H is for HOMICIDE

by Sue Grafton

  “Yielding the right-of-way,” I said with innocence. As soon as the Mercedes eased into my path, I gunned the Caddy and rammed the left rear quadrant with a thump. It was just like bumper cars and I felt the same sick charge, half guilt, half thrill. The indentation was nicely placed. The woman shrieked and turned to look at me openmouthed with astonishment.

  Raymond was out of the Caddy in a flash. “What the fuck are you doing? You pulled out right in front of us!” I got out and moved to the front of the Caddy, where I checked the broken headlight and flaking bumper. Not bad. The damage to the other car was six grand at least. The blonde had recovered from her initial dismay. She got out of the Mercedes and slammed the car door. She was dressed for tennis, little white skirt, green-and-white-striped Polo shirt, long, tan legs, little socks with jaunty green pompoms sticking out above her spotless white tennis shoes. The Mercedes’s left rear quadrant, recently a pristine shiny black, now sported a dent of substantial proportions, fender crumpled, chrome sticking out like a horizontal antenna. The rear door would have to be pried open with a crowbar. I could see the color rising in her face as she surveyed the damage. She turned and jabbed an angry finger in my face. “You fucking asshole! You sat there and motioned me out!”

  “She did not!” Raymond said.

  “She did, too!”

  “Did not,” I inserted to show where my loyalties lay.

  Raymond said, “Look at my car! We just bought this car and now look what you’ve done!”

  “Your car! Look at mine!”

  I put a hand against my neck and Raymond turned to me with concern.

  “Are you okay, hon?”

  “I guess so,” I said without conviction. The neck roll I did was accompanied by a wince.

  Raymond dropped his irate manner and substituted an air of studied calm that was more effective in its way. “Lady, I hope you got good insurance coverage…”

  The afternoon was marked by Raymond’s intermittent demolition derby, surreal in its fashion, depressing in its effect. We backtracked from Beverly Hills into Brentwood, through Westwood, and then south into Santa Monica again. We sought out areas congested with traffic, watched for minor violations, inattentiveness, and lapses in judgment. Raymond kept a meticulous record of each accident we staged ��� four in all ��� noting time and location, the other driver’s name and insurance company.

  The Caddy performed like a first-rate battering ram, sustaining very little damage for the losses we inflicted on other unsuspecting motorists. The victims seemed so gullible somehow, distressed, apologetic, sometimes irate, but usually worried they’d be slapped with ruinous lawsuits. I played my part ��� righteous and upset, pretending sudden shooting pains in my neck or back ��� but I couldn’t bear to look at them. This was not a kind of cheating I did very well, and I could proceed only by employing the same mental detachment I adopt when I enter a morgue. Raymond, of course, was only interested in filing phony claims for vehicular damage and whatever injuries we could fake as a consequence. His skills at manipulation were honed by long practice.

  At four, much to my relief, he decided we’d done enough. I’d been at the wheel for the first couple of accidents. Then Raymond had taken over. He found an on ramp for the 405 and headed south, toward the apartment. I felt like a traveling salesperson, on the road with my boss. My questions to Raymond had the same banal thrust you’d imagine from a Fuller Brush trainee. “What’s your background for this?” said I, much as if I were inquiring about his qualifications for a career with Encyclopaedia Britannica.

  “Some guy taught me the business when I was first starting out. He’s in the slammer, so it’s my operation.”

  “Like a promotion.”

  “Yeah, right. Exactly. I got a stable of doctors and attorneys who do the actual paperwork. I’m strictly supervision. Times are slow I do a little work like this. I like to keep a hand in.”

  “Your job is what, supplying the claimants?”

  “Well, yeah. What do you think we been doing all afternoon? Right now, I got a crew of ten, but that goes up and down. It’s hard to get good help.”

  I laughed. “I bet.”

  “I’ll tell you a little secret. And this is the key to sound business management. Be careful of the guy right below you on the pyramid. You don’t tell him jackshit.”

  “Because he might want to take over?”

  “That’s right. He’s the dude wants to put a knife in your back. You take Luis. I love the guy like a brother, but certain things I don’t tell him, people he doesn’t see. That way I don’t have to worry, know what I mean?”

  “The money must be good.”

  Raymond shook his head. “Are you kidding? The money’s great. I make maybe a thousand a case, depending on the nature of the ‘injury.’ The GP or the chiropractor probably clears another fifteen hundred.”

  “God, that’s amazing. What do they do, pad the fees?”

  “Sometimes they do. Or they charge for services never rendered. The insurance company doesn’t know the difference, and either way, the doc makes out. Plus, you have the attorney on top of that,” he said. He smiled wryly. “Of course, the biggest chunk goes to me.”

  “Because you take all the risks?”

  “Because I put up all the dough. Bankroll the cars, pay all the cappers up front. I probably shell out five or six grand per crew to get ‘em rolling. Multiply that by ten, twenty crews working seven days a week? It adds up.”

  “Sounds like it,” I said, and let the subject drop.

