Fugitive Nights (1992)

by Wambaugh, Joseph

  "Mighta been," said Nelson. "Or it mighta been Arabic. He probably speaks two or three languages."

  "Nelson," Lynn said, "they got a Coke machine downstairs. I'll buy if you go get em. My left knee's so swollen it's grotesque. The other's even worse. You wouldn't know it from Marlon Brando."

  "Sure, regular Coke?"

  "Regular," Lynn said.

  "Diet," Breda said.

  "My treat," said Nelson, and dashed out the door.

  "See?" Lynn said when they were alone. "He has cosmic reasons for doing what he does."

  "He's real cute," Breda said. "I feel like taking him to the zoo or maybe buying him some Gummi Bears, but he's a nutter, all right. Wacko. No telling what's bubbling in his brain."

  "Unfortunately, I have to work with him for the next two days or he turns over all his information to the sheriffs. That means they find out about Clive Devon, et cetera."

  "They'd interview Devon!"

  "Of course they would."

  "He'd find out about the surveillance! That'd screw me out of five thous . . ."

  Too late! Lynn put on a happy face you couldn't remove with a chisel. "You little dickens!" he said. "Aren't you the one? Five grand? And here I am risking my entire pension for a measly thousand bucks?"

  "If we get to the bottom of the Devon affair, I'll give you another five hundred," Breda said, regretting the day she'd set eyes on this grinning dipso. "But I need help."

  Nelson Hareem came bursting back into the office with the cold drinks, beaming with anticipation. "Can we start real soon, Lynn? I got a need to proceed. Big time!"

  Lynn took his Coke and said to Breda, "Remember that guy Jack Graves? The one that got a stress pension after shooting the kid? Jack needs something to do, something to take his mind off the accident. Let's see if he'll take on your bartender case. He used to do lotsa undercover assignments in bars when he worked dope. You could watch Devon's house tonight. Me, I could check out motels that begin with A, B or C for a bald-headed smuggler." Then he turned to Nelson and said, "Excuse me, I meant terrorist. By the way, who's he terrorizing?"

  "Could be anybody," Nelson said. "How about an ex-president? Gerald Ford lives here."

  "Why would any self-respecting terrorist bother with Gerald Ford?" Lynn wanted to know.

  "How can I get hold of this Jack Graves?" Breda asked.

  "I'll take you to see him now," Lynn said. "Lives in a motor home up in Windy Point. I try to visit every couple weeks."

  "Lynn, I've only had a chance to check out five motels," Nelson said. "Don't you think . . ."

  "Go get yourself a hamburger," Lynn said. "Meet me right here at six o'clock and we'll spend the whole evening working on the A's, okay?"

  "Okay," Nelson said agreeably. "I know a good orthopedist who could look at those knees."

  "Too late," Lynn said. "I already had two surgeries by a goon that's destroyed more knees than the IRA."

  Windy Point was aptly named: Breda held on to her purse with both hands and hoped she wouldn't be wind-stripped of her jumpsuit. There was a little grocery store and gas station in Windy Point, but that was about it for commerce in the working-class enclave just north of Palm Springs. Both she and Lynn had to lean into the whistling gale as they walked across Jack Graves' little cactus garden toward his mobile home.

  "After slogging through this hurricane I hope he's home," Breda shouted, feeling the sand peppering her sunglasses.

  "Jack's always home," Lynn shouted back above the blast. "That's the trouble. He needs to get out more."

  Lynn banged on the metal door of the mobile home and yelled, "Jack, put your pants on. Brought a visitor."

  Jack Graves was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and was barefoot. He was much taller than Lynn, very thin and gaunt. He had a kindly face and was gray around the sideburns, but the hair on top was as dark as Breda's and his chin stubble was black.

  Breda could've picked him out of a lineup from hearing his story. There was a lot of torment in the eyes of Jack Graves.

  "Meet Breda Burrows," Lynn said. "She's a new P. I. in town, retired from LAPD. I'm helping her on something."

  When Breda shook his hand it felt clammy, and she could see droplets by his hairline and above his lip. It wasn't that hot in the mobile home. He must be sick, she thought.

  The living room was small and exceptionally neat; everything was in perfect order. Breda sat on a daybed sofa next to Lynn.

  "Can I get you something?" Jack Graves asked. "How about a beer or a soft drink?"

