by Anonymous-9
Sid zooms to the kitchen, tail unfurled and me rolling behind to the cupboards.
"Sid."
He looks inquiringly.
"Open door."
He opens the cupboard door I'm looking at and dammit, she's done it again! Blattlatch has rearranged my stuff! There's a nice bottle of Stool Formula One—poop medicine for constipated race car drivers? Colon blow so fast acting you need to have somebody standing by with a starter pistol and a bedpan? The bottle is thoughtfully pushed to the front, and all the useful stuff jammed behind it. She's a nurse not a housekeeper but she insists on this TIDYING and ARRANGING, this fussy, prissy YAAAAAAAH! She's not blinding me with science, she's annoying me to death one piddly visit at a time.
Sid bounds around the kitchen like this is an adventure land we've never been to before. One leap takes him to the kitchen counter where three bins are lined up, Coffee, Tea and Sugar. The first two actually contain what they say, but the third, not so much. Sid flips the lid back and starts eating monkey chow right out of the container. I let him eat on demand and like a healthy animal, he stops when he's full.
There's a terrific place in Santa Ana called Helping Hands that trains monkeys. It's a national nonprofit, serving quadriplegics and spinal-cord injury victims with high quality, highly trained helper monkeys. That's not where Sid came from. I was on a waiting list forever for a helper monkey, finally lost patience and went on the black market to see what I could find. The sellers were very upfront about Sid's strengths and weaknesses. He was an exceptionally intelligent animal with advanced skills, but prone to headstrong acts of defiance and lapses of concentration. Hey, I'm not perfect either.
After a promising start at training school, he got dropped and was put up for sale as a pet. I was told to get his teeth pulled and neutered as soon as possible. Teeth-pulling was out of the question for obvious reasons and I decided not to neuter him because it would lower his testosterone. Amateur physicians like myself know that testosterone fuels drive, industry, intensity, creativity and aggression. Aggression is the downside on a long scroll of positives. I wanted Sid to be his sharp, quick-thinking self and decided I'd roll with the occasional burst of defiance. Not a whole lot of difference between Sid and me, when you get down to it. Big monkey, small monkey; hard to say who's more civilized.
While Sid chomps, I consult my email. Garbage, spam… I've been wracking my brain of late to land the next kill. I'd get Sid to do it but we got so lucky at the carwash that I hate to overdo it. Besides this is LA, I need to employ creativity.
Here's an invite to join one of those group pages. Hold on a minute. California has to be the social networking capital of the universe. What if I faked a page, declared myself a writer, no not just a writer, a crime writer, offering paid interviews for real-life hit-and-run drivers? It's hard to believe anybody would be stupid enough to answer and actually tell the truth, but times are tough right now, and people will do things for money they never previously considered. I can feel you shaking your head, buddy. You agree with that one, huh? A hundred thousand jobs plus lost in LA due to the economy, and in LA everybody wants to sell their story. I'll make sure my page guarantees they can stay anonymous. That'll be the clincher. Everybody also knows that the press protect their sources, right?
An hour later, and I'm set up with a fake handle, a brand new fake email account and my own page. It's a beaut. I glance at the calendar and see Blattlatch is due for a visit. We are going for a check-up with Dr. Klanski, my internist. Blattlatch is bound to be early so we can all get to Klanski's office well ahead of time and wait longer than we need to in his office. I scratch a cheery post-it with my good hand to put on the front door. "Hi Miz Blattlatch. Please come in. Sid and I will be back in time to go see Doc K."
***
Outside the apartment building, Orella sips from a water bottle and shifts her hips into a more comfortable position. She's put in two ten-hour days, and so far, the van has not moved from basement parking. Neither has any handicapped man entered or exited the building.
Or maybe... What's that shape moving beyond the electric door? A reflection-darkened figure rolls toward the exit. She can see the outline of a wheelchair. The man looks so frail. A man that frail couldn't possibly drive a van, could he?
