by Teri White
“Well, that’s honest. Alan Alda would be proud of you.”
He smiled grimly. “So how many points do I get for honesty?”
“There is a solution,” she said with a smile of her own.
“What?”
“You could always quit your job and come with me.”
He was genuinely startled. “Quit? Oh, no. I mean, no, Shar, I couldn’t do that.”
“Of course not. Because as much as you care for me—and I know you do care, a lot—you love your job more.”
Blue nodded.
“So you understand how I feel.”
“Yes, of course.” He sighed, more resigned than sad now. “I guess what bothers me most is that what we have is so new yet, so untested, I’m afraid it won’t be able to survive this. Johns Hopkins is a long ways from here and a year is a long time. I don’t know if we can come through unscathed.”
Sharon was quiet for a moment, then she shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”
At that, some of the tension seemed to fade away and they smiled at one another. Blue cheered up a little. Whatever happened, there was still the rest of this night to look forward to.
One thought came to him: At least, if he slept at Sharon’s, the only phone calls he would get would be from Spaceman.
After signing out, Spaceman thought about maybe driving out to Azusa to see if Lainie wanted to catch some dinner, but he knew that she would be rushed and harried and say no. Rejection was something he definitely didn’t need at the moment.
Or he could have called Robbie, but playing the role of Great White Father didn’t appeal much this evening either. So instead of doing anything, he just went into Joe’s and ordered a burger to eat as he read the Times. Joe was engrossed in a television Christmas special with Debbie Boone, so he was left blissfully alone.
Just as Spaceman was finishing his meal, the door opened and Petrie came in. Lew Petrie, a husky black detective, was one of Spaceman’s former partners. That, in itself, was a large and varied group. Petrie, however, was a rarity in the crowd, being an ex-partner with whom Kowalski still had a cordial relationship. He didn’t even hold it against Spaceman that he’d lost ten dollars in the office pool betting on how long the Kowalski/Maguire partnership would endure. Everybody lost money on that.
Now, beginning to be bored with his own company, Spaceman folded the newspaper eagerly. “What’s up, Lew?”
Petrie slid onto the stool next to his. “Same old shit,” he replied in a soft Alabama accent. “The never-ending battle against sin in the big city.”
“Is that what we’re supposed to be doing?” Spaceman said skeptically. “Fighting sin?”
Petrie shrugged. Without bothering to look at the menu, he ordered a chilidog and a vanilla milk shake. “And I’m in a hurry,” he said to Joe. “There’s a stiff waiting to be posted and I want to watch.”
Spaceman tossed the paper aside. “You’ll do anything for a good time, you sicko.”
The black man glanced at him. “Hell, it’s your fault. You got me into the habit back when we worked together.”
Spaceman silently accepted the blame. He always tried to attend the postmortems on his cases whenever possible. It was a sometimes sickening, always unhappy business, but it served to motivate him to track down whatever bastard was responsible.
Petrie took a huge bite of the messy hotdog and chewed briefly before speaking again. “By the way, this stiff is an old friend of yours.”
“Who’s that?”
“Teddy Vacarro.”
“No shit? Old Teddy the Toad?” Spaceman shook his head in mock grief. “What happened?”
“Who knows? He just turned up in an alley today. Shot.”
“That’s a real shame.”
Petrie snickered. “Yeah, I can tell you’re all broken up about it.”
“Hey, I am. I mean, you don’t find real low-down slime bags like old Teddy around much these days. What do you have on it?”
Chili dripped from Petrie’s chin; he grabbed a napkin and wiped at it. “Not much. The bullet passed right through him and came out the other side, which was pretty messy. Not too banged up. The bullet, that is. Teddy was banged up enough to be cold stone dead.”
Spaceman drained his coffee cup. “It could have been something simple,” he said doubtfully. “Like a mugging.”
Petrie shook his head. “His wallet and watch were there. Besides, not too many muggers in that neighborhood use Walther P-38s.”
