lie for their wives about the missing wallets. She was a smart kid. Too smart, maybe. Did she have that card when she died?"
"No, not when she died," Mario Villalobos said. "I'm gonna want your address and phone number. I've gotta think about this for a while and do a little more checking."
"Can I get police protection? You know, the Russians? Are you sure the old guy in Pasadena wasn't murdered? They can make it look like an accident!"
"Heart attack."
"Did he die the same day as Missy?"
"No, he died on the first of May."
"First of May!" Dagmar Duffy screamed, scaring the crap out of Mario Villalobos and the waitress, who spilled some coffee, and the only other customer in the ice cream parlor, an old woman who said, "Keep it down, you little screamer!"
"What're you yelling about?" the detective demanded.
"May the first! That's May Day in Moscow! A perfect time for Russians to kill their enemies!"
This time Mario Villalobos could not prevent his eyeballs from sliding back in his skull. Fruitcake and caviar.
***
The last of the regular losers to leave The House of Misery was Jane Wayne. There were a few other cops still there when she left. Three civilians had wandered in and were talking baseball to Leery. Jane Wayne wondered why The Bad Czech had not showed up. All in all, the evening had offered all the fun of an Ingmar Bergman movie.
While Dagmar Duffy was scaring himself with Russian spies, and Jane Wayne was longing for her favorite sex object, a feverish Laotian woman saw a giant with winged eyebrows in the corridor of a local hospital. She had been recuperating from a bone graft and was now allowed to hobble around pretty much when she felt like it. She had seen several Asian people in the ward that evening, but they did not speak her language. Two of them were middle-aged adults and the rest were pretty girls who were crying.
The Laotian woman was about one-third the size of the giant who stood awkwardly in the corridor. After all the Asians had gone, the giant tiptoed softly, on the largest pair of jogging shoes the woman had ever seen, to the room where the people had been. The patient in that room looked like a battered child. The white sheets and big bed made him look very small. And he was very battered. There were tubes everywhere, including one plastered inside a mound of bandages on his broken face.
The giant stood clumsily by the bed and watched the patient. The patient breathed fearfully shallow and hadn't moved or stirred or opened his eyes since the Laotian woman had first noticed him.
The giant whispered to the battered patient.
"Magilla?" he said.
The Laotian woman was extremely curious about the giant. He stood by the unconscious patient for nearly an hour. He was still there when the woman got very tired and had to shuffle back to her room. Every five minutes or so she could hear him.
"Magilla?" the giant said.
Chapter TEN
MADONNA OF THE WOGS
Mario villalobos was awakened at 6:00 a. M. by the telephone. It was something that detectives got used to if they wanted to work homicide. It was what made most detectives choose to work burglary or robbery or auto theft, which were rarely considered important enough to get a detective out of bed. But homicide investigation was the only thing left in the world that occasionally stimulated his few still-living neurons. It was one of the few things left in life that gave him a little pleasure. Aside from an occasional baseball game, or pop music from the forties and fifties which lately made him miserable by reminding him of his hopeful youth.
He always felt exactly the same these days whether he slept a lot or a little: exhausted. He had seen the symptoms in other cops. He knew he was in trouble.
The detective let the telephone ring seven times as he always did when he was awakened bone-weary out of a sound or fitful sleep with news of another shooting, stabbing, strangling or mutilation. Seven rings gave him just about enough time to become partially alert.
A familiar voice exploded in his ear, "Sergeant Villalobos!"
"Jesus Christ, Dagmar!" Mario Villalobos yelped, jerking the phone away from his face.
"Sergeant!" Dagmar Duffy cried. "I just got home and discovered that you ain't been the only one looking for me! There was a guy with glasses and black hair and a moustache asking about me at the Adonis Club last night."
Now Mario Villalobos snapped his eyes open. "Yeah, what happened?"
"The stupid fucking bartender, some bitch I used to go with named Samson, told him where I lived!"
"Where're you now?"
