Silent Partner (32 page)

"Cool it," said Milo, swatting.

The old man said, "Down, quiet," without enthusiasm. He walked through the opening, closed
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the door behind him.

He was midsized and very thin, but flabby, with stringy arms and knobby, varicosed legs, narrow, sagging, grandmother's breasts, and a protuberant belly. His skin had been sun-baked the color of bourbon and had an oily sheen.

The hair on his head was skimpy white fuzz, as if he'd coated his bare pate with glue, then dipped it in cotton wool. He had a weak chin, big beak nose, and narrow-set eyes that squinted so tightly they appeared sealed shut. A shaggy white Fu Manchu mustache ran down the sides of his mouth, continuing past the jawline and dangling an inch.

He looked us over, frowned, spat on the ground.

Gandhi with gastritis.

"Afternoon, Ellston," said Milo. "Nice to see you're in your usual good cheer." The sound of his voice set the dogs howling.

"Quiet. You're upsetting them—way you always do." The old man came up to me and stared, running his tongue along the inner wall of one cheek, scratching his head. He gave off a strange blend of odors: children's zoo, French cologne, mentholated unguent.

"Not bad," he said finally, "but Rick was cuter."

He touched my shoulder. I stiffened involuntarily. His stare hardened and he spat again.

Milo stepped close to me. "This is Dr. Alex Delaware. He's a friend."

"Another doctor?" The old man shook his head and turned to me. "Tell me one thing, Curly: What the hell you upscale medico studs see in an ugly, uncouth lump like him?"

"Friends," said Milo. "As in friend. He's straight, Ellston."

The old man raised a limp wrist, adopted a mincing pose.

"Sure he is, darling." The old man looped his arm in mine. "What kind of doctor are you, Dr.

Alex?"

"Psychologist."

"Ooh," he drew away quickly, stuck out his tongue and made a raspberry. "I don't like your type, always analyzing, always judging."

"Ellston," said Milo, "you gave me enough shit over the phone, I have no appetite for any more.

If you want to help, fine. If not, that's fine, too, and we'll leave you to play Farmer John."

"Such a rude lump," said the old man. To me: "He's a frigging rude lump. Full of anger. Because he still hasn't accepted what he is, thinks he can deal with all of it by playing po-lice-man."

Milo's eyes flashed.

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The old man's opened wide in response. The left iris was blue; the right, milky gray with cataract.

"Tsk, tsk, our poor gendarme is upset. Hit a nerve, Lump? Good. The only time you look half-human is when you're pissed off. When you get frigging real."

"I don't like your type,'" mimicked Milo. "'Always analyzing, always judging." To me: "Enough of this crap. Let's split."

"Suit yourself," said the old man, but there was worry in his voice. A headstrong kid who'd pushed his parents too far.

We headed back to the car. Every step we took made the dogs bark louder.

The old man cried out, "Stupid lump! No patience! Never had any."

Milo ignored him.

"Just so happens, Lump, that the subject of your inquiry is one with whom I'm well versed. I actually met the rat bastard."

"Right," said Milo over his shoulder. "And you fucked Jean Harlow."

"Well, maybe I did that too." An instant later: "What's in it for me, anyway?" The old man was raising his voice to be heard over the animals.

Milo stopped, shrugged, turned. "Good will?"

"Ha!"

"Plus a hundred for your time. But forget it."

"Least you could have frigging done," shouted the old man, "was to be civil!"

"I tried, Ellston. I always try."

The old man was standing with his hands on his hips. His boxer shorts flapped and his hair flew out like strands of cotton candy.

"Well you didn't try hard enough! Where was the introduction? A proper, civil introduction?"

He shook one fist and his loose flesh danced.

Milo growled and turned. "An introduction will make you happy?"

"Don't be an ass, Sturgis. I haven't aimed for happy in a long, long time. But it might frigging placate me."

Milo swore under his breath. "C'mon," he told me. "One more try."

We retraced our steps. The old man looked away from us, worked his jaws and tried hard to maintain dignity. The boxer shorts interfered.

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"Ellston," said Milo, "this is Dr. Alex Delaware. Alex, meet Mr. Ellston Crotty."

"Incomplete," huffed the old man.

"Detective Ellston Crotty."

