The Black Marble (29 page)

“Can you tell me about the schnauzer, Sergeant?” Madeline Whitfield said quickly. “I know it's a bitch. Does your report describe her?”

“Well, not really, ma'am. Actually, I don't even know what a schnauzer looks like, to be honest.”

“Does the report say that she's show quality? A champion perhaps?”

“Yes,” Valnikov said. “The report does say she's valuable and has been in various dog shows.”

Then the line was dead for a moment as Madeline tried to feign nonchalance. “Yes, show quality. That certainly sounds like the poor little schnauzer I found. Tell me, Sergeant, who is …
was
the owner?”

“Let's see, the report's in the car, ma'am. A woman in Trousdale Estates. That's in Beverly Hills.”

“Could you give me her name and number, Sergeant?” Madeline said. “I'd like to ask her a few questions.”

“I'd better have her phone you,” said Valnikov. “We're not supposed to give out a victim's phone number. You understand. Did the dog have a collar?”

“No,” said Madeline. “But perhaps the owner could describe the schnauzer. I happen to know a lot about this breed. I have a miniature schnauzer of my own.”

“Okay, ma'am, I'll have the owner call you this afternoon. I'll be back in the station about four p.m. and …”

“No!” Madeline cried, and then she said calmly, “No, Sergeant. Please. Could you have her call me right away? This is urgent. I … I'm a dog owner myself and I know what this means. Please.”

“I'll call her right away,” said Valnikov.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Madeline Whitfield.

“You're welcome.”

Valnikov was almost out of change. He managed to scrape up enough for the second call. The phone rang seven times. He was about to hang up, when a young man answered. “Yeah?”

“This is Sergeant Valnikov, Los Angeles Police Department.”

“Yeah?”

“I'm investigating a theft of a dog. Is this the residence of Millie M. Gharoujian?”

“Just a minute.” The line was quiet, then a muffled voice said, “Millie, it's for you. Some cop about Tutu.”

“Hello,” a husky voice breathed.

“Ma'am, this is Sergeant Valnikov, Los Ang—”

“Yeah, okay,” said Millie. “You find Tutu?”

“Well, a lady in Pasadena thinks she might have your dog, ma'am. I'm sorry to say she found a champion class schnauzer that fits the description. But the poor dog died and …”

“Yeah, is it my Tutu?”

“I don't know, ma'am. She left her name and number if you'd care to call her.”

“Look, pal. What's your name?”

“Valnikov, ma'am.”

“Yeah. Listen, pal. I'm seventy-six years old.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Valnikov.

“Well, you just interrupted the best … Look, I happen to be having a grand time and you have to interrupt it. Is
this
what I pay taxes for?”

“No, ma'am,” said Valnikov.

“Okay, now look. My dog was snatched or ran off or whatever, last week. She's a three-year-old schnauzer that cost me upwards a twenty grand before I say, Millie, why you blowing all this dough on a goddamn dog? Get it?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“So look, I already made an insurance claim. If the dog's dead what the hell can I do about it, Sergeant?”

“I don't know, ma'am,” said Valnikov. “Could you describe your dog? This lady seems terribly concerned and …”

“Jesus Christ!” Millie Muldoon Gharoujian cried. “I got two kids here that look like they were carved by Michelangelo and I'm supposed to worry about a
dog!
”

“She had no identification, I take it,” said Valnikov.

“She had one white toenail on her left rear foot,” Millie said gruffly. “My ex-dog handler, a jerk named Philo Skinner, used to paint that toenail black before the dog shows. Now please, Sergeant, I appreciate your dedication, but can I get back to
my
business with these boys? Don't you have any respect for senior citizens?”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Valnikov. “Yes, ma'am.”

“It took long enough,” said Natalie Zimmerman when Valnikov returned to the detective car.

“Do you mind if we go back to the station? I have to call this lady from Pasadena again and I'm out of pocket change.”

While Valnikov made his call at Hollywood Station, Natalie Zimmerman used the time to phone the hospital. She was told that Captain Hooker had just suffered an attack of stomach gas. He was with Sergeant Cromwell and was presumably resting easily. Natalie Zimmerman put in a call to the area commander, who was out to lunch. Then she returned to the burglary table where Valnikov was talking to Madeline Whitfield.

