by John Knoerle
"You should come and live with us," said Sherri.
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"OK, fact of the matter, no bullshit, here's the deal - cops should never live near civilians in close quarters," said Bell, standing in the middle of his small U-shaped kitchen. Sherri was noisily searching for something in the dining room as Wes and Florence sat on counter stools under the twin beams of the track lights. The rest of the house was dark.
"Once they find out who you are, they start out keying your paint job. Then it's late night hang-ups, dead mice in your mail slot, 'PIG' scrawled on your front door, all leading up to a drunken, extremely nasty, blood-spattering, so-bad-you-can't-believe-it late-night shootout in the apartment house laundry room."
Sherri returned carrying a graceful bell jar containing a thick decorative candle. "Tom had this screaming heebie-jeebie fight with a neighbor lady in the laundry room of our old apartment," she said.
"Hey, che was madddoggin' me, mang. Che was gibing me the evil eye, the…"
"Ojo malo, we know," said Sherri, setting the bell jar down on the kitchen counter. She lit a match after several tries and tilted the bell jar towards her. The match head danced around and around inside the bell jar before it touched the wick. Bell rolled down the track light rheostat as a tongue of flame sputtered shadows on the wall. The scent of jasmine filled the air. "There now, there now, there now" said Sherri. "That's better, don't you think?"
"Much," said Florence from her seat beside Wes.
The candlelit intimacy of the scene gave Wes a jolt. "I already signed a six month lease at the Lei Lani," he said to fill the silence.
"BFD. You're a cop," said Bell. "They'll be glad to be rid of you. Nobody but old ladies and Mormons wanna live next door to a cop."
Wes stared at the flickering candle. What was all this? If Bell had invited him to move in Wes would have dismissed it as too much beer. But Sherri had asked him first. And women, he knew, were very territorial about their living space. "Geez, I…I'm flattered, I really am," Wes heard himself say. "But I really don't understand why you would…"
"We need the geet," said Bell from the kitchen. He watched his wife refill Florence's glass with trembling hands, watched her turn to Wes with the bottle and giggle when she saw Wes was drinking beer, watched her take a wicked pull from the bottle. Nobody was paying him the least attention. "Geetus, jack, snaps, samoleons, swag, long green, what makes the world go round."
"Wes," said Sherri. "Your hands are freezing. Just feel his hands."
Florence gathered up Wes' chilly hands in her warm silken ones. "They're much too cold," agreed Florence in a husky drawl just this side of slurring. "Much."
Wes held still for these ministrations. In fact, he bathed in them. Bell spread his arms on the counter and scooped his neck. "Shut up and come to bed," said Sherri.
Bell grinned, a cat to the catnip, as Sherri took him by the hand and led him across the studio. Bell waggled his fingers before Sherri yanked him down the hall.
And so it was down to two. Wes could not comprehend how he came to be holding hands with the Mayor Elect so late on the evening of her victory celebration. At the bar, when Larry Tenace stood up to say he had an early court appearance, Wes figured that this was their signal to disperse. But everyone else had remained seated, even Florence. Larry Tenace congratulated his wife from across the table and hurried out the double doors of the western saloon at Mario's Italian Village. 'I'll get Florence home safely,' Bell had called after him.
Yeah right, thought Wes. He was the designated driver now. The scutlebutt at the Academy was that cops were immune to DUI arrest in their own jurisdictions. But Wes doubted that that courtesy extended to rookies. He decided not to drink anything more that evening.
Florence warmed his right hand between her palms. In the flickering quiet of candlelight he studied the contrast of their skins. Next to Florence's pink and white fingers the back of his hand was bronze. "Hated that TV spot, didn't you?" she said.
Wes extricated his hand. He hadn't known about the commercial until he saw it on the eleven o'clock news. It began with Bell's recording of Boss Hogg's drunken tirade on his front lawn as the Mayor's mug shot slowly faded up to full screen. A deep-voiced announcer intoned, 'Do you know this man?' It ran three times during the thirty-minute broadcast. The third time he heard it Wes realized the deep-voiced announcer was Thomas Bell.
"I hated to run it. I did." Florence placed a hand to her breast. "That's not what I'm about. But Bell…he showed up at my office with the mug shot and a…whatyacall… storyboard, TV storyboard. All mapped out." Florence lowered her chin to her chest. "But I shouldn't have run it. I should have said no."
