Time Bomb (43 page)

Milo said, “Always been an independent, have you, Cheri?”

Her mouth tightened. “Not always. But I learn. I pride myself on that—learning from my mistakes.”

“How long ago?”

“Three years ago.”

“Where?”

“O Street, right up near the Capitol.”

“Doing your bit for good government?”

“You bet. More of them would a took more of what I gave, there’d be less strife, believe me.”

“Where you from originally?”

“Here. Inglewood.”

“How’d you get up to Sacramento?”

“I was in San Francisco first—three years. Moved ’cause I wanted things more quiet. And something I could do myself. Someone told me politicians were always wanting it—you had a seller’s market.”

“Recreation.”

She smiled. “Yeah. Being close to the action meant they could make their speeches in the morning, drop by for a lunchtime party, and go back to their speeches with a smile on their faces.”

“They,” said Milo. “How many others besides Mas-sengil?”

“Lots, chief. It’s a company town. Not that fearless leaders was all I did. You had your doctors and your bankers, like any other place. But being there in that place, you did see lots of political types—aides, lobbyists, administrative assistants, all that shit. You learn to talk like them after a while.”

“Fun bunch?”

She grimaced. “Not hardly. I mean, they were free with the buck—expense accounts. But as a group, they had inclinations. If you know what I’m saying.”

“I don’t.”

“Kinky,” she said, as if talking to an idiot. “Mostly for tying-up. Bondage. Always wanting to be tied up or tying me up. Nearly every one of them. Got so when I took one on that I knew was political, I had the neckties and the ropes all ready. A few of them even wanted to be . . . embarrassed. Dirty stuff. Never seen so many people wanting to tie or to be tied. All horny about who was in
charge.
Then you’d turn on the TV, see those same faces you just saw all wrinkled up or wearing a leather mask, crying and pleading not to spank ’em, even though that’s what they really wanted—you’d see ’em giving speeches on the TV, going on about law and order, the American way, all that shit. Meanwhile, you’re knowing their idea of law and order is being hog-trussed.”

She laughed, filled her lungs with smoke. “Don’t it just make you want to run out and vote?”

Milo smiled. “Massengil a tyer or a tyee?”

“Tyee. Liked to have his arms and legs all bound up, so tight the blood was cut off. Then he’d stretch out and make me do all the work. Then afterwards, which was quick—with most of them it’s real quick”—she snapped her fingers—“I had to snuggle next to him like I was his mama and he’d latch onto my bubbies and talk like some little kid. Baby talk. Oogum snoogums for Mr. Law and Order.”

She laughed again, but looked uneasy.

“Real disillusioning,” she said, “isn’t it. High and mighty types running things, and what they really are is whining, bubby-sucking babies. Then, of course, there’s cops—”

“He ever get racial?”

“What do you mean?”

“Make racist comments? Want to set up some racist fantasy?”

“Nope,” she said. “Just the tying and the oogum talk.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“Through the other one?”

“Dobbs?”

“Uh-huh. He’s a doctor—psychiatrist. Liked to pretend this was all medical. Sex therapy. I should think of myself as his therapy
assistant
.”

“When’d you first meet Dobbs?”

“My last year in Frisco.”

“How?”

“Had this girlfriend of mine who got into the therapy thing—took a course or something and got this piece of paper saying she was legal. A surrogate. Dobbs taught the course, offered her a job. Used to send her people—patients—have her kick back some of the money to him. She made good, but he made better. Then when she moved out of town because her ex was threatening her, she gave him my name. I moved down to Sacramento and he started sending the people to me.”

“Even though you’re not legal.”

She smiled, “But I’m good, chief. I can be real patient—real thera
peu
tic when I have to.”

“I’ll just bet you can, Cheri. What other politicians did Dobbs send you besides Assemblyman Massengil?”

“Just him,” she said. “It’s like they were special buddies.”

“What kind of special buddies?”

“Not fags or anything. Sometimes a couple of closet fags will use me to get into theirselves—doing a double and then accidentally one of their things brushes up against the other thing and we got a brand-new picture. But not them. They just used to show up, together. Like Sam needed Fatso to lead the way, and Fatso got off on setting things up.”

“He never sent anyone else to you?”

“Not down here.”