“That's right,” Valnikov said into the phone. “The schnauzer had one white toenail on her left rear foot. What color are they normally? Black? Yes. Did you notice if the dog had one white toenail? You didn't notice. That's too bad. Where's the dead dog now? A what? A pet mortuary? Yes, I know where that is. Do they cremate them or bury them or what? They
embalm
them? Animals? Really? Well, the lady who reported the stolen schnauzer doesn't seem to care very much whether it's her dog or not. That's right. She really doesn't want to bother talking to you. I don't understand either. Yes, I'm a pet owner. I have a parakeet and a gerbil. A gerbil. No, it's a
gerbil
. Indigenous to southern Russia. For now I don't know what else I can do. Yes, that's all right, ma'am. Yes. Good-bye.”

After he hung up, he looked at a totally frustrated Natalie Zimmerman.

“Would you like to go to lunch now?” he asked. “I have a surprise for you. A very unusual place to eat.”

“What the hell!” she said to her Friz. “Let's go, Valnikov. I'll probably get botulism. Why do I
always
have to pick the black marble?”

He was driving the detective car along Pico Boulevard in a neighborhood she didn't know very well. He'd gone to Vermont and was now heading back west. The Cuban storefronts lined the street. There was Rosario's Boutique. Not like the boutiques in Beverly Hills. Rosario's was a storefront ten feet wide. The most expensive item cost $13.95 and Rosario's did not take credit cards. They passed a liquor store which carried a big window placard advertising
Silox Super-X, Cockroach Control Overnight. Guaranteed!
There was a storefront advertising
Consulto Espiritual
, in case you cared to know the mysteries of the past and future. The present was of not much interest to the spiritualist.

Then thriftshops and wooden buildings which should have been demolished. Vacant lots. Then another Cuban spiritualist who, incredibly enough, offered in addition to herbs and medicines—religion. The sign simply advertised:
Marta's religion
. Natalie Zimmerman thought that was honest enough.

Then past a huge primitive mural on the side of a building depicting dark Latin faces under Mexican sombreros, with eyes like Russian ikons, and letters emblazoned:
TIERRA Y LIBERTAD
! Leaving Valnikov uncertain as to whether the
tierra y libertad
was the dream of the Cubans of the neighborhood, or the Mexicans depicted thereon. No matter. All Latinos dreamed of
tierra y libertad
regardless of their homeland, and, like the Russians, had seen precious little of it in the course of history.

And then, between Mariposa and Normandie, the import stores which advertised Greek, Arab, Armenian, Persian, Turkish, Italian, Soviet imports. These stores were located strategically near St. Sophia's, the huge-domed cathedral for the Greek Orthodox of Los Angeles. Amidst the food stores there was an international record store which offered tapes and records to the ethnic shoppers.

When Valnikov pulled to the curb and parked, she heard and smelled the exotic.

“I buy my music there,” Valnikov said, pointing to the record store from which balalaikas throbbed. Valnikov was beaming. They usually played bazouki because Greek customers far outnumbered Russian.

“Is this a restaurant?” Natalie asked, as Valnikov led her into the smallest of the stores. There were powerful odors of black and green olives, goat cheeses from five countries, oils and wines, pastries and breads, meats and spices from the nations of the Mediterranean. And in this particular store, some foods, some wines, some vodka from the north.

“Andrei Mikhailovich!” a man behind the counter thundered. He wore a meat-stained apron, and a tunic which marked him as a Molo-kan to those who knew.

“Iosif!” Valnikov grinned, and then a big man came out from the back room. He was wearing a blue sweater and spoke unaccented English. He was close to 280 pounds and stood well over six feet tall. His hair was nearly white but he had the same broad Slavic forehead as Valnikov, and the same kind of ingenuous grin which Natalie decided was more childlike than dumb.

He said, “Where you been for three weeks, you little jerk?” And he grabbed Valnikov, puckered, and kissed him smack on the mouth. They embraced and bobbed around for a few seconds. Dancing bears.

Then he gave Valnikov a crack on the shoulder and reached out with a sweep of an enormous arm, half crushing the astonished Natalie Zimmerman, and kissed
her
smack on the mouth. “Hello, good-looking,” he said. “You smell like a cop to me. And that's a sexy smell!”

