The Black Marble (34 page)

“I'm getting your bitch,” he said. “And I'm calling you back in five minutes. And I'm going to cut her toe off while you listen to her scream. You ready for that?”

Madeline nearly dropped the receiver. She almost collapsed. But she looked at Valnikov, who just shook his head slowly at her. The husky detective stood like a rock, his cinnamon hair rumpled, his tie askew. A slouching man who might have never stood straight in his life. But he had a broad earthy strong face. And he sustained her by just shaking his head slowly, telling her not to break. She didn't.

“That won't help you at all, Richard,” she said, her voice so controlled it surprised her. “If you hurt Vickie, she'll be worth nothing in a dog show. That's the only reason I bother, you know, to show her and win. Without a toe she's worth nothing. Injure her in any way and she's worth nothing.” She held on, held on, closed her eyes. When she opened them, Valnikov was nodding. He seemed proud of her.

Philo was beside himself. He started yelling so loud that the bartender came over, banged on the door, and said, “Hey fella, there's ladies in this joint! Watch your language.”

And Philo almost yelled something at the bartender, but he remembered what happened to him today in a phone booth when he popped off, so he bit his lip and kept quiet. When he came back on the line he said, “You have
thirty-five
thousand for me at this time tomorrow night.
Thirty-five
and that's my last offer. You understand? I'm calling you at six o'clock tomorrow night and you're going to tell me you have the dough or I'm going to hurt that bitch. I never hurt an animal in my life, lady, but I swear I'll hurt your bitch if you don't have the dough for me by tomorrow night.”

“All right, Richard, I'll have it,” she said. “Good-bye.” And she hung up the phone, walked back into the drawing room, threw herself on the couch and wept.

Valnikov sat quietly and watched her cry. He blinked patiently from time to time.

Finally, she said, “I … I've been try … trying to get a … a job. I've never … never
worked
. This house … this … I'll have to be out in a year. I have … have enough in a trust fund to last till then. But I can't
get
it. I'd give it all to him. But I can't
get
it! It took a court order to get … to get it for my mother's … her hospital expenses. Her funeral. I can't get …”

“Now now, Mrs. Whitfield,” he said, sighing deeply. His eyes were sad and red. “Now now.”

“How does one find a
job
, Sergeant? Can … can you tell me? Where … what can I … what …”

“Now now, Mrs. Whitfield,” Valnikov said softly.

Then he switched off the light and lumbered to the couch and sat down. He started patting her on the back. Now now, Mrs. Whitfield. Now now.

She didn't feel his hand at first, though it was a meaty hand. When she did, she sat up, but couldn't stop the tears.

Then Valnikov put his arm around her and it startled her. Still she couldn't stop weeping. Then Valnikov put both arms around her and she wept on his chest. He kept patting her back, rather solidly, as though he was trying to burp her. Then she relaxed and he began patting her softly. Then he was holding her, rocking her, patting her ever more gently and she was catching her breath.

Then she put both arms around Valnikov's neck and sat there crying in the darkness. Valnikov looked almost as sad as she. Now now, Mrs. Whitfield. Now now.

Then, instinctively, Valnikov began kissing Madeline Whitfield on the salty cheek. Now now. Now now. And she tightened her grip on his neck and let him.

Of course Valnikov could not have known that this woman had not felt a man's body in five years. He was only vaguely aware that he hadn't felt a woman's body since Thanksgiving weekend when he got drunk in a Chinatown bar and picked up a clerk typist from the police academy. Madeline turned her tear-drenched face to the detective and kissed his mouth. Valnikov responded. Then they were groping in the darkness on that damask sofa and she was saying, “Sergeant, Sergeant!” And he was replying, “Mrs. Whitfield, Mrs. Whitfield!”

“Sergeant! Oh, Sergeant!” she cried.

“Mrs. Whitfield,” he cried. “I'll find your doggie, I swear!”

“Sergeant!” she cried, and unhooked his gun belt.

When he left her an hour later, he was filled with pity for this woman. She was sleeping soundly in her bed for the first time in days. He paused in the door to look at her naked body. She was a fine woman. He wished she could find someone from her station in life. She needed someone to care about. Something useful to do.

