Dawn of a New Day (21 page)

“Oh, Bobby, I don't think—”

“I know. You think you can handle it. I thought I could too. But it's strange about power, and money, and fame. They get in your blood just like heroin or alcohol. You don't ever intend to get caught up in it, but you do. How many Hollywood stars do you know who are still plain, simple folks?”

“Well, there's Jimmy Stewart—”

“That's one. Now name ten more. Five more for that matter.” He shook his head and grinned ruefully. “You can't, can you?” He sat there quietly, and the two talked long into the night. Prue had known he was unhappy but had never plumbed the depths of his misery. He was overweight now, and hard living had marked him. She noticed that his hands began to tremble after about an hour, and when he got up and said, “Well, I've got to go,” she knew he was headed for a bottle or drugs of some kind.

“Bobby,” she said, standing up and moving before him, “isn't there some way you can change your life?”

“Did you ever know anybody to change their life, to throw away millions of dollars and everything the world has to offer?” His voice was bitter, and he suddenly leaned forward and kissed her cheek. He hesitated, then said, “Don't change, Prue. Please don't change. It's too late for me, but I'd hate to see anything happen to you. I think too much of you—and of Mark.”

He turned and walked away abruptly, and Prue understood that drugs had created a craving in him. When the door shut, she felt the tears rise in her eyes, and for a long time she felt miserable and defeated. The thoughts of Mark fighting in Vietnam came to her, and she whispered aloud, “Mark's not in any more danger than you are, Bobby.”

T
he segment of the Los Angeles Police Department that housed the vice squad was busy, as always. The large space, which most of the detectives used for their work, was cluttered with desks, chairs, computers, and telephones that seemed to ring incessantly. Some officers wearing their guns and shoulder holsters would speak in a staccato voice over their phone, slam the receiver back into the cradle, then plunge into the debris of paperwork that covered their desk. A constant hum of voices would, at times, lift into what amounted to a roar, but the officers had become so accustomed to it that they paid it little heed.

From time to time, informers and witnesses would appear, stepping through the large door on the east end of the room, and Lieutenant Mario Scarlotti had long since noticed that no matter why they came, a look of guilt and fear usually leaped into their eyes. Scarlotti had stepped out of his office, just momentarily, and his hard, gray eyes swept the room, ticking off his squad, making notes somewhere deep in his brain for future reference. His very presence was enough to cause a furor of activity on the part of several officers who had been standing at the water fountain, laughing and telling jokes. They scurried back to their desks trying to look serious, which was not difficult. All of them had heard Scarlotti peel the potato of several of the vice squad's detectives, and they knew that it was not his policy to call a man to one side. He read him off where he caught him, even if it was in the middle of the squad room, and his voice could carry for two country miles.

“Sergeant! Come into my office!”

“Yes, sir.” A tall, thin officer with a Russian nine millimeter in a clipped holster on his belt rose with alacrity and kicked his desk chair back in a sudden motion. He had light blue eyes, a crown of brown hair leaving most of his scalp bare, and a thin mustache over a rather narrow mouth. Otto Krugman knew his superior well, and he wasted no time crossing the room toward the door.

“Time for the boss to straighten you out, Otto.” Larry Taylor grinned. “You've been gettin' out of line lately. Tell him to go chase himself.”

“I'll let you tell him that, Larry,” Krugman said. “You had a pretty full life, I guess.” Reaching the door, he stepped inside the office that, unlike the squad room, was completely uncluttered. It was a room not more than twelve feet square, the furniture being a single desk with a straight-backed chair behind it and another straight-backed chair placed exactly in front of it. The desktop contained an in-and-out basket, double stacked, a gold Cross pen and pencil lying on a pad in front of Lieutenant Scarlotti, and nothing more.

