The Pressure of Darkness (29 page)

He does.
And his name is Paul Grace
.

The 'assignments' began simply enough. Bowden got a call asking him to meet Mr. Grace for a drink. Grace had a bodyguard with him, a former homicide dick named Roy Garner. In the men's room, Garner patted Bowden down, pronounced him clean. Then, with the water running to foul up any electronic bugs, Grace showed Bowden a piece of paper with a name and an address. He made it clear that Bowden's job was to find something, anything, to pin on the guy.

"The guy" was Jack Reilly, a congressman from northern California who was leading a movement to block the flow of illegal immigrants into the state. Bowden didn't know much about politics, but he did know that the Mayor had a lot of money invested in industry from south of the border, and was friendly to businesses that employed workers at below minimum wage. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that Reilly was starting to cost the Mayor some serious bucks. Bowden switched to a day shift and followed Congressman Reilly during his off-duty hours, looking for a chink in the guy's armor. Turned out he didn't drink or party much, didn't gamble, and didn't seem to have any white collar scams going; if he did, they were very well hidden.

But the guy was a chicken hawk.

When Bowden uncovered Reilly's penchant for young male hookers, Deputy Mayor Grace was thrilled. He slipped Bowden a grand and promised that a bit more of his jacket had been cleaned up. For a little while, Bowden had believed him.
I wanted to believe him.
But now, nearly two years later, Scotty found himself back in the office of the Deputy Mayor, waiting for another assignment, wondering what it would be this time: character assassination, a slight beating, blackmail? Bowden thinks he'll print some new business cards soon. Hey, maybe something like SCROTUMS 'R US would look cool. What made him feel the sleaziest was that he had been handing assignments to Jack Burke for months that in some way originated with the Deputy Mayor without Burke realizing it. Bowden didn't like using his friends, but the idea of being a cop behind bars was even less appetizing.

Miss Boobs speaks: "Deputy Mayor Grace will see you now." She stands, turns on her high heels, and leads the way down the hall. Bowden thinks she walks like she has a corn cob up her ass. Must be those stiletto heels.

The receptionist knocks on a tall, thick door. After a respectful few seconds she opens it and ushers Bowden in to a spacious conference room. One long window faces the city of Los Angeles. Grim, smoggy clouds hang like pads of steel wool over the toothy skyline of irregular buildings. Grace is seated alone at the head of a ludicrously long, varnished wooden table, with a coffee service and croissants on a tray before him.

"Hello, Detective."

The Deputy Mayor had his chin cupped thoughtfully in one hand, staring out the window, a poseur channeling a burdened leader. Grace was that kind of elemental narcissist, always performing for a hidden camera.

"Pull up your shirt," Grace says, mildly. "Then turn around." Bowden complies. The air conditioned atmosphere strikes his bare skin like a slap. Grace glances over just long enough to verify that Bowden isn't wired. "Have a seat. This room is swept for bugs on a weekly basis."

Bowden moves closer, but still a few chairs away. He feels strange in the empty, cavernous meeting room. He sits. Grace does not offer him refreshment.

"We have a couple of new problems, Scotty."

Hearing his first name issue from this fur ball puke makes Scotty cringe, but he hides the reaction. "Go on."

"Your friend Burke, for starters, seems quite tenacious. He is not backing off."

"I warned you he was stubborn. I told you that if there were any slip ups, I might not be able to control him."

Grace looks up. His eyes are narrowed, pupils contracted into marbles. "If you can't handle him I'll find someone else, someone less squeamish."

"I'll talk to him again."

"You did a good job with the old woman," Grace says, quietly. "Our man took her directly to a mortuary and requested cremation."

"That's good."

"Unfortunately, despite your best efforts, it seems a report was filed."

Bowden feels the skin on his neck quiver. "Excuse me?"

"A young officer named—" Grace consults a small notepad "—Mike Gallo. I think he's one you trusted to call you."

"He made a report?"

"Apparently he had an attack of conscience, or wanted to make sure he was in the clear. So he entered a line or two about spotting a homeless woman 'who may have been ill or dead' into his daily log."