The door slides open and he exits into the daylight. Behind the tinted windows of her SUV, Orella stops breathing. Her heart booms in her chest. A small creature flits out of the man's lap to his shoulder. A monkey? Orella shakes her head in disbelief. It's almost as if the creature sees her looking, though he couldn't possibly see her with the sun right in his eyes, secreted as she is behind dark windows.
As if he were looking straight at her, the little monkey yawns, revealing white, sharp canine teeth.
Sweat breaks out across her forehead and a rivulet trickles down the back of her shirt. She grips the steering wheel so hard her knuckles crackle before slumping forward in a faint.
Five minutes, ten maybe, her eyes flutter open. She looks wildly up and down the road, gets out and jogs a few paces up and back. The man and his creature are gone but Orella knows what she's seen. Ambrose's real killer—a small, blonde and chocolate monkey with an adorable little face, hiding a full set of gleaming, flesh-ripping teeth.
Chapter Eleven
At his desk in the squad room, Doug scrolls through electronic files, absorbing the criminal blueprint of the Malalinda family. In a separate window, he assembles notes to email to his partner Leone.
Alejandro Malalinda's record stretches all the way back to the late 80s, associated with notorious operatives in Operation Pelican Drop. The day is getting on, the Captain is touchy about overtime, but Doug really needs to get this in perspective. He stretches his legs under the desk and keeps reading.
Notes from the Special Services Unit, California Department of Corrections suggests Malalinda is a "people person" in a world of mafiosos, a talented organizer of men, a productive drug dealer and a ruthless, efficient killer. One weapons charge cites a Universal mini-14 rifle, a military-style AK-15 assault rifle, and an M-1 carbine stashed in his truck. He carried that kind of armory just to run personal errands.
Over the years, Alejandro served time at Pelican Bay, Lancaster, Corcoran and finally, LA County Men's Central, where he met his end at the age of 43. Doug rests his eyes a moment. Friends and family most likely took up the slack during Alejandro's time away, dutifully following his commands from behind bars and conducting business in his place. A smart boss like Alejandro could still command a battalion while incarcerated. Doug's educated conjecture is that after his death, Orella, Luis and Mateo Malalinda took over the business and began operating the drug trafficking and money laundering.
Jpeg photos are attached to the file. Doug clicks one and a naked-torso shot of Mateo reveals a full-chest tattoo of San Judas Todeo, patron saint of hopeless causes. A soft chuckle from Doug. A third son, by the name of Ambrose, has no criminal record, and seems to be distanced from the others.
Doug leans back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head, and lets the information sink in.
So far they have nothing on the mother and son who sold their ID to Orella and Ambrose. They are ghosts. If he does find Orella Malalinda, what will he charge her with? Body snatching? She's still the real mother with a right to claim the body. He taps his forehead wondering why the thought didn't occur earlier. Orella Malalinda sent her son back to Mexico. She'll have to go back to bury him, won't she?
Doug pulls up a search screen on the computer, finds the number for feds in Sinaloa and dials. He's a little worried about his Spanish but there's no need because the answering officer speaks perfect English. "I was wondering if you could check with customs and find out which funeria claimed the body of Hector Stamos," Doug explains.
"Sure. I'll pass along your request to Detective Lanzoa and have him get back to you."
Doug digs into some paperwork, figuring he'll hear back in a few days, when his cell rings. It's a Mexican area c
ode. Doug picks up. "Detective Lanzoa?"
"The body was claimed by Funeria Celzuna, but it was released to another place which turned out to be bogus."
"Ahhhh dang."
"What do you want him for?"
"I want his mother. You might've heard of her. Orella Malalinda."
Lanzoa clicked his teeth. "What do you want her on?"
"This time around: fraud."
"Fraud? She's drug cartel."
"Yeah, but right now it's just fraud."
"I can't put a watch on the airport and every funeral home in Sinaloa because of a fraud charge…I thought you were homicide."
"Come on, sometimes it's complicated."
Lanzoa sighs. "Yes, I know."
"Thanks for getting back to me. I'll call you if I get a hit."
Finishing up notes for Leone, Doug adds, "Hope your tooth feels better." He attaches the document to an email and pushes "Send."