  "Nothing, thanks," Breda said.

  "Just had a soda pop," Lynn said. "How you been?"

  "Fine." Jack Graves smiled. He had heavy dark eyebrows and thick lashes which made his eyes even more sunken.

  Lynn said, "Jack, you get any skinnier you'll fit through a mail slot. I gotta take you out for some burritos."

  "Just getting over the flu," Jack Graves said.

  Lynn Cutter noticed the perspiration, and said, "You're gonna have to back-comb your pubic hair to hold your pants up!"

  "Flu's all better now," Jack Graves said. "I'll gain some weight."

  "How's your ankle?" Lynn turned to Breda. "Jack sprained it chasing a gopher outta his garden. Can you imagine? Living out here, anybody else woulda shot the . . ."

  Then Lynn caught himself, and Breda saw the expression change on Jack Graves' face. You didn't talk about shooting anything with this man.

  Breda covered for Lynn by saying, "So the ankle's fine?"

  "Yeah, I must be getting old," Jack Graves said. "And I tripped coming out of the market the other day and landed on my hip." Then to Lynn, "Remember when I told you about that hip pointer I got in the car wreck where I went in pursuit?"

  "Yeah, same hip?"

  "Uh huh. It's bothering me a little bit."

  "Can you walk around okay, and maybe sit at a bar for a few hours tonight?"

  "A bar?"

  "We got a job for you," Lynn said. "Not big money, but something to do."

  "Well, I don't know," Jack Graves said. "I really oughtta take care of my washing and ironing tonight."

  "Please, Jack," Lynn Cutter said, in a gentle voice that Breda hadn't heard him use before. "It's a little job that has to be done and I don't have anyone else to do it for me."

  "Okay, Lynn," Jack Graves said. "I guess clean underwear can wait."

  Lynn took five minutes to explain The Unicorn bartender-watch to Jack Graves, and Breda realized that this was a Lynn Cutter scheme to help the man.

  Breda saw six photos of a child on the wall, from when the boy was a chubby two-year-old to a lad of twelve or thirteen. She figured that Jack Graves was a divorced man with a son, perhaps a boy close to the age of the one he'd killed when they'd raided the wrong house.

  When Breda and Lynn were driving back to her office, Breda said, "That was a nice thing to do for him. And I can use the help."

  "Jack's gotta get out," Lynn said. "He's dwelling on that shooting. I been with him when we drive past Mexican kids and he gets a look on his face. Jack's in trouble."

  "Whadda you make of all his accidents?"

  "Same as you," Lynn said. "You didn't hear the half of it. He also accidentally cut his hand while slicing onions. That one took about thirty stitches. He broke two toes when he dropped a five-pound sledge trying to put up a fence. All this in a period of a couple months. That guy's carrying so much guilt the next accident might be fatal. If you could maybe come up with any other little job he might do for you, I'd appreciate it."

  "He needs psychiatric counseling."

  "He needs body armor. Unless he can get busy and take his mind off it. You can't be alone like that, not all the time."

  "I could use some help with the surveillance on Clive Devon. Could he take your place while you go sleuthing with Nelson?"

  "Sure," Lynn said. "Nelson promised he'll give up and forget the whole thing in two days if we don't get a lead on his smuggler. I mean his terrorist."

  "Of course his
fee would come out of your share."

  "Yeah, I figured." Lynn surprised Breda when he added, "It's worth it if it gets him away from himself. You can't be alone all the time."

  "If Clive Devon hooks up with that Mexican girl again I'm risking a dog bite," Breda said. "I'm gonna sneak and peek and find out what they're doing."

  "Be careful," he said. "That dog's goofier'n a blind date."

  "I think he's just a big puppy."

  Lynn looked at his watch and said, "Time to face up to an evening with Nelson Hareem. You're right, Nelson's adorable, but why is it every time I look at that kid I hear the shower music from Psycho?"

  Out-of-towners equated Palm Springs with glamour and money, and there was still a lot of it around. But the big money was relentlessly moving south in the valley, to Rancho Mirage, Palm Desert, Indian Wells, and even La Quinta now that PGA West was there. One didn't find the Forbes Four Hundred bucks around the Las Palmas neighborhood anymore, but there was still old quiet money, like Clive Devon's. It was in the downtown commercial section of Palm Springs that the big change showed, more than in the residential areas. Many of the shops were vacant now, even in season. There were signs in too many windows saying, "Moved to Palm Desert," to El Paseo, a shopping area with pretensions of becoming another Rodeo Drive.

