The Black Marble

by Joseph Wambaugh

  It was the first time Valnikov had ever driven on the Pasadena Freeway during rush hour. It was the oldest freeway and showed it, being too narrow to accommodate the flow of cars in 1977. The turnoff lanes were inadequate and a stalled car could stop traffic for miles. Valnikov passed time in bumper-to-bumper traffic and eye-burning air pollution by thinking about this day.

  It was his best day in recent memory. He used to have some good days when he worked with Charlie Lightfoot. But today … today was the best day in years. He thought of Natalie’s brown eyes smiling through those big glasses as she drank red wine. Was she drinking wine tonight? French wine out of crystal and not styrofoam? They were a good-looking couple, no doubt about it. Na zdorovye, Natalie. Still, it was harmless to dream. To pretend. It seemed as though he had lived alone all his life. He suddenly wanted to stop and buy some vodka. But only better-class liquor stores carried Russian vodka and he couldn’t stomach American vodka. Then he thought of Madeline Whitfield. She didn’t deserve that. She was a desperate woman in trouble and deserved a clear-headed policeman to help her. The vodka could come later.

  He used his map book and found the house without much trouble. It was more beautiful than the old Spanish homes in the Los Feliz district. Valnikov admired the vast numbers of ancient oaks. The trees were all well over a century old. And camellias were everywhere. And eucalyptus and pine and azalea. Her driveway was circular and private. What would it be like to live in a house like this? Valnikov was certain a butler in livery would answer the door. He was excited. The Great Gatsby.

  Madeline Whitfield answered the door. She’d touched up her makeup and combed her hair and hadn’t had a drink, and she looked awful. Her eyes were swollen and raw from crying. She wore a white blouse and tartan woolen skirt. The blouse was stained by coffee. It was very hard to hold things steady in those hands.

  “I’m Sergeant Valnikov,” he said to the big woman. He guessed she was about his age. A little overweight but not bad-looking if it weren’t for a rather heavy layer of hair under her nose.

  “He said he’d call at six, Sergeant,” she said with a great effort at control. “He’s usually very punctual. Would you like some coffee while we wait?”

  “No, thank you, ma’am,” he said standing in the large foyer.

  “Tea?”

  “Yes, tea would be nice. Thank you.”

  “I’m ever so grateful to you, Sergeant,” she said. “Please sit down and excuse me for a moment.”

  “I just hope we can help you,” he said, looking at the quarry tile floor, done fifty years ago when craftsmen cared. And there was a beamed ceiling with something he’d never seen: ceiling boards painted by artisans in Moorish designs and Mexican colors, the most impressive residential ceiling he’d ever seen. The paint was kept vivid by nothing more than linseed oil. There was a sunken living room which was the style when great Southern California architects were having their heyday in Pasadena and Beverly Hills. The windows were too small, as was the style then, but were finished with mahogany frames and leaded glass. Privacy was more important than a view in 1927, but on the arroyo side, the windows had been enlarged over the years and there was a panoramic view of the Rose Bowl and the defunct Vista del Royal Hotel glowing pink and dusty gold in the setting sun. And in the foreground, the ominous old Suicide Bridge where many tormented souls had plunged to their deaths while looking at the lovely San Gabriels, and at the splendid old mansions dotting the hillside over the arroyo among the pines and camellias.

  Madeline Whitfield returned, her face wet where she had been dabbling at her swollen eyes with a cold cloth. She carried a tray bearing English silver service given by a guest at her grandmother’s wedding. There weren’t many of the old things left. Not many at all.

  “In here, please,” she said and put the tray on the table in the library. It was a masculine heavy somber library, but sparsely furnished. She understood how impressive it must be to him.

  “A grand old house, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is,” Valnikov said. He wished Natalie were here to see it.

  “I have no help except for a girl who comes in two days a week for four hours a day.”

  No butler in livery? Not even an upstairs girl? No groundskeeper?

  She saw it and smiled and said, “I’m broke, Sergeant. Very nearly broke. I couldn’t pay that monster if I wanted to. And I do want to. But I can’t. That’s why I have no choice but to ask the police to help me.”

