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Down in the Valley (Vic Daniel Series)

Page 7

by David Pierce


  'Turn right,' I said. 'How many gangs are there, would you say?'

  'Quién sabe, forty, fifty? How many kids are involved, quién sabe, hundreds. And hundreds. You know how much one house, which is like a wholesaler, will do in one day down there? Twenty grand. I'm just talking coke, you understand, and maybe a little PCP for native use.'

  We'd turned off Laredo by then and were heading at a conservative pace along Del Mara, past the old railroad station where no train had stopped for forty years. A couple of bums sitting in the weeds along a siding were passing a bottle back and forth. If they were waiting for the midnight special to San Diego they'd better pick up another bottle or two.

  'Tell me about the houses,' I said.

  'They're called rock houses because they sell mainly rock coke which the kids push in baggies for a quarter up to maybe forty dollars if they can get it. Lumps or rocks in coke are thought to be a sign that it's stronger because the crystals are intact, it's a complete scam. Anything'll crystalize pretty much if you dampen it, especially that milk sugar stuff they cut it with. So, woman moves in, respectable looking, a couple of babies, and rents a house. She moves out pronto and the dudes move in and commence their number, steel doors, shatter-proof windows, fire-proof stashes, pay-offs to the neighbors, you name it. Some of them have a sort of cubicle, like a booth, in the hall or the living room where you put your money in a revolving door or a turntable, then back comes your goods. It's unbelievable now that I come to think about it, I mean the size of the action and how public it all is, a total stranger could score a grand's worth of coke in this town in ten minutes. Five if he asked a cop for directions.'

  'Grass?'

  'It seems to be handled mainly by what Variety calls indie distributors although there are a lot of low-level groups involved. Mexican, Puerto Rican, your friendly Cubanos, but most of your real heavy muthas is black. Here endeth the first lesson.'

  'Slow down, Benny boy, we are almost there,' I said. He slowed down; we turned into Greenview Avenue, the street on which Art sold his mediocre franks. 'Let's just drive casually past once, then go round the block.'

  'Yes, let's just,' said Benny, 'and let's just tell Benny just what Benny is doing here and why.'

  I told him as we cruised slowly down the quiet, tree-lined street.

  'It used to be,' said I, 'in the dear dead days gone by, the days of Liberty and the Saturday Evening Post, the Mellow-Roll and the three-cent newspaper, it used to be the kindly old fart in the local candy store or soda fountain who had profitable sidelines, dirty comics . . .'

  ' "Mutt & Jeff in Tijuana",' Benny reminisced. 'That was a beaut.'

  'So was "Popeye In Olive Oyl",' I said. 'Also numbers, he'd take your bet on the horses, sell contraceptives, sell cigarettes to kids, this and that. Where do the kids go now, you ask.'

  'Where do the kids go now?'

  'Drive-ins, my boy, and they got a lot more money than they used to. That crummy hamburger joint we just passed is run by a guy called Art. Art's got a nice new car with a phone, nothing flashy but new. He's also got a license for a camper. Also his wife has a car, nothing flashy, no phone, but new. I got his last name from his city permit and had my brother check him out with the DMV. Art's home address is a condo just this side of Griffith Park, heavens, they got horses and everything up there, I know cause I phoned them this afternoon, and you can imagine how much he takes in a week selling his sixty percent meat hotdogs.'

  'I'm starting to get the picture,' said Benny.

  'Good!' I said. 'Art, whose last name is Wetmore, by the way, also has a record and I don't mean the Bee-Gees. One GBH, one drug bust two years ago at which he turned state's evidence and got off on parole. Then he turned up at the emergency ward at UCLA a while later missing two fingers. He wouldn't say how it happened but the doc thought they had been cut off like with sheet-metal cutters so he filed a police report on him. Now what does all that sound like to you?' We pulled in and parked on a side street about twenty yards down from the back of Art's.

  'It sounds like he was lucky they didn't kill him,' Benny said.

  'Also my neighbor Mr Amoyan saw him. I remembered in the hospital. He said, "Red face, kid's car." He was sitting on his bench watching the girls when it happened.'

  'What's a kid's car?'

  'I dunno, but I bet he borrowed it from the school parking lot. Probably festooned with pennants, coon tails and fur dice.'