“What about Sacramento?”

“Okay, a couple. But after I did a little business with him, I didn’t want to do any more.”

“Why not?”

“He was a pig is why not. With Lorraine he’d taken fifty-five percent. With me he was wanting sixty.
Finder’s fee.
He said I needed him—his being involved made it legal. Threatening me.” She shook her head and rubbed one knee. “I went indy to get greedy pigs
off
my back. Told him bull
shit
, my being involved made it illegal for him and he had a lot more to lose than I did if the shit hit the fan. So we settled on twenty percent. Couple of months later, I had enough of my own business going, anyway. Taking a hundred percent. Didn’t want none of his, even with twenty percent, and told him so.”

“How’d he react to that?”

“Made a face but didn’t argue. And kept seeing me. With Sam. Sam had a thing for me.”

“Was he ever a client himself?”

“Once in a while.”

“Tyer or tyee?”

She shook her head. “All he wanted was wham-bam, Oh Jesus, oh Jesus!, roll his fat butt off, and fall asleep. Mostly he was a watcher—couple of times I caught him peeking through the door when I was with Sam. That gave me the creeps, but I didn’t say a thing. Didn’t cost me anything.”

“Where’s your trick book?”

“No trick book.” She tapped her coiffure. “Everything’s in here.”

“How about your calendar?”

“No calendar either. Each day passes I tear it up in little pieces and flush it down.”

“We’re gonna tear the place apart, Cheri.”

“Tear all you want. There’s no book. And don’t ask me to give you names—otherwise I
will
go downtown and suck AIDS breath.”

“Who knew Massengil was coming here?”

“No one knew. No one knew about anybody. That’s my specialty—discreetness. And with him I was extra-careful, ’cause he was so nervous about being caught, wouldn’t even leave his car out on the street. When he had an appointment, I cleared my calendar all day so they wouldn’t be running into anyone.”

“Considerate.”

“Fuck considerate,” she said. “I charged ’em for time lost.”

“Speaking of that, what kind of tariff are we talking about?”

“Four hundred an hour.” Wide smile. “More than my lawyer makes and I didn’t have to pass any bar tests.”

“Cash?”

“Nothing but.”

“How often did Massengil see you?”

“Three or four times a month.”

“What was the schedule?”

“What I told you—tying up, nuzzling bubbies, sometimes I’d feed them dinner. Then they’d leave and I had the whole night to myself, watch Johnny Carson.”

Milo said, “That’s not what I meant by schedule, Cheri. Which days of the week did they show up? What routine?”

“No routine. I’d get a call from Sam—or from Fatso—day or two before. Clear the calendar and they’d come by and we’d have a little party.”

“Always the two of them?”

“Always.” She turned thoughtful. “Maybe they were fags, really wanting to do a little dick-rubbing . . . I don’t know. I just know they never got into that here.”

“No schedule,” said Milo.

“No.”

“So how’d anyone know they were here?”

“Beats me. Maybe somebody followed ’em.”

“Followed ’em here and just waited, huh?”

She shrugged.

Milo said, “How’d the shooter know to wait for them to come out—know that the two of them wouldn’t be spending the night?”

“Not my thing,” she said, “spending the night. No one spends the night.”

“Who’d know that, besides you and your tricks?”

She was silent.

He said, “You’re gonna have to give us that book, Cheri.”

“I keep telling you there is no book.”

Milo sat back and crossed his legs. She smoked, touched her hair, rocked her foot. Finally she said, “I give you that, I’m finished.”

He said, “C’mon, Cheri. Two bodies out in back, one of them a public figure? You’re finished anyway.”

She smoked in silence some more. Pulled something out of an eyelash.

“Book’s in the bank. Safe deposit box.”

“Which bank?”

“I give it to you, you gonna help me move? Get me outa here safe, help me get my equity out of the building, plus keep my kid safe?”

“Where’s the kid?”

“Inglewood, with my mom.”

“How old?”

“Nine. Real smart, gotta great voice, sings in church.”

“What’s his name?”

“André.”

“André. I’ll do what I can for you and André.”

“Do what you can, huh? That’s politician talk, chief—just another way of saying
fuck you
.”

“Got a place to move?”

“Somewhere conservative. Uptight. Conservative folks get the horniest. Need an outlet.”

