The Black Marble

by Joseph Wambaugh

  Then Philo Skinner prepared the meal for the animals in his care. The bastards ate better than he did these days. That cunt. Lives in a fucking mansion over the Rose Bowl. The servants’ quarters probably bigger than the house Philo lived in with all his brothers and sisters when he was a kid. I don’t have the money, sir. The cunt! People like her made Philo Skinner what he was. Philo Skinner was a decent human being. Never hurt an animal in his life.

  Then he remembered. That stingy miserable cunt got him so upset he forgot to give her instructions about Tutu. He wondered if there was some way he could get Tutu for himself. No, that was stupid. He couldn’t risk that. A money drop was one thing. But a schnauzer drop? Tutu would have to go back with that horny cheap old cunt, Millie Muldoon Gharoujian. Too bad, Tutu. He would love to run on the beach in Puerto Vallarta, a rejuvenated man, Tutu by his side.

  When Philo Skinner slept that night he had a dream. In the dream he was tiptoeing across a flower-covered rainbow bridge under a subtropical moon. In the dream Philo Skinner looked just like Richard Burton.

  10

  The Fiddler

  Hipless Hooker came to work very late on Tuesday morning. He just knew there’d be another personnel complaint on his desk. He’d checked with his wife, who hated boats but loved movies, and discovered that the famous movie star he saw screaming at Bullets Bambarella last night had not been nominated for an Academy Award as he’d feared. At least that was some consolation. Maybe an actor who wasn’t up for an Oscar couldn’t cause him as much trouble as one who was. Hipless Hooker tried a glass of milk and it didn’t help. He was sure the famous actor would be waiting for him with his attorney and that’s why he came to work late.

  When Hipless Hooker came in the door he headed straight for his office, tucking his chin under his lapel, hoping that no one would notice him. Natalie Zimmerman leaped up and ran across the squad room but Clarence Cromwell beat her to it. He went into Captain Hooker’s office and slammed the door in her face.

  “Did the movie star call the press last night, Clarence?” Hooker asked, grimacing at the cup of coffee Clarence had for him.

  “No coffee today, Skipper?”

  “I’ve got terrible indigestion,” Hooker groaned.

  “I took care a both actors,” Clarence grinned. “Took them inside, bought them coffee, told them I was personally gonna kick Bullets’ ass all over the station. And get this, when they left they was so happy they gave me two tickets to a preview movie at the Director’s Guild!”

  “You’re amazing, Clarence!” Captain Hooker cried.

  “Captain? Got a few minutes?” Natalie said, peeking in the door, her Friz hanging down over her big glasses.

  “What’s the problem, Natalie?” Clarence said gruffly.

  “Captain, we’ve just got to talk about Valnikov!”

  Then Natalie stood helplessly as both Clarence Cromwell and Hipless Hooker began moaning in unison. “Oooooohhhhh.”

  “Captain …” But she couldn’t get a word in edgewise. So Natalie Zimmerman just stood there and sneered at her Friz until the men stopped groaning. When they were finished, Clarence Cromwell said, “Natalie, you said you was gonna work with the guy awhile and give it a fair try.”

  “Clarence, I gave it a fair …”

  Then Hipless Hooker started groaning again. But this time it wasn’t just emotional pain. He felt flame in his stomach that went right up his throat.

  “Do you call a few days a fair chance, gud-damn it!” Clarence demanded.

  “Oooooooooohhhhhhhh!” groaned Hipless Hooker.

  They both stopped talking and looked at him.

  “You okay, Skipper?” asked Clarence.

  “My stomach!” Hipless Hooker cried. “Ooooooooohhhhhh!”

  Take it easy, Cap. Take it easy!” Clarence said. “Natalie, get me the spare keys. I’ll run the boss over to the receiving hospital. What’s it feel like, Cap? An ulcer?”

  “I don’t knoooooooowwww!” cried Hipless Hooker. “It huuuuuuuurts!”

  It started to hurt even worse when it turned out that Bullets Bambarella was the one who helped Captain Hooker out the door, and half carried him to the car where Clarence Cromwell waited. “Please, Bullets,” Hipless Hooker cried. “Don’t get in any trouble while I’m gone!”

  “Course not!” Bullets said. The very idea!