  Benny whistled, then looked around.

  'Let's do it,' he said. 'The coast is clear.'

  'Not you,' I said. 'You stay here looking innocent.'

  'What if you need some help?'

  'No way,' I said. 'Piece of cake, I checked it out when I was getting a toothpick. Nice, well-built structure, airtight and cozy. Gas grills. Standard-issue lock, no alarms. No sign of a dog bowl or dog food. Back in a second.'

  'Abyssinia,' said Benny. 'Oh. The key, silly me.' He passed me several keys on a Mickey Mouse key chain. 'Oh. Silly me, the gloves.' He passed me a pair of cheap work gloves which I took without comment and put on. The white coat was already folded up on the back seat. I took the toque from the glove compartment and put that on. We looked up and down the street; all was quiet.

  'Well, go if you're going, Jesus,' said Benny. He rarely swore. I went.

  It turned out to take more than a second but not a lot more; it does help when a chap's breaking and entering if he knows in advance what type of lock he'll have to open because then someone like Benny can get him a key for it. Picking locks is not as easy as popular literature would have you believe, nor is opening one with a credit card or similar bit of stiff plastic. I had three keys to choose from; the second one worked and I was in like Flynn. I took a quick peek around with the tiny flashlight that came with the keyring, then blew out all the pilot lights under the grill and the frier, leaving on only the one under the warmer.

  A car came towards us up Greenview. I turned the flashlight off; it went right on by. I'd arranged with Benny to give a discreet toot on the horn if anyone approached from the back where I couldn't see, but so far so good. I turned the light back on and with my justly famous Swiss Army knife unloosened the clamp where the rubber tube of the gas supply was connected to the back of the grill and slipped the tube free. I didn't want to leave any of the gas jets on, they might survive the (devoutly hoped for) cataclysmic blast and get themselves noticed. Then I took my leave, locking up behind me like a model citizen, and Benny and I sedately got the hell out of there. A dog barked goodbye at us from the adjoining yard.

  As we were making tracks I took the keys off the ring, tucked them down inside one of the gloves, then did the same with a set of picklocks Benny had brought along just in case; we hadn't wanted to break in as it was all supposed to look like an accident, which is no doubt fairly obvious by now. There was a heavy manila envelope in the glove compartment that was already stamped and addressed to yours truly at home; in went the gloves and hardware and at the first mailbox we came to, in went the envelope. The toque I took off gratefully and chucked under the back seat.

  You never know, someone once said. I think it was Oedipus. Cops love to do their thing. All we needed was for one of the car's rear lights to be out or to be sideswiped by some lush or maybe even pass a savage, i.e., eager police rookie with an arrest book to fill up and we'd have a bit of a job explaining away a professional set of picks. I gave a small sigh of relief as soon as I had dumped the envelope, it looked like we were if not home free at least on our way.

  'Phew,' I said. 'Turn left.'

  'I know,' said Benny. After a while he said, 'How're you doing, Uncle?'

  I told him I was doing pretty good. I was, too. I'd been worried some innocent might get hurt when she blew but there was a chain across Art's parking lot so no late-night neckers could get in and also he was set far enough back from the side road and Greenview so that if anyone was walking by they should be all right, I hoped. I also hoped the dog next door wouldn't get too freaked out.
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br />   Pretty good? Hell, I was doing terrific. All I needed to feel even more terrific was to hear from somewhere behind us the satisfying sound of a loud explosion. In a truly benevolent world the explosion would even blow a few large T-bones over into the barking dog's dinner bowl.

  We drove a bit. I was hungry, I was thirsty and I was as hopped up as a road-runner on speed. I forget which he-man writer said, if you want to get your adrenaline pumpin', pal, bomb the shit out of someone. However it didn't seem too bright to stop for a drink and a nine-course meal as there was an outside chance – as in one in a million – that some angel of mercy at the hospital might actually look in my room to see if I was still alive, so we headed at a conservative velocity back toward Kaiser.

  'Couple of things,' I said as we waited for a light to change. 'I suppose I owe you some money.'

  'Always welcome,' said Benny. 'But no hurry, tomorrow's fine. I'll let you know what I laid out, the pills and the expert chauffeuring are on me. And the petunias.'

  I told him I thought that was jolly nice of him.

