Do No Harm (3 page)

THE black-and-white idled up to the front of Tavin's Tavern, a shady bar off Pico in the West Side. Hugh Dalton, a gruff heavyset man with wrinkled, sallow skin that resembled a paper bag, hunched over the wheel, squeezing it with two thick hands. He stared at the cheap signage--backlit plastic letters mounted on the cracked stucco next to the door. The second T was flickering.

"Witty name," he grumbled.

"You call your guy at the Times?" Jenkins asked.

"Not yet." Dalton's eyes shifted along the dash. "UCLA's been pushing to keep this under wraps."

Jenkins glowered at him. "We both know that if we don't get a media storm going, this case'll get triaged in an evidence locker along with every other garden-variety assault."

"I doubt it. It's throwing heat on its own. Press is already running." He held up his hands in calming fashion. "Relax. I'll call the Times anyways. Stoke the fire."

Jenkins snapped the casing off his hefty Saber radio. Hair and clots of dried blood clogged the mouthpiece beneath. He rolled down his window and blew into the unit, clearing it, then clipped it back onto his belt. He pushed open the passenger door and started to step out of the vehicle, but Dalton grabbed his arm.

"You sure you want to do this?" Dalton asked.

Jenkins leaned back into his seat. Dalton kept his bulldog head steady, studying Jenkins's face. He was more than ten years Jenkins's senior; his experience and three years of partnership made him one of the few people who could question Jenkins directly.

"Her eyes were opaque," Jenkins said. "Looked like soggy hard-boiled eggs." He shook his head. "Opaque."

He got out of the car and, after a moment, Dalton followed suit, grunting as he shifted his weight. "If it's his regular hangout," Dalton said, "we'd better keep an eye out for buddies steeled with liquid courage."

Jenkins hit the thick wooden door with both palms. The bartender's hand made a nervous grab for under the counter before he saw the uniforms. Dalton wagged a finger at him as Jenkins surveyed the room, and the bartender showed off a grin resembling a piano keyboard.

Two older men nursed something on the rocks at the bar. The tables in back hosted a blue-collar crew, mostly construction guys and carpenters drinking the aches from their joints. A smattering of Bud Ices decorated the tables. Saloon-style doors guarded the bathrooms and the back door.

Nancy's ex-husband was not there.

"Help you boys with something?" the bartender asked.

Dalton turned him a wan grin that bunched the bags under his eyes. "We'll let you know."

Back stiff, Jenkins crossed to the first full table. "I'm looking for Jesse Ross."

A blond construction guy looked up, his bottle frozen midtoast. Bits of pink insulation clung to his mustache. "What's going on?"

Jenkins calmly reached over and plucked the bottle from his hand. He set it down firmly in front of the guy, a single knock on the table, then leaned forward until their noses almost touched. Dalton scanned the bar quickly, then took a step to the side so his view of the other workers was clear.

"I'll tell you what," Jenkins said, still inches from the man's face. "I'll ask the questions, you supply the answers." He stood back up, crossed his arms, and flashed a quick bullshit grin. "How's that sound?"

"Shit, man," one of the other workers mumbled. "Terry didn't mean no harm."

"Terry can answer my fucking questions," Jenkins said.

The saloon doors creaked open, and Jesse stepped forth, a short stump of a man whose small head was accented by wide, spoonlike ears.

"Watch out," Dalton said in a bored monotone. "I think he's holding a gun."

Jesse cocked his head slightly to one side, confusion melting into panic. His hands sank nervously into his pockets when Jenkins's head snapped around.

Jenkins crossed the bar toward Jesse at a near sprint, his body blocking the construction workers' view of him.

"Don't reach for the weapon!" Jenkins shouted. "I told you not to--"

He hit Jesse with the bar of his forearm, knocking him off his feet and through the saloon doors, one of which swung back and clipped him in the forehead, breaking the skin. He swore loudly and kicked one door free from the hinges, exposing Jesse's quivering body. Jesse had rolled onto all fours, his head bouncing as he tried to breathe. Jenkins hammered a black Rocky combat boot down into his ribs, knocking him flat to his belly. "Don't reach for the piece!"

Two of the construction guys rose to their feet and Dalton pivoted, snapping his fingers. He shook his head, the sagging skin of his jowls swaying with the gesture. They sat back down.

Jenkins grabbed Jesse by the collar of his flannel shirt and his belt and hurled him out the back door, out of sight. Pausing, Jenkins faced his partner through the broken saloon door, an anachronistic player in a bad Western. Blood ran down his forehead, forking over his right eye. He slapped his hands together twice, slowly, as if dusting them off, then turned and stepped through the back door.

The bar was deathly silent.