  “I’m depending on you, son,” said Hipless Hooker. “No trouble now. I’m depending on you.”

  “You can depend on me, Captain!” Bullets Bambarella promised. He was touched.

  “Ooooooooohhhhhhhhh!” Hipless Hooker said, when Bullets lifted him into Clarence Cromwell’s car and they sped away to the hospital.

  Natalie Zimmerman, like Philo Skinner, did not believe in the apathetic Gods. She believed that fate was conspiring against her in the Valnikov matter. Fate was protecting Sergeant A.M. Valnikov. It was getting spooky.

  “Well, Natalie,” he smiled, when she joined him at the burglary table. “We have a very light workload today.”

  She looked at him. His eyes were watery, as usual. He exuded a faint odor of booze, as usual. He wore another suit today, the cleaning tags still stapled to his inside pocket, as usual. The suitcoat hung open and the stapled repairs were visible, as usual. He was wearing a polka dot blue and white necktie, and his white shirt was more or less ironed. Frayed like the others, but ironed. So he was looking his best today for whatever reason.

  The reason was Natalie Zimmerman. Valnikov had watched every move she made as she ran across the noisy crowded squad room. He watched as she smoked and paced in front of Captain Hooker’s office until she was admitted. He watched her walking slowly back to the burglary table, her eyes rolled up in that odd way of hers. Valnikov thought she was pretty even with her dopey hairdo and her big dumb glasses.

  Valnikov had deliberately cut his vodka consumption last night and he’d slept better as a result. He wasn’t even positive that he’d dreamed about the rabbit, but he guessed he had. The sheets were sweat-soaked. Nevertheless, he felt pretty good today. He sipped his tea and smiled at her.

  “I’ve gotta have another cup of coffee to get my clock started,” Natalie sighed when she dropped herself into the chair beside him.

  “Let me get it for you,” Valnikov said, grabbing her coffee cup.

  “Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “Sure,” he said, wiping his eyes. It was the first time she’d let him do something for her. He wondered if it was the polka dot necktie and new shave lotion. He’d even combed his hair today. He thought he looked all right.

  She thought he looked like hell. Pitiful. Why didn’t he make it easy on her and just flip out in front of somebody? Like right now, in front of thirty witnesses? Fire off a round at the coffee maker because it was bitter or something. But he wouldn’t even know. He drank tea. What kind of a cop drinks tea?

  “All you people listen to this!” said Lieutenant Woodenlips Mockett, who was totally ignored except by Valnikov, who was always respectful of authority. He put Natalie’s coffee cup in front of her and gave Woodenlips his attention.

  “Sergeant Ballew in patrol got a four-day suspension for an accidental discharge.”

  “At his age they’re all accidental,” said Fuzzy Spinks of auto theft, who was older than Sergeant Ballew and knew what he was talking about.

  “Sergeant Ballew accidentally fired a round from the Ithaca and it went right through Deputy Chief Digby Bates’ car.”

  “Yeah?” said Dudley Knebel of robbery, suddenly interested because he hated the chief’s guts. “Was Bates in the car?”

  “Of course not!” Woodenlips Mockett said. “Ballew only got four days’ suspension.”

  “Only,” Dudley Knebel said. “That’s a pretty tough bail schedule for one lousy shotgun round.”

  “Yeah, now if the chief had been in the car …” argued Max Haffenkamp of residential burglary.

  “Then I’da gave Ballew four days’ pay outta my pocket,” Dudley Knebel said.r />
  “You men don’t take these things seriously enough,” Woodenlips Mockett whined.

  “Poor old Ballew,” Fuzzy Spinks said. “He got ten days’ suspension last year for getting drunk and banging his girlfriend on duty.”

  “On duty!” Woodenlips Mockett cried. “He should’ve been fired, for that! Ten days is all he got?”

  “Well, it’s pretty tough when you figure the whole case was circumstantial,” said Fuzzy. “See, they stopped him on the way home for drunk driving.”

  “Then it wasn’t on duty,” said Woodenlips Mockett.

  “Well no,” said Fuzzy Spinks, “but it was only fifteen minutes past end-of-watch and his blood alcohol reading was .25 so they deduced it.”

