The Black Marble (27 page)

“Yeah and
keep
that in mind,” Bullets said, picking up a nightstick.

“Who
are
these people?” Clarence demanded.

“I dunno. Claim they're actors. Look like a couple a interior
dick-orators
to me.”

“I'll have his badge, I'll have his badge!” the young man sputtered.

“Everybody quiet down!” said Clarence Cromwell, finally recognizing the famous actor. “You too, Bullets!”

But it was too late. Bullets was having a good old time doing what he did best: causing a riot.

“Hey, Clarence, I just thought a somethin,” Bullets giggled. Then he pointed to the movie star and said, “We oughtta book that man for burglary. Look at the age of his playmate. That's illegal entry!”

Captain Hooker came back in the station just in time to see the two actors raging at the reception desk, while Clarence Cromwell did his best to quiet everybody down. He'd had a long day and got the hell out because he recognized the famous actor immediately and started to get a headache thinking of the trouble this would cause him. Oh, God, is
he
the one nominated for an Academy Award?

When Natalie Zimmerman came back and hurried to Hipless Hooker's office, she saw no one but Bullets Bambarella waiting sulkily for Clarence Cromwell. When Clarence finally came storming into the captain's office pointing a finger at Bullets Bambarella, Natalie knew that another day had passed.

She could hear Bullets through the open door saying, “But Clarence, you just can't please some people! Those two fruitcakes came in here and started pickin on me!”

“SHUT UP, BULLETS!” Clarence yelled as everyone signed out quietly and went home, including Natalie Zimmerman, who left talking to her Friz.

And Sergeant A.M. Valnikov had his police career extended for yet another day.

The phone call was late. It came at 6:45 p.m. Madeline Whitfield had drunk seven cups of coffee and had not had a Scotch since early afternoon. She was stunned at her reserve of strength. She was cold sober.

“This is Richard,” the voice said. Philo Skinner still spoke through a paper towel. Now he was talking from a telephone booth in a service station some three blocks from Skinner Kennels.

“Yes. Yes! How's Vickie?”

“Vickie's fine. When do I get the money?”

“Please, you've got to listen to me, sir.”

“When do I get the money?”

“Sir. I've been thinking all afternoon of ways to make you understand. I've got to be blunt and honest. Lots of people like me live in these Pasadena mansions with barely enough to …”

“When do I get the money, you lousy cunt!” Philo screamed into the mouthpiece. Then he got hold of himself, and looked around as though he could be heard by the passing cars in the early hours of night.

Madeline was determined to be reasonable and calm no matter how the man terrified her. “Sir, if you could come here and talk to me face to face, I could explain to you. I could show you my financial records. You'd understand how it is. Eight-five thousand dollars! Why it's …”

“You rotten stingy cunt!” Philo Skinner was beside himself now. She could hardly understand him. “You want this bitch in one piece? You want this bitch alive? You … you … don't try to pull that shit on me, you rotten cunt!”

Madeline started to break, but only for a few seconds. The reserve of strength, where did it come from? A word from Edna Lofton at the Valley Hunt Club could set her off on a binge for three days, and yet, this very minute, with Vickie's life in the balance, she could deal with this madman, with this criminal. Madeline Whitfield had some
presence
. Madeline Whitfield was starting to have a little regard for herself.

“Please, listen to me,” Madeline said. “Sir, I … I'm sure I can get some money for you. I'm sure I can borrow ten thousand dollars. Believe me when I tell you that I have just a little over five thousand of my own that I can get my hands on quickly. I can borrow ten. You'll have just over fifteen thousand dollars. I can get it for you by tomorrow. I can have it for you by the time the banks close tomorrow. I can …”

“Okay, now you listen to
me
.” Philo had dropped the paper towel and was croaking into the mouthpiece. “I'm giving you until three o'clock tomorrow. When the banks close I'm calling you. You're going to tell me where I can pick up the eighty-five thousand …”

“Sir! Please believe me …”

“Shut up!” Philo screamed. “Shut your fucking mouth!”

When it was quiet Philo broke into a coughing spasm. Madeline heard the extortionist spit a wad of phlegm. Then he came back on the phone wheezing, and said, “If you don't have some good news for me, I'm cutting off one toe of your precious bitch and I'm sending it to you.” Philo had seen that in a movie. “One toe at a time.”

“Oh, please!” Madeline almost broke. Almost. She sat for a moment and took hold and said reasonably, “I'll do what I can, sir. I'll liquidate everything I can as quickly as possible. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“If you even
think
about calling the cops …”

“I won't call them, sir. I give you my word. Don't hurt my Vickie. Please.”

Philo was a nervous wreck when he got back to the kennel. He was late with the feeding. When he opened the door leading from the grooming room to the long rows of dog pens the animals went crazy.

Jesus. Only twenty-five animals. It wasn't his fault he had to resort to crime. He hadn't so much as cheated on his income tax before now. Well, maybe a little, but he was no criminal. What could a man do? With economic conditions like they were, what could a man do? It wasn't his fault.

Then Philo Skinner prepared the meal for the animals in his care. The bastards ate better than he did these days. That cunt. Lives in a fucking mansion over the Rose Bowl. The servants' quarters probably bigger than the house Philo lived in with all his brothers and sisters when he was a kid. I don't have the money, sir. The cunt! People like her made Philo Skinner what he was. Philo Skinner was a decent human being. Never hurt an animal in his life.