  'Heck, you're family, Unk,' he said.

  'Benny, when you were a kid, what did you do in washrooms besides taking a leak?'

  'Turned on,' he said. 'Still do.'

  'And if the washroom smells like a chlorine factory, does that make you more suspicious or less suspicious?'

  'Next question,' he said.

  'Why would a girl, a cute girl, a cute girl who doesn't put catsup on her hamburger or French fries, steal the extra catsup packets?'

  'Because they are free,' he said. 'A well-known corollary of Murphy's Law is, "If it can be stolen, it will be, irregardless of value or lack of it." What kind of question was that?'

  'Just small talk,' I said. 'Why would a guy give an alibi when it wasn't asked for?'

  'Who did you have in mind?'

  'Guy called Dev.'

  There was a pause.

  'That's it?'

  'Sworn to secrecy,' I said in a confidential manner. 'Jesus, I feel good.'

  'I'm feeling all right myself,' said Benny. 'Well, in answer to your last question, he's either guilty of something and wants you to think he's innocent, or more likely he's innocent and wants you to think he's innocent but he isn't that innocent or why did he bring it up in the first place?'

  'Exactly,' I said. 'Right on, cuz.'

  We turned into the rear of the hospital parking lot; Benny pulled up but kept the motor idling. I got back into the white coat. We waited til a nurse going off duty pulled away in one of those new little Buicks, then I got out without trying to look inconspicuous, waved goodbye to Benny and walked stiffly over to the emergency door which I was pleased to see was still open a crack. In, up the stairs with some difficulty, into my room. Clothes off, clothes into suitcase, me into hospital gown, me into bed. Me sigh happily and take one more Demerol and a long drink of stale water. I wondered where hospitals got their stale water from, no one else ever seems to have it. Then me smile at Benny's flowers which were I don't know what but sure weren't petunias that Florence had arranged earlier in a vase on the bedside table.

  I felt like phoning someone up for a good gossip but couldn't think of anyone who really wanted a lengthy cat-session at one thirty of the wee small hours.

  I felt like phoning room service for a toasted club sandwich, side of onion rings and a cherry Coke.

  I wished I had a dog sleeping on the bottom of the bed, crowding my poor old legs.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I'm no cynic, despite what some may think. Show me a pimp who's really a nice, regular guy underneath it all and I'll believe it can happen. Show me a twenty-piastre Greek hooker with a heart of pure gold and I'll believe that can happen. Show me a miracle and I'll believe in miracles for ever and ever.

  Monday morning started with one of the latter, a miracle, or at least as close to one as this unbeliever will likely ever see. What happened was that somehow by some administrative foul-up they let me sleep until almost seven o'clock. (And while I slept, Art's burned, or so I hoped.) When I did wake up Florence was rattling open the Venetian blinds and humming to herself. This was a new-model Florence, a small black one with huge pink glasses and knobby ankles. She saw me watching her and came over to the bed to grin at me.

  'What are you so cheerful about?' I asked her.

  'Looking at you,' she said. 'Makes me warm all over. I hope you feel better than you look.'

  'Tell you in a minute,' I said. 'I haven't heard from some of the outlying ganglions yet.' Actually, I felt awful. She took out a thermometer that was clipped to her breast pocket, looked at it, shook it like they always do, popped it in my waiting mouth, then left, taking with her the water carafe. I hoped she'd done gone to get me a gallon of coffee and a couple of warm Danish with extra butter, instead she reappeared a minute later with some fresh stale water and a trayful of things to hurt me with. She took the thermometer out, looked at it, made a note on the case sheet, hung it back on the foot of the bed, shook her thermometer and put it away.

  'How's our temperature?' I asked her.

  'Above normal,' she said, 'but I don't think we'll have to book the operating room yet. If you want to wash up now I'll do your bed.'

  I got my groggy self up and taking it steadily made it to the small washroom to the right of the door, and washed the parts I could reach that weren't covered with bandages. Then, although I knew it wasn't a good idea, I couldn't resist one peek at myself in the mirror. The glass didn't crack but that was about all. I needed a shave but most of all a shower, and that promised to be a test of ingenuity. My legs weren't too bad, however, perhaps some of the painkiller was still working . . . oh, oh, my pills. I hied it back to the bed, but too late.

