The Black Marble (39 page)

“Yes.”

“I just have to keep saying that for my own benefit more than anyone's.”

“You know, Natalie, I'm convinced the dead schnauzer is Tutu. And that's our only lead, really. I think that after we get the surveillance set up at Mrs. Whitfield's tomorrow we might call that kennel owner. What's his name? Skinner? If he knew Tutu that well, I'm going to ask him to come to the pet mortuary and make a positive identification. Then after that, I'm going to take him to Mrs. Gharoujian's if he's willing to come, and maybe between the two of them they'll have some idea which one of Mrs. Gharoujian's present or former house guests is capable of all this. You know Mrs. Gharoujian wouldn't bother with Tutu, so some of her boys must have worked with the animal. Some of her boys are very familiar with the world of dog shows. This man, Skinner, just might give us a lead as to which one.”

Philo Skinner was late getting home. He came in the back door, wearing a grooming smock instead of the shirt and jacket he left with. He was relieved to see that Mavis was in the bedroom undressing for her bath. He got a windbreaker from the hall closet.

“That you, Philo?” Mavis yelled. “Twenty minutes, huh? Where you been, Philo?”

He zipped up the jacket and headed for the door again. The butterfly bandage hadn't closed the wound as well as he thought. The gauze was spotting red on the back of his hand. He banged noisily through the kitchen until he found the fifth of Canadian bourbon he'd bought for Christmas guests. It was still nearly full. Drinking was not a Philo Skinner vice. As he slammed out the kitchen door, Mavis yelled: “Philo? That you, Philo? You can't tell me you ain't nesting with some young bird! Philo!”

She opened the front door in time to see the Cadillac roaring out the driveway. Philo made a screeching right turn at the bottom of the street, driving back to the place he loved and hated. The only place he belonged: Skinner Kennels. Home of the Terrier King.

“How about stopping for dinner before we go back to the station, Natalie?” Valnikov said, impulsively.

“Dinner?”

“Sure. You have to eat. Why not let me buy you dinner? Any place you like.”

“I can buy my own dinner,” she said. Then she added: “Funny thing, I'm not even hungry. I haven't eaten in twenty-four hours and I'm not even hungry.”

He drove silently for a moment and said, “Did you have a nice dinner last night? With your captain friend?”

“Yeah,” she said, looking at him sharply. “Did you have a nice dinner with Mrs. Whitfield?”

“We didn't have dinner,” Valnikov said, looking at Natalie in surprise as he took the Hollywood Freeway outbound, creeping into the slow lane.

“Didn't have time, huh?”

“Time?”

“Never mind.”

They were quiet again until he said, “I know a Russian restaurant overlooking the Sunset Strip.”

“The Strip,” she scoffed. “They have an entertainment license?”

“Entertainment?”

“Sure. For the freak show while you eat.”

“It's on the hill
over
the Strip. None of the Strip people come there. It's a family place. How about it, Natalie? Let's have a bite to eat. Their borscht is good. I guess I just don't feel like being alone tonight.”

“Neither does Mrs. Whitfield, I'll bet,” said Natalie.

“No.”

“It's only a dog, Valnikov. Try to remember. It's only a dog.”

“Yes.”

“You feel sorry for her.”

“Yes, very sorry.”

“You feel sorry for lonely people.”

“Yes.”

“You think
I'm
lonely, is that it? You want to take me to dinner because I'm lonely.”

“No.”

“Because
you're
lonely.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Valnikov, I just wanted to get it straight. Now let's go have some borscht. And I'll pay for my own.”

“Swell!” he said, with a wide grin in the darkness, driving forty miles an hour for the first time.

“I have a daughter, Valnikov,” she said. “My daughter goes to Colorado State and has a great old time. She majors in skiing and ski instructors, thanks to mom's monthly checks. But I
have
a daughter, and she loves me very much.”

“That's swell, Natalie,” Valnikov said. “I have a son, but I don't think he loves me at all. He turns down all my invitations and …”

“I also have a boyfriend, Jack Packerton. He'll probably be a deputy chief someday.”

“Yes, I don't wonder,” Valnikov said.

“What I'm saying is, I don't get dogs and people mixed up. I don't have a schnauzer or a parakeet or a gerbil. I don't want you to get me and Mrs. Whitfield mixed up. Not in
any
respect, do you understand?”

“Of course,” he said. He couldn't seem to understand his partner even when he didn't have a hangover.

“I'm not at all like you and Mrs. Whitfield, Valnikov.”

“Like me and Mrs. Whitfield?”

“Forget it,” she said, brushing her hair off of her glasses. “I don't even understand myself anymore. I didn't get enough sleep last night I guess.” (Failed orgasms on top of all this shit!) “I don't know what I'm babbling about, I guess. Or why. This crazy investigation is giving me a headache.”

“You'll feel better after some borscht,” Valnikov said, smiling again. “My mother always said that.”

“After some borscht,” Natalie sighed.

Valnikov turned off the freeway at Highland Avenue and drove out the Strip. He parked on the steep street in front of the restaurant, careful to cut his wheels in. Lose your car on this hill and it wouldn't stop until it squashed three cocaine peddlers, two pimps, and a Krishna chanter eating pumpkin seeds on Sunset Boulevard below.