  “Did they deduce the girlfriend too?” Woodenlips Mockett sneered. He sneered as well as Natalie Zimmerman any old day.

  “Circumstantial evidence too,” Fuzzy clucked, full of sympathy for poor old Sergeant Ballew. “Before they shagged him for drunk driving he smashed into the telephone pole at Gower and Sunset. And when the lousy finks at the receiving hospital took Ballew’s clothes off, they found a rubber.”

  “A rubber!” Nate Farmer of the sex detail was outraged. “That don’t prove nothin!”

  “Poor old drunk still had it on!” said Fuzzy Spinks.

  “That’s still just circumstantial evidence,” said Nate Farmer. “I suppose they checked the scummy thing for his girlfriend’s fingerprints, huh?”

  “Wouldn’t put it past those squints at Internal Affairs,” said Montezuma Montez.

  Then Woodenlips Mockett gave up because he was the only one who didn’t think Sergeant Ballew got railroaded on circumstantial evidence.

  “I hear you’re a golfer,” Bullets suddenly said to Montezuma Montez.

  “I play a little golf,” said Montezuma without looking up.

  “Sissy game,” Bullets said. “I never played golf in my life.”

  “Too clumsy?” said Montezuma Montez, putting down his pencil.

  Bullets said, “Any old man on crutches can play that game.”

  “I’ll bet you couldn’t hit a golf ball fifty yards,” said Montezuma Montez.

  “Fifty yards,” said Bullets. Now he had the wetback! “You heard him, Fuzzy. He said I couldn’t hit a golf ball fifty yards!”

  “If you never played before, I know you couldn’t hit one fifty yards, Bullets,” Fuzzy Spinks said, peeking over his bifocals. “Not on one swing anyway.”

  Then there was money flying all over the squad room. Bullets was covering all bets. Woodenlips Mockett was whining about gambling in a police station. Everyone was yelling and hollering but Bullets Bambarella covered thirty dollars. Five minutes later there were detective cars squealing out of Hollywood Station speeding to the Los Angeles Country Club where Investigator Nate Farmer could never hope to join, in that he was a black man, but where he could arrange for Bullets to hit a ball on the driving range because Nate’s cousin was a caddy there.

  While half the detective division at Hollywood Station was at the Los Angeles Country Club watching Bullets Bambarella make an ass out of himself by swinging a golf club like a baseball bat and digging up the largest chunk of ethnically restricted turf that anyone had seen in recent memory, and while the other half of the detective division, including Valnikov and Natalie Zimmerman, were handling their routine investigations, a “sustaining” Pasadena Junior Leaguer was doing some detective work of her own. And was surprising herself at how well she was doing it.

  Madeline Whitfield had not slept but she had vowed over coffee that morning that she was not going to take a drink until Vickie came home to her. And she wasn’t going to just wait until that man called.

  She checked the lost and found in the morning Times and discovered that there were two schnauzers reported lost. The first belonged to a Redondo Beach phone number. The second was a San Gabriel number, close enough to Pasadena to make Madeline hope that this was the owner of the dead animal, and that there might be a connection which would lead her somewhere. Madeline Whitfield made phone calls, prepared to take copious notes. Except that the first missing schnauzer didn’t even have cropped ears. The second was pregnant. Madeline Whitfield was thinking that she might have been too hasty in her temperance vow. She was thinking about a double Scotch when another thought intruded. She phoned the Pasadena Police, the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Office, and the Los Angeles Police Department, inquiring about lost or stolen schnauzers.

  “But we don’t keep reports on lost dogs,” said a Los Angeles Police Department clerk who was almost as lethargic as Officer Leonard Leggett.

  “Yes, yes, I understand that,” said Madeline Whitfield. “But I’m wondering if someone reported a schnauzer stolen. You see, this is a very valuable dog. It’s possibly a champion, very definitely show quality. Perhaps you have a report of a dog like this being stolen?”

  “Just a minute, lady,” the lethargic clerk said grumpily. Then when the clerk came back he said, “As a matter of fact we did get a hit on a stolen schnauzer.”

  “Yes?” Madeline said.

  “Hollywood,” the clerk said. “There was a schnauzer reported stolen in Hollywood Division on January eighth.”

  “Yes! Yes!” Madeline cried.