***
At the house in Cerritos, Mateo labors to end another call explaining why his mother is not taking visitors, and wanders into the front room just in time to see her pull up in front of the house. He leans in closer to the window. She's dressed in uncharacteristically shapeless clothing and flat shoes as she flies up the walk. Even the two pit bulls in the front yard whine and look at her strangely. Mateo sees her pause at the front door, swiping the biometric fingerprint scan pad three times before she gets it right. Something is making her hands shake.
"Luis," he calls in a warning voice. "She's home."
Luis appears as Orella blusters in the door. "I found him!" she blurts. "I found the man."
Luis steps forward, calm and collected, a liar from zero to sixty in a heartbeat. "Did you talk to him?"
Orella loses grasp of her keys and the clatter noisily to the tile. She scrabbles to pick them up as her sons exchange looks over her head. "He has a monkey," she announces to the floor.
Luis says nothing. Mateo folds his arms.
Straightening up, she continues. "With teeth. That animal—teeth white and sharp. I saw!" She knows her voice is getting shrill. The keys in her hand are rattling again. She has to gain control of herself, the boys are looking at her strangely. Why aren't they reacting?
"Mama, why don't you come in and sit down." Luis has an overly soothing tone.
The demon inside her, that even their father dreaded to face, surfaces. For a second her lips purse, her eyes flick from one to the other as an internal countdown to combustion starts. The men imperceptibly lean away, checking for an exit. Her entire body seems to puff under the dark clothing, like an excited bird. Not a harmless bird. This is a bird of prey—all sharp beak, talons and wings that beat you all over.
"YOU" she says ominously taking a step. "I want YOU…" Her forefinger with its long, painted nail stabs in the direction of their chests, back and forth. Her eyes blaze like black suns as her lips disappear in a snarl. "I WANT YOU TO fiiiiiind hiiiiiiiimmmmmm."
The last two words fade into a whisper as she leans farther forward with that long claw stabbing. White rises in both their faces. This is the Orella their father feared when her rage blew. This is the full-frontal iron witch who held onto power that normally would have vanished when their father died. They aren't afraid she'll do them harm, it's that her rage will turn on itself. More than once they've stopped her drifting through the house after midnight, playing with a knife in a bloody nightgown.
She hisses on like a pot boiling over. "A man with legs that don't work. A man with one arm. He gets the best of you? He makes fools of the sons of Alejandro Malalinda?"
Luis and Mateo look at the floor, arms hanging loose at their sides.
"He's not a man. He's not half a man. He's a bug. SQUASH HIM!"
"Yes Mama." they say in unison.
"VAMOS!" she shrieks, and they stumble from the room.
***
Blattlatch insists on wheeling me down to the parking garage, even though I can wheel myself, to load into her state-issued disabled-access vehicle. Or "The Cripple Coach" as I like to call it. She can barely refrain from hitting me when I use that name and when Sid sees the look on her face he almost pees with glee. Almost.
Blattlatch pulls the coach onto Washington like she's manhandling a school bus. To get to the 91, which will take us east to Dr. Klanski's office, we take Admiralty Way. There's a left turn at Mindanao which is always tricky for Sid and me to navigate in the van because you have to drift over to the right lane if you're going to make the lineup for the 91 exit. Blattlatch is at the wheel so I just practice the turn in my head. You can tell Blattlatch is an LA native, though. She doesn't use the turn signal. Nobody does. It's part of the laid-back vibe, LA-wide.
Never one to let a moment of silence go unfilled, Blattlatch starts with an interrogation that passes as conversation with someone of her personality type. "So Mr. Drayhart, what is your profession?"
"I'm a professional spastic, Miz Blattlatch. Pays well."
"Now Mr. Drayhart, you had a good profession before the accident," she says, unflappable. "You were in insurance, I believe."
Blattlatch has me nailed, but I'd rather throw myself out the door than bring up my former life. It won't do to appear rude, so I nod my head and answer, "You are absolutely correct. I was in insurance. That's why I am so well-provided for. How's about some music while we drive? Maybe a little talk radio?"