Valnikov went home and before he slept he renewed his vow to find this lonely woman's dog. Then he went to sleep and dreamed of the rabbit.

11

The Dog Lover

Valnikov felt very strange when he awakened Wednesday morning. At first, he didn't know what it was. He got up, boiled water for the tea, fed and watered Misha and Grisha, cleaned their cage. He brought the morning paper in, sat down to read. Then he looked around the bachelor apartment. Nothing had changed. He still had the same clothesline strung from the animal cage to the nail he'd pounded into the top of the door frame. Several pair of underwear and socks still hung on the clothesline. There was still a pile of dirty dishes on the sink which he washed one plate at a time when he was hungry. There were still stacks of records and album covers strewn around the room. But something was different. Then it dawned on him. There was no empty bottle of Stolichnaya either on the kitchen table or on the walnut veneer coffee table. And that gave him the
big
clue as to what was totally different this morning: He had no hangover!

He had worked, and kept company with Madeline Whitfield until midnight. He had come home and gone to bed. He had not had a single glass of vodka. Remarkable! He got up, went into the bathroom, tossed two hand towels off the metal arm that dangled in front of the medicine cabinet. He examined his eyes. They were slightly red but
dry
. He looked well. He felt well. He celebrated by making himself two scrambled eggs and rye toast. He drank three cups of tea and had a glass of orange juice. Then he took a shower and ironed a clean shirt. He tied his tie carefully so the collar button didn't show. He put some tonic on his hair and combed it, careful to get a straight part.

He felt like a new man when he walked out that door. He couldn't wait to tell Natalie. They were going to catch a
criminal
.

When Valnikov got to the station, things were about to get tense. Bullets Bambarella had lost two weeks' pay in the last two days by making bets with Montezuma Montez. Aside from that, Bullets had had a lousy night with a cop groupie from downtown.

Bullets had Clarence Cromwell cornered at the burglary table when Valnikov got himself a cup of tea. Bullets was saying, “… so I take this broad home. You know her, Clarence?”

“Yeah, yeah, she works the D.A.'s office,” Clarence sighed. All these young kids got woman troubles and who do they bring them to? Clarence Cromwell, that's who. “Bullets, do I look like the fuckin Ann Landers of Hollywood Detectives, or somethin?”

“But, Clarence, listen! She's a sicko. Some kinda fruitcake or somethin. She plays with her own clit when I'm lovin her up. Can you believe it? Then … get this … she starts suckin on her own big tit! I says to this freako, I says, ‘Hey. Whadda you need
me
for?' She says, ‘Come to think of it, dummy, I
don't.'
”

“Yeah, this is very interestin, Bullets. I mean, there ain't nothin I'd rather do than talk about your sex life but …”

“Then I done it!”

Suddenly the scowling black detective stiffened and said, “You done
what
, Bullets?”

“Nothin much. I just got mad. I just threw her in the swimmin pool, is all.”

“Jesus! You had me scared for a minute. I can't be coverin for you anymore, Bullets!”

“I know, Clarence, and I just wanted you to know how it was.”

“I don't think she can bitch too much, you just threw her in a swimmin pool.”

“Thanks for bein so understandin, Clarence,” Bullets breathed.

“Nothing but whackos in Hollywood anyway,” said Montezuma Montez, overhearing Bullets' problems. “Over in East L.A. you pick up a Mexican chick, you buy a six-pack a beer and have a great old time in a drive-in movie. In Hollywood you pick up a broad you gotta spend thirty bucks on dinner. Then to satisfy her you gotta go down to Western Costume and rent a werewolf mask and spend the night whopping each other over the head with live kitty cats. I wanna transfer back to Hollenbeck,” said Montezuma Montez.

But Bullets was ready for trouble. “Yeah, that's just like a spic to say that,” Bullets sneered. “You get the wrong hole with those Mexican broads you end up with a blister on your joint, all the chili seeds they eat. I'll take a Hollywood girl any old time.”

“Oh, yeah?” Montezuma said. “Well lemme tell you about this
Hollywood
lady I picked up the other night. Said her folks were from Venice. Not Venice, California. Venice,
Italy
. Had her little two-year-old spumoni sucker
in the car
when I picked her up at the tennis court,” said Montezuma.