  A long silence followed. I still didn’t have a fix on the mental arithmetic, but the money was clearly huge. I laid my head back against the seat. It wasn’t hard to see the appeal. For a guy like Raymond, the money was a lot better than an honest day’s work. Hell, I could make more money crashing cars than I did as a P.I. Of course, there was a downside. With all the bumps, smacks, and minor episodes of whiplash, my head was pounding and my neck was seizing up. I massaged the muscles along one shoulder, feeling tense.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My neck’s stiff.”

  “You and me both,” he said in a moment of self-mockery. He looked at me closely. “For real?”

  “Raymond, we’ve just been in four auto accidents! That last one we had, I nearly slid off the seat. You could have warned me.”

  “You want to see a doctor? I can set it up. Heat treatments, ultrasound, anything you want. It’s one of the perks.”

  “Let me see how I feel when we get back to the apartment. Where’s Bibianna? I hope I’m not the only one out here risking my neck.”

  “Her and Luis are doing a drive-down same as us.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  He looked over at me, trying to gauge my mood. “You like it so far?”

  “It sure beats working for a living.”

  He flashed a smile, eyes returning to the road. “Doesn’t it?”

  We stopped briefly at Buddy’s Auto Body Shop across the street and two doors down from the apartment where Raymond lived. The garage itself sat in one corner of a property that extended from street to street. In the far corner, there was a corrugated metal shack surrounded by chassis, fenders, bumpers, engines, tires. A dilapidated chain-link fence enclosed maybe two full acres of wrecked cars and assorted parts. A sign read: BUDDY’S AUTO SALVAGE OPEN 6 DAYS TOP $$ FOR YOUR CAR OR TRUCK. ONE OF THE LARGEST SELECTIONS OF USED PARTS IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA. A big black rottweiler, with a head as craggy as a tree stump, was asleep in the dirt beside a pickup truck.

  I said, “Does Buddy work for you?”

  “I’m Buddy. Guy runs the place is Chopper. Back in a minute,” he murmured as he got out. Raymond apparently operated his “repair” business in conjunction with an auto wrecking and salvage company, probably dismantling vehicles once he’d maximized the insurance potential.

  I waited until he went into the garage and then I got out myself and ambled over to the Pepsi machine just inside
the door. I took my time tucking coins in the slot, extracting a can of Diet Pepsi. I popped the top and downed it, idly taking in my surroundings. There was not another soul in sight and no indication of any work being done. The late afternoon sun slanted onto the cracked concrete floor in tawny yellow strips. The air smelled of oil, old tires, and hot metal. A pyramid of bright blue metal barrels had been laid on their sides and served now as storage bins for a jumble of rusted car parts. I could see Raymond through the open doorway of an area marked off as office space. The flat-roofed building appeared to be converted from a very small stucco house. Additional office space was provided by a single-wide trailer tucked between the fence and the building. The horizontal panes of a pair of dusty louvered windows were slanted open to let in some air. A wooden pallet was leaning up against the trailer. There was an alarm company sign affixed to the side of the trailer, but I didn’t take it seriously. This didn’t look like an establishment famous for its security.

  Raymond finished his business and emerged from the garage with a guy at his side whom he introduced as Chopper. He was an Anglo in his forties, balding and squat. His breathing was labored and his face freckled with sweat.

  I said, “Great dog,” hoping to ingratiate myself with his owner.

  “That’s Brutus.” Chopper gave a piercing whistle and Brutus awoke obligingly and lumbered to his feet. The poor dog was ancient, so crippled by arthritis that he walked with a rocking motion, approaching by degrees. Up close, I could see his black hair was dusted with white. He paused beside me, his manner humble. I put my hand down near his nose and he licked me. I felt embarrassingly dewy-eyed about the damn beast.

  Raymond and Chopper finished their business and we walked on back to the apartment building, leaving the car where it was.

  Chapter 16

  *

  Bibianna was already home, seated at the kitchen table, applying a coat of bright red polish to her nails. She was wearing red shorts and a halter top in a vivid jungle print, red, black, olive green, and white. Her hair was pulled up in a glossy coil on top. Luis was out somewhere walking the dog. I marveled that Bibianna hadn’t escaped while she could. Raymond had forgotten to return the telephone to its hiding place. He didn’t seem aware of it, but Bibianna sure was. She ignored the instrument so studiously I had to guess she’d used it. I caught her eye with a visual query, but she kept her expression blank. I wondered who she’d called. Her mother? Jimmy Tate? Could he be out of jail yet?

  Raymond glanced at his watch. “Hey. It’s nearly five. Time to call your insurance agent.”

  My conversation with Mac was brief. Raymond let me handle the transaction without his ear pressed to the phone along with mine. I identified myself as Hannah Moore and Darcy put me through to Mac, who spelled out the particulars of my insurance coverage, making sure the message would sound benign to anybody listening. “Mr. Dolan assured me you were covered in case of accident. Do you still have his number?”

  “Yes, I’ve got it. Thanks for the information. I appreciate your help.”

  “Anytime,” he said. “And keep safe.”

  “I hope to.”