  “I’m sorry about you being broke,” he said. “And I’m sorry about your troubles. But I’m glad you called the police. I’ll just have my tea plain, thank you.”

  “Behind lots and lots of these winding driveways and oak doors it’s the same story, Sergeant,” she said. “No romance of old money. Just people like me holding on.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, sipping his tea noiselessly.

  The dusk was settling fast. It was twenty minutes until six. “Would you mind if I didn’t turn the light on just yet?” she said. “I have a ripping headache. The dark soothes sometimes.”

  “I don’t mind at all, Mrs. Whitfield,” he said. “I’ve noticed the same thing.”

  “What will I say when he calls?”

  “I really don’t know, Mrs. Whitfield,” he said. “That’s up to the extortionist. Just let him talk. The main thing is that you and I both pick up our phones together and that you stall for at least another day.”

  “Should I tell him the schnauzer is dead?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s not give him any information. Let him give us information.”

  “Should I promise him the eighty-five thousand tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think so,” Valnikov said. “Just promise him you’ll do better tomorrow. That you’ll have some money soon. I’ve got to have time to work.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ve been wracking my brain. I think I can get a few thousand more. I think I can raise seventeen thousand by tomorrow afternoon,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t like you to pay anything, ma’am,” Valnikov said. “But that decision’s up to you.”

  “Vickie’s like a child to me, Sergeant,” she said. “Look around you. I live in this house alone. There’s only Vickie.”

  “Alone. Yes. I can understand how you feel. Yes.”

  “How could that woman whose dog was stolen from the restaurant, how could she not care? Does she have a family living with her?”

  “I rather doubt it, ma’am,” said Valnikov, sipping. “She said she’s seventy-six years old.”

  “And she doesn’t care about her beautiful schnauzer? Does she have other pets?”

  “You might say that, yes, ma’am,” said Valnikov, blushing.

  “At first Vickie was just to be a pet. I was lonely. And then people who knew, told me how exceptional she was. I began getting involved in showing her. I entered a whole new world of dog shows. The sport. The parties. The awards. Our picture was in the Times. Vickie opened up my life, you see.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And she is truly like my … it sounds foolish … like my child. That man said … said he’ll cut off her toes. He may be doing it now.”

  “I don’t think so, ma’am,” said Valnikov.

  “He sounds as though he would,” she said and her voice broke. “He sounds so wicked. I can’t help it. I have a dreadful premonition of this man holding Vickie on a table. With a knife!”

  A knife. Valnikov was leaving her. Drifting. He was going after it! There it was! A little schnauzer dog. The big strong hands of the hunter. No! The extortionist with a knife. He was going to disembowel the little dog. The picture was there in the darkness. There was only moonlight now and he could almost see the doctor in the bloody smock cutting the rabbit’s throat. He almost had it! Then a voice. Valnikov’s own voice cried out and the rabbit bounded off through the snow and escaped.

  The detective sat there trembling in th
e dark, on the damask wing-back chair. He spilled some tea on his trousers. He didn’t notice. Madeline Whitfield didn’t notice either. She was lying across the sofa sobbing so hard she could scarcely breathe. Those pathetic sobs brought Valnikov back from Siberia.

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Whitfield,” he said, when his own fear subsided. “Go on and cry. It’s all right.”

  She cried for a long time. Whenever she tried to stop she would burst forth again. Valnikov sat quietly in dusky shadows, among leather-bound books and glossy old wood, in the lonely wingback chair. He watched the woman weeping on the sofa. It had been a long time since he’d heard such sounds of grief. Valnikov sat in brooding darkness and vowed he would find her little dog. Nothing would stop him.

  Philo Skinner was not punctual. He didn’t call until 6:15 p.m. He had gone home and changed into the last of his leisure suits. He couldn’t explain why, but somehow he had a need to be well dressed when he consummated his crime. He didn’t want to look like a bum even though no one would see him. He never wanted to look like a bum again. When he stripped off the soggy leisure suit he threw it in the trash can. Then he went back to the kennel to feed the dogs. It was getting harder to keep Mavis away from the kennel. By tomorrow she’d insist on coming in and might see the little schnauzer bitch. He had to get his money and return the dog tonight. Then it occurred to him: He hadn’t yet given the rich broad her instructions on what to do with Tutu. Oh, well, Tutu was probably having a better time in the Pasadena mansion than she ever did with that stingy sex maniac, Millie Muldoon Gharoujian.

