The Black Marble (41 page)

“Valnikov, you're so funny,” Natalie said while he swayed with the music. She was nearly as tall as he. “Stand up straight for once, why don't you?”

“I don't care about standing straight,” he said, swaying to the music, eyes closed.

“You'd be almost six feet tall if you'd stand straight,” Natalie said. “And you must weigh 220 pounds. You should be taller.”

“I don't care if I'm six feet tall,” Valnikov said, squatting on his haunches, trying some prisiadka kicks that put him temporarily on his ass.

“Valnikov!” Natalie shrieked. “This is hysterical!”

“The nightingales sang in the raspberry bushes!” Valnikov cried.

“What?” She poured his glass full of vodka as he got up, dancing.

“I said the nightingales sang in the raspberry bushes,” Valnikov said. “Who but a Russian would write a lyric like that?”

And while a Gypsy baritone sang, Natalie smiled and said, “Is that what the song says?”

“The leaves of the poplars rustled,” Valnikov translated. “In the leafv forest young girls greeted the horsemen with song.”

“That's what he's singing?” Natalie demanded.

Valnikov nodded and danced with his eyes closed.

He opened his eyes when the Gypsy stopped singing. Valnikov replayed the Old Waltz. She stood before him with her arms beckoning. He took her and they waltzed, careful to avoid the cage and coffee table.

“Tell me what the lyric says,” she whispered.

“On a spring night an unknown voice sang the beautiful melody.” Valnikov talked while the Gypsy sang.

“This is a
lovely
waltz,” Natalie whispered, as they whirled slowly in the tiny apartment.

“
Gavno!
” said Misha, watching the dancers.

“And I was so young,” Valnikov translated. “And I loved you so much!”

“I'm awful mad at you for laying Mrs. Whitfield last night, Valnikov,” Natalie whispered as they waltzed.

“You are?” he said, light-headed, dizzy.

“Yes, I'm goddamn mad.”

“Why, Natalie?”

“Because you're a police officer,” she snapped. “It reflects badly on the whole police department, damn it. Screwing on duty!”

“I'm sorry, Natalie,” he said. “That was a very unusual night for me.”

“I forgive you,” she said in his ear while the Gypsy sang. “What did that Gypsy say about nightingales, Valnikov?”

“That the nightingales sing in the raspberry bushes,” Valnikov murmured against her cheek.

“Damn right they do,” said Natalie Zimmerman, blowing her Friz out of her eyes. And suddenly kissing Valnikov's burning earlobe.

He was ecstatic. He never dared dream. “Natalie!” he cried.

Then she cried: “Andrushka!”

“What!
What
did you say!”

“Andrushka!” She kissed him and bit his ear.

The sound of her saying it nearly moved him to tears. “Natasha!” he cried.

He was the most tender and unselfish lover she had ever known. He kissed her body everywhere and endlessly. He caressed her everywhere and endlessly. He whispered to her in Russian and English. She didn't know if the words were his or the Gypsy's who sang to them through it all. Natalie Zimmerman had
four
orgasms, only one less than she
didn't
have all week with Captain Jack Packerton.

Every few moments she cried: “Andrushka!”

“Natasha!” he replied. “Oh, my Natasha!”

“Andrushka!”

At about the same moment that Natalie Zimmerman was having her fourth orgasm, Philo Skinner, who hadn't had one in three months, was sitting in the little office beside the grooming room, drinking Canadian bourbon by the light of a desk lamp, doodling on a note pad, staring at the telephone.

The whiskey was helping him to stop thinking about what he'd done. He wondered if she was able to sleep but he couldn't bring himself to go back in the kennel and look at her. He had arrived at a decision.

His Mexican tourist card had long since been arranged. There was a daily Mexicana Airlines flight at 3:00 p.m., a flight which would have him gliding over the subtropical paradise, over white beaches and warm ocean just after sunset, as he'd dreamed it. He wouldn't have seventy thousand dollars as he'd dreamed it, but he wouldn't have five thousand either. He was going to have
twenty
thousand. He was going to stiff Arnold and take the bundle and run. He smiled grimly and hoped the other bookmakers cut
Arnold's
balls off. Let the kike and nigger come looking for Philo tomorrow afternoon. At about that time he'd be high over the Gulf of California. Drinking margaritas.

Of course he could never come back to his country. That made him sad. But then, never is a long time. Maybe Arnold would die, the bloodsucker. Philo Skinner might be back one day. He'd take that twenty K and run it up ten times that much in two years. There were investments to be made in a country like Mexico, and he could outsmart any greaseball that ever lived. Philo Skinner would probably
own
half of Puerto Vallarta before long.

Then as Philo drained the paper cup and started to pour some more bourbon he had a terrifying notion. Christ, what if she had second thoughts? What if she decided a one-eared dog was worth nothing to her? What if all that talk about Vickie being like a kid to her was
just
talk? What if she was really a celebrity-hungry cunt like most of them, who didn't give a schnauzer's shit about their animals as long as Philo made them win? Twenty thousand for a maimed animal? Why did he tell her he mutilated the schnauzer? Why
did
he mutilate the schnauzer? He'd never hurt an animal in his life!