The old man held out his hand. "Detective First Grade

Ellston J. Crotty, Junior. Los Angeles Police Department,

Central Division, retired." We shook. He thumped his

chest. "You're looking at the Ace of Central Vice, Dr.

. Curly. A pleasure to make your frigging acquaintance."

The animals followed us as if heading for the Ark. A homemade pathway of railroad ties and cement squares bordered by unkempt hedges and sick-looking dwarf citrus trees took us to a small, asphalt-shingled house with a wide front porch littered with boxes and old machine parts.

Next to the house and ancient Dodge coupe sat on blocks. The structure looked out on a flat half-acre of dirt

yard fenced with chicken wire. More goats and poultry paced the yard. To the rear of the property was a ramshackle henhouse.

The barnyard smell had grown intense. I looked around. No neighbors, only sky and trees. We were atop a hill. To the north were smog-glazed hints of mountaintop. I could still hear the freeway, providing a bass line to the treble clucks of the chickens.

Leaning against one of the fence posts was a bag of feed corn. Crotty stuck his hand in, tossed a handful of grain into the yard, and watched the birds scramble.

"Frigging greedy bastards," he said, then gave them some more.

Old MacDonald's farm on the edge of the urban jungle.

We climbed onto the porch.

"This is all frigging illegal," Crotty said with pride. "Breaks every frigging zoning law in the books. But my compadres down the hill are all illegals living in noncode shacks. Love my fresh eggs and hate the authorities—hell if they 're going to rat. I pay their little kids to clean up the coop, two bucks an hour—more greenbacks than they're ever gonna see otherwise. They think I'm some kind of frigging great white father."

"Great white shark," muttered Milo.

"What's that?"

"Some of those little kids are pretty sharp."

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"Well, I wouldn't know about that, but they do know how to work their little tushies off, so I pay

'em. All of them think I'm the greatest frigging thing since sliced bread. Their mamacitas are so grateful, they bring me food all wrapped in aluminum foil—they love aluminum foil. Good stuff, too, no fast-food shit—menudo and sweet tamales like you used to be able to get over on Alvarado before the corporate frigs took over."

He pushed open a screen door, walked into the house, and let it slam shut. Milo caught it. We entered.

The house was small and unlit, crammed so full of junk there was barely room to walk. We inched our way past

stacks of old newspapers, towers of cardboard boxes and raw-wood fruit crates, jumbles of clothing, an upright piano painted with gray primer, three ironing boards bearing a collection of clock radios in various stages of disassembly. The furniture that managed to coexist with the clutter was cheap, dark wood and overstuffed chairs sleeved with antimacassars and doilies.

Thrift shop fare.

The floor was pine, trodden gray, splintered in several places by dry rot. A mantel above the bricked-in fireplace bore porcelain figurines, most of them chipped or missing limbs. The clock on the mantel wall said Coca-Cola. It was frozen at seven-fifteen.

"Sit," said Crotty. He brushed newspapers off an easy chair and sank down. A cloud of dust rose and settled like dew.

Milo and I cleared a sofa with broken springs, created our own dust storm.

Crotty cleared his throat. Milo pulled out his wallet and handed him several bills. The old man counted it, fanned it out, closed his fingers over it. "Okay, let's make this quick. Belding. Leland, A. Capitalist pig, too much money, no morals, a latent fag."

I said, "Why do you say that?" and heard Milo groan.

Crotty turned on me. "Because I'm a frigging expert on latency is why, Dr. Psychology. You might have the diploma, but I've got the experience." He grinned and added, "Hands-on experience."

"Let's stick to Belding," said Milo.

Crotty ignored him: "Let rne tell you, Curly, one thing I know, it's latents. For thirty years I frigging lived that trip."

Milo yawned, closed his eyes.

"He's frigging bored," said Crotty. "If anyone should be listening it's him. Hell, you'd think someone in his position would seek me out; kneel at my feet and beg for my accumulated wisdom. But no, how do I meet the lump in the first place? Half-dead in the Emergency Room, sweet Rick massaging my heart, bringing me back to life. And then this lump shows up all Dragnet-butch,

checking his watch and wanting to know when Rick's going off-shift. Frigging Beauty and the
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Beast."

He turned to Milo, shook one finger. "You were always insensitive. There I was fading away and all you could think of was your cock."