In the act of reaching for his wallet, Spaceman paused. “A Walther? No shit?”
“We think. The perp left a casing behind. Lab’s pretty sure, and I think they’re right.”
Spaceman went ahead and pulled his wallet out, extracting a couple of bills. “Would you mind a little company at the post?”
Petrie looked at him, surprised. “What’s going on?”
“Maguire and I have two stiffs, both maybe offed with a Walther.”
Petrie thought about that. “Any tie to Vacarro?”
Spaceman grimaced. “So far in this case, nothing ties to anything.”
The last of the chilidog vanished. “Well, let’s go watch them cut on poor old Teddy.” He grinned. “If it works out, son, I’d be more than glad to turn him over to you.”
Spaceman was glum as he followed Petrie out of the café. While Blue Maguire was making it with a good-looking broad, he’d be watching the pathologist fool around inside Teddy the Toad’s body.
“’Tis the season to be jolly,” he muttered to Petrie’s broad back.
24
Devlin Conway walked into Nate ’n Al’s Delicatessen and stopped to check out the room, which was busy as usual. There was a short line of customers waiting to be seated, but then he spotted Toby. They ran into one another several times a year, when he was in town, usually at some ritzy cocktail party or other, where Devlin was playing minor celebrity and Toby was being paid to be charming.
Toby saw him and raised one hand in a lazy greeting.
Devlin slowly made his way through the crowd and joined him. “You’re looking fit and prosperous,” he said, dropping into the comfortable booth.
Toby just smiled behind his sunglasses.
A waiter appeared. Devlin ordered lox and bagels and, desperately, coffee, while Toby settled for two scrambled eggs, grapefruit juice and dry toast. “I was three pounds over my fighting weight this morning,” he explained somewhat sheepishly.
Devlin didn’t say much until his coffee was in front of him. Even then, he took a healthy portion of the strong black brew first. “You said it was important that we should get together, Toby,” he said finally. “Why?”
“I just thought that maybe we should talk face-to-face. Without Lars.”
Devlin frowned.
Toby sipped grapefruit juice. “Don’t worry,” he said, sounding exasperated. “I’m not planning a mutiny or anything. I’m just a little concerned. Lars seems …” His hand moved back and forth in a seesaw motion.
“When didn’t he?”
“True. But this is pretty bad.” Toby ran a hand through his hair and smiled absently at a passing woman. “Besides, behavior that was appropriate in some places doesn’t go down so good in Los Angeles.”
Devlin considered, trying to decide how much he could say without compromising Lars. Could Toby be trusted? But he had to confide in someone, and Toby was part of this—so apparently Lars trusted him. Still, he probed a little. “How committed are you to this? To Lars?”
Toby didn’t answer quickly. And when he did speak, it was with obvious care in his choice of words. “When this whole thing started,’” he said, “I was sort of on the fence. Could have gone either way, you know what I mean?”
Devlin nodded.
“But the more I think about it, about all the money, the more I want this to work. And besides, in a way, the stones really belong to us, don’t they?”
“One could say so.”
“So I’m in. All the way.” He shru
gged. “I know all the things there are to be worried about. I think.”
Devlin stared at the tabletop. “He killed a man.”
“Lars?”
“Yes, Lars, of course.”
Toby took the glasses off and cleaned them carefully on his napkin. “Who?” he said, the sudden brightness making him squint a little.
Devlin inhaled, then let it out very slowly. “I think the guy was some kind of hood. Or whatever they’re called these days. And he did put a gun on Lars first, so.…”
“So maybe it was justified?”
“Well, I have to think so, right?”
“Or else?”
Devlin shook his head. “There is no ‘or else.’ Not in this situation.”
“Because it’s Morgan you mean.”
“Maybe. Yes, I guess.”
Toby replaced his glasses, covering eyes that tended to be too candid. “You’re a very loyal friend.”
“Am I?”