"I'm home. I couldn't sleep with Howard so I came home. And somebody broke in my apartment!"
"I'll be right there," Mario Villalobos said. "Gimme thirty minutes."
"I got my door locked! If anybody tries to get in, they'll hear me screaming in Malibu. The guy had a thick moustache, I heard. Just like Joseph Stalin!"
Dagmar Duffy lived near Santa Monica and Normandie, not far from the Wonderland Hotel. He had a lovely view of a muffler shop and a Charlie Chicken take-out. Mario Villalobos practically had to give a recital to get in.
"Dagmar, it's Mario Villalobos," he said for the third time. "Open the goddamn door!"
Finally the door was cracked open and Dagmar Duffy said, "I'm getting crazy. I started to think that maybe the Russians knew about you and were impersonating your voice."
The sun was just rising on yet another overcast day. Mario Villalobos was unshaven, had his necktie in the pocket of his suit coat, and looked almost as haggard as Dagmar Duffy. The detective entered the apartment and peeked out the window at the three-story drop. He looked at the dead-bolt lock and the untouched doorjamb. He couldn't see any sign of forced entry.
"I leave my door unlocked," Dagmar Duffy said sheepishly. "I know it's dumb, but I have this old boyfriend Arnold. Sometimes he likes to surprise me and I find him in bed when I get home."
"So then how do you know the Russians were here?"
"Things were moved!"
"Puh-leese, Dagmar," Mario Villalobos sighed wearily, eyeballs sliding up at the ceiling. "You interrupted my wet dream for this? How do you know Arnold or Howard, or Manny, Moe and Jack didn't come? Christ, you have more boyfriends than Linda Lovelace."
"I know none a my boyfriends did it. When they come in they leave everything all messed up. They're a bunch a pigs except for Howard and he was with me. Look, somebody opened every drawer and moved my things!"
Mario Villalobos stepped over to the veneer mahogany chest in the neat little one-bedroom apartment. There were ten pair of bikini briefs meticulously folded in the drawer. "Everything looks okay to me."
"No, no!" Dagmar Duffy cried. "I keep the persimmon ones on the left. I keep the plum on the right. They've been reversed. Someone picked them up to look under them!"
"Puh-leese, Dagmar," Mario Villalobos said. "I don't get many wet dreams at my age."
"I'll show you something else," Dagmar Duffy said. "Look!" And he opened his closet revealing two rows of clothes poles bearing several pair of si
ze 28 shorts and jeans, T-shirts, and two Members Only jackets, rose and powder-blue.
"It all looks okay to me," Mario Villalobos sighed.
"The pockets on two pair of jeans are inside out. I would never hang my jeans like that!"
"How do you know that Arnold didn't..."
"Here's how I know!" Dagmar Duffy pulled one of the jackets off the hanger. It was the powder-blue, which exactly matched his eyes. There was a roll of bills in the pocket. "My money's all here. Every boyfriend knows where I keep it. I tell them it's there so they don't have to tear up my apartment if they need money. I think that someone was looking for something else: film, tape, papers. This place was searched real careful. The way the Russians do it!"
Mario Villalobos conceded there was a remote possibility that Dagmar Duffy was right about the intruder. But it may have been an ordinary money burglar who missed the blue jacket. And it could have been a coincidence about a black-haired man with a moustache. Maybe.
"Okay, okay," Mario Villalobos said. "I'll have a fingerprint man come over this morning and dust for prints. Don't touch anything else."
"I'm not staying here alone!"
"Look, I have to admit there might be something to this, but I think you're safe."
"I want police protection. I'm a taxpayer. I mean, I used to be a taxpayer."
"Dagmar, I don't think I could explain you to my landlady."
"I'm not staying here. I'm moving in with Howard."
"Okay, just stay long enough for the fingerprint.. ."
"I'm not staying here one minute alone. Why can't I come with you? I can come back when the fingerprint guy gets here, and then I'll move my clothes out."
