Graumann shrugged again. “Okay,” he said and Paula slammed the door in his face. The phone rang once more and Chick’s answering machine clicked on. Shit, she’d forgotten about that. Chick’s voice spoke from the machine, and she felt like crying again. Or laughing.
“This is Chick, and you can suck my dick. Or leave a message. Your choice.” A high beep sounded, followed by another click.
“Ah…this is Lieutenant Frank Carlucci, calling for Paula Asgard. I’ll try to…”
Paula hurried into the bedroom and looked around for the phone.
“…this message you can…”
She spotted it under the edge of the overstuffed chair, crossed the room, dropped to the floor and picked it up, interrupting Carlucci’s message.
“Hi, this is Paula.”
“What? Oh, yes, this is Lieutenant Carlucci. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve checked into the case.”
Jesus, he sounded so damn formal. “And?”
“And, well, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can tell you. Everything possible has been done, but unfortunately without much success. Despite a thorough investigation, there have been no leads. Although the case is not technically closed, for all practical purposes it is pretty much over.”
Paula was speechless. It was Carlucci’s voice, she was sure she recognized it, but it hardly sounded like him, spouting all this crap.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Asgard,” Carlucci went on, “that I couldn’t have been more help.”
God damn, the bastard was caving with the rest of them. “That’s all you’ve got to say?” she asked him.
“No, there is one more thing, Ms. Asgard. I know this has been difficult for you, and that it’s especially frustrating when the person or persons responsible for the death of your friend have not been apprehended, or even identified. But I think it would be best if you put this whole thing behind you.” He paused. “Let this go, Ms. Asgard.”
“Just like that, huh?”
“I know it won’t be easy, but yes. Forget about it, Ms. Asgard. Believe me, it will be better if you do.”
All right, I’ve got the message. “Fine,” she said to Carlucci. “I get the picture. Thanks a lot for nothing.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Asgard.” There was another long pause, and when Paula didn’t reply, Carlucci said, “Goodbye, Ms. Asgard,” then hung up.
“Yeah, goodbye, asshole.” Paula sat on the floor for a minute, holding the receiver, listening to the dial tone. Terrific. Carlucci, the wonder cop. Mixer didn’t know his ass from a gravity well. She hung up the phone, then pulled herself up off the floor and into the overstuffed chair.
She’d been right here that night, sitting in this chair and staring at Chick’s body on the floor, what was left of his head surrounded by thick, dark blood. All that remained now were the stains in the rug. She shouldn’t have bothered going to Carlucci in the first place. What did it matter in the end? Chick was dead, and he was going to stay dead no matter what happened.
But she had thought it was important, important that somebody at least try to find out who had killed him and why. It still was important, she decided, but it obviously wasn’t going to happen. And since it wasn’t, Carlucci was right. She should just forget about it. Mixer said he could “nudge” Carlucci into it, but she would tell him not to bother. If Carlucci wouldn’t do it on his own, then fuck him. Just fuck ’em all.
Half an hour later, Paula decided to pack it in for the day. She was hungry and tired and depressed. She’d had enough. She would take the box of letters and a few other things with her, and leave the rest for later; tomorrow or the next day she would call Nikky and see if she could borrow her van.
Before she could pull everything together, she heard knocking at the door. Oh, God, not Graumann again. What the hell would he want this time? Paula went to the front door, looked through the peephole, and was surprised to see Carlucci.
She didn’t know whether to be pissed, or just more depressed; whether to open the door, or scream at him to leave. When Carlucci knocked again, Paula threw back the bolts and pulled the door open.
“Hello, Ms. Asgard.” He looked uncomfortable, which was fine with her.
“Why are you here, Lieutenant Carlucci?”
“I want to apologize for what I said on the phone.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Look, I need to talk to you. You can forget everything I said on the phone, all that…well, that was just to cover my ass, and yours.” He scratched behind his ear. “This case is making me paranoid, and I’m trying not to take any chances.”
Paula’s anger and depression lifted a little, but she remained wary. “Are you saying you are going to look into Chick’s death?”
