The Black Marble (21 page)

Madeline began sobbing brokenly. She couldn't understand why someone would send an advertisement about
the itch
in newsprint. Madison Avenue! She was succumbing to hysteria and they wanted her to use their vaginal lotion! Oh, God!

Then the Biggs
Kennels
caught her eye. She got her sobbing under control and started reading from the beginning. She screamed and refused to answer the door when Chester Biggs arrived. It seemed as though he rang for fifteen minutes. Then a short time later the phone rang.

“Mrs. Whitfield!”

“Yes?”

“This is Chester, Mrs. Whitfield. I rang the bell for … You didn't answer.”

“No.”

“Mrs. Whitfield, I want to come up and see you.”

“How is she?” Madeline said and she sounded calm to Chester Biggs.

“I'm
so
sorry, Mrs. Whitfield. She died. Vickie just died!”

There was silence on the line and he said, “Mrs. Whitfield, I'd better come to see you. Right now. Are you all right? Do you want …”

“No, Chester,” she said, staring at the extortion note, reading it word for word again as he spoke.

“Let me come see you, Mrs. Whitfield. I …”

“No, Chester, don't come. I'm all right,” she said, wiping her runny nose, carefully placing the ugly letter back in the ugly envelope.

“He thinks it was a tranquilizer. Somebody didn't want Vickie to win. Some filthy devil wanted to win badly enough to … Maybe it was poison, I just don't know. There'll be an autopsy here and he'll send samples to a lab. I think I should call the police, don't you?”

“No!” she shouted in the mouthpiece causing Chester Biggs' ear to pop. When he stopped grimacing he said, “Why not, Mrs. Whitfield?”

“Vickie is mine.
Was
mine. It's not up to
you
, Chester. I don't want to call the police. If somebody wanted to win so badly as to give Vickie a drug, or poison, or whatever it was, so be it. She's not the first dog to be poisoned at a dog show and it's just pointless to cause more pain to ourselves by having policemen around.”

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Whitfield, but sleep on it.”

“I'll sleep on it.”

“Maybe you'll feel different tomorrow.”

“Perhaps, but I forbid you to call the police.”

“Okay, Mrs. Whitfield. Well, you try to rest yourself.”

“Chester.”

“Yes.”

“One thing. I was contacted at the show by someone who wants … wants a picture of Vickie for a magazine. His name is … Richard something. I forgot to give him my phone number, but he knows you're Vickie's handler. He may call you tomorrow. Give … give him my phone number.” And then she began to weep. He didn't understand a word she said from then on.

“Okay, Mrs. Whitfield. I … well, good night, Mrs. Whitfield. I'm real sorry. The doctor's gonna keep Vickie here until you decide tomorrow how to, whether to bury Vickie or let him take care of it for you. Good night, Mrs. Whitfield.”

“Wait!” she said.

“What is it, Mrs. Whitfield?”

“I
don't
want any autopsy. You bring Vickie home to me right now.”

“Jesus, Mrs. Whitfield, don't do that. She's dead. She …”

“Chester, I want her home now. You bring her. I'll call a pet mortuary and arrange for the burial. I want you to bring her body home. Now.”

It was nearly midnight before Madeline Whitfield summoned the courage to examine the cardboard carton Chester Biggs had placed on the dining room table.

When she touched the little body wrapped in the white towel, it wasn't as rigid and cold as she anticipated. And she saw almost at once that the dead schnauzer was not Victoria.

Tutu's heart and respiratory system had been overwhelmed by the drug at the end. She had died in pain, gasping for air. Her eyes drooped and the lower jaw jutted forward in the last spasm. With her whiskers and eyeshades soaked and plastered down, and with her lower jaw jutting, she looked like a little bull mastiff.

9

The Black Marble

Monday morning was very tough for Valnikov. It was even tougher for Captain Hooker, who, like Valnikov, had a devastating headache. But whereas Valnikov's headache came from a raging vodka hangover, Captain Hooker's came from problems with his troops. And it was those problems which possibly saved Valnikov's police career for the moment.