"What about my music," she answers with a twinkle in her eye. "Do you like Marvin Hamlisch?"
I'd say yes to marching anthems from the Third Reich at this point and if Marvin Hamlisch is the guy who can rescue, swell by me.
Tinkly piano clatters through the speakers and I think about then…
I started out as a junior underwriter. Fresh out of university Laidlund Insurance Co. hired me—commercial general liability, specializing in new-home construction, underwriting division. Doesn't that sound like fun?
Underwriting was where I learned the world was a maze of peril. My job was looking for risk, however it might visit, no matter what innocuous place it might hide. I moved up from junior to full-fledged underwriter. I got married. I had a child. I purchased health and personal liability insurance. Moving higher still, to actuary, I reviewed loss data, risks, perils, disaster, and pored over statistics and odds.
I thought I knew life—had all our exposures categorized. Then the accident. Buddy, there's a difference between being covered for an accident and having karma on your side so no accident happens. I was not clear on that back then. Now I get it.
The CD changer spins and the theme from Cats brings me back to the present. Blattlatch is tapping the wheel enjoying herself. Sid is making little squeaks. He likes the jaunty beat, too. I look out the window and keep my yap zipped. We're heading for Cedars-Sinai, hospital-to-the-stars. Every time some starlet ODs on X and vomits over herself in Bel Air, she goes to Cedars where they pump her out and prop her up for another episode of self-destruction. But Cedars also sees regular people and is home to some truly great, unsung doctors, nurses and hospital staff.
We enter on George Burns Drive, named for the old comic who was still telling jokes at age a hundred. My favorite line of his: "Acting is all about honesty. If you can fake that, you got it made." Famous showbiz names are all over the place: The Spielberg Building, the Max Factor Family Tower. These are the names that made good and gave back. Or maybe they just wanted their names slapped on the side of some cement. Who cares? It's a hospital.
***
Doctor Klanski settles into his chair and tries to get me focused in his trifocals. The glasses are new and he's having a bitch of a time adjusting. He opens my sizeable file and brings himself up to date on my condition, a cervical spinal core injury diagnosed as "incomplete." That means a few scattered fibers are intact, enabling the use of my right arm and hand, and still enabling maintenance of an erection, which is enough proof for me that there is a God and he has a sense of humor.
"Digestion," Klanski states in a flat, distracted voice
, like it's hard for him to pull his focus off the page and onto the living, breathing person. "How's that been since I saw you last?"
"Oysters on the half shell for breakfast and prime rib every night, doc."
His smile is diluted, and he doesn't dignify my comment with an answer.
"It's the same, Doctor Klanski," I say.
He asks how I'm adjusting to "life on wheels" as he puts it. I'm tempted to say, "Just great now that I've found my new hobby—murder." But that would be indulging my ego. I've read that serial killers have to be very careful about that ego thing. It's where madness takes over. I may be partially mad, but it hasn't taken me over completely. I make a mental note to remind myself of humility, everyday. Where there is humility, madness doesn't go. Or madness flees. Something like that. Maybe I can't finish the sentence, but I know what I mean.
Klanski clears his throat. "Nurse Blattlatch is concerned about your bowel movements. When your bowel was perforated in the crash, segments had to be resected."
"Meaning?" I say this like I don't know, when I know all too freaking well.
"The tract is intact but significantly shortened. If you're not getting rid of waste properly, you can become toxic."
"It's none of her fucking business," I snap, making Klanski rip the trifocals off his face and fix me with a pale stare. "Angry. So angry. You can't stay so angry."
"My anger keeps me alive."
"It will kill you."
"So it'll keep me alive till it kills me."
He sucks his teeth and shakes his head. I decide to be a little nicer. I need Klanski for the reports he sends to my disability insurance provider. I try a helpful tone, "I'm taking a natural herbal supplement to feed my adrenals."
"You what?"
"For my adrenal glands. Anger exhausts the adrenals. I'm already taking a natural herbal supplement for it."