Carlucci scratched again, frowning, then nodded. “I think so. That’s why I want to talk to you.”
“But the phone call. You think your own phone is bugged?”
Carlucci shrugged. “I’d be surprised if it wasn’t. Look, have you had dinner yet?” When Paula shook her head, Carlucci said, “Why don’t we go get something to eat, then, and talk about this?”
Did she really want to? Did she really want to get worked up again, maybe get shot down one more time? Or should she just let it go? Paula finally nodded. “Sure. I was just getting ready to lock up here. I’ve had it for today. Let me get my jacket.”
Carlucci waited in the hall while she walked back to the bedroom, got her jacket, checked to make sure her wallet was secured inside, then rejoined him. She closed the door, locked the dead-bolts.
“You know a good place around here?” Carlucci said. “I’ll buy.”
Paula nodded, throwing her jacket over her shoulder. She should give him a choice. “Thai, or Mex?” Hoping he would say Mex; she had a real yen for chile rellenos and black beans.
“Mexican,” Carlucci said.
Paula smiled. Maybe things were picking up. “Great,” she said. “I know just the place.”
Christiano’s was small and colorful, noisy and crowded, with brightly painted dolls and masks and pictures hanging on the walls and from the ceiling. Traditional cantina played through tinny speakers mounted in the corners. Isabel met them as they came in, and Paula spoke with her in Spanish. They exchanged hellos, and Isabel hugged her, offered condolences for Chick. Carlucci surprised her when he introduced himself to Isabel, also in Spanish. Isabel said they would have a table cleared in a few minutes, and left.
Christiano’s was one of Paula’s favorite places, with good food and good people, a real neighborhood place. As they waited just inside the front door, she looked around for familiar faces. In the back, at a small table next to the kitchen door, was Pascal, the neighborhood scrounger, sitting alone and drinking coffee with his see-through arm. Three years ago Pascal had replaced his perfectly healthy right arm with an artificial limb sheathed in some kind of clear material so that all the inner workings were visible. Word on the street was that he’d done the same thing with his cock, but Paula wasn’t about to check it out for herself.
Jeff and Robert were at a table by the front window, holding hands, Robert batting neon lashes at any man who walked by. Paula liked them both a lot, and waved when she caught Jeff’s eye. Jeff and Robert waved back, smiling. Deena sat with three men Paula had never seen before, which worried her a little, but Deena seemed all right; Deena could usually take care of herself.
Isabel returned with menus and led them to a booth against the left wall. Carlucci sat facing the front of the restaurant, which left Paula with a terrific view of Pascal and the kitchen door. Carlucci glanced through the menu, then looked at her. “Any recommendations?”
“Everything’s good,” Paula said. “I go for the chile rellenos myself. But whatever you get, have an order of their black beans. They’re great.”
When Isabel came by again, Paula ordered three chile rellenos and black beans; Carlucci ordered polio con arroz, a side of the beans, and a bottle of Diablo Negro beer.
Paula made a face at
him after Isabel left. “God, you can drink that stuff?”
Carlucci smiled. “Sure. Why not?”
Paula just shivered. It was foul-tasting beer, very high alcohol. She had gotten tanked on Diablo Negro once, and she’d been sick for days. She’d never touched it since. Isabel came by with the beer, poured half the bottle into a glass, and left. Carlucci picked up the glass and raised an eyebrow at Paula. She gave him a sick smile, and said, “Go right ahead.” Carlucci drank deeply; he seemed to actually enjoy it. Paula shook her head.
She picked up a tortilla chip and nibbled at it. “You wanted to talk,” she said. “So let’s talk.”
Carlucci scanned the restaurant, checking the people around them, and Paula wondered if he thought coming here was a mistake. But there was so much noise between the music, conversations, and the shouting and cooking sounds from the kitchen, she didn’t think he had to worry. She couldn’t make out the conversations of anyone nearby; it was all just babble. Carlucci apparently came to the same conclusion, because he shrugged and looked back at her.