Valnikov was disappointed that the proprietor wasn't in. He seldom got a chance to talk Russian these days and the Armenian waitress knew not a word. The restaurant wasn't doing much of a business on this chill Wednesday night. They took a seat by the window to look at the cascade of monster billboards on the Strip. An arabesque of color and blazing neon advertised famous rock stars Valnikov had never heard of.

“You know, Natalie,” he smiled when they were seated. “I haven't had a vodka for two days.”

“That must be a record,” she said. “I think you should have one tonight.”

“Well, would you like to join me?”

“Do you have any gin and tonic?” Natalie said to the young waitress.

“Have you ever tasted Russian vodka?” Valnikov said.

“What's the difference between Russian and American?” Natalie shrugged.

“The whole world,” Valnikov said. “Will you try Russian? Just one?”

He looked at her with those serious, no
sad
blue eyes of his and his shy kid smile and she said, “I'll try Russian.
Once
.” When she said it she changed her mind immediately, but the tired waitress was gone.

“I'm so glad you came, Natalie,” Valnikov said. “I'm so
very
glad.”

The girl returned quickly with the two double shots. Valnikov beamed and raised his glass: “
Na vashe zdorovye!
” he said. “To
your
health, Natalie.” He downed the entire glass and closed his eyes blissfully.

Natalie was nothing if not plucky. She figured it would taste like American vodka, which always tasted to her as she imagined gasoline would taste. What the hell. Let him laugh his ass off when she did a backflip over the chair.

“Cheers,” she said and downed the double shot. The heat flooded through her, and there was a not unpleasant taste from the bottom up, and then, “Mellow!” she cried. And it was. “That's not like
any
vodka I've ever tasted.”

“It's Russian,” Valnikov chuckled. “There's a
world
of difference. It's east and west. It's Igor Stravinsky and Bob Dylan. It's … Russian. Want another?”

“What the hell,” said Natalie Zimmerman.

“What the hell,” she repeated after their second.

“What the hell,” she giggled after the third. And then her nose was tingling and her fingers were getting numb.

“
Na zdorovye
,” she said when they drank that one.

“Maybe you should sip it,” Valnikov said. “Some people put pepper in it.”

“It's so mellow!” she cried. “
Na zdorovye!
” She was flushed and glowing. Her Friz was drooping.

“Want some borscht now, Natalie?” Valnikov asked.

“Who needs borscht?” she said. “
Na zdorovye!
I like this place. I might bring Jack here.”

“It's a nice quiet place,” Valnikov said. “Sometimes there's a gypsy violin. That's when I like it best.”

Natalie Zimmerman insisted on a fourth. She took Valnikov's word that the borscht was pretty good tonight. She let him ladle sour cream into it and she noted that it had a nice consistency going down. The black bread and butter also had a very nice texture, but she had to take his word on that, too. Because all she could really taste was the vodka, and she wasn't really tasting it. She was experiencing it.

“I don't think you should have another,” Valnikov warned. “Five double vodkas! That's a lot when you're not used to it.”

“I can buy my own, Valnikov,” Natalie said with a toss of her buckskin Friz.

“Two more,” Valnikov said to the waitress. “Do you always drink so much?”

“Do
I
always drink … do
I
always … Valnikov, you're driving me crazy, do you know that?”

“I am?”

“I hardly drink at all!”

“Oh.”

“I'm a social drinker.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“And I
hate
porno flicks.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, dabbing at his lips with a napkin.

“And I never saw a man with such impeccable goddamn table manners. Why the hell don't you slurp your soup like Jack does!”

“Sorry, Natalie,” Valnikov said, looking over his shoulder to see if her yelling was disturbing the other diners.

“Sorry. That sounds like you. Sorry. Quit being so considerate or you'll bore me too.”

“Sor— Natalie, have a little more bread.”

“I'd like a little more vodka.”

“Oh, no. I wouldn't advise that.”

“I'm thirty-goddamn-nine years old. I ought know how much I can drink.”

“May I butter you some more bread, Natalie? This pumpernickel is very tasty, don't you think? It's so …”

“Russian,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Please try to eat some more. Lots more.”

When the check came, Natalie Zimmerman was slightly more sober. At least she'd stopped yelling.

“Wasn't the pastry good?” he said, counting out a fifteen percent tip for the girl. Natalie was too drunk to object when he paid.

“Sure,” Natalie said, lighting a cigarette with a match that missed the flame twice. Valnikov had given up trying to light them when she informed him that no cop should be lighting another cop's cigarettes, goddamnit!

“Will you have a little more tea before we go?” Valnikov said. It took lots more than five double vodkas to put him away. Maybe twice that many, and then—oblivion. A wasteland. Siberia.

“A little more tea,” Natalie said, smoking, examining his face. Finally she said, “It's only a goddamn dog, Valnikov.”

“I know,” he said softly.

“It's
your
case. I'm just along for the ride.”

“No, we're partners,” he said.

“It's
your
case. I'm working on a case of my own,” she blurted. Her words were slurred and her voice was getting loud again.

“What case is that?”

“The case of Sergeant A.M. Valnikov.” She sighed the smoke out. “That's
my
case.”

“I don't understand.”

“Never mind,” she said. “Tell me about your childhood.”