"Okay," the detective sighed. "Come with me to the station. We'll call prints and then we'll come back here and I'll stand by while you move your stuff. But with your dance card as full as it is, I don't expect we'll find any suspect's prints that we can work with."
The detective lieutenant at Rampart Station, who was drinking coffee and wondering if the Dodgers could ever pull out of their slump, gave more than a passing glance when Mario Villalobos came into the squad room leading a man with a golden perm and plucked eyebrows, in boy's size jeans and a Hollywood YMCA T-shirt.
"I see you weren't jiving about barhopping in Hollywood," he said to Mario Villalobos. "When's the wedding?"
"This is a witness," Mario Villalobos said, collapsing in a chair. "The Missy Moonbeam murder case is getting outa hand. I just gotta work on it for a few days. How about Chip and Melody taking over everything else for me?"
"Might as well," the lieutenant said. "Keep them from groping each other all day. I swear, a cold shower'd do them both good. Wouldn't be surprised if Melody's old man doesn't get accidentally shot some night when she mistakes him for a burglar."
"Have a seat over at that table, Dagmar," Mario Villalobos said. "I'll call latent prints."
There was a burly man with long sideburns and a macho moustache sitting at one of the long tables. He had on a burnt-orange sportcoat with a brown and red check pattern, and a fat blue print necktie, and brown doubleknit pants held up by a big belt with a cowboy buckle. In short, he looked pretty much like what he was, a burglary detective. The burglary detective did a double take when he looked up at the Hollywood YMCA T-shirt.
Dagmar Duffy batted his lashes shyly, offered his hand palm down and said, "Hi. Mind if I join ya? I'm working on a murder case!"
***
The Bad Czech and Cecil Higgins were in the police parking lot when they spotted the K-9 cop lurking around behind the radio cars. Cecil Higgins had already spread the news to The Bad Czech about poor Hans' P. E. problem. The K-9 cop looked as though he hadn't slept a wink. He was a nervous wreck.
"You wanna give up being a doggie cop, you can jist transfer over here to Rampart," Cecil Higgins said, startling Hans when he walked up behind him.
"I'm just waiting for Dolly," Hans said miserably.
"Got somethin on your mind?" Cecil Higgins asked, knowing perfectly well what Hans had on his mind.
"I just need to straighten something out," Hans said. "I hope you didn't believe what that lying bitch said about me last night?"
"Ain't my business," Cecil Higgins said.
"I never had a sex problem in my life. You didn't believe her, did you?" Hans asked, getting white around the mouth.
"Ain't my business," Cecil Higgins said.
"I know Dolly wouldn't believe such a dumb thing," Hans said.
"You coming to Leery's tonight? You can catch Dolly there for sure."
The skinny K-9 cop shrugged, and felt his jaunty grin cracking like an egg and thought that he was never going to that miserable fucking saloon as long as he lived, and hoped that a police helicopter would fall on Rampart Station and incinerate everyone who was there last night when that vicious bitch he intended to kill told them about the P. E. trait he had picked up from Ludwig. And which he intended to discuss with the department psychologist this very afternoon. If ever there was a justification for a stress pension, this was it, Hans thought ruefully. He sure contracted his problem while doing police work.
But as it turned out, Hans was going to be unable to escape the company of The House of Misery losers. The K-9 cop was about to find himself in the middle of a homicide investigation. It happened because of another tiny vagary of fortune. Something nearly as insignificant as a chopstick in a shoe.
***
"Just what I need," Mario Villalobos said. "A flat tire."
He was standing with Dagmar Duffy beside his detective car intending to meet the latent-prints specialist who was to be at Dagmar Duffy's apartment house in ten minutes. Then he spotted a few of his House of Misery fellow sufferers.
The Bad Czech was getting in his car, preparing to drive down to the foot beat, when Mario Villalobos yelled, "Hey Czech, do me a favor? Drive this guy over to Santa Monica and Normandie, will you? There's a latent-prints guy on the way there and I gotta get my tire changed."