“Like the folks up in Sacramento.”

“Just like.”

“Why’d you move from there to L.A.?”

“We’re back asking questions?”

“That’s right. Why the move, Cheri?”

“It was his idea.”

“Dobbs’s or Massengil’s?”

“Sam. The
Assemblyman
. He really had a thing for me—a
taste
for me. Get a
taste
for something sweet and it’s like drugs, you never get enough.”

“Three or four times a month isn’t much of a fix.”

“He’s . . . he was old. What I gave him lasted. He really got off on it.”

“Why’d he want you to move down here?”

“Said he didn’t like having me so close to his workplace—Sacramento was a small town, loved gossip. Someone might find out. He found this place for me—some kind of special deal: The person died, left no will.”

“Probate?”

She nodded. “He knew all about probates, had all these land records because of his job. Said I should jump on this one. It was a bargain—all I had to do was put up some cash.”

“Did he help you with the down payment?”

“Not a penny. He would have, but I didn’t need him, had plenty of my own. I flew down here, saw the place, saw what I could do with it, and figured, why not? My place up there had appreciated, built up equity. Now I got at least a hundred and sixty equity on this one, maybe more.”

“What did he want in return?”

“Me.
When
he wanted me. Clearing my calendar so he didn’t bump into no one—no one would know.”

“No one except Dobbs.”

“That’s right.”

“Was Massengil aware that Dobbs was a peeper?”

“Don’t think so. Usually he had his eyes closed, all screwed up. But who knows? Maybe they had a little buddy-game going. I don’t try to get into their heads. I’m somewhere else when I’m doing it.”

“Four hundred an hour,” said Milo. “Three, four times a month. Nice chunk of cash-outlay.”

“He never complained.”

“Management consulting,” I said.

She looked at me. “Consulting. Yeah, I like that—that’s class. Maybe I’ll use that instead of Recreational Coun-selor.”

Milo said, “Tell me about tonight. Exactly the way it happened.”

She chain-lit another cigarette. “What happened is that they came here at nine-thirty, did their things—”

“Both of them?”

“This time, yeah. Piggy took sloppy seconds—he liked it that way, wouldn’t let me wash. And then I gave them something to eat. The Colonel. Legs and breasts and cole slaw and biscuits. Leftovers from the night before, but they ate it like it was fancy French cooking. Standing up, in the kitchen. Drank two cans each of my Diet Pepsi. Then they paid me and split. Money’s in my undies drawer—go check. Twelve hundred—twelve ones. New bills. I said to Sam, ‘What’d you do, honey, just print it?’ He liked that, laughed, and said, ‘That’s my job. I’m on the Finance Committee.’ After they were gone and I put the money away, I went into the bathroom, turned on the shower. To clean off, get them outa me. While the water was running I heard it—almost
didn’t
hear it ’cause of the water, but I did. Bang bang. I know that sound. Like a fool I looked out the window, saw them lying there, him running away. Like a fool I called and did my civic duty and now I’m sitting here talking to you, chief.”

Milo said, “Who’s
him
?”

“The shooter.”

“One guy?”

“One’s all I saw.”

“What’d he look like?”

“All I saw was his back—running behind the garage. There’s a low fence behind there. He probably got in that way—got out too. Rotten wood—I been meaning to put in a new one. You check, you’ll probably find some kind of footprint. There’s gotta be footprints ’cause it’s muddy back there, got a leaky sprinkler, the water settles. Someone had to leave footprints. You go on and check and see if I’m telling it straight.”

“Tell me more about the shooter.”

“Nothing more to tell. Dark clothes—I think. It was dark. I dunno.”

“Age?”

“Don’t know—probably young. He moved like he was young. Not like an old fart. I seen plenty of old farts move, believe me.”

“Height?”

“Not too tall or too short that I noticed. I mean, nothing hit me as being one way or the other—it was dark.”

“Weight?”

“Same story, chief. There was nothing special about him. Just a guy—I saw his back. It’s too far to see good. Go look for yourself through that window. And dark. I keep it that way, so people can park and get out without no one seeing ’em.”

“What did his face look like?”

“Never saw a face. Can’t even tell you if he was black or white.”

“What color were his hands?”