The Black Marble (44 page)

“Valnikov.”

“Yes, Natalie.”

“I'm asking for a transfer.”

“From the burglary detail?”

“From Hollywood Detectives.”

“Oh? Is it because …”

“Look, Valnikov, I don't know what happened last night. I don't understand anything anymore, so help me. I mean, I'm running around looking for a one-eared dog like it's the Patty Hearst kidnapping. I mean, I'm calling myself by another name, even.”

“Natasha,” he smiled.

“Don't call me that. This isn't a goddamn Chekhov play.”

“Sorry.”

“Valnikov, doesn't it seem that things have become a bit too much for you? The dreams?”

“I didn't dream about the rabbit last night.” He wanted to tell her what he dreamed about.

“Yes, but it seems you've been undergoing a kind of … mental breakdown. You
must
know you haven't been yourself for quite a while now. For several months from everything I can understand. I mean the incident in the morgue? When you threatened the doctor? I mean, you have some
problems
to cope with.”

“I can cope with them … now.”

“Oh, please don't say that to me, Valnikov. Last night was last night! I don't understand last night. If our …
talking
last night was helpful, I'm very glad. So help me, I am. Look, do you know what I've planned for next month? Jack Packerton and I are flying to Honolulu. Then we're going to Kauai where we're renting a bungalow in Hanalei Bay. It's supposed to be a paradise.”

“A paradise,” Valnikov said.

“Jack's going to be a deputy chief of this department.”

“Yes, you said that before.”

“Yeah, well what I'm saying is, I've got a routine. My life's in
order
. Yours is a mess. Do you understand?”

“I guess so,” he said.

“Hell, Jack's been wanting to get married for the past six months. I wanna just live with him but he has this phobia. Deputy Chief Digby Bates gets tight-jawed when unmarried officers live together. Did you read the moral rearmament bulletin from that Jesus Freak?”

“No,” Valnikov said.

“Anyway, that's where
my
head is. I don't want to be always picking the black marble!”

“Well,” Valnikov sighed, dabbing at his lips, “I guess we'd better get going. Clarence Cromwell's going to wonder where we are.”

“Yeah, let's get it on,” Natalie Zimmerman mumbled miserably.

Valnikov fed and watered Misha and Grisha before they left. Then he went into the bedroom and strapped on his gun belt and got his suit-coat with the stapled pockets. Natalie could hear his heavy sighs from the other room. She watched the little creatures in the big cage.

“Whadda you think of it?” she said to the parakeet, knowing what his answer would be.

He did a forward fall, looked at her while hanging upside down, and said, “
Gavno
.”

Clarence Cromwell was on his second cup of coffee when they arrived.

“Glad you could finally make it,” he growled, “after you git me outta bed at some ungodly hour!” Then he looked at Natalie and noticed she wore the same clothes as the day before. She never did that. And her Friz was a little unfrizzed. And she came in
with
Valnikov. Clarence hadn't been a detective twenty years without being observant.

Natalie saw him grinning at them. The evil old spook!

“Are we getting the chopper?” Valnikov asked, gathering his paper work from the report box while Natalie headed for the coffee.

“Got it,” Clarence said. “Okay on the surveillance teams too. Gonna have quite a show. Hope the dognapper shows up.”

“The extortionist,” Valnikov said.

“Yeah. Hope he shows up.”

Then the phone rang and Cromwell grabbed it. “Yeah,” he said. Then to Valnikov, “For you.”

“Valnikov,” he said, picking up his extension and punching the first line.

“Sergeant, this is Madeline Whitfield,” she said, very tentatively.

“Mrs. Whitfield!” Valnikov said. “What happened? Did he call?”

“He called. Last night. At about two a.m. I … Sergeant, I'm sorry. I took him the money. He told me to drop it off on the bridge by my home. I did it. I assume he picked it up. I went back at daybreak and it was gone. I haven't slept a minute. I guess he got it. I …”

“Do you have Vickie?” Valnikov said and got Natalie's attention at once. He held his hand over the phone and said, “She dropped the money on him during the night.”

