Hollywood Station (40 page)

The Oracle said, "If he's really the manager of the Gulag, he's got a good job and he's not going anywhere. He'll be there tomorrow. And being an attorney, you must understand how impossible it would be to prove that she'd been given a drug last night."

The lawyer said, "I want to know if the man has a history of this sort of thing. Sara is my only child, Sergeant. A security officer from our corporation is going to accompany me and my daughter to the Gulag this evening, and she's going to point him out if he's there, and we're going to get his name and address. I intend to make the bastard's life a misery with or without the help of detectives from Hollywood Station."

"No, no, Mr. Butler," the Oracle said. "Don't go to the Gulag and stir things up. That'll just end up a real mess for everyone. Tell you what, I'll go there myself tonight and talk to the guy and get all the necessary information that the detectives can act on. How's that?"

"You give me your personal guarantee, Sergeant?"

"You have it," the Oracle said.

After he hung up, the Oracle called 6-X-76 to the station while he read through the report in its entirety. This was the kind of petty crap that wore him down more than anything, that made him feel old.

Whenever anybody asked him how old he was, the Oracle always answered, "I'm the same age as Robert Redford, Jack Nicholson, Jane Fonda, Warren Beatty, and Dustin Hoffman."

He'd always figured that ageless images of Hollywood stars would somehow mitigate what the mirror was showing him: jagged furrows running down his cheeks and encircling his neck, a sagging jawline, deepening creases between his hazel eyes.

But the trick didn't work anymore. Many of the young coppers would say, "Who's Warren Beatty?" Or ask what movie Jane Fonda ever played in. Or say, "Jack Nicholson's the dumpy old guy that goes to the Laker games, right?" He opened the desk drawer and swallowed a dose of antacid liquid from the bottle.

When 6-X-76 entered the watch commander's office, the Oracle said, "This so-called kidnapping at Omar's Lounge is a piece of shit, right?"

"A smelly one, Sarge," Budgie said. "The woman insisted on a kidnapping report. She threatened lawsuits. She called a TV news crew, but I didn't hear anything more, so I guess they also figured it was a piece of shit. Her old man's some kind of politically connected lawyer, according to her."

"He just called."

"She's an actress," Fausto said, and at Hollywood Station that explained a lot.

The Oracle nodded and said, "Just to keep the peace I'll run up to the Gulag later tonight and get Andrei's name and address so that when her daddy calls, the detectives can pacify him. We don't need any more personnel complaints around here."

"What time you going?" Fausto asked.

"In a couple hours."

"We'll meet you there and take you to Marina's."

"What's that?"

"New Mexican restaurant on Melrose."

"I'm not rich enough for Melrose."

"No, this is a little family joint. I'll buy."

"Is there a rehab for Tex-Mex addiction? I've got permanent heartburn."

"Whatever you say."

The Oracle hesitated and said, "Home-made tortillas? And salsa fresca?"

"I been hearing good things," Fausto said.

"Okay, I'll call and let you know when I'm at the Gulag," the Oracle said.

"Catch you in five, Fausto," Budgie said, obviously going to the bathroom.

When she was gone, the Oracle said, "I'm doing car assignments for the next deployment period. How do you feel about Budgie?"

"Whaddaya mean?"

"You didn't want to work with a woman, but you did me a favor. I don't wanna ask for a favor two months in a row if you still feel the same way."

Fausto didn't speak for a moment. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed as though it were a tough decision and then said, "Well, Merv, if you're on the spot again and need me to help out . . ."

"We're so shorthanded that figuring out deployment is awful hard these days," the Oracle said. "It would make things easier for me."

"She's a good enough young copper," Fausto said, "but I think she could benefit from having an old dog like me as a shepherd for a while longer."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Fausto," the Oracle said. "Thanks for helping me out."

"Well, I better go collect her," Fausto said. "These split tails take a long time to get unrigged just to take a pee. We oughtta come up with some kind of loincloth uniform for them."

