The Black Marble (37 page)

But they didn't. Because Madeline Whitfield's tears had gotten the better of her and she was weeping on Valnikov's shoulder and Valnikov was patting her and saying, “Now now. I understand. You can be sure that I understand. Now now.”

At which time Natalie Zimmerman got up and stalked out the front door to pace in the driveway and smoke, and watch the sun set pink and gold on the defunct hotel over the arroyo, over the picturesque Suicide Bridge.

Natalie felt a twinge of shame and then a rush of remorse as the anger ran out of her. Jesus, she couldn't even manage a little bile at a time like this? She was letting a brace of loonies make
her
ashamed for not being like them? Ever since she had been teamed with Valnikov, nothing made any sense. Before Valnikov, she knew who she was and where she was going. In that short time she'd seen a man shot to pieces, seen a kid's head painted silver, dug up a dog that was buried next to a goddamn koala bear, or a yak, or whatever the hell. And everytime she tried to tell someone, another mental deficient, like Bullets Bambarella, would do something and they wouldn't listen to her.
Nobody
would listen to her. Now, Valnikov was talking about being a party to a money drop of twenty thousand dollars. For a
dog
. Explain
that
to the promotion board on your next oral exam, Natalie. Yes, sir, it just seemed like the thing to do at the time. Why did we willingly give the extortionist twenty thou? Because we didn't
have
eighty-five thou. If we had eighty-five thou like he demanded, we would have given him eighty-five thou. Because Valnikov and Mrs. Whitfield
understood
each other, that's why.

Natalie scraped her shoes and coughed and made some discreet noises before she went back inside. Just in case the two psychos were relieving each other's tensions on the floor. Like schnauzers. Like they probably did last night. I understand you, Mrs. Whitfield. Sure.

When she came back in the sitting room he had his suitcoat off and his tie loosened. Pretty chummy. Pretty goddamn chummy. Impulsively, she stepped back in the foyer and eavesdropped.

Valnikov was saying, “I've thought about it a lot and I truly believe a person can come out of something like this a stronger person.”

“If I just get her back, Sergeant. If I just …”

“You will, I promise you,” he said, taking her hand. “And about the other thing. Losing this house. Working. Listen, do you realize that in one year you could pick up enough college credits to get your state teaching credential?”

“Teaching credential?”

“Sure. With your fine education and sensitivity and intelligence, why you'd make a wonderful schoolteacher, Mrs. Whitfield. Just wonderful.”

“It's true I've always enjoyed the children at the Huntington Library,” she mused.

“That's the answer. Teaching,” Valnikov said, her hand in both of his.

“Teaching. It
is
a possibility,” she said eagerly. “Yes, it
is!
But … I wonder. Could I stay in this area? Would I be … embarrassed, moving, say, to a small apartment?”

“I think you should stay, Mrs. Whitfield,” he said quietly. “From what you've told me, Old Pasadena isn't a place. It's a way of life.
Your
way of life. Maybe being a Russian I can identify in some ways. There's tradition here. Manners. Gentility. Order. Where else in Southern California are you going to find all that in these times? Old Pasadena is a
good
way of life for someone like you. My mother would have liked it. I think I'd like it too.”

“If I'm interrupting anything I can go back outside,” Natalie said to her Friz, causing them both to jump apart. Pretty chummy. Pretty goddamn chummy.

“Come on in, Natalie,” Valnikov said. “It's almost time for him to call.”

“You do the listening,” Natalie said, sprawling on the settee, determined at least to demand overtime pay for all this.

“I think we should both listen,” Valnikov said. “There's another extension in the bedroom.”

Ah-hah, you son of a bitch! How do
you
know about the bedroom? Then remorse again.
Why
was she letting this lunatic liaison get her mad? Simple. Valnikov infected everyone. You're around him awhile, you start getting as nutty as he is. The hell with it. Now, she'd feel no guilt when she told them about his mental condition. None at all. Sorry, Valnikov, but it's simply a matter of survival. Natalie Zimmerman's!

“Okay, I'll listen on the bedroom phone,” Natalie smirked. “Unless
you'd
rather use the bedroom, Valnikov?”

Philo Skinner at that very moment was answering the extension in
his
bedroom. He held his hand over the receiver and whispered in desperation: “Arnold! You shouldn't call me at home!”

“That's exactly what I told
you
, Philo,” the voice said. “Last week when you called me at home and talked me into letting you get down on the Vikings, and now it's Wednesday and I still ain't got my fifteen dimes.”

“I
told
you the escrow money won't clear until Thursday, god-damnit!” Philo croaked. “I agreed to bump you a hundred a day. You want my blood?” You want my foreskin, you murderous fucking kike!

“I want your
balls
, Philo, you don't pay,” he said.

Philo was right! The nigger with the knife!

“Why do you talk to me like this, Arnold?” Philo whined.

“Because it's Wednesday. And tomorrow's Thursday. And I carried you so far I need a head doctor, is why.”