Keeps that desk stripped for action
, Krugman thought as he came forward and sat down opposite the chief of the vice squad. He was the only man in the unit who faced Lieutenant Mario Scarlotti without apprehension. The two of them had been partners for a long time—both having served together as uniformed officers in a patrol car. Being a uniformed patrolman in the city of Los Angeles tended to either make men hate each other or trust each other completely, and so it was with Krugman and Scarlotti. They did not socialize, for they were almost completely different in their habits and lifestyles. However, each of them could remember times going into dark alleys when the other had held his life, and a firm bond of trust had been formed.

“I've been working on the Anderson case—”

“Never mind that, Otto.” Scarlotti shook his head. “That's not what I want to talk about.” Scarlotti was forty-one years old, and his dark hair was cut short, and his eyes, almost black, were capable of practically burning holes through steel—at least through criminal and recalcitrant police officers! He was a bulky man with a weight lifter's build, and as he placed his hands flat on the desk, Krugman noticed automatically the hard edges along the little finger and the cutting edge of the palm. He well knew that Scarlotti could bust a two-inch oak board with those palms, and he remembered several times when human flesh had broken easier than the oak. He waited silently, knowing his man. Scarlotti took counsel from no one but let plans formulate in his mind until they were complete. Then he would call in his detectives, one at a time, and give them a complete program ready to execute.

“Otto, I'm not happy with the work we've been doing on drugs.”

“Nobody is,” Krugman shrugged.

“That's right, but they're going to be because I'm going to make a big noise.”

“You gonna call in the Marine Corps, Lieutenant? That's what it would take to police just part of this city. You'd have to put an officer in every crack house in the city, and you know how many that is.”

“I know.” Scarlotti nodded. “It's like trying to keep a ship afloat that's got about fifty holes in it. Every time you plug one, another one starts, and in the meanwhile all you can do is keep bailing.” He leaned forward, and his eyes burned with an intense fire. He lived for his department, for his work, and apparently the only joy he got out of life was seeing some criminal put behind bars. It had been the regret of Scarlotti's life that capital punishment had gone out of favor, so that now all he could hope for was long sentences and no paroles. He hated to see men sent to the state penitentiary. He loved the federal prisons, for there was no parole from a federal prison.

Krugman sat there watching the wheels go around, almost, in his chief's eyes. He had learned to read the man, and finally he was rewarded as Scarlotti said, “I'm going to make a big noise, Otto. So big that it'll make every newspaper in the country.”

Interested, the sergeant leaned forward. “We going to move in on that Colombian that's set up here? We know he controls the flow of drugs pretty much. If we could nail him.”

“We'll get him, but he's not ready yet. We have to have him standing over the body with a smoking gun. No. What I have in mind is something a lot simpler.”

A knock came at the door, and Scarlotti lifted his voice. “Get away from that door!” Then without breaking the pattern of his speech, he allowed the corners of his lips to turn up in a smile. This, in another man, would have been the equivalent of a huge burst of laughter, but Otto had scarcely seen Lieutenant Mario Scarlotti laugh. He wondered what was in the man's mind, but whatever it was he knew that it would probably work. Scarlotti did not sponsor failures in the department, and Krugman knew this was something that the lieutenant had worked out completely.

“We're going to bust Bobby Stuart.”

The statement came as a mild shock to Otto Krugman. He digested the essence of it, then shook his head. “From what I hear, it shouldn't be too hard to set him up.”

“We don't have to set him up. I've already had an inside man looking at the thing. He's doping all the time now. If we can nail him, that'll pass a message along to the young people of this country.”

Krugman wanted to argue. He wanted to say, “How many rock stars have already been busted, and how many kids have quit doping because of it?” He had long ago learned that once Scarlotti had his mind made up, it would take an act of Congress to stop him. So he simply said, “How are we going to work it?”

Leaning forward slightly and picking up the gold Cross pen, Scarlotti stroked it with his forefinger and thumb. It seemed to give him a sensual pleasure, and his eyes were almost dreamy as he said, “It'll be in every tabloid and newspaper in the country.” Then he blinked and began to speak rapidly. “Here's what we'll do, Otto….”