Dalton scratched his cheek, his knuckles pushing his rubbery skin to the side, then he unholstered his pistol and trudged slowly back through the broken saloon door and out into the alley behind the building. Jenkins had already worked Jesse over pretty well. His fist, which was hammering up and down on Jesse's face, was tightly wrapped in a terry cloth. The terry cloth, freshly borrowed from a car wash, looked nice and hard, crusted with dried soap and wax.

Jesse's nose bent hard to the left, and his teeth were black with blood. His cheeks were swollen and abraded; the terry cloth would obscure any fist marks, making his injuries look the result of a fall during pursuit. He'd pulled himself to his knees, arms curled protectively over his head, cringing and crying.

Jenkins spat out words as he battered Jesse. "How could you do that to her face? Her pretty fucking face? How could you?" His blows were mostly missing now, glancing off Jesse's arms and the top of his head. His voice was high and unusually emotional. "Maybe she wouldn't have left you if you saw to her fucking needs, you little monkey!"

The blood from Jenkins's cut had smeared, rouging his cheek. He stopped punching and turned to Dalton. "Gimme your throw-down."

Dalton raised his pant leg and eyed the dinged-up .25 auto nestled in his ankle holster.

Jenkins bent over, fisting Jesse's hair and yanking back his head. "You know what happened?" he hissed. "You were packing. I came at you and you struck me. I retaliated with reasonable force."

Jesse shook his head. "No, I didn't. Jesus Christ, I wasn't. I'm not packing. I'm not. What are you doing?"

"And then you came out here, fell down during foot chase, we had a little standoff, and you gun-faced me."

"Get your confession," Dalton murmured to Jenkins. He tossed him the .25 and Jenkins crouched, holding the handle out to Jesse. A line of drool found its way down Jesse's throat, staining his white undershirt a dark red. His breath was coming in gasps. "I didn't . . . I didn't . . . What happened to Nance? What happened to her?"

He leaned forward, palms on the cracked asphalt, and bounced up and down like a Muslim praying. More blood leaked from his mouth.

Jenkins stood and unsnapped the button on his holster. "What happened to her? You threw lye in her face this morning, you motherfucker."

Jesse looked up, his broken face suddenly mournful. "Is she . . . will she be . . . ?"

Dalton turned to guard the back door, but Terry, the blond construction worker, had already stepped through, arms raised. Jenkins unholstered his gun, but Dalton stepped quickly between him and Terry.

"Yo," Dalton said. "Seems you walked into a bit of a situation here."

Terry's voice wavered slightly, but it drew some strength from an undercurrent of righteousness. "He couldn't have hurt Nance this morning," he said. He reached for his back pocket, and Jenkins shouldered Dalton aside, pistol aimed at Terry's head. Terry whipped his hands back up in the air, chest heaving beneath his denim jacket. Dalton reached around to Terry's back pocket and pulled out two Southwest Airlines ticket stubs.

"We just got back from Vegas a few hours ago," Terry continued. His head was drawn back from the direction of Jenkins's Beretta, as if the pistol were emitting heat. "We stayed at the Hard Rock. A ton of people saw us there." He lowered his arms slowly. Jenkins kept his gun raised, both hands on the stock.

Jesse was rocking on his knees. "What happened to Nance?" he wailed. "Is she alive?"

Dalton crouched over Jesse and took him by the wrist. A stamp was smeared across the back of his hand. Cheetah's. A Vegas strip club.

Dalton stood and walked back inside the bar, his shoulder brushing Terry's. After a moment, Jenkins lowered his pistol. He reached out a hand and rested it on Jesse's matted hair. Jesse continued to rock and wail. "Is Nance all right?" he sobbed. "Did someone kill Nance?"

"No," Jenkins said quietly. "She's still alive."

Jesse collapsed, crying with relief. Jenkins holstered his weapon, touched Jesse gently on the head again, and left him crying on the asphalt.

HUNCHED over the pocked wooden table so his broad shoulders arched into a hump, Clyde studied the plastic bottle of DrainEze with flat, unblinking eyes. A filthy window screen filtered the breeze into dusty gasps of air that swirled among the scattered papers on the floor before dying in the room's stench. Half-drunk cans of Yoo-Hoo dotted the countertop in the adjacent kitchen, amid pots filled with congealed macaroni and cheese, and pans caked with the burnt remains of refried beans.

Perched on his knees, his hands were oddly swollen, gathering thickness around his knuckles and hairy wrists. They raised to the tabletop and rested nervously at the edge, twitching. His pitted fingernails scraped along the wood. A twisted metal lamp cast a cone of light before him. He seized a syringe and turned it a half rotation before testing the needle with the tip of a finger. The bezel broke the puffy skin and he yelped, pulling the needle away. He closed his eyes reflexively, murmuring to himself. "Three, two, one. Stand back from the door. Back from the door." The mantra seemed to calm him. When he opened his eyes, the anxiety on his face had dissipated.