They stayed quiet as the breakfast was delivered. When they were alone again, Devlin poured sugar into his coffee. “It’s just complicated, Toby. Everybody needs some kind of anchor. What I do, with my work, is grab hold of reality and keep it on film. That’s for other people. It gives them something to hold on to. An anchor. But I need something for myself, too.”
Toby sprinkled salt and pepper on his eggs. “And your anchor in real life is Lars Morgan?” he said skeptically.
“We’ve been friends for a long time. And we’ve been through a lot together. You were there, too, you remember.” Then he smiled, vaguely self-mocking. “No doubt you’re right. It’s not a smart choice. But I seem to be stuck with it.”
“I guess we both are now,” Toby said. “God have mercy on our souls.”
Devlin raised his coffee cup toward Toby. “Well, I’m glad you’re with us, anyway,” he said. “When my back is to the bloody wall, I think you’ll come in much more useful than any deity.”
Toby smiled and took a bit of egg. “Besides,” he said around the food, “I’m the only one with guts enough to at least try to sit on Morgan, right?”
Devlin wanted to object to that, but after a moment, he just shrugged and picked up a bagel.
25
The Vietnam Veterans Center reminded Blue, rather ironically, he thought, of the refugee center they’d visited the other day. This place, too, was a rundown building with a crooked sign on the door and the same vibes of despair and confusion coming off it.
When they opened the door and stepped inside, their ears were immediately assaulted by the sound of a stereo blasting the ancient sounds of the Jefferson Airplane. A man was sitting at a card table, reading. Wild black hair reached his shoulders and his beard was an untamed bush. He wore jeans, a teeshirt proclaiming that life was more fun with Coke, and a battered fatigue jacket. The impression was one of a museum display: rebel, circa the late 1960s.
A look around the room reinforced the feelings of similarity between the two places. The walls here were also plastered with flyers and urgent announcements. Spaceman stepped over to the cheap stereo and turned the volume down until the music was just a whisper.
For the first time, the man looked up from his Tom Robbins book. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You don’t like music?”
“I love music,” Spaceman replied pleasantly. “But I like conversation, too.”
He stared at them. “Cops, right?”
Spaceman pretended dismay. “We have to rethink our undercover disguises, Blue,” he said. “The look doesn’t seem to be working.”
Blue smiled faintly. “I’m Maguire,” he said. “That’s Kowalski.”
“Milt Duncan. What’s the hassle?”
“No hassle. Just a few simple questions.”
“Cops never have simple questions.” There was hostility in the words, but there was mostly weariness.
“Hey,” Blue said, “don’t get so uptight. We’re only a couple of vets trying to make a living.”
“Right,” Duncan said, still annoyed, but relaxing a little.
Blue took out the picture from Hua’s apartment. “You know this man?”
Duncan glanced quickly at it. “Which one?”
Blue sighed. “Let’s make it easy. The American.”
Duncan took the picture from him for a closer look. Blue turned around and began to read some of the flyers on the wall. Most of them seemed to be concerned with job hunting, rock concerts, drug abuse, and rallies to protest Agent Orange.
Duncan tossed the picture onto the table. “Don’t know him.”
“You sure?” Spaceman said, moving closer.
“As sure as I can be.”
“How about the name Wolf? Probably a nickname.”
“Wolf?” He chewed his lower lip for a moment. “Maybe in Nam. You know, stories go around. There were guys who made real reps for themselves. Maybe there was a guy named Wolf. But I don’t know anything about him.”
Blue’s attention was caught by a bright yellow poster thumbtacked to the wall. He knew the Addison Gallery, had purchased some paintings and prints from it over the years. He seemed to remember an invitation, somewhere in his pile of recent mail, to the opening of this show featuring Vietnam photographs.
Then he put that aside and turned to Duncan again. “Ever have any drug problems around here?”
Duncan looked at him blandly. “Depends on what you mean by problems.”
“Any dealing?”
“No.”
“Would you tell me if there were?”
“What do you think?”
Blue only smiled.