  Most desert residents are blue collar, or live on fixed incomes, in places like north Palm Springs, or Desert Hot Springs or Cathedral City. It was in such off-the-avenue districts, whose motels were both low profile and low-priced, that Lynn Cutter and Nelson Hareem were searching.

  "We'll max out with the fifty-buck-a-nighters," Lynn suggested. "In fact, thirty-five-a-nighters would be a better bet if there are any that cheap in season."

  The first few were easy enough. The employees on night duty showed Lynn and Nelson the motel registers with hardly a glance at the badge Lynn presented, and despite the fact that Nelson-in a Los Angeles Lakers blue and yellow T-shirt with Magic Johnson's number 32 on the back-looked more like one of the weekend, student hell-raisers than a cop.

  Lynn noticed the bulge under the arm of Nelson's T-shirt and wasn't surprised. He'd figured Nelson to be a leg holster type as well. And he probably carries a dagger, and maybe a derringer in his shorts, Lynn figured. The Nelson Hareems of this world were as predictable as August heat rash.

  It was dark when they got to the fourth one, Bessie's Apartment Motel, north of Desert Hospital, just a few miles and a few million dollars from the other Palm Springs. It looked promising, a run-down stucco one-story, with a white rock-composition roof.

  Bessie herself was working at the reception desk, and wasn't overwhelmed by a Palm Springs police badge being waved under her nose. She'd been watching Wheel of Fortune and dreaming of winning a Beverly Hills shopping trip. She didn't look quite as masculine as George Burns, whom she resembled, but her voice was more gravelly.

  Bessie glanced at Lynn and said, "What is it, another runaway from L. A. get in trouble?"

  "Need to talk to a guy who mighta checked in yesterday afternoon. He's a Mexican . . ." Then Lynn looked at Nelson and said, "Or maybe he's from the Middle East."

  "Like Kansas?"

  "That's Middle West."

  "Like the guys that're behind the counter in a Seven-Eleven store," Nelson offered.

  "Oh, Eye-ranians?"

  "Yeah, like that," said Lynn. "But maybe he's a Mexican."

  "Mexican, Eye-ranian, gimme a break!" Bessie said. "Think anybody can tell the difference?"

  "He's bald but might be wearing a blue baseball cap or some other hat," Lynn said.

  "Then I wouldn't know he was bald, would I?"

  "No," Lynn said.

  "He's maybe in his late thirties, early forties. About my height but huskier. Strong-looking guy. With a big droopy black mustache. Might not have a car."

  "He sounds like every gardener I ever seen around here," Bessie said. "Gimme a break!"

  "Right," Lynn Cutter said, and indicated to Nelson that it was time to let Bessie return to her Wheel of Fortune fantasies.

  "But," she said, "it maybe sounds like a guy named Vega in bungalow four."

  "What?" Lynn and Nelson said in unison.

  As they headed for the two rows of semidetached cottages making up Bessie's Apartment Motel, Lynn Cutter got a load of what a few others before him had seen and would never forget-Lynn got to see the carrot-top cop when he put on his game face!

  The first thing Nelson did was reach up under his Lakers T-shirt and grab hold of the .38 in the upside-down holster.

  "Puh-leeeeze!" Lynn cried. "This is prob'ly just a snowbird from Walla Walla. Let's not kill him right away!"

  "Ain't you carryin a piece?" "No."

  "I got an extra one!"

  "I figured."

  "Want it?"

  "No."

  "Then stay behind me."

  "With pleasure. But puh-leeeeze don't Schwarzenegger the door. Let me handle it."

  "I'll whistle when I'm in position!" Nelson whispered. "Like a whippoorwill!"

  Nelson squatted down so he could pass under the front window, of bungalow four and not be spotted. He duck-walked toward the rear of the building, and when he was in position to watch the back door, he whistled from the darkness.

  It dawned on Lynn. There's no whippoorwills in the frigging desert. Not even one scraggly-assed whippoorwill!

  Lynn knocked. No answer. He knocked again and said, "Mister Vega! Bessie sent me to tell you the gas meter shows a leak in one a the bungalows! Mister Vega, you there?"