“I told you,” he said, his voice just loud enough for her to make out. “This case is making me paranoid. We both have to be careful of what we say, and where. I just don’t like any of this.” He paused, turning his beer glass around and around on the table. “Look, I want you to think damn hard about whether or not you really want me looking into this. If I go ahead, I’ll be sticking my neck out, but it’s going to put you at risk as well. I’m sure of it. Believe me, I’ll be damn careful, but I can’t guarantee anything, for either of us. I’ve got no idea how dangerous it could be, but we should assume the worst.” He picked up his glass, stared at it, put it down without drinking, and looked back at Paula. “If you want me to just forget about the whole thing, I’ll drop it right now. Let the case close, let them bury it.”
“So they are trying to bury it,” Paula said. She hated it, but it felt good to hear Carlucci say it, to know she’d been right.
“Yes,” Carlucci said, nodding. “And that might be the smartest thing to do, let them.” Then he shook his head. “No, it would be the smartest thing. Certainly the safest.”
Paula scooped salsa onto a chip, put it into her mouth, and chewed on it as she watched Carlucci. She was trying to figure what his real feelings were on all this. Was he simply trying to warn her of real dangers and risks, or was he trying to scare her off?
“What about you?” she asked. “Do you want to look into it? Forget about me for a minute. If you were on your own, would you be trying to find out what happened?”
“How am I supposed to forget about you?” Carlucci said, smiling. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t even know about the damn thing. There’d be no decision to make.”
“You know what I mean,” Paula said.
Carlucci nodded. “Yeah, I do.” He drank more of his beer, then poured the rest of the bottle into the glass. “Probably,” he said. “I’d be digging into it, yes. Friends of mine are being screwed over by this case. I’m not going to go into details, or tell you any names. You don’t need to know any of that, and we’re both better off if you don’t know.”
“I think I can guess one name,” Paula said. “Besides, you don’t really know how much you can trust me, right?”
“There is that,” Carlucci said. “It’s not personal.”
“I understand,” Paula replied. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I don’t. I have your phone number, but I don’t know where you live. I don’t even know what you do for a living. You at least know that about me.”
Paula smiled. “Most of the time I don’t even know what I do for a living.” She shrugged. “Mostly, I manage the Lumiere Theater, which gives me very irregular paychecks. And I play bass in slash-and-burn bands, which makes me pretty much no money at all.”
“Slash-and-burn?” Carlucci raised an eyebrow. “Like Chick.”
“Yeah, like Chick. We played in the same band, Pilate Error. As in Pontius Pilate. We played together off and on for a lot of years. And I play in an all-woman band called Black Angels.”
“How old are you?” Carlucci asked.
“Thirty-nine.” She watched him, waiting for the question, but Carlucci didn’t say anything. He made a grumbling sound and drank from his glass. “You aren’t going to ask me if I don’t think I’m too old for slash-and-burn, rock and roll,” Paula asked.
Carlucci smiled and shook his head. “Not me. I’m not touching that one.”
Paula smiled back at him. She was beginning to like Carlucci, no doubt about that. Maybe Mixer wasn’t so crazy after all. She let the smile fade.
“So, are you going to look into it?” she asked him.
“Do you want me to? I was serious about the risks. Someone with heat wants this thing buried, and we both could get scorched but good.”
She’d thought a lot about it before she’d even gone to Carlucci; she’d known from the beginning that it wouldn’t be easy. “I’m willing to risk it if you are,” Paula said. “I trust your judgment. I think.”
Carlucci frowned. “Yeah, you think. Well, like I said before, no promises. I’m willing to dig around a bit, stick my neck out a little, but I’m going to be damn careful, and if it looks like I’ll get my head chopped off, I’ll pull the plug. I’m not willing to sacrifice everything I’ve got for this. Understood?”
“Understood.” She nodded. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”
“Good enough.”
“So,” Paula said. “What’s next?”
“I want to get together with you for a couple of hours so we can talk about Chick, the people he knew, anything you know about what he was doing, that kind of thing.”