Damn it, Gallo. You moron!

"That's unfortunate. Out of curiosity, how did he explain not calling for an ambulance?"

Grace steeples his fingers, posing again. "I believe he claimed his radio malfunctioned, so he left to find a pay phone. He was also out of change, it seems, and when he returned the woman was gone."

Bowden shrugs. "Okay, so what if he covered his ass in case anything comes up? He can admit he saw her, say he tried to do his duty. It's no big deal."

"Oh, but I'm afraid it is."

"How so?"

"Someone was a busy beaver last night. Someone called around and found the mortuary we had taken her to. Someone put a stop order on the cremation and made a formal request for an autopsy."

I'm fucked.
"Who is that someone?"

"Why, a gentleman of color in the coroner's office." Grace's voice had gone soft, and the effect was disturbing. "I believe you know him, too. His name is Lincoln Washington." He raises his eyes, pins Bowden like a bug.

A chill, stark as a wave of high fever, runs through Scotty's upper body and he sits back as if slapped. "Doc."

"What?"

"His nickname is Doc. And he just called me about a completely different situation. It seems he noticed something odd about the Stryker death, a section of bowel missing. I asked him to sit on it. Told him there was some federal stuff going on, high priority, and that I would explain later."

"Ah. I can understand your reasoning. Sadly, this is not a different situation."

"You mean these two incidents are related?" Bowden hears his own bloodstream hissing, aches for the well-being of his old friends.
Judas and the pieces of silver.

Grace poses again. This time the stern father, pointing his finger. "I am not at liberty to discuss details. Let's just say that your concept of top secret is not far off the mark. Please understand that my superiors are very unhappy with you at present. Despite assurances, your compatriots, the young patrolman and Mr. Burke and this black fellow, are not proving as functional as you had initially represented. In fact, they are briskly becoming irritants and obstructions."

"Do you thumb through a thesaurus in the morning? Didn't anyone ever tell you nobody actually talks like that?"

Bowden likes the reaction. The younger man's cheeks turn pink. "You're a piece of shit, Bowden. It is not in your best interest to anger me. I think you should remember that."

Ignoring him, Bowden shakes his head. "Doc probably doesn't know."

"Know what?"

"Doc doesn't have any reason to think these two things are related. The Stryker suicide and the old woman. He's doing his job, that's all. He found a couple of loose ends and blew the whistle."

Grace thinks for a moment. "Let me put it to you this way. The people I report to cannot afford to have him put those pieces together. That must never happen. Do I make myself clear?"

"I'll talk to him today."

"I have already taken care of that."

"Don't!" Bowden hears the plea in his voice, cannot help it. "Let me handle him."

Grace stands, motions to the door like Nero at the games. "I would prefer you devote your limited time and attention to Mr. Burke. He looks to be a far more complicated individual." Those eyes again. "Convince him to look elsewhere, Mr. Bowden. Do it quickly."

Bowden gets to his feet. For a moment he considers blowing the dick away and then turning the gun on himself.
I just wish I had the balls
. . .

Bowden is numb during the ride down the elevator, in the lobby, and all the way up to his car. He starts the engine. When he puts his hands on the wheel they are shaking. He looks around the garage, finds it empty. He slides a pint bottle of vodka from under the seat and gulps.

"That rat bastard." The tears come. Bowden ends up sideways on the front seat, shaking and crying. The episode lasts for several minutes. Eventually he sits up, starts his car, and drives out into a crisp daylight that has somehow darkened.

THIRTY-SIX

WEDNESDAY

"Have you seen this film, Esteban?"

"No, Buey."

"That is Mr. Steve McQueen who should have got the Oscar for the job he did. I love this fucking movie, Esteban. It is called 'The Sand Pebbles' because the boat is the San Pablo. You understand?"

"No, Buey."

"You make me laugh, Esteban. That is why I enjoy to drink with you. Come, sit by me on my couch. Later, there will be women."

"Yes, Buey."

"Watch. Watch. This part is good."

"May I have a drink, Buey?"