Then he remembered. That stingy miserable cunt got him so upset he forgot to give her instructions about Tutu. He wondered if there was some way he could get Tutu for himself. No, that was stupid. He couldn't risk that. A money drop was one thing. But a schnauzer drop? Tutu would have to go back with that horny cheap old cunt, Millie Muldoon Gharoujian. Too bad, Tutu. He would love to run on the beach in Puerto Vallarta, a rejuvenated man, Tutu by his side.

When Philo Skinner slept that night he had a dream. In the dream he was tiptoeing across a flower-covered rainbow bridge under a subtropical moon. In the dream Philo Skinner looked
just
like Richard Burton.

10

The
Fiddler

Hipless Hooker came to work very late on Tuesday morning. He just knew there'd be another personnel complaint on his desk. He'd checked with his wife, who hated boats but
loved
movies, and discovered that the famous movie star he saw screaming at Bullets Bambarella last night had not been nominated for an Academy Award as he'd feared. At least that was
some
consolation. Maybe an actor who wasn't up for an Oscar couldn't cause him as much trouble as one who was. Hipless Hooker tried a glass of milk and it didn't help. He was sure the famous actor would be waiting for him with his attorney and that's why he came to work late.

When Hipless Hooker came in the door he headed straight for his office, tucking his chin under his lapel, hoping that no one would notice him. Natalie Zimmerman leaped up and ran across the squad room but Clarence Cromwell beat her to it. He went into Captain Hooker's office and slammed the door in her face.

“Did the movie star call the press last night, Clarence?” Hooker asked, grimacing at the cup of coffee Clarence had for him.

“No coffee today, Skipper?”

“I've got terrible indigestion,” Hooker groaned.

“I took care a both actors,” Clarence grinned. “Took them inside, bought them coffee, told them I was personally gonna kick Bullets' ass all over the station. And get this, when they left they was so happy they gave me two tickets to a preview movie at the Director's Guild!”

“You're amazing, Clarence!” Captain Hooker cried.

“Captain? Got a few minutes?” Natalie said, peeking in the door, her Friz hanging down over her big glasses.

“What's the problem, Natalie?” Clarence said gruffly.

“Captain, we've just got to talk about Valnikov!”

Then Natalie stood helplessly as both Clarence Cromwell and Hipless Hooker began moaning in unison. “Oooooohhhhh.”

“Captain …” But she couldn't get a word in edgewise. So Natalie Zimmerman just stood there and sneered at her Friz until the men stopped groaning. When they were finished, Clarence Cromwell said, “Natalie, you said you was gonna work with the guy awhile and give it a fair try.”

“Clarence, I gave it a fair …”

Then Hipless Hooker started groaning again. But this time it wasn't just
emotional
pain. He felt flame in his stomach that went right up his throat.

“Do you call a few days a fair chance, gud-damn it!” Clarence demanded.

“Oooooooooohhhhhhhh!” groaned Hipless Hooker.

They both stopped talking and looked at him.

“You okay, Skipper?” asked Clarence.

“My stomach!” Hipless Hooker cried. “Ooooooooohhhhhh!”

Take it easy, Cap. Take it easy!” Clarence said. “Natalie, get me the spare keys. I'll run the boss over to the receiving hospital. What's it feel like, Cap? An ulcer?”

“I don't knoooooooowwww!” cried Hipless Hooker. “It huuuuuuuurts!”

It started to hurt even worse when it turned out that Bullets Bambarella was the one who helped Captain Hooker out the door, and half carried him to the car where Clarence Cromwell waited. “Please, Bullets,” Hipless Hooker cried. “Don't get in any trouble while I'm gone!”

“Course not!” Bullets said. The very idea!

“I'm depending on you, son,” said Hipless Hooker. “No trouble now. I'm depending on you.”

“You can depend on me, Captain!” Bullets Bambarella promised. He was touched.

“Ooooooooohhhhhhhhh!” Hipless Hooker said, when Bullets lifted him into Clarence Cromwell's car and they sped away to the hospital.

Natalie Zimmerman, like Philo Skinner, did not believe in the apathetic Gods. She believed that fate was conspiring against her in the Valnikov matter. Fate was protecting Sergeant A.M. Valnikov. It was getting spooky.

“Well, Natalie,” he smiled, when she joined him at the burglary table. “We have a very light workload today.”

She looked at him. His eyes were watery, as usual. He exuded a faint odor of booze, as usual. He wore another suit today, the cleaning tags still stapled to his inside pocket, as usual. The suitcoat hung open and the stapled repairs were visible, as usual. He was wearing a polka dot blue and white necktie, and his white shirt was more or less ironed. Frayed like the others, but ironed. So he was looking his best today for whatever reason.

The reason was Natalie Zimmerman. Valnikov had watched every move she made as she ran across the noisy crowded squad room. He watched as she smoked and paced in front of Captain Hooker's office until she was admitted. He watched her walking slowly back to the burglary table, her eyes rolled up in that odd way of hers. Valnikov thought she was pretty even with her dopey hairdo and her big dumb glasses.

Valnikov had deliberately cut his vodka consumption last night and he'd slept better as a result. He wasn't even positive that he'd dreamed about the rabbit, but he guessed he had. The sheets were sweat-soaked. Nevertheless, he felt pretty good today. He sipped his tea and smiled at her.

“I've gotta have another cup of coffee to get my clock started,” Natalie sighed when she dropped herself into the chair beside him.