“No,” she said, her voice cracking. “He said he'll call me today. He promised he'll release her today. I just have to wait. I'm sorry, Sergeant. Well … I wanted … I know I probably did the wrong thing. I
wanted
to do it your way. Well … she's all there is in my life. Well …”

“Don't cry, Mrs. Whitfield,” Valnikov said softly. “I do understand. I don't blame you for anything. I do understand. Don't cry. Now now, it's going to be all right, I promise you. There'll be someone here all day who can get in touch with me. You call the moment you hear from him. Yes. Don't cry. I promise you it'll be all right.”

When he hung up, Clarence took a drink of coffee and said, “I'll cancel the chopper and the surveillance teams.”

“She doesn't have Vickie yet,” Valnikov said. “Why didn't I think of that? Why didn't I anticipate that he might call during the night?”

“Because this guy doesn't do anything orderly,” Natalie said. “He's erratic and messy and crazy and you can't figure him because of it. Don't worry about it. It's not your fault. You've done all you can do.”

Valnikov was on his feet. “It's almost eight o'clock,” he said. “I'm still going to contact Mrs. Gharoujian's dog handler. That man Skinner. I'm going to have a talk with him about all the guys who lived with Mrs. Gharoujian when he was showing Tutu. He's the only hope there is now. He's got to come up with a few names for us.”

“Valnikov, it's over, forget it!” Natalie said. “She
chose
to pay the money. He'll probably release the dog like he said. Or maybe the dog's dead. In either case, you've done all …”

“I'm going to Skinner Kennels,” he said, looking through the phone book.

“Well, sit down awhile at least,” Clarence Cromwell said. “It ain't even opened yet, if it keeps regular business hours. Sit down and drink your tea and relax a little bit. This ain't the Patty Hearst kidnapping.”

Which caused Natalie Zimmerman to say, “
That
is maybe the first time I ever agreed with
anything
you ever said, Clarence.”

As the other detectives straggled in for the day, and as Natalie Zimmerman did their routine paper work and filing of crime reports, Valnikov drank tea and made secret notes and drew pictures of a schnauzer and a bird.

Natalie glanced over at the pad and recognized the dog. “What's that, your parakeet?” she asked.

He almost told her it was a Russian nightingale in a raspberry bush, but he looked up with sorrowful runny eyes and said, “Yeah, my parakeet.”

Captain Hooker arrived rather early. He had a paper bag in his arms. It contained three bottles of Maalox. He figured that would keep his stomach quiet for a couple of days at least. But he was wrong.

First of all, Bullets Bambarella usually had a Twinkie with his morning coffee but couldn't afford one now, so he was grumpy. He had exactly two dollars and fifty cents to last until payday thanks to the bets he'd lost to the smirking Mexican, Montezuma Montez. Bullets was looking for trouble, right off the bat.

“How about lendin me ten bucks till payday, Clarence?” he whispered to the grizzled black detective.

“What for? You got some other bet you wanna lose to Montezuma?” Clarence snorted.

“Listen, Clarence, you ever hear of a good Mexican heavyweight? There
ain't
any. I think we could go up to the academy, get some boxing gloves and …”

“I don't want any of my men boxing,” said Woodenlips Mockett, overhearing it. “Somebody'll get hurt.”

“I could lick him, Clarence,” Bullets whined. “You could make some money bettin on me!”

When Bullets had gone back to the residential burglary table Clarence said, “Humph! Young coppers around here, they jist wear me down, is what they do. I see them smart-walkin all over the Chinatown barrooms these days. Their gud-damn guns hangin out so all the girls know they're cops. Shee-it. They probably drink High-waiian punch on the rocks. They jist wear me down.”

Then Frick said to Frack, “Who smells so good, you or Irma?” And he bit the giggling policewoman on the shoulder.