"Well," said Wes, touching her shoulder gingerly, "I guess that's what it takes to win these days. I mean it's not like you made it up."
Florence brightened. "We didn't actually mention his arrest. In the spot."
"That's right." Wes felt relieved. Florence may have benefitted from their political dirty trick but she had not participated in it. Bell had obviously gotten the where and when of the Mayor’s poker game from someone else. Florence was clean.
Wes glanced out the sliding glass door. The German Shepherd pressed his muzzle to the glass. He cocked his ears at Sherri's piercing cry from the back bedroom. A cry that seemed to issue from her pelvis and reverberate throughout her chest cavity before it erupted from her throat in a prolonged guttural stream, spinning off eddy currents of gasps and shuddering Ohhhhh's.
Florence chuckled. Wes took a breath. When he turned he found Florence Jillison looking at him in the most peculiar way. Her head was tilted to one side and her chin was tucked low. Her hazel eyes were smoky, dew drops of candlelight dripping from each eyelash. She shifted her head slightly from side to side, as if asking him a question. Or daring him a dare. Wes leaned forward to kiss her and it was like a bomb went off.
Wes Lyedecker and Florence Jillison tore into each other like jackals on bone marrow. They careened around the studio and bumped up against the mixing board, groping, grabbing, sucking. Wes tried to pry his hands down the back of her skirt. Too tight. He pulled up her skirt with a rustle of silk and felt the steel mesh of panty hose. Florence crushed her pudenum against his swollen cock, tore at the buttons of his shirt and flicked his salivary gland with the tip of her tongue.
Wes gathered himself and backed away. This was all terribly wrong. Florence crossed to the counter and climbed back on her stool. She took a sip of wine, then unhitched a back button and lowered her skirt to the floor. She hooked off her panty hose with her thumbs, kicked them away and sat there on the stool, resplendent in green silk and faux rubies from the waist up, naked from the waist down. She looked up at Wes, slumped back on the stool and let her bare feet skid outward on the chocolate brown carpeting, opening her acutely lithesome legs.
Her natural hair color was light brown, Wes noted, as he sank to his knees. Florence placed her hands on the top of his head and guided him in. The care that Florence lavished on her person apparently extended to every area for everything he touched was silken and well tended to. Wes approached the task with all the ardor at his command. Florence bowed her back, wrapped her thighs around his ears, twined her fingers in his hair and groaned. Wes knew she was approaching orgasm by the tensing of her inner thighs and the quickened slapping of her bare bottom on the moist stool cover.
"We have a problem, Houston," said Bell.
Wes jerked back. Florence opened her eyes and looked down, puzzled, annoyed. Bell stood barefoot at the end of the hall, pants on, shirt half-buttoned. Sherri made strange noises from the bedroom.
"Excuse the interruption but I've got to get my wife to the hospital."
Chapter 16
Bell poked his nose inside the watch commander's office at 00:17 hours hoping to see his pal Sgt. Carruth. It was empty. Shit. “Eyes right,” said Lyedecker. Bell looked down the fluorescent-bleached sand-colored corridor. PschoSarge was swaggering in his direction. Double shit.
Bell had rushed Sherri to the hospital while Lyedecker drove Florence home. Wes arrived at the hospital to find Bell conferring with the Pakistani doctor, tousel-haired and bleary-eyed after being summoned from his bed. The doctor had pumped Sherri's stomach and injected her with a sedative. Her convulsive wailing had subsided to occasional groans and shudders until she finally slipped into a fitful sleep.
"Whatsamatter, Bell, can't get enough of this place?" said Sgt. Harrick, not bothering to look at Lyedecker.
"My wife's been dosed," said Bell matter-of-factly. "Someone at Mario's put meth in her drink."
Sgt. Harrick crossed his meaty arms across his chest, looking like a bulldozer about to decimate a lean-to. "Say again?"
"At Florence Jillison's victory bash, no less. Payback for the Cherrywood Lane bust'd be my guess."
"Sorry to hear that,” said Harrick. “What are you doing here?"
"I want you to call the Sheriff's substation in Conklin and have 'em round up whatever employees are still at Mario's and hold 'em till I get there."