“So tomorrow I pay. Goddamnit, Arnold, I thought we were friends?”

“
Business
friends, Philo,” the voice said. “Business friends. Tomorrow a man's coming to your house in the afternoon to close our transaction.”

“Not my house, Arnold! Not my house!”

“The kennel, then,” said the voice. “In the afternoon.”

“Make it after two,” Philo whined. “Make sure Mavis is gone. After two o'clock?”

“We are gonna close our transaction tomorrow afternoon, Philo, one way or the other.”

“I know that, Arnold. I know!”

“Good night, Philo.”

Philo cut himself twice while shaving. He gave up and wiped the lather off his chin stubbles. He doused on half a can of baby powder but it couldn't dry the sweat pouring from his bony torso. Philo put on his polyester suit and a tapered orchid shirt. He hung his gold chains around his neck and teased his blue-black hair and started for the door.

But Mavis said, “Philo, I think I'll go to work with you tomorrow. I'm getting sick a soap operas all day. Maybe I'll do some book work.”

“Christ, Mavis!” Philo said. “What kinda bookwork you think we got with twenty-five lousy dogs in the whole kennel? I told you there ain't enough work for even one kennel girl the way things are these days. Christ, I can't even keep busy with the grooming. Why you wanna hang around and go crazy too?”

“Just to be together, Philo. You're so jumpy lately. I know business is eating at you, but things'll work out. Business is funny.”

“Yeah, well, I gotta run out get a few packs a cigarettes.”

“Why you getting dressed up to buy cigarettes?”

“Christ, just cause I'm living like a bum don't mean I gotta dress like one. Get off my case, Mavis!”

“You been acting awful funny the last several days, Philo,” Mavis said, turning down the television volume with a remote control. “If I didn't trust you I'd think you were maybe nesting with some little bird.”

Then Philo lost his temper. “That does it! I'm going out to buy cigarettes. I'll be back within twenty minutes. You time me with a stopwatch. You and me been married six years. You tell me, can I run out of this house, drive somewhere, for five or ten minutes, meet some bird, take her to a motel, and come back here in twenty minutes? You tell me that's possible, you dumb shit!”

“I guess not,” she said sweetly. “You couldn't even get a hard-on in half a day, come to think of it. In fact I ain't seen one in three months!”

Thank you, Mavis, he thought when he squealed out of the driveway in his El Dorado. It all comes down to an erection. I'll remember that in Puerto Vallarta when I'm screwing their serapes off, you miserable cunt!

The call was late. It came at 6:25 p.m.

“Hello.”

“This is Richard. I want the money tonight. Get a pencil and paper. Here's the instruc—”

“I don't have the money tonight. I'll have it tomorrow.”

“What!”

Very quickly she said, “I'll have the money tomorrow afternoon. I'll have it then but it's only twenty thousand dollars. I won't lie to you, that's how much I was able to borrow. I'll bring it wherever you say.”

Twenty thousand dollars. He was stunned. Twenty thousand. Enough to pay off Arnold and five left over. Five thousand wouldn't begin to pay off his El Dorado! Five thousand wouldn't begin to pay his
delinquent
payments on the kennel! Five thousand wouldn't pay the balance of his income tax! (None of which he planned on paying anyway after he got the ransom.) Five grand! How long could he live in Puerto Vallarta on five grand? He was stunned.

It was fortunate that he had picked a remote telephone booth beside a service station that closed early on Wednesdays because he was screaming: “YOU CUNT! YOU WON'T GET AWAY WITH THIS! YOU WON'T! YOU CAN'T TREAT ME LIKE THIS! I WON'T LET YOU GET AWAY WITH THIS! YOU WAIT! I'M GOING TO CALL YOU BACK IN TEN MINUTES!”

Then, Philo Skinner, hardly aware of what he was doing, was speeding through alleys in his El Dorado, throwing up sparks in the night, clanging over holes in the asphalt and bumps in the pavement, roaring through backstreets toward Skinner Kennels. Philo screeched to a stop in the parking lot, stumbled from the Cadillac, ran to the door with his jangling keys, and in a moment, was gasping and wheezing through the grooming room loping toward the kennel where twenty-five dogs went mad with joy, anger, or fear, depending upon their dispositions.

Philo unlocked the last dog pen but nearly lost Vickie, who went running toward the rubber doggie door and the gravel dog run outside, which was littered with defecation now that Philo Skinner was too busy being a criminal to clean up dog crap.

He grabbed her as she was almost through the doggie door and she growled but did not bite him, having gotten used to his rancid tobacco smell these past days. Then Philo ran to the office beside the grooming room, and throwing caution to the winds, picked up his own telephone.

Valnikov knew that Madeline's conversation had driven the extortionist to some desperate move, but he also knew that there was nothing to do but wait.

“Can't we trace the next call, Sergeant?” Madeline said fearfully. “He's going to do something terrible!”

“They can only trace calls easily in the movies,” Valnikov said. “A phone trace is terribly complicated and has to be set up well in advance. We just have to wait.”