“That's a filthy lie,” said Bullets Bambarella, and Clarence Cromwell finally said, “Will you two please shut up!”

“It's
gotta
be a lie, Clarence,” Bullets argued. “You think a spic can play tennis?”

“Better than any dago I ever seen,” said Montezuma Montez.

Then Bullets turned to Montezuma and said, “I never played tennis in my life and I could probably beat you.”

“I could beat you left-handed,” said Montezuma Montez.

“Gotcha covered, dummy!” Bullets yelled in triumph and suddenly Montezuma Montez was looking down at forty borrowed dollars, thinking he may have gone too far.

Then money was flying all over the squad room and Lieutenant Mockett was whining to no avail about illegal gambling, and four cars full of detectives went speeding to Hollywood High School for a bizarre one-set tennis match in stocking feet, suits, and ties, between two clumsy buffaloes, one of whom was playing with the wrong hand.

Natalie Zimmerman, wearing a new side-pleated skirt and matching cardigan jacket, came to work five minutes late, and was almost knocked to the floor by the thundering herd charging out of the station to the tennis match.

She was relieved to see that Hipless Hooker was also late. She was not going to fail today. She was going to grab him by the goddamn throat if she had to, the minute he came in the door. And then she was going to walk him into the office and put a chair in front of the door to keep out Clarence Cromwell. Then they were going to talk about Valnikov.

The reason she was late was that she had only gotten three hours' sleep, what with Captain Jack Packerton jumping on her every two hours or so to prove he still had it even though he'd just turned forty. She felt like telling him it would be the last all-nighter until he accepted impending middle age. And all the time he didn't know that Natalie Zimmerman had much the same fear because she had failed at orgasm the last
five
times.

What the hell, Jack, let's just live together. I've been divorced twice now and … Live together? Natalie, I'm a captain! Have you read the latest memorandum from Chief Digby Bates about moral rearmament? Do you know what would happen if a captain was found living in sin? Christ, I'd rather risk another divorce than face the alternative! Do you know that I stand a very good chance of being a deputy chief someday? What're you trying to do to my career?
Live
together? Without benefit of clergy? I WANNA BE A DEPUTY CHIEF!

And all she wanted to be was an Investigator III who wasn't lonely and who could have an occasional orgasm. Yet she was an Investigator II, and hadn't had one lately, and was working with a closet madman, and there was no help on the horizon.

She was telling all this silendy to her Friz when Valnikov set a cup of coffee in front of her. He was looking all spruced up today for some reason. Just her luck. The day she vowed to expose him is the day he picks to get all gussied up and comb his hair. Well, it didn't matter whether he
looked
like a madman or not. He couldn't fool anybody if they just pushed the right buttons. Tell me about your dream, Valnikov. Is it Bugs Bunny? Peter Cottontail? Tell me about a rabbit that makes you cry. Jesus, he was smiling that big goofy kid smile.

“We have a real case to work on, Natalie,” he said. “Would you care for a little cream or sugar?”

“No.”

“I just finished telling Clarence about it.”

And hearing his name, Clarence Cromwell came over and sat on Valnikov's table. “Mockett wants to know if you're putting in overtime for last night.”

“No,” said Valnikov.

“Okay, that'll keep him happy. I'm gonna have Max Haffenkamp handle your cases for today and maybe tomorrow. I might go out and help him. But that's
it
. We can't be makin no major crime outta this extortion.”

“Extortion?” said Natalie.

“I'll tell you all about it,” Valnikov said. “It's a pretty big one. Eighty-five thousand dollars.”

“Yeah, but it's over a dog, Val. Keep that in mind. It's only a gud-damn pampered
dog
.”

“I appreciate your handling my regular workload, Clarence,” Valnikov said, and Natalie was shocked to see that even his blue eyes were clear this morning.

“One thing you gotta do first, Val,” said Clarence. “Mockett says you make sure that dead dog is the one from the Brown Derby. Go to the pet mortuary and see if they haven't disposed of it yet. Have that broad from Trousdale … what's her name?”

“Millie Gharoujian.”

“Yeah, you have her or somebody identify that dead dog. If it ain't from the Brown Derby, you turn the whole thing over to Southwest Detectives or Pasadena P.D. Them's orders from Mockett. First order he gave this month. We gotta humor him.”