"Conklin's not in our jurisdiction."
Bell expelled air through his nose. Wes tensed, expecting a tirade, but Bell said, "I understand that, Sergeant, but this concerns my wife."
"You saw someone doctor her drink?"
"Of course not but…"
"Then it could have been anyone," said Harrick. He paused. "They doin' any blow at Florence's party?"
Wes tensed again. But Bell just shook his head and chuckled to himself. Wes breathed a sigh of relief just as Bell flew forward and screamed, "Kiss my rosy red rectum and french the hole you fat fucking…"
Wes lunged forward and pried himself between the two men as Bell and Harrick spit invective at one another and jammed themselves against his shoulders. "C'mon guys," said Wes as the invective degenerated into incoherent rage. When Bell raised his fist Wes planted his feet, placed a hand in the solar plexus of each of his senior officers and shoved with all his might. They rocked backward, Bell's punch landing on Wes Lyedecker's left ear, hard.
Wes shook his head. His knees buckled. Bell grabbed him up and said, "Geeze, kid, I'm sorry." PsychoSarge turned and walked away.
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The narrow road unspooled down the mountainside and rolled out across the sunny Santa Ynez Valley, 120 square miles of vineyards, gated weekend ranches, hidden-away health spas and thoroughbred breeding farms. The valley floor was cloaked in the green of late April, whipstitched with the orange and purple of flowering poppy and lupine. Wes Lyedecker caught his breath as the Crown Victoria began its descent. "Pretty," he said.
"You're not so bad yourself," said Bell slaloming the switchbacks at 50 mph. They were back on duty at 2:47 PM on the day after Florence's victory celebration. Sherri had been released from the hospital and was convalescing at home. Wes felt the contents of his stomach rise up in protest after a particularly wicked turn. He hung his head out the window like a dog.
"You're not gonna pook, are you?" said Bell.
Wes let the rush of cool air scrub his face. "Uh uh," he said to the speeding asphalt.
Bell's blonde Lab put his paws up on the seat back and looked concerned. "It's OK, boy," said Bell. "He'll be OK."
Bell punched the pedal as they reached the valley floor. The LTD gurgled then lurched down the straightaway, swinging the rear end into alignment. "OK, here's the deal," shouted Bell over the racketing wind. "As you know, meth labs are usually located in rural areas cuz of the toxic smell. Thuswise, we, you'n'me, are gonna grid every square inch of this valley till we, a., get fired, or, b., find the motherfucker. Any questions?"
Wes pulled his head inside the unit. "I'm in complete accord on the objective."
"That's not a question."
Wes checked his seat belt as the LTD straddled the center line of the narrow road at 80 mph. Bell swerved to avoid a squashed possum. "But why can't we do this when we're off duty? You know, so we don't have to play hide and seek with the dispatcher."
"What, and cut into my drinking time? You must've smoked your breakfast." Bell slowed the unit as an old farmouse loomed. "Sniff, doggies, sniff!"
The dogs looked expectantly at their master, apparently unfamiliar with the sniff command. Bell pointed at the farmhouse. The Labrador clambered onto Wes' lap. The German Shepherd jumped up on his right. Both dogs stuck their snouts out the window. Bell slowed to 10 mph. Wes inhaled dog musk as the back of his head throbbed. He profoundly regretted the previous night's overindulgence. It felt as if he'd dehydrated his brain casing.
When the dogs didn't bark, Bell sped on. "Get in the back. Go on, git," he said. The dogs did as they were told.
Bell had obtained a lead-lined cannister of hydriotic acid, a key meth-cooking ingredient, and given the dogs a brief whiff before he loaded them into the back of the squad car. The dogs had yelped and sneezed. ‘Stuff’ll burn through concrete’ Bell had said.
"What if we're needed on an important call?" said Wes. "What if the Chief finds out?"
Bell clenched his jaw and thundered with sudden fury, "They tried to poison my WIFE!" He pushed the speedometer to 100 mph and kept it there. Wes kept very still. The dogs hunkered down in the back seat. Wes raised his voice. "Then why not go to the restaurant, question the bartender, the waitress?"