"Don't make it sound life-threatening, Ellston. You had an upset stomach. Gas. Too much menudo, not enough fiber."

"So you say." To me. "Got your work cut out for you. shrink. That is one big frigging piece of work sitting next to you—take you years just to get through the top layer of denial."

"Belding," said Milo. "Or give back the bread."

"Belding," repeated Crotty. "A capitalist. Vicious. Because he was a latent. I know what that does to a person." He got up, looked over a group of boxes on the floor, went down on his knees in front of one of them and pawed through it with both hands.

"Here we go," said Milo.

Crotty pulled out a brown cloth scrapbook, flipped pages, wiped his forehead, then sat down next to me and pointed.

"There."

His fingertip rested next to a snapshot of a young man in police uniform. Black-and-white, sawtooth edges, just like the one of Sharon and Shirlee.

The young man wore a police uniform, stood next to a patrol car on a palm-lined street. His features were delicate, almost girlish, his eyes big and round. Innocent. Thick, wavy dark hair parted in the middle, a dimple on his right cheek. A pretty boy—the easily bruised countenance of a young Monty Clift.

"Glom this," said Crotty and pointed to another photo on the page. Same man in civilian attire, standing next to the Dodge I'd just seen in the driveway. He wore sports clothes and had his arm around the waist of a girl. She wore a halter and shorts, was shapely. Her face had been scratched out with a ballpoint pen.

"I was some piece of beef back then," said Crotty. He

yanked the book away, snapped it shut, and tossed it on the floor.

"Those were taken in '45. I was just out of Uncle Sam's Navy, earned ribbons in the Pacific, thought I was God's gift to women and kept telling myself that those little shipboard episodes with the cook—sweaty Swedish meatball—had been just a bad dream. No matter that doing it with him had felt the way love should feel, and all the frails I nailed had a better time than I did."

He tapped his chest. "I was as sweet as Mary Pickford but trying to convince myself I was frigging Gary Cooper. So what better job for an overcompensating macho buck than to wear blue and carry a big stick?"

He laughed. "Day I got my discharge papers, I applied to the force. Day I finished the academy
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thought I was King Hetero Stud. Being Butch Blue was going to solve all my problems. The brass took one look at me and knew exactly where to send me. Toilet decoy in MacArthur Park till all the local queers made me, then gay-bar detail over in Hollywood. I was great, busted more faggots than any other piece of bait. Got promoted, assigned to Vice, spent the next ten years of my life busting more faggots—busting myself, drinking it off every night. I made detective in record time but was nothing more than a frigging lure— kissed up to so many sad suckers my lips started to callus. Vice loved me. I was their frigging secret weapon, batting my lashes, breaking up private parties up in the hills, rousting raucous black-and-tans out in the colored districts—that gave the other pigs the chance to break some nappy heads."

He reached over, took hold of my collar, opened his good eye wide. He was sweating and seemed to have gone pale, though in the dim light it was hard to be sure.

"Know the reason I was so frigging good, Curly? 'Cause deep down inside I wasn't acting. Slam, bam, out in the alley, then here come the other Vice pigs with their saps and their sticks. Another meat wagon full of faggots expressed to County Lockup, black-and-blue, puking blood. Once in a while one of them would hang himself in

his cell. The Vice boys would say good riddance, less paperwork. I'd laugh the loudest, chug-a-lug the fastest."

His mustache quivered. "For ten years 1 was an accessory to the assault and murder of gay men, never stopped to wonder why I was going home each night, puking my own guts out and drinking gin until I could feel my liver sizzling."

He let go of my collar. Milo was looking the other way, staring off into space.

"I was eating myself up is why," said Crotty. "Until I took a vacation down south—Tijuana.

Crossed the border looking for action, got stoned drunk in a cantina watching a donkey mount a woman, stumbled outside and asked a cabbie to take me to a whorehouse. But the cabbie wasn't fooled. Drove me to a crappy little place on the outskirts of town. Cardboard walls painted turquoise, chickens outside the door and in. Twenty-four hours later I knew who I was, knew I was trapped. What I didn't know was how to get out of it."

He folded and unfolded the money, finally crumpled it in his fist. "No guts for quick suicide, I kept pouring the sauce down. Wasn't till a year later—February—that opportunity knocked.