Before he'd made a conscious choice, Philo had the phone in his hand and was dialing the number he knew so well.

She lay awake in the moonlight, on satin sheets damp with tears. She sensed who it was. Their conversation was grimly subdued this time. They were both exhausted.

“Hello.”

“It's Richard.”

“I know.”

“Get dressed if you're not. Get the money.”

“All right.”

“How big is the bundle?”

“Not large.” It was surprising what a small bundle twenty thousand dollars made.

“Can you put it in a shopping bag?”

“Yes, easily,” she said.

“Okay, put it in a shopping bag. No, a plastic bag. Do you have any plastic trash bags?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Put it in the plastic bag. Wrap the bag good and tape it shut. Make a neat bundle.”

“Yes.”

“Drive … let's see … drive east on the Suicide Bridge. Drive slow.”

“Yes.”

“When you get to the east end of the bridge, toss the bundle out the passenger side of the car. Carefully. So it falls in the street.”

“Yes.”

“There shouldn't be a single car on that bridge at this hour. Don't most of you people in that area use the freeway instead of the old Suicide Bridge?”

“Yes. There won't be anyone on the bridge.”

“If there is, if you see another car's lights, don't drop the money. Go home and wait for my call. Understand?”

“Yes. When will you bring Vickie home?”

“I won't
bring
Vickie home. You'll get a call from me tomorrow at noon. I'll pick a safe place for Vickie near your home. Maybe a church or a public building. I'll tie her up there and I'll call you and tell you where.”

“How is she?” Madeline stifled a sob, remembering the horror of that last call.

“She's all right,” Philo said bleakly. “That wasn't my fault. I never hurt an animal before. That was
your
fault.”

“Yes. I'll do as you say. Shall I go now?”

“Wait exactly thirty minutes. In thirty minutes you better be driving east on the Suicide Bridge. And there better not be any cops around.”

“There won't be.”

Then Philo lied and said, “Because if there are … if there are, my friend is ordered to cut the schnauzer's head off.”

“Oh, my God,” Madeline said.

Then Philo told the truth and said, “Do you know
why
I decided on the Suicide Bridge?”

“No.”

“Because,” he said, “if there
are
any cops waiting for me, I'm going to
jump
off that bridge.”

“There won't be, I swear.”

“I'll be dead and so will your Vickie.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“This is
not
the way I planned it, lady. I'm not stupid enough to plan it like this. I'm desperate, do you believe me?”

“I believe you,” she said.

“So we're going to just
do
it. In thirty minutes. And trust each other. I get the money, you get Vickie. Or I jump. Right now, lady, I want you to believe that it don't make much difference to me.”

There was a range light burning in the kitchen, otherwise the cluttered apartment was dark. They lay in Valnikov's daybed with only a coverlet over them. She had her face on his hairy keg of a chest listening to his heart. He had a heavy slow heartbeat now. He wouldn't stop caressing her. Her head, her shoulders, her neck, her arms. Natalie Zimmerman was purring like a cat. In fact, Misha and Grisha were getting nervous just listening to her.

“Andrushka?” she said.

“Yes, Natasha?”

“It's been a good night.”

“The best of my entire life,” he said.

“Andrushka?” she said.

“Yes?”

“Nothing. I just love the sound of the name.”

They were silent for a moment and he said, “Natasha?”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. I just love Natasha.”

Suddenly it troubled her. She said, “The name? You mean you love the
name
.”

But he was silent. So she said, “This is just a crazy night. We're just drunk and having a hell of a good time and … this is just a crazy night that's resulted from a crazy day and the craziest investigation of my life and … well, you mean you love the
name
Natasha.”

His silence troubled her more. It made her remember the case
she
was working on. Reporting his madness was now out of the question. In fact, it was past changing her burglary assignment. She was going to demand a transfer from Hollywood Detectives immediately. She didn't want to be there when somebody
else
discovered the truth about Valnikov. But mental aberration wasn't incurable. It wasn't irreversible, for God's sake! And though she had to get away from him, there was no denying how much she liked him. You
had
to like anybody born and raised in Los Angeles, twenty-two years a cop, who was as corny and old-fashioned as he was. And so crazy. And that, she reasoned, was probably what brought on the orgasmic bursts. Some perverse streak in her she wasn't aware of. Making love to a madman.

“So it's been the best night of your entire life,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, still stroking, caressing, as he listened to the Gypsy violin and stared at the darkened ceiling.

“Tell me more about your entire life,” she said.

“How can I tell you about my entire life?” he chuckled.

“Tell me about your old neighborhood.”

“Boyle Heights? Well, it was Russian and Jewish and Mexican, and old. It's a very old neighborhood. Now of course it's almost all Mexican.”

“Were you a happy kid?” she asked, propping herself up on an elbow, looking at his eyes, wet in the darkness.

“Sure I was happy,” he said. “Of course it was tough after my father died, but Alex was much older and he supported us just fine.”

“Did you go to church?”

“Of
course
we went to church,” Valnikov smiled. “Our lives centered around the church. Our
batushka
was there. Our professor was there. We went to services and to Sunday School and to Russian school all there in the church. All of us had to learn to read and write the language from our professor.”