  “Do you want the report number?” the clerk said.

  At 11:00 a.m. Woodenlips Mockett received a call at Hollywood Detectives.

  “My name is Madeline Whitfield.”

  “Yes,” Woodenlips Mockett said, wishing Captain Hooker would hurry up and get back from the hospital, because with Cromwell there holding his hand, and with the other lieutenant off sick, and with half the troops at some goddamn golf course watching Bullets Bambarella try to hit a golf ball, he was overworked. So far, he had had to make a pot of coffee and answer the phone twice.

  “I’d like to inquire about a stolen schnauzer dog,” the woman said. “I have a police report number.”

  “Where was the dog stolen, lady?” said Woodenlips Mockett. This kind of work was demeaning for a lieutenant. Demeaning!

  “On Vine Street. The Brown Derby.”

  “Okay,” Woodenlips Mockett sighed, “lemme check for you.”

  He found the theft report in the control folder belonging to Valnikov and Natalie Zimmerman. “Yeah, wh’adda you wanna know?” Woodenlips Mockett sighed. He intended to take an extra long lunch break to make up for all this work.

  “I’d like to speak to the officer working on that case,” said Madeline. “Is he there, please?”

  “No. His name’s Sergeant Valnikov. He’ll be back late this afternoon.”

  “I’d like to talk to him if it’s at all possible,” Madeline said. “It’s important.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Pasadena.”

  “Pasadena! Listen, lady, that’s a little out of our jurisdiction. Gimme your number, I’ll have him call you.”

  “Could you ask him to call me as soon as he can? I’ll be here all day and I’m most anxious.”

  “Okay, gimme your number,” Lieutenant Mockett sighed.

  Ten minutes later, while driving on Hollywood Boulevard, Valnikov said, “Did you get that, Natalie?”

  “Did I get what?” She was lost in a mad plan to go straight to Deputy Chief Digby Bates if she had to. God, what if Hipless Hooker was kept at the hospital? She’d have to go over Clarence Cromwell’s head.

  “We got a call to phone the station,” said Valnikov, driving to the nearest call box on Sunset Boulevard.

  A few minutes later Valnikov was talking on the field phone to Woodenlips, who was starting to calm down now that three teams of detectives had returned, gloating over all the money they’d won from Bullets Bambarella.

  “Some broad in Pasadena gave me the number,” the lieutenant said. “She might know something about a case of yours. A dog snatching from the Brown Derby.”

  “Yes,” Valnikov said. “I thought the dog probably ran away. It’s a valuable dog according to the report and
…”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s the one,” said Woodenlips Mockett. “Call this broad, will you? Get her off my back. I got enough pressure right now.”

  Then Valnikov couldn’t make out the rest because Bullets Bambarella was in the squad room yelling to Montezuma Montez:

  “You a tennis player! Don’t make me laugh!”

  “Please, Bambarella,” Lieutenant Mockett whined. “I can’t hear myself talk. Did you get the message, Valnikov? Call this crazy dog about the goddamn lady!”

  “That doesn’t make much sense, Lieutenant,” said Valnikov.

  “Do you think anything makes sense around here!” Lieutenant Mockett cried. “How would you like to get stuck with all the work while Captain Hooker goes to the hospital for an ache in his tum tum? Huh?”

  “Okay, Lieutenant,” Valnikov said soothingly. “I’ll call her. Don’t let yourself get excited.” Now now, Lieutenant. Now now.

  When Valnikov returned to the detective car he found Natalie Zimmerman dashing off some confidential notes. Observations. About him.

  “Natalie,” he said, causing her to jump so suddenly her Friz bounced to the top of her head and down again.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “We got a strange call. Some woman in Pasadena wants us to call her about that dog that was stolen from the Brown Derby.”

  “What dog?”

  “The theft report. You know? The one that came in yesterday morning?”

  “Christ, Valnikov. You have time to read theft reports? I mean they give you so many burglary reports you can’t even count them, you gotta weigh them. And you have time to read plain theft reports?”

  “I read all our reports,” he shrugged.

  “And you remember them?”

  “I can’t help remembering,” Valnikov said. “I just remember things about my job. They just … I just can’t seem to get things out of my mind. Know what I mean?”