“All right. When?”
“I’ve got another case I’m working on, but I’m off this weekend. Either Saturday or Sunday, any time.”
As Paula was thinking about it, their food arrived. Isabel warned them about the hot plates, asked Carlucci if he wanted another beer. He said no, and she left them alone.
“Sunday would be best,” Paula said. “If we can do it early, say eight or nine in the morning. We’ve got a Final Films Festival this weekend at the Lumiere, and I’ve got to be there and make sure the thing doesn’t completely fall apart.”
“Final films?”
“Yeah. Final films of the great directors. The last films of Malle, Maxwell, Scorsese, Godard, Herzog, Blanchot, Fassbinder.”
Carlucci nodded. “I know Malle. Elevator to the Gallows.”
“Sure, one of his early films. You’ve seen it?”
“No. I just know the soundtrack. Miles Davis. Great music.” He smiled. “I’m a jazz and blues man myself.”
“Really? Do you play?”
“A little. Trumpet.”
Yes, Paula thought, she was going to like Carlucci just fine. “So is Sunday morning all right?” she asked.
“Yeah, probably. I’ll call you in a couple of days, confirm it, and we can decide where.” He looked down at his plate, then back at her. “Right now, how about we eat while it’s still hot?”
“Absolutely.” Paula dug her fork into one of the chile rellenos, brought it to her mouth. The egg coating was light and fluffy, the chile had a sharp bite, and the cheese inside was hot and smooth. Wonderful. She looked up at Carlucci, who seemed to be enjoying his own food. She thought about the letters Chick had kept, and Carlucci showing up at the apartment, saying he would look into Chick’s murder, and now delicious food in a place like this. The day had turned out all right after all.
6
CARLUCCI SAT IN the dark basement of his home in the Inner Sunset, trumpet in hand, one of his old Big Eddie Washington discs playing on the sound system. Eddie Washington—a great blues guitarist with a harsh, haunting voice. Washington finished singing a verse of “Devil Woman Blues,” and Carlucci brought the trumpet to his lips. As Washington began his solo, Carlucci broke in, counterpointing Washington’s guitar with his own solo trumpet.
&n
bsp; After his family, this was Carlucci’s love—jazz, yes, but most of all the blues. Listening to it, and playing it. It took him away, not in escape, but into a world that seemed to mesh with his gut and with his heart; it brought up sadness and pain, but in ways that were somehow beautiful, and affirming.
He had been in the basement for over an hour, listening and playing. Christina, their younger daughter (not so young anymore, seventeen), had been the only one home when he came in after taking Paula to her apartment. Christina said that Andrea had called from the office and wouldn’t be home until nine or ten; then she had taken off to meet Marx, her boyfriend, for a night of bone-slotting down in the Marina. Which had left Carlucci the house to himself.
The song ended and Carlucci sat back in the old sofa, resting the trumpet on his thigh, thinking about Caroline, his other daughter. Caroline, who had just turned twenty and wouldn’t live to see thirty. Right after the Gould’s Syndrome had been diagnosed, Caroline had moved out of the house, and they hardly saw her anymore. Carlucci thought he understood, and he didn’t hold it against her, but knowing she didn’t have that many years left, he wanted to see her as much as possible. Instead, they only saw her once or twice a month, and didn’t even talk to her much more than that.
The next song’s solo began, and Carlucci played a few notes, then stopped, returning the trumpet to his thigh, thoughts moving for some reason from Caroline to his old blues band. Death on his mind, he guessed. When he was younger, a lot younger, he had been part of a quartet with three other cops. Right after Caroline had been born. They’d called themselves the Po-Leece Blues Band, and they’d been good enough to play in some of the clubs around the city; not regularly, but often enough to stay fresh and tight. Then Baker, the bass player, and Johnson, the drummer, had both been killed in a race riot in front of City Hall, and that had been the end of the band. Carlucci had never tried to put together another, and he had contented himself over the years with playing alone in his basement, playing along with the old greats and the new.
Carlucci Page 29