"What? Oh! Of course, Esteban. Help yourself to some fine whiskey, or perhaps a
cerveza
. The tall one is called Taj Mahal, it is imported from India, some very good shit. There is coke on the table. Do a line, relax."

"Ah, blow does not relax me, Buey. It makes me want to fuck."

"Well, then you can do that too! I said there will be women, didn't I? Ha!"

"This is a good movie."

"Yes, Mr. McQueen is so upset when he has to shoot his Chinese friend in the head to save him from torture. This breaks your heart, no?"

"Very sad."

"Yes."

"Buey?"

"Esteban, I am watching the movie.
Shhh
, it is nearly over. He will go to the courtyard to save the woman and they will shoot him."

"Who will shoot him?"

"The Chinese, you fool."

"I thought they were his friends, Buey. I am mixed up."

"Some are his friends and some are not."

"Ah. I see."

"Look, they shoot him now. And listen, he says 'what happened, I was almost home,' or something like that. I love this fucking movie."

"This is good shit."

"The best. Now, please. You asked to see me."

"Buey, I am a loyal man and I have served you for many years. Please do not think I would question your judgment."

"But?"

"I am troubled by something."

"And this is what?"

"It is this new man we are doing mucho business with these days. The one who works with our scientists. He worries me, Buey. I do not trust this man or the people he brings here."

"You are concerned for me. I am touched."

"You are not angry?"

"Oh, of course not, Esteban. I admire your courage in coming to speak with me this way."

"This is good."

"Ah. You have not shared these feelings with the others, behind my back, have you?"

"I have said nothing, Buey! I would never do such a thing."

"This is good. Because then I would have to kill you, Esteban. I would not like being forced to do that. Continue to say nothing. You see, this man from America is going to make me very, very rich. He will also give me revenge on a man who tried to shoot me last year, an American operative named Burke. So I value his friendship, you understand?"

"Yes, certainly."

"But know this, my friend. I have not lived this long or grown this fat by trusting people, eh? And certainly not some asshole from America who thinks he is on a first name basis with God."

"I see."

"Fear not, Esteban. I have a plan of my own in mind. I fully anticipate to confront him, and soon. I expect his treachery and will meet it with a nasty trick or two of my own."

"That makes me feel better, Buey."

"I wish you to feel well."

"And I promise that I will keep your confidence."

"I know you will, my friend. Because you enjoy breathing too much! Ha! Ha! Look, here are tonight's young women. Ladies, come. Join us. Tonight we spend in bed, but we do not sleep."

THIRTY-SEVEN

Deep in L.A.'s San Fernando Valley, a large man walked through an empty Catholic church on Lindley Avenue in Tarzana and knocked on the door to the private offices.

"Jack?"

Father Benny was shocked but delighted. Burke closed the door behind him. They walked down a short hallway to Benny's office.

"Why in heaven's name are you showing up here?"

"Bet you never thought you'd see me in church."

"Exactly." Benny's office was chaos. Pillows, file folders, unwashed dishes everywhere. To his credit, the priest was clearly embarrassed. "Have a seat, my boy. If you can find one, that is."

Burke shoved two ornate pillows aside and sat on the sagging leather couch. He cracked his knuckles and toed the floor, obviously stalling.

Benny prodded, ever so gently. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I need to talk to someone."

"I don't recall you ever saying you were Catholic."

"Lapsed is too mild a word."

Benny leaned back in his office chair, folded his hands across his plump belly. "Well, that's all the better, then. You can lie to me and not worry about it being a damned sin, right? Excuse me, Lord."

Burke did not smile. "I have a question for you. And I came here because I don't know anyone else I can ask. Maybe you can answer it, maybe not. All I want is the same answer you would give another priest, the spiritual answer."

Cautiously. "Okay."

Burke, voice muffled. "I have done a lot of bad things in my day, Father Benny. Some of them I regret, some I think of as just doing my job. But there are damned few I feel really ashamed about. I don't want to add anything to that pile if I can avoid it."

"Go on."

"Just give me an honest answer to my dilemma, and I will be on my way. That's all I'm asking."

Benny grinned. "Okay, I am officially in priest mode, now. Shoot."