“Me,” said Frack, “and I don't know how to control it, neither.”

Then Bullets interrupted them with an important announcement: “Italian food is the best in the world. Italians are gourmets. Mexicans eat horsemeat tacos.”

“Bullets, is your mind gone, along with your paycheck?” said Clarence.

“I just heard that Montezuma is making enchiladas for the detective party next week,” said Bullets.

“So what's it to you?” said Montezuma Montez, and all the telephone calls stopped as the squad room got ready for a fight.

“I won't have my men boxing,” Woodenlips Mockett whined to Clarence Cromwell.

“Well, I don't wanna go to no party where I gotta eat horsemeat enchiladas,” said Bullets glaring at Montezuma Montez.

Frick and Frack were now grinning back and forth from Bullets to Montezuma. There were secret bets coming out under the tables. “They're gonna fight, Clarence! You stop them!” Woodenlips Mockett cried.

Then Bullets said, “Italians are gourmets. Chefs. You probably never heard of eggplant parmesan.”

“I heard of it,” Montezuma said.

“Put my eggplant and your enchilada side by side, your enchilada's gonna taste like horseshit.”

“I'm somewhat of a gourmet if I do say so,” said Dudley Knebel. “I'd like to try them both.”

“So would I,” said Irma Thebes.

“Could you be a fair judge, Dudley?” Bullets challenged.

“Perfectly,” said Dudley Knebel.

“Me too,” said Irma.

“I think I could go for it too,” said Nate Farmer. “But I think we should be able to write our opinions secret, so no hard feelins later.”

“I'll read the findings,” said Max Haffenkamp, “and just say which dish the judges picked.”

“Okay,” said Bullets. “Clarence, will you loan me twenty bucks?”

“I'll take five a that,” said Frick.

“I'll take five,” said Frack.

“Who wants
thirty
bucks?” said Bullets. “Payable on payday?”

“Covered!” said Montezuma.

“Well, that does it!” said Clarence Cromwell with utter, lip-curling contempt. “You don't have to worry about a fistfight no more, Lieutenant. It's down to a fuckin bake-off!”

Captain Hooker came out of the office, heading for the hot plate. He was going to pour some water into his powdered chocolate.

“Everything going smoothly, Clarence?” he said, mixing the brew.

“Fine, Skipper,” said Clarence.

Dudley Knebel said, “Oh, Captain. You know that market they robbed three times this month? The one on the Boulevard? Well, the commander called and suggests we stake it out this Thursday. Maybe the computers told him.”

“Now if the computer could jist
do
the stakeout …” Clarence grumbled.

“Clarence will coordinate it for you,” Hipless Hooker said. He didn't have time for any of this. He had to go buy a new pair of deck shoes, the kind real yachtsmen wear.

“Yeah, but Captain,” Dudley Knebel persisted, “the commander says we should put an undercover cop behind the counter. You know, dressed like one a the clerks? Because they pistol-whipped the last three clerks and he figures a cop should be there.”

“Great,” Clarence Cromwell snorted. “Let a cop get pistol-whipped instead of a clerk.”

“Yes, yes,” Hipless Hooker said impatiently. “Well, just pick someone to masquerade as the clerk. Police work entails some risks once in a while.”

“Yes, sir,” said Knebel. “But the crooks been in there three times. They
know
all the clerks. The commander said to put in a guy who actually resembles the oldest clerk and let the poor clerk work another part of the store.”

“Well for heaven's sake, can't you find an officer who resembles the old clerk?”

“Yes, sir,” said Dudley Knebel. “The commander says that you look just like him.”

Captain Hooker had to go home that morning with a dreadful tummyache. Which in no way affected Valnikov's police career this time. Valnikov's destiny was in other hands.

At 9:15 a.m. Valnikov finished drawing his eighth nightingale in a raspberry bush. By now Natalie guessed that he was not drawing parakeets.