“You old devil,” Valnikov chuckled.

The big man released Natalie Zimmerman and said, “Now that we're acquainted, how about some borscht?”

“This is my brother, Alex,” Valnikov said to Natalie, who was trying to keep her gun from falling out of her purse, her huge glasses from falling off her nose, and her bra from slipping up over her nipple, so quick and violent was the assault of the elder Valnikov. The Molokan butcher was shaking up and down in laughter as he cleavered through a lamb bone like it was salami.

“My partner, Natalie Zimmerman,” said Valnikov.

“Ah-hah!” said the elder Valnikov. “I knew she was a cop, but she's not carrying a gun on her person, I can tell you that!”

Which propelled the Molokan butcher into a fit of bouncing laughter.

“We can't stay, Alex,” Valnikov said. “We haven't called on a single burglary victim today and …”

“Bull! You pop in here once a month and hardly ever come see your nephews and nieces and you can't stay! Bull!”

“How about some tea, Alex?” Valnikov said sheepishly, as though the big man were his father, and indeed he could have been, thought Natalie Zimmerman. He was much older than Valnikov.

“Yeah, some tea
with
some lunch
here!
” Alex Valnikov said.

“Honest, we gotta go,” said Valnikov. “How about something to take out? We can only stay a few minutes.”

“You know, you're a real pain in the ass, kid,” said Alex Valnikov, shaking his head and opening the meat case while Natalie managed to slip the bra back down over the bruised nipple while the Molokan pretended not to notice. “You're a real pain, boy. You must give me an hour of your time. In a whole year!”

“Well, I always mean to stop by,” Valnikov apologized. “But you know how busy cops are …”

“Sure. Save that for the dummies don't know any better. I know better.” Then he turned to Natalie and his eyes, as blue as Valnikov's, creased, and he said, “Now you met Valnikov the bashful. That's me.”

“I'm … overwhelmed,” said Natalie while the Molokan whacked through another lamb shank.

“You didn't even come Thursday night,” Alex Valnikov said. “We were all expecting you to at least show up for church.”

“I went to church, Alex,” Valnikov said, actually dropping his gaze before the chastisement. “I went to the cathedral, that's why you didn't see me. I wouldn't miss on Christmas.”

“You'll have lunch with me then?”

“We'll have tea, Alex,” Valnikov said. “And if you can, maybe some lunch to take with us.”

“If I
can
,” the elder Valnikov glowered. “Listen to him. If I
can
.”

Valnikov was saved further scolding when an ancient crone with wrapped spindle legs came hobbling into the store. She looked first at the Molokan butcher then back toward Alex Valnikov. Then she recognized the detective.

“Sergeant Valnikov!” she cried.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rosenfeldt,” Valnikov said, running his fingers through his fluffy cinnamon hair.

“I've been wondering when you'd be back to your brother's store. We was talking about you just recently, ain't that true, Alex?”

“Every day, Mrs. Rosenfeldt,” the elder Valnikov nodded.

“I was saying how we need a good cop in this neighborhood, like Alex's little brother. Wasn't I saying that, Alex?”

“You were, Mrs. Rosenfeldt,” Alex said. “Every day.”

“Come over here, Sergeant, let me tell you what's the latest mischief they're up to. Come over here.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rosenfeldt,” Valnikov said obediently, crossing by the meat counter while the Molokan swung the cleaver.

“Sergeant Valnikov,” she whispered, pulling him down toward her face. She was toothless and smelled of fish. “It's Myer.”

“Your husband,” Valnikov whispered.

“Yes, they're at it again. I went to visit him in the rest home over in Boyle Heights. You know where that is?”

“I sure do, Mrs. Rosenfeldt,” Valnikov nodded patiently, blinking his watery eyes.

“He's been taking up with a hussy there. Name's Ida Schwartz. You won't believe the sex goes on there. It's a disgrace. Of course, Myer's only a man. Him I don't blame. But Ida Schwartz? She should be in San Quentin, that woman.”

“Yes, of course,” Valnikov agreed. “How old is Mrs. Schwartz now? Eighty?”

“She's eighty-three, the stinking harlot!” Mrs. Rosenfeldt cried. “I don't blame Myer. A man is all he is. And there's just so much temptation a man can take.”