The party was at Ossie Peabody's house, and it had been limited to no more than twenty people, but each one of these twenty seemed to have brought a friend so that the house was packed with partyers. Ossie moved among his guests wearing a pair of chinos and a lavender T-shirt with the sleeves cut completely out. He was sleek and smooth and, as most of the others, his eyes were glazed. He murmured greetings to several guests and stopped once to put his arm around a young woman and whisper something in her ear. She looked up at him, gave him a blinding smile, and nodded with promise in her eyes. Moving on, Peabody stopped at the bar, and a young Filipino dressed in a white uniform served him a glass of brandy. He tossed it back and sat on the stool surveying the room, which was filled with smoke.

“Good party, man.” Bobby Stuart had come up to stand beside the drummer, and the two spoke for a time about various guests. Finally Peabody looked over at Stuart, and something troubled him. “You look washed out, babe,” he said, shaking his head. He leaned forward and examined Bobby's eyes carefully. He noted the pale lips and then the trembling of the hands. “I think you maybe had enough,” he said under his breath. “You don't look too good.”

“Must have gotten some bad dope,” Bobby said. He knew that he had drunk too much, and when one of the guests had offered him some pills that promised the biggest kick he had ever had, he had taken them. It had provided a sharp uplift, but then the effect passed over, and now he felt nauseated. “I think I'm going to be sick,” he muttered.

“Come on, babe.” Ossie Peabody was the self-appointed caretaker of Bobby Stuart. He had been with him longer than anyone else, and only he was aware of the deep depression that seized Bobby periodically. It was Ossie who nursed him through some screaming fits that came after bad drugs, and now he took Bobby Stuart's arm and piloted him through the crowd. He had almost reached the door of his bedroom when suddenly he was aware of shouting and screaming. Wheeling quickly, his eyes narrowing, he saw men piling in through the door and muttered, “Uh-oh! It's a bust, Bobby! Somebody here must be a snitch. Quick, empty your pockets of those pills.”

It was too late. Stuart was growing sicker by the moment. The room was swimming, and the pills he was holding dropped to the floor. He was aware of a tall, bulky man with a pair of dark foreboding eyes who had come to stand before him. “You're under arrest, Mr. Stuart, for possession of a controlled substance.”

“Hey, man. It's just a party—” Ossie began. But one glance from those eyes, which were almost reptilian, shut him off. He recognized Mario Scarlotti, and said under his breath, “We're in it now, Bobby. This is one tough cop!”

Bobby reached for his wallet. He was ready to throw up, and his head was spinning. Taking out a roll of bills, he shoved it toward the policeman and said, “Here, Lieutenant. Go buy yourself a Cadillac.”

Ossie whispered frantically, “Shut up, man!” He jerked the arm back, but it was too late. Scarlotti took the money, then turned to face Ossie. “It'll be nice to have you witness against your friend. The charge now is bribing a policeman. Come along.”

“I gotta—call my lawyer.”

“Oh, I'm sure you'll have plenty of law there downtown. You can make your call, and you can have a bank of lawyers.” Scarlotti's eyes narrowed. “But you're going down on this one, Stuart.”

As Bobby was escorted outside, each of his arms in an iron grip of burly policemen, he threw a desperate glance at Ossie Peabody, but for once the self-assurance was gone. Ossie dropped his eyes and shook his head, and Bobby Stuart knew that he was in bad trouble.

The courtroom of Judge Bess Fryerson was perhaps the most controlled space in the city of Los Angeles. Judge Fryerson was a small woman of fifty with iron gray hair and direct blue-gray eyes, which she put on Bobby Stuart now as he came to stand before her. She was a wife, a mother, a grandmother, and had been elected mother of the year two years earlier. Those outside of the courtroom knew her for her charm, for her generosity, and for her willingness to help in any cause that was worthy. She was widely admired by almost everyone—except those unfortunate men and women who came to stand before her as Bobby Stuart now did.

“She's not a hanging judge,” one of the lawyers had told his client. “That's too slow. She's a guillotine judge, and heads have rolled out of her courtroom by the bushel baskets.”