Duncan shook his head, tangling the black hair even more. “Listen, man, we’re here to help the vets. Our brothers. Nobody else gives a flying fuck about us or our problems. Not the government or the so-called good people of the country. They only want us all to go away and stop reminding them that this frigging country once lost a war.”
Blue thought suddenly of his late-night caller. “What kind of problems do you see in here?”
“All kinds of shit. PTSD. Guys strung out from drugs they got in the VA. Agent Orange. We see it all.”
Spaceman was already edging toward the door. “But you haven’t seen the guy in the picture?”
“Nope, can’t say I have.”
“Thanks.” Blue retrieved the photograph, noticing a jar for contributions on the table; it contained only a few bucks. He took out his wallet and added a fifty to the meager collection.
“Thanks,” Duncan said.
He shrugged and started after Spaceman.
“Hey, buddy,” Duncan said.
“What?”
“You wanna jack the music for me?”
Blue stepped back to the stereo and swiveled the volume knob until Jim Morrison’s voice crashed into the room.
Duncan nodded and picked up his book again.
The Porsche looked right at home on Doheny Road in Beverly Hills. The house they were visiting resembled a castle, complete with turrets and a large, lush lawn. There was a gate and also a guard, but since they had called for an appointment, he waved them through without delay.
Spaceman peered through the windshield as they parked. “Whoever it was that said crime doesn’t pay didn’t know what the hell he was talking about,” he muttered.
Blue turned the engine off and pocketed the keys. “So that’s Papa D.’s house. Hell, you’d think the president of General Motors lived there, instead of just a crook.”
“Oh, Papa’s not your everyday kind of scumbag, Blue. He’s a very crafty old bastard. Been around since just after the dawn of civilization.”
They got out of the car. Spaceman dropped his cigarette onto the otherwise spotless driveway and stepped on it, while Blue straightened his beige silk tie. “I know him, by the way,” the blond said.
Spaceman looked surprised. “What? You and Delvecchio?”
They started up the long brick walk that led to the house. “Well, don’t make it sound like we went to the j
unior prom together,” Blue said irritably. “We just sat at the same table a couple times at some Rotary Club things.”
“Ahh, the wonderful things that happen to you lucky stiffs in public relations.”
“Yeah, it was exciting, all right. But the good days are over now and for my sins I’m here on the mean streets with you, Kowalski.”
“So what’d you think of him?”
“Delvecchio? I thought he was a gabby, boring old man. Just one of the crowd. He complimented me for working on a fine police department. I asked him to pass the butter.” Blue paused. “He knew my father.”
That earned him another look.
Blue sighed. “My father knew everybody, Spaceman, so don’t make a big thing out of it.”
Spaceman shook his head, then cleared his throat and spit into the sculptured bushes that lined the front of the house. “Bastard,” he said, without specifying who the epithet applied to. He gestured toward the door. “Do your stuff, Mr. Public Relations.”
Blue rang the bell.
Almost immediately the door was opened by a plump Mexican woman wearing a black dress and a ruffled white apron. She was reluctant to admit that Señor Delvecchio was at home or even that they had an appointment. But finally her hostility melted under some of Blue’s soft Spanish persuasion.
“Uno momento,” she said, closing the door and leaving them on the steps.
Spaceman reached for another cigarette. “So what are your plans for the big day?” he said with unaccustomed amiability.
“Big day?”
“Christmas, you idiot.”
Blue shrugged. “I never make plans. I’m a spontaneous kind of guy.”
Spaceman gave him a quizzical look, but before he could say anything, the door opened again. The maid was still frowning, but she let them in and led the way down a seemingly endless hall. Finally they reached a set of sliding glass doors.
They stepped through, onto a screened patio. Dominic Delvecchio, about eighty, with a shock of white hair and nut-brown wrinkled skin, was sitting in a cushioned chair, watching a small color television. He wore a maroon satin robe. Nearby was a small table that held a glass of orange juice.