The Oracle saw Fausto go out the back door to the parking lot to wait, and he caught Budgie coming out of the bathroom.

"Budgie," he said, "you got any objections to working another deployment period with the old walrus?"

"No, Sarge," she said, smiling. "We have an understanding, Fausto and me. We're actually a pretty good team."

"Thanks," he said. "Working with you has done wonders for him. He looks and acts ten years younger. Sometimes I think I'm a genius."

"We all know that, Sarge," Budgie said.

Farley arrived at the junkyard at the appointed time and parked fifty yards away with his lights out. If any shadow figure that even slightly resembled Cosmo Betrossian walked up to that fence, he was going to drive away, money or no money. But in ten minutes nothing moved. He had to get close to see if the gate was open and a paper bag was stuffed through the chain link, so he drove slowly toward the yard, lights still out. He heard dogs barking at another yard closer to his car. It reminded him of Odar, the oversize Doberman guard dog that was named for non-Armenians.

He was on the wrong side of the road now, but there was so little nighttime traffic on the junkyard road that it didn't matter. Behind the fences were stripped and wrecked cars on both sides of the road as well as huge cranes. He saw small office buildings, or RVs serving as office buildings, and larger buildings where cars could be dismantled or reassembled. And all was dark except for security lights on some of the buildings and along some of the roadside fences.

When he was drifting close to Gregori's car gate, lights out, he could see by moonlight that it was open. And he could see something white in the chain-link mesh. Apparently the bag containing the money was there.

He lowered his window, snatched the bag from the wire, and drove back up the road a safe distance, where he parked. He opened the bag and turned on the overhead light, and there it was-$150 in tens and twenties. He counted it twice. Then excitement began to replace his fear. He thought about the ice he'd be smoking tonight. That was all he could think about for a moment, but then he realized he had to deliver.

Farley drove back boldly now and wheeled into the junkyard with his lights on and his windows rolled up and the doors locked. Odar, tied to a long wire line that allowed him to run from the gate to the office, was barking and snarling, but there was nobody around the gate at all, nothing except an oil drum up against the fence. Farley felt so safe that he made a leisurely U-turn in the yard, blew his horn three times, lowered the window, and tossed the bag of key cards onto the asphalt and headed back to the gate.

His headlight beams caught just enough of Cosmo Betrossian climbing out of the empty drum! Farley had time to step on the accelerator hard, but by the time he got to the gate, Cosmo had swung it closed!

The Corolla slammed into the gate and stopped, its left headlight broken and its front fender driven into the tire. The engine died, and in utter panic Farley turned the key off and on as Cosmo ran up to the car, a pistol in his hand.

"Stop, Farley!" Cosmo yelled. "I shall not hurt you!"

Farley was sobbing when the engine finally kicked over, and he slammed the shift into reverse and backed all the way across the yard, bashing into the door of the office, breaking both taillights and jerking his head back.

Odar was going mad! The dog was snapping and snarling and barking hoarsely, his muzzle white with froth. He was lunging at the car that was crashing and smashing things. Lunging at the running man who had showed up two hours after his master leashed him to the wire and left him. Odar wanted to attack! Anybody! Anything!

Farley dropped the shift into low and gunned it, aiming at Cosmo, who leaped aside and fired a shot through the passenger window behind Farley's head. Farley drove for the gate and rammed it a second time. The car shuddered and recoiled again but the gate still stood. He looked in his side-view mirror and saw Cosmo running toward the car, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other.

Farley reversed it again and floored the accelerator. The tires spun and burned and smoked and the car jetted in reverse and Cosmo leaped out of the way again and fired a second shot and a third, the recoil taking both rounds over the top of the Corolla's roof.

The car was hurtling backward with its driver not knowing which way to turn, but turn he did, this time avoiding a rear-end crash into the office building. Then Farley slammed on the brakes and spun to a stop, his head still reeling.