"I considered that…" Bell decelerated so he wouldn't have to shout. "But it was prolly a busboy. Part of the brown underground, doncha know. And he'll be long gone. Besides, we already know who was behind it. What we don't know is their location." Bell pulled right to make way for a oncoming tractor, its scythe blade sticking straight up like a roadrunner's tail. "And I don't think you need worry your pretty little head about the Harbor Bomber."
It was true that Chief Sunomoka had been strangely silent. Wes spent the days after their bust of Boss Hogg dreading the summons to the office of the Chief that never came. Sgt. Harrick had gone over their arrest report with a fine tooth comb but never questioned how they chanced to be on Kent Street at that particular moment. It was as if the brass had already done the math and concluded that Lester Krumrie was history and there was no percentage in haranguing the soon-to-be-Mayor's fair-haired boys.
Bell slowed as they approached another farmhouse. This one was newly-shingled and well-landscaped, with painted gold tips on the stanchions of the wrought iron fence that ran the length of the front yard. The dogs surged forward and stuck their snouts out the passenger's side window, baying and barking. Wes covered his head with his arms.
Bell cruised by, surveying the property and quieting the dogs. Wes managed to glimpse a whitewashed barn and stable. He didn't think this gentleman's farm seemed a likely site for a meth lab. Then Wes remembered the Hansel and Gretel house on Cherrywood Lane.
"Big dog and a chainlink fence in front of the stables," said Bell, pulling to the shoulder and executing a precise U-turn. "We launch the dogs and act like we're still in our jurisdiction." Bell parked on the shoulder of the narrow road twenty yards from the driveway. Bell popped the door and and duckwalked down the road.
Wes hesitated. The dogs pawed and whimpered for release. For safety's sake Bell had trained them to exit only from the passenger's side. Wes stretched out his legs and sighed before he opened the car door, spilling dogs in all directions. Wes trudged through the calf-high buffalo grass, thinking that the situation sucked in a hundred different ways.
Bell called the dogs to heel. The blonde Lab braked immediately but Bell had to scold the German Shepherd in an angry whisper before the dog sat his haunches on the asphalt. As far as the Shepherd was concerned, the hunt was on.
Bell led the dogs across the road. The driveway gate was closed. Bell noted the dusty Range Rover parked next to the house as he moved to a curlicue iron door adjacent to the gate. Lyedecker walked up behind him. Bell grabbed the gold-enameled door handle. It was open. A squat Rottweiler worked the chainlink in front of the stables with a hair-curling growl.
"What if this really is the big time drug lord's meth lab?"
said Wes. "We're out of our jurisdiction. We can't get a search warrant and we can't cross the property line without one."
"We plead 'close pursuit'," said Bell. "We were just following our two highly-trained dope dogs."
"Uh huh,” said Wes. “Plus, if we have got lucky and stumbled on the Sinoloan drug lord’s major big-deal California lab site, we’ll be facing a whole heavily-armed fucking regiment inside that barn."
Bell kept his hand on the door handle. "If you're scared, go wait in the car," he said. Bell pushed open the wrought iron door. The dogs tumbled up against one another like a burlesque team as they tore through the gate. Bell unholstered his weapon and scooted across the crushed terra cotta after them. Wes lingered at the wrought iron door. He thought Bell's comment the crudest sort of challenge to his manhood, transparent in its appeal. He reached into his holster, clicked off the safety, pushed open the iron door and followed.
The dogs beelined for the chain link fence. Bell surveyed the whitewashed stables and adjacent corral behind the fence. Wes kept an eye on the house as they moved deeper into the property.
A frenzy of guttural dog moans and Bell's disgusted "Oh mannn" caused Wes to turn. The German Shepherd was attempting to mount the eager Rottweiler through a hole in the chain link. The Lab snuffed and scuffled around the sides. It looked as if Bell's highly-trained dope dogs had succeeded in sniffing out a bitch in heat.
A smartly-coiffed woman in a turquoise warm-up jacket and white tennis skirt banged open the front door of the farmhouse and stepped out on the porch. "May I help you gentlemen?" she said.
Bell sank a big mitt under the German Shepherd's collar and ripped him off the fence. The burly dog growled fiercely and snapped at his master, who swacked him on the nose. The Lab lept on the fence the moment Bell's back was turned. Bell booted his butt while blistering the air with a stream of colorful obscenities.
Wes Lyedecker approached the lady of the house and mustered his most apologetic smile.