Working the meat of his injured fingertip between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand, Clyde produced a bead of blood, which he lapped up.

He wore faded blue hospital scrubs. Physician's scrubs. A beatup navy-blue corduroy baseball cap sat low across his wide crown, his balding scalp visible through the netting in the back. It bore no emblem. Both his cheeks were marred with acne scars, deep irregular indentations that held the shadows of the room. A high thin scar above his right ear notched his hair, which he kept short on the sides and back but long and stringy on top, perhaps to disguise his hair loss. Though he was not grossly obese, his extra weight hung on him loose and flaccid. A single key dangled from a thin ball-chain necklace, which disappeared into the folds of his neck.

His tongue darted from his mouth, tensed, the tip poking at his upper lip. Beneath the table, his feet seemed to move independently, pushing into each other, flopping and scratching like two dogs at play. His Adidas sneakers had yellowed with age and grown brittle along the soft middle soles.

He swallowed the orange tablet he'd been sucking on, then spooned another helping of instant coffee from the jar directly into his mouth. A grimace twisted his face momentarily, then faded. He chewed slowly, some of the grains gumming at the corners of his lips. His mouth pulsed a few times, then he swallowed hard, tilting back his head as though gulping down a vitamin.

A rat scurried unseen through the mound of unwashed clothes that curled around the base of his twin bed. The bedside lamp, a yellow porcelain number bearing a Motel 6 sticker, had been draped with a thin purple scarf. It provided meager, diffuse light.

His pupils twitched twice to the left. He grunted through his nose and turned back to the work at hand. Pushing the needle into the gray DrainEze bottle, he withdrew the plunger, filling the syringe with the vivid blue liquid. With a jerk of his thumb, he pushed the syringe down, sending a thin spurt of alkali across the tabletop. The liquid pooled in minuscule drops, eating slowly into the tabletop. His wide mouth split in a grin, the corners curving back toward his low-set ears.

Two other DrainEze bottles sat on the table, industrial-sized with juglike handles. Two glasses of cloudy water waited near his right hand, beside a small surgeon's tray that contained syringes, needles, and a scalpel. His right shin nudged an open metal footlocker holding a host of medical tools and devices.

Across the thigh of his scrub bottoms, a series of tiny holes in the fabric revealed glossy spots of scarred skin. Cautiously lowering the needle, Clyde positioned it just past the last hole in the scrubs. He sank the plunger slowly, allowing several drops of liquid to dribble from the needle. The liquid ate quickly through the thin scrubs, and he shrieked and jerked his leg as it began to attack his flesh.

Grabbing the glass of water, he poured it over the wound. The water darkened his scrubs in a flame pattern, with licks reaching down his calf. Holding his leg still with his other hand, he poured the second glass of water over his thigh. Then he placed both hands flat on the table and sat perfectly still, whimpering softly as the last drops of alkali continued to burn in his flesh. His face grew shiny with sweat.

After a while, Clyde stood and headed into the kitchen. He filled a glass with water from the tap and drank it, three times successively, before placing the glass back in the cluttered sink. Opening a can of wet cat food, he dumped the contents on top of the mound of cylinder-shaped servings already overflowing the small bowl. Twitching his fingers, he made a kissing noise, but no cat came.

The skull tattoo on the outside of his flabby biceps caught his attention, and he returned to the footlocker, produced a cotton ball, and doused it with rubbing alcohol. The skull lifted easily from his skin, blackening the moist side of the cotton. Continuing to rub at his biceps, he lumbered to the clothes mound at the base of his bed, unearthed a stained mirror, and propped it against a wall. With a raspy groan, he slid from his scrub bottoms, then stood and stared at his reflection. A series of alkali burns dotted his right thigh, like the marks of small, burrowing insects. Most of them were scarred over, gnarled knots of fire-red flesh. The freshest wound wept a clear, viscous fluid, which caked on the thick black hairs of his leg.

Cupping his limp penis in his hand, Clyde crossed to his bed and pulled the strewn sheets up into rough position. When he climbed in, his bulk took up most of the width of the bed, his shoulders pressing back into the child's headboard. He dug for a pack of cigarettes beneath the sheets and squeezed it until the top popped open. Only two cigarettes remained. Placing them in his mouth side by side, he lit them together and smoked them as one unit.

The blackness outside his window had lightened to a grayish cast. Smoking his cigarettes and plugging his leaking wound with a fat thumb, he waited for morning.