The Bad Czech looked doubtfully at Dagmar Duffy, who was flushed and beaming from all the attention and the undeniable thrill of being a potential homicide victim.
"What am I, a taxi?" The Bad Czech grumbled.
"I'll be there in ten minutes. Am I asking a lot?"
"Aw right," The Bad Czech muttered. "Come on, Cecil, we gotta give this little ... person a ride home."
While the beat cops were delivering their little person, Mario Villalobos went looking for a garage attendant to change his tire, but the garage attendant was delivering a car to Parker Center. Another was off sick. A third, who had three police cars waiting for gas, suggested that the detective could consider changing it himself if he needed it right away.
It was when he was stalking back to his car, exhausted and grouchy, that Mario Villalobos saw Hans and Ludwig driving out of the parking lot. "Hans!" Mario Villalobos yelled. "Give me a lift to Santa Monica and Normandie, will you?"
Meanwhile, The Bad Czech couldn't get rid of the little person in the back seat of the police car.
"Whaddaya mean ya ain't gettin out!" The Bad Czech bellowed, turning around in the driver's seat and showing his demented gray eyes to Dagmar Duffy.
"I can't be alone!" Dagmar Duffy cried. Then he added, "I'm a possible murder victim."
"You're for sure a fuckin murder victim, you don't get outa this car!" The Bad Czech said, while Cecil Higgins rested his bald head against the doorpost and tried to shut out all the sound and fury.
"Czech, you wasn't at Leery's last night," Cecil Higgins said. "Have a little consideration for my poor head and stop yellin."
"Can't you wait till Sergeant Villalobos gets here?" Dagmar Duffy cried.
"He didn't say I hadda babysit," The Bad Czech said. "Where the hell is he, anyways?"
"He'll be here in a few minutes," Dagmar Duffy said. "I can't go in that building alone. There might be a man waiting for me!"
The Bad Czech took a gander at the blond perm and the plucked eyebrows a
nd the Hollywood YMCA T-shirt, and said, "Yeah, a Roto-Rooter man, no doubt. And not for your sink. Now get outa my car, junior!"
Just then Dagmar Duffy was saved by the appearance of Unit K-9-2, delivering the frustrated detective to the apartment house.
"Did the prints man get here?" Mario Villalobos asked The Bad Czech when he got out of the K-9 car.
"Hey, Mario, this guy wants to marry me or somethin," The Bad Czech said. "I can't get rid a him!"
Hans, who was still considering drinking hemlock, leaped out of the K-9 car while Ludwig snoozed as peacefully as Cecil Higgins, and with a forced smile said, "Czech, I guess you heard about the lie that bitch told about me last night at Leery's? Pretty funny, huh?"
"You guys can split," Mario Villalobos said. "I'll get a ride back to the station with the prints man when he shows up."
And while Mario Villalobos and Dagmar Duffy entered the apartment house and took the elevator up to the third floor to await the latent-prints specialist, a man in a pinstripe suit, with black hair and a thick black moustache and horn-rimmed glasses, came down the stairway. He paused in the lobby for a moment, looked at his watch, and walked out the front door. He almost ran right into two cops-one in a blue jumpsuit covered with dog hair, the other a monster cop in a regular blue uniform-who were standing on the sidewalk talking about miserable bitches who love to tell lies about real men.
The man looked as though he might start running. He stopped for an instant, reassured himself that this had nothing to do with him, and continued down the sidewalk. He was forced to pass between the two cops, since one of them was so huge he took up most of the sidewalk.
Both cops hardly glanced at him when he said, "Pardon me, please."
When Mario Villalobos and Dagmar Duffy were unlocking the door, Dagmar Duffy's neighbor across the hall popped her head out. She worked in the typing pool at Paramount Studios and lived close enough to come home for lunch on days that she worked. Today she had blue rollers in her hair. She said, "Oh, Dagmar, there was a man looking for you."
"Damn," the detective said. "The prints man got here faster than I thought."
the Delta Star (1983) Page 18