  He wondered if old Millie still kept a couple of studs and a cobra, or mongoose, or whatever the hell. Once when Millie was still interested in dog shows he had come early and found the door open and there they were: a pile of bodies snoozing in Millie’s water bed. The pile included Millie, two or three boys, a leopard or something, and incredibly enough, a goddamn baby alligator! Perverted old cunt!

  Valnikov was on the phone extension in the library. Madeline was in the living room. The lights were on now and Madeline was shaky but controlled. After two rings, he nodded and they picked up the phones together. “Hello.”

  “It’s Richard.” He didn’t bother with the paper towel anymore. And he’d returned to the cocktail lounge where he’d made the first call. Philo was getting bold. And desperate.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Do you have the money?”

  “Not all of it.”

  “How much do you have?”

  “Tomorrow I’ll have more.”

  “How much do you have?”

  “Tomorrow I’ll have seventeen … no,” she lied. “I’ll have twenty thousand for you!”

  “You cunt!” Philo screamed. “You owe me eighty-five thousand. You rotten cheap cunt!”

  “Wait, please, Richard!” she said. It was much easier with Valnikov present. The extortionist didn’t scare her so much anymore.

  “Don’t you please Richard me, you cunt,” Philo wheezed. “You ain’t gonna welsh on me. Not if you want your bitch alive. I’m sick a playing games with you. I been too nice to you, that’s my problem. Well, no more Mr. Nice Guy!”

  “Please, Richard, twenty thousand is a lot of money. I can get that much by this time tomorrow. That’s a lot of money, Richard.”

  The line was quiet for a long moment. Twenty thousand. But he owed Arnold $15,200 as of today, and an extra hundred tomorrow! Puerto Vallarta for life on less than five thousand? Could she be telling the truth? But how could she be? That goddamn house she lived in? She had it, the cunt!

  “I’m getting your bitch,” he said. “And I’m calling you back in five minutes. And I’m going to cut her toe off while you listen to her scream. You ready for that?”

  Madeline nearly dropped the receiver. She almost collapsed. But she looked at Valnikov, who just shook his head slowly at her. The husky detective stood like a rock, his cinnamon hair rumpled, his tie askew. A slouching man who might have never stood straight in his life. But he had a broad earthy strong face. And he sustained her by just shaking his head slowly, telling her not to break. She didn’t.

  “That won’t help you at all, Richard,” she said, her voice so controlled it surprised her. “If you hurt Vickie, she’ll be worth nothing in a dog show. That’s the only reason I bother, you know, to show her and win. Without a toe she’s worth nothing. Injure her in any way and she’s worth nothing.” She held on, held on, closed her eyes. When she opened them, Valnikov was nodding. He seemed proud of her.

  Philo was beside himself. He started yelling so loud that the bartender came over, banged on the door, and said, “Hey fella, there’s ladies in this joint! Watch your language.”

  And Philo almost yelled something at the bartender, but he remembered what happened to him today in a phone booth when he popped off, so he bit his lip and kept quiet. When he came back on the line he said, “You have thirty-five thousand for me at this time tomorrow night. Thirty-five and that’s my last offer. You understand? I’m calling you at six o’clock tomorrow night and you’re going to tell me you have the dough or I’m going to hurt that bitch. I never hurt an animal in my life, lady, but I swear I’ll hurt your bitch if you don’t have the dough for me by tomorrow night.”

  “All right, Richard, I’ll have it,” she said. “Good-bye.” And she hung up the phone, walked back into the drawing room, threw herself on the couch and wept.

  Valnikov sat quietly and watched her cry. He blinked patiently from time to time.