He could see the blur in his headlights and knew it was Cosmo Betrossian coming to kill him, so he dropped it in low and gunned it and jerked the wheel left, uncertain if Cosmo was still there, even though he could hear the gunfire and see muzzle flashes coming at him. Farley's damaged left front fender just clipped Cosmo on the hip and he flew twenty feet across the asphalt, landing on that same hip, losing his pistol in a jumble of scrap metal and grease rags.

Farley knew he'd hit Cosmo and he floored it again, driving right at the gate, but at the last second he mashed on the brakes, got out, and ran to the gate, expecting to be struck in the back of the head by a bullet. Farley threw back the steel bolt and swung the gate almost open but when he turned he saw Cosmo staggering toward him, without a pistol now but carrying a metal bar that he'd picked up from the scrap heap. Cosmo was limping and cursing in his language. And coming at him.

Farley got the gate all the way open and headed for the driver's seat but he was too late. Cosmo was on him and the bar smashed the driver's side window after Farley ducked. Then Farley was running with Cosmo after him, running into the darkness, running toward the rows of stacked cars waiting to be crushed, then toward another row waiting to be stripped and sold for parts.

Odar had had all he could handle. These two intruders running through his yard were too much for him. His canine adrenaline was overflowing and he took a run, a long run at both men, and the leash drew as tight as piano wire and the overhead line that held the leash snapped. And Odar, eyes aflame, fangs bared, his entire face covered in foam, narrowed those demon eyes and came at them.

Farley saw Odar first and scrambled on top of a wrecked Plymouth, pulling himself onto the roof. Cosmo saw Odar too but had no time to swing at him with the bar, and taking a cue from Farley, he leaped onto the deck lid of a wrecked Audi, scuttling up onto the roof with Odar behind him, his black coat glistening in the moonlight.

The dog vaulted up, slipped, fell from the car onto the ground, then tried again and in a few seconds was standing on the Audi roof dragging his leash. But Cosmo had jumped from the roof of the Audi to the hood of a Pontiac and from the Pontiac across to the roof of a nearly stripped Suburban. Suddenly, Odar abandoned the chase of Cosmo and switched his attention to Farley, who was also leapfrogging cars and partially stripped car bodies, until he turned around, horrified to see the goddamn dog doing the same and coming after him!

Cosmo's injured hip began to freeze up on him now, and Farley caught his breath on the roof of an old Cadillac while the confused dog crouched on the hood of a Mustang between them, looking from one man to the other, uncertain which he should attack.

Cosmo began speaking to the dog in Armenian then, trying to win him over with the language the animal was used to hearing. He began issuing gentle commands in his mother tongue.

Farley, who was not as badly injured as Cosmo but every bit as exhausted, also tried persuading the dog, but when Farley tried to speak, he was blubbering and hysterical and tears ran down into his mouth as he cried, "Don't listen to him, Odar! You're like me! I'm an odar, too! Kill him! Kill the fucking Armo!"

Odar started for Farley then and Farley screamed like a woman. The scream of terror triggered something in the attack animal. The dog whirled, hurtled from deck lid to hood to roof, flying at Cosmo like a missile, driving Cosmo off the car onto the ground. The dog's momentum took him with Cosmo and he landed on the ground at a twisting angle, yelped in pain, and came up limping badly. Within seconds he was unable to walk at all on his left rear leg, and hardly at all on his right.

By then Farley was running for his car, and he made it and jumped in but was unable to start it. Weeping, he flooded the engine, then turned off the ignition and locked the door as Cosmo limped to the scrap heap where he'd lost the pistol. But Cosmo's flashlight was gone too, and he could only dig his hands into the twisted metal until he found the gun, cutting a finger to the bone in the process.

Farley tried the ignition again and the car started! He dropped it into low and stomped the accelerator at the same instant that Cosmo appeared at the passenger window and fired five rounds through the glass, missing with the first four. The fifth and last round entered through Farley's right armpit as his hand was cranking the wheel left and the car was digging out and burning rubber.