  Lynn put his ear to the door. He walked to the corner of the bungalow, peered toward the darkness out back and saw Nelson crouching with his gun extended in both hands just like on television. When Lynn Cutter had first become a cop nobody extended two arms to hold one little gun!

  "Nelson!"

  "Yeah?"

  "Nobody home. We'll come back later."

  Bessie had turned off Wheel of Fortune by the time they got back, and was busy registering a nervous middle-aged guy who had a babe outside in his car.

  When the cops reentered the motel office the nervous guy was writing "Mr. and Mrs. Johnson" in a counterfeit scrawl, and had given a wrong license number. As though anybody gave a shit about him and a teenage hooker from Indian Avenue.

  Lynn said to the motel proprietor, "Bessie, we might come back later. Don't say anything to the guy in bungalow four, okay?"

  "Think I'm gonna nail a notice on his door?" Bessie snorted. "Gimme a break!"

  "Okay, Bessie," Lynn said, and the cops left her to tend to the nervous guest who kept watching the street for cops.

  But before Lynn and Nelson could get out the door, Bessie said, "Hey! Here comes Mister Vega now."

  Lynn grabbed Nelson's arm to anchor him and took a good look through the motel window at the burly man walking their way. He was carrying a bag of take-out food and he did look like the guy with the baseball cap, right down to his Zapata mustache, except that he was wearing a straw cowboy hat.

  Before Nelson could start blasting out windows, Lynn opened the glass door and dashed out, as though hurrying toward the parked car containing the Lolita.

  Suddenly, Lynn stopped in his tracks, turned to the dark burly man, and said, "Sir! You have a wasp on your hat!"

  And the burly guy dropped his bag of ribs and whipped the hat off all in one motion. And his hair fell out. He had more than Milli Vanilli, all done up in double braids, Injun style.

  "Where is it?" the guy yelled.

  "It's gone," Lynn said. "I oughtta get a job with Terminix Pest Control. Boy, I can spot a nasty wasp faster'n the Anti-Defamation League."

  Even in Nelson's topless Jeep Wrangler, cruising along Palm Canyon Drive at night was beautiful. Rows of light washed high up on the towering palms that lined both sides of the avenue.

  There were throngs of in-season tourists strolling about, and college kids scoping out the hardbodies.

  Of course, during Easter week there'd be hell to pay when Pa
lm Springs tried to keep forty thousand vacationing students under control after they got drunk and turned Palm Canyon Drive into a honking blaring screaming parking lot.

  A television crew would be on hand then, which would encourage lots of on-camera miniriots. There'd always be a few coeds hanging on the back of a bike, or sitting up on the trunk of a convertible, flashing the crowd. One would probably start it off by removing her bikini top. Then another might stand up in a pickup and show everyone that her bikini bottom was on backwards. Then somebody would take it all off.

  Then a macho sophomore would no doubt run out into the street to cop a feel, or steal the bikini, or otherwise prove to the coed that she shouldn't have had that last six-pack. And she'd scream for help, and a fight would start and lots of students and maybe a few cops would all end up with contusions and abrasions. It happened every Easter week: traffic jam, gridlock, flashing, fighting, riot.

  And every year, a coed would have to flash at least one cop by lifting her T-shirt to reveal her address written across her tits. After which, she'd utter some variation of, "Officer, I'm lost. Here's my address. Can you take me home?"

  The last one to do that to Lynn Cutter-when he was in uniform with a squad of cops from five different jurisdictions -was a nymphet with creamy shoulders and a pouty candy-apple mouth. While her pals snickered and guffawed at the cop-flashing, Lynn had said to her, "I can tell by your nipple development that you're under the age of eighteen. There's a curfew law. Go home."

  She'd covered her boobs very quickly, wiped off her smirk, and said, "I'm seventeen and ten months! I consider myself eighteen!"

  "So do I," Lynn said, "but that doesn't change reality for either of us. Go home!"

  As Nelson Hareem revved the Jeep Wrangler, it jerked Lynn Cutter out of his reverie.

  "Wanna try Desert Hot Springs or Cathedral City, Lynn?" Nelson asked.

  "Why don't we finish up here in town first?"

  "Okay," Nelson said, agreeably. "There's one on Chaparral that looks likely. Thirty-five a night isn't too much for a terrorist, is it?"

  "I don't know, Nelson," Lynn said. "I haven't called the terrorist hot line lately."