When Valnikov came shuffling into the squad room, Captain Hooker was sitting in his office with Clarence Cromwell and staring in disbelief at Montezuma Montez and Rocco Bambarella. Rocco was called Bullets Bambarella after a gas station holdup in which a robber fired eight shots at him and missed. They found an outline of 9 mm. bullet holes in the wall around Rocco Bambarella. It was only his slow reflexes that saved him. Any man with normal reaction time would have jumped left or right and been killed on the spot. Rocco Bambarella, who shot no worse than anyone else in combat situations, also emptied his gun, missed all six, but saved the day by throwing a full quart of 20W engine oil that coldcocked the bad guy and earned Rocco a commendation and something a policeman cherishes much more—a macho nickname. He was Bullets Bambarella forever.

Valnikov managed a smile and said, “Good morning, Natalie. Did you have a nice weekend?”

“Morning,” she said, dropping her eyes nervously.

But Valnikov was in no condition to detect body language. He lumbered to his table and sat down, sorting through the mound of weekend burglary reports.

Natalie could hear them all hollering, especially Bullets, who said, “Look, Captain Hooker, I don't care if that Chinaman
does
sue Montezuma here …”

“Me!” the Chicano cop interrupted. “Why say Montezuma! I wasn't there with you!”

“You wasn't there with me?” said Bullets Bambarella in disbelief.

“Bullets, git your shit together!” Clarence Cromwell bellowed in total exasperation. “He
wasn't
there with you! You was there with two bluesuits! There was no other detective there!”

“He gave me the tip!” Bullets argued. “Montezuma,
you
gave me the information from
your
snitch …”

“
My
snitch! It was an anonymous call!”

“You're just protectin your snitch!” Bullets shot back.

“Please, please!” Captain Hooker begged, feeling the pain shooting across his forehead. Then he looked up at the aging black detective, standing just to the right of him. “Clarence, you're Bullets' supervisor. Can't
you
resolve this so we don't get another lawsuit? The commander said he's never heard of a detective division with so many lawsuits.”

“You bring in these fuzz-nutted kids, you git lawsuits is what you git,” Clarence snorted. “I told you, Bullets, you wanna play supercop, you and Montezuma and all these young hotdogs, you go work metro or surveillance or some fuckin glory job. You
don't
work divisional detectives!”

“Jesus, Clarence, lemme just explain my side,” Bullets whined, since they all knew that Captain Hooker had spent the weekend on Clarence Cromwell's yacht and was unofficially only the bosun around here. “See, Clarence,” Bullets explained, “I figured Montezuma gave me straight shit about this Chinaman runnin a printin press for bad checks in the back of his restaurant.”

“Bad checks in the back of a Cantonese restaurant,” Captain Hooker said vacantly, running his delicate fingers through his sparse gray hair. “Deputy Chief Lichtenwalter's
favorite
Cantonese restaurant.”

“Well, anyways,” Bullets continued, a bit more uneasy with this latest piece of intelligence. “I wanted to check it out so I called for a few reinforcements.”

“Reinforcements,” Captain Hooker said.

“And we was staked out in the back by the kitchen where they're throwin all these slimy duck skins out the door. Hit Butch Janowski right in the hat with one, he was hidin behind a trash can.” Bullets stopped to laugh at the thought of Officer Butch Janowski getting a greasy duck skin right on his bean. Until he saw nobody else was even smiling. “And then we listen and we listen,” he continued soberly.

“You don't work forgery detail,” Captain Hooker reminded Bullets, who was starting to perspire.

“I know, Cap, but I thought, Jesus, a Chink printin hot checks there! Well, it sounded like a big caper. So I listen and I hear clickety-click-click.”

“Clickety-click-click!” Captain Hooker said, pained.

“Sure!” Bullets explained. “You see, I figure it's a printin press printin up some bad checks. Clickety-click-click. So, bang!”

“Bang,” said Captain Hooker.

“I just took positive police action and … and I booted the door and it fell right in on this Chink dishwasher, and he does a whoop-dee-doo into the sink and breaks a few … well,
several
dishes. And egg rolls and fortune cookies start flyin around and all, and uh, this old Chink that owns the place starts screamin and holdin his chest like he's havin a fit …”

“Or a heart attack,” said Captain Hooker.

“Yeah, but it wasn't no heart attack, Boss,” Bullets said. “It was more a fit, I would say.”

“And his lawyer just hung up,” Captain Hooker said very quietly, looking ever more like a pale Victorian headmaster. “And his lawyer says two million dollars.”