  'Guess what I found when I was turning the mattress?' said Flo.

  'Bed-bugs?'

  'These.' She held up the vial of Demerols.

  'Ah, those,' I said. 'Good, I thought I'd lost the little devils.'

  'What are they?'

  'Calcium,' I said, trying to take them from her. 'You know, for the bones?'

  'Yes, I do know calcium is for the bones, among other things,' Flo said. 'What I don't know is whether or not these are calcium because these are in capsule form and calcium is usually in large tablets.'

  'Ah,' I said. 'Multi-vitamins?'

  She laughed and plumped the pillows; only nurses and mothers plump pillows. I've never plumped one in my life.

  'Vitamin Demerol,' she said. She tossed them to me. 'Get back to bed and I'll change your dressings.'

  I got; she changed, making a grimace of sympathetic pain as she ever-so-carefully eased the sticky bandages off instead of ripping them off in one go, something all nurses seemed to learn their first day at school. I decided I loved her. Our marriage would be a shock to Mom, I knew, but too bad. Flo started putting fresh, cool guck on; it felt like heaven.

  'The night nurse left a note for me,' she said after a while.

  'Oh, yes?'

  'Yes.'

  'She want you to double date with her sometime?' I asked after another while.

  'No, she said you weren't here when she made her midnight rounds.'

  Well, I was waiting for that one, wasn't I, I mean you don't mouse-trap ol' Vic too often, so I said, 'Did she look under the covers?'

  Flo nodded. She was as cute as a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. Maybe she was a Cowboys cheerleader moonlighting.

  'All the way under,' she said. 'Where were you, sport? And make it good, because I have to decide whether or not to report it.'

  She bundled up the nasty old dressings and put them in a small paper garbage bag, like an airline gag-bag.

  'I was merely trying to get some chicken soup from the machine,' I said. 'I read recently it was good for burns as well as everything else. In Cosmo, I think it was.'

  She nodded as if she was completely satisfied with the explanation, and why not?

  'Breakfast tray'll be around soon,' she said. 'Rye toast or croissants?'


  'Crumpets, please,' I said. 'With buckwheat honey.'

  She picked up the torture instruments and headed for the door.

  'Doctor at ten. Anything else you need?'

  'A razor. TV. Something to read.'

  'I'll send the porter. By the way, sport, our machines have coffee, tea, cocoa and tomato soup. No chicken.'

  'Yeah,' I said. 'I found out. I was heartbroken. I hate tomato. We used to get it three times a week, made with water.' I didn't tell her where we used to get it.

  The little darling left. I decided Yucatán would be the perfect spot for our honeymoon. We could go to Chichen Itzá and watch them sacrifice virgins, although Dios knows where they got them from these days.

  Well, there I was, all dressed up and nowhere to go, and it was already seven fifteen. Breakfast came and went, unlovely as a wallflower at an Odd-Fellows' dance. About an hour later an ebony porter in a long blue housecoat wheeled in a TV, plugged it in, tossed the remote control on the foot of the bed where I couldn't reach it, did likewise with a couple of tattered magazines and a throwaway razor in a tiny plastic bag, then left without saying a word, let alone singing a work song or two. I wondered what his problem was, but not for long, because I knew what mine were and they were far more interesting.

  I got the TV working but couldn't find anything on the early news about a mysterious explosion in the Valley, a leveled hamburger stand or strange, ominous sightings of flying meat patties, so I switched it off again and picked up the magazines. One was Needlecraft for Today, one was Vegetarianism is Fun, and Cheap, Too! but the last one turned out to be a rare, three-year-old copy of Mechanix Illustrated; that was more like it.

  The morning passed almost as slowly as prison time although I didn't really mind, I was getting a good rest, flushing the drink out of my filters and there was plenty to think about, like Jalisco sunsets, the perfect car, getting old.

  The doctor came and went and said I could leave tomorrow; I was leaving tomorrow anyway. I was deeply into a fascinating article on fretwork when two porters talking about football wheeled in a sleeping roomie for me; they unloaded him neatly into the spare bed, then put the screen around him. As one of them went by the TV on the way out, he pointed at the sleeper, shook his head and unplugged the set. Well, fuck you, Charlie, I wasn't even watching it anyway. And they have invented earphones.

 

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