  Finally, she said, “I … I’ve been try … trying to get a … a job. I’ve never … never worked. This house … this … I’ll have to be out in a year. I have … have enough in a trust fund to last till then. But I can’t get it. I’d give it all to him. But I can’t get it! It took a court order to get … to get it for my mother’s … her hospital expenses. Her funeral. I can’t get …”

  “Now now, Mrs. Whitfield,” he said, sighing deeply. His eyes were sad and red. “Now now.”

  “How does one find a job, Sergeant? Can … can you tell me? Where … what can I … what …”

  “Now now, Mrs. Whitfield,” Valnikov said softly.

  Then he switched off the light and lumbered to the couch and sat down. He started patting her on the back. Now now, Mrs. Whitfield. Now now.

  She didn’t feel his hand at first, though it was a meaty hand. When she did, she sat up, but couldn’t stop the tears.

  Then Valnikov put his arm around her and it startled her. Still she couldn’t stop weeping. Then Valnikov put both arms around her and she wept on his chest. He kept patting her back, rather solidly, as though he was trying to burp her. Then she relaxed and he began patting her softly. Then he was holding her, rocking her, patting her ever more gently and she was catching her breath.

  Then she put both arms around Valnikov’s neck and sat there crying in the darkness. Valnikov looked almost as sad as she. Now now, Mrs. Whitfield. Now now.

  Then, instinctively, Valnikov began kissing Madeline Whitfield on the salty cheek. Now now. Now now. And she tightened her grip on his neck and let him.

  Of course Valnikov could not have known that this woman had not felt a man’s body in five years. He was only vaguely aware that he hadn’t felt a woman’s body since Thanksgiving weekend when he got drunk in a Chinatown bar and picked up a clerk typist from the police academy. Madeline turned her tear-drenched face to the detective and kissed his mouth. Valnikov responded. Then they were groping in the darkness on that damask sofa and she was saying, “Sergeant, Sergeant!” And he was replying, “Mrs. Whitfield, Mrs. Whitfield!”

  “Sergeant! Oh, Sergeant!” she cried.

  “Mrs. Whitfield,” he cried. “I’ll find your doggie, I swear!”

  “Sergeant!” she cried, and unhooked his gun belt.

  When he left her an hour later, he was filled with pity for this woman. She was sleeping soundly in her bed for the first time in days. He paused in the door to look at her naked body. She was a fine woman.
He wished she could find someone from her station in life. She needed someone to care about. Something useful to do.

  Valnikov went home and before he slept he renewed his vow to find this lonely woman’s dog. Then he went to sleep and dreamed of the rabbit.

  11

  The Dog Lover

  Valnikov felt very strange when he awakened Wednesday morning. At first, he didn’t know what it was. He got up, boiled water for the tea, fed and watered Misha and Grisha, cleaned their cage. He brought the morning paper in, sat down to read. Then he looked around the bachelor apartment. Nothing had changed. He still had the same clothesline strung from the animal cage to the nail he’d pounded into the top of the door frame. Several pair of underwear and socks still hung on the clothesline. There was still a pile of dirty dishes on the sink which he washed one plate at a time when he was hungry. There were still stacks of records and album covers strewn around the room. But something was different. Then it dawned on him. There was no empty bottle of Stolichnaya either on the kitchen table or on the walnut veneer coffee table. And that gave him the big clue as to what was totally different this morning: He had no hangover!

  He had worked, and kept company with Madeline Whitfield until midnight. He had come home and gone to bed. He had not had a single glass of vodka. Remarkable! He got up, went into the bathroom, tossed two hand towels off the metal arm that dangled in front of the medicine cabinet. He examined his eyes. They were slightly red but dry. He looked well. He felt well. He celebrated by making himself two scrambled eggs and rye toast. He drank three cups of tea and had a glass of orange juice. Then he took a shower and ironed a clean shirt. He tied his tie carefully so the collar button didn’t show. He put some tonic on his hair and combed it, careful to get a straight part.

  He felt like a new man when he walked out that door. He couldn’t wait to tell Natalie. They were going to catch a criminal.

  When Valnikov got to the station, things were about to get tense. Bullets Bambarella had lost two weeks’ pay in the last two days by making bets with Montezuma Montez. Aside from that, Bullets had had a lousy night with a cop groupie from downtown.