“Two million bucks,” said Bullets. “What's that mean?”

“It just means he's suing the city for two million dollars,” said Captain Hooker, who startled everyone by suddenly standing and staring at Bullets with glittering eyes and shrieking: “BECAUSE YOU LITERALLY SCARED THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF THE OLD CHINAMAN!”

“Easy, Cap,” said Clarence Cromwell, gently placing Captain Hooker back in his chair and squeezing his shoulders reassuringly. “Easy, Boss, it's gonna be okay. Easy does it.”

“But I'm retiring in a matter of weeks!” Captain Hooker cried. “You
know
I can't take this kind of tension, Clarence!”

“Easy, Skipper, easy,” said Clarence, massaging Captain Hooker's shoulders, which helped the headache a bit. And then Clarence said to Bullets: “I hear those old silky pajamas the Chinaman was wearin really
was
full a shit, Bullets. Butch Janowski told me.”

“Hangin right to his knees,” Bullets said proudly. Until he looked at Captain Hooker's demented stare again.

“Tell me, Bullets,” said Clarence Cromwell, “what was the clickety-click-click sound if it wasn't a printin press makin bad checks?”

“It was a lunch break,” the muscular young detective said sheepishly.

“A lunch break.”

“All those Chinamen was eatin and clickin their chopsticks against their rice bowls. Jeez, it sounded
just like
a printin press makin bad …”

“Jam on outta here, Bullets,” Clarence Cromwell warned, seeing the insane stare forming in Captain Hooker's eyes.

“Is it gonna be okay?” Bullets whined.

“You guys jist go back to work,” Clarence Cromwell said, but he winked subtly, and Bullets breathed a sigh of relief and jammed on out of there.

Natalie Zimmerman thought it was her turn when Bullets Bambarella came out of Hipless Hooker's office glaring at Montezuma Montez, who was giving Bullets a screw-you-too look.

Bullets Bambarella suddenly said icily, “I hear you was at the weight machine the other day braggin how you could pick up the whole station.”

“You heard that, huh?” said Montezuma just as icily.

“Bet you couldn't even shoulder press your own weight,” said Bullets.

“You got five bucks?” said Montezuma Montez, getting the attention of all the boys and girls who loved macho contests.

“I got
ten
bucks that says
I
can shoulder press my weight,” said Bullets.

“All that macaroni you eat? I oughtta make it fifteen bucks,” Montezuma grinned at Dudley Knebel of the robbery detail.

“All those tortillas you eat? I oughtta make it
twenty
bucks,” Bullets Bambarella grinned at Valnikov of the burglary detail, whose hangover was such that he didn't even know what the two young detectives were talking about.

So while half the squad room got up and followed the two buffaloes into the locker room, Natalie Zimmerman went to see Hipless Hooker and tell him what she had discovered on Friday.

She had gone sleepless last night, deciding to tell, not to tell, to tell. Finally, she knew she
had
to tell. She would have to tell even if he weren't her partner. Even if someone else were stuck with him and she was set free. Because he carried a badge. He carried a gun. He was a sergeant in the Los Angeles Police Department, assigned to Hollywood Investigative Division. And he was insane.

“You're next, Natalie,” Clarence Cromwell said.

Goddamn! Clarence Cromwell was actually massaging Hooker's neck when she entered!

“What's your problem today, Natalie?” Captain Hooker sighed, and Natalie looked at Hipless Hooker relaxing under the hands of his sea captain, and she knew there'd be no chance. Still, she tried. “Captain, can I see you
privately
?”

“Oh, God, Natalie!” Captain Hooker said, not opening his eyes. “Do you have a problem too? Do you know how little time I have before I retire and how many problems are stacking up? A little to the left, Clarence.”

“It's about Valnikov, Captain,” Natalie said, glaring at Clarence Cromwell. “This little experiment of letting him work with a policewoman isn't going to work out. In fact …”

“Gud-damn, Natalie!” Clarence interrupted, stopping the massage of Hipless Hooker, who opened his eyes and sipped his coffee and dreamed of being back on Clarence's yacht, cruising into Avalon Harbor, catching fat sea bass and albacore. The Channel Islands. The serene Pacific. Maybe a sailfish. His wife hundreds of miles away in Van Nuys. Landlocked!