  Once I’d hung up, I finished jotting down notes: policy number, my deductible, liability, collision, major medical, and death benefits. I was assuming Mac had set up a special policy under the name “Hannah Moore,” with a flag on the computer so he’d be alerted if a claim came in. I gave Raymond the policy number and the data Mac had relayed.

  Shortly thereafter, I heard Perro tapping along the walkway outside, his breathing hoarse and wheezy as he strained against the leash. Luis opened the door and the dog bounded in. Somewhere, in a brain about the size of a BB, this beast had suddenly decided he remembered me. He charged at me joyfully, knocking into Bibianna as he vaulted across her lap. When he reached me he jumped up, propping his paws on my shoulders so we could stare into each other’s eyes. I leaned sideways against the kitchen table while he slopped a tongue across my mouth. Bibianna had leapt away from him with a shriek, her fingers held aloft so he wouldn’t screw up her nails. Raymond snapped his fingers, but the dog was too intent on true love to obey. Raymond yelled something, which he covered with a cough. I caught a glimpse of his face just as his eyes began to roll back. A tic was tugging at his mouth, his lower lip pulling down grotesquely. His head jerked twice to the left, mouth coming open. His temper seemed to snap and he went for the dog, landing an ill-aimed blow at Perro’s meaty shoulder. The dog snarled and lunged. Raymond punched at the dog again, catching him in the nose. Perro yelped and scrambled away from him, cowering submissively. I moved into the path of Raymond’s fist, blocking his next punch while Bibianna threw herself against him. Raymond shoved her out of the way. He knocked me aside and would have punched the dog again, but Luis hauled Perro by the choke chain and dragged him toward the door. Raymond stood and panted, eyelids fluttering, white slits visible along the rim. The rage and cruelty in his face were frightening, especially since his outburst was directed at the poor dog. Pit bull or no, Perro had a goofy innocence about him and all of us felt protective.

  Bibianna pushed Raymond into a chair. “What’s the matter with you!”

  Raymond rubbed at his fist, his self-control returning by degrees. Luis and the dog disappeared. My heart began to pump belatedly. Raymond was breathing hard. I saw his head jerk. He eased his right arm in its socket and did a neck roll to relax. The tension drained from the room.

  His gaze focused on Bibianna, who was pinning him to the chair, pressing down on his shoulders to prevent his getting up. She straddled his lap, the long, flawless legs anchoring him into place. It was the same move I’d seen her use with Tate the night before last. Hard to believe that less than forty-eight hours ago, she’d been with him.

  Raymond stared up at her. “What’s the matter? What’s happening?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine,” she said tersely. “Luis took the dog for a walk.”

  The moment passed. I was beginning to recognize the shifts in his moods. The spill of rage stirred sexuality. Before he could slide his hands up along her thighs, she removed herself from his lap as if she were getting off a horse. She smoothed her shorts and crossed to the television set, where she scooped up the deck of cards that was sitting on top. “Let’s play gin rummy,” she said. “A nickel a point.”

  Raymond smiled, indulging her, probably thinking he would nail her later.

  When Luis came back with the dog, Bibianna lent me some jeans, a T-shirt, and some tennies so we could go out to dinner. The four of us left on foot and headed into the dismal commercial district that bordered the apartment complex. We crossed a vacant lot and went in through the rear entrance of a restaurant called El Polio Norteno, which by my translation meant the North Chicken. The place was noisy, vinyl tile floor, the walls covered in panels of plastic laminate. The room felt close, nearly claustrophobic from the flame grills in the rear. Countless chickens were trussed on a rotating spit, brown and succulent, skins crisp and glistening with sputtering fat. The noise level was battering, mariachi music punctuated by a constant irregular banging of the cleavers whacking whole chickens into quarters and halves. The menu was listed on a board behind the register. We ordered at the counter, picked up four beers, and then canvassed, looking for a booth. The place was crowded, patrons spilling out onto a makeshift wooden deck that was actually an improvement. It was quieter out there and the chill California night air was a distinct relief. Moments later, a waitress appeared with our order on a tray, setting down paper plates and plastic flatware. We tore the chicken with our hands, piling shreds of grilled meat onto soft corn tortillas, spooning pinto beans and fresh salsa on top. It was a three-paper-napkin extravaganza of messy hands and dripping chins. Afterward, we adjourned to a bar two doors away. It was nine by then.

  The Aztlan was smoky, cavernous, ill lighted, occupied almost exclusively by Hispanic men whose eyes, at that hour, were turning slippery from all the alcohol they’d consumed. The laughter came in cons
tant, raucous bursts that were sly and assaultive, very worrisome. There was, on the surface, a thin veneer of control. Under it, and unpredictable, was the boiling violence of youth. The Spanish music I was cranked up to a feverish pitch, forcing loud talk in f aggressive tones that even merriment couldn’t mask. I took my cue from Bibianna, who seemed watchful, her sexuality under wraps. Here, there was none of the familiar bantering I’d seen in the Meat Locker. Raymond was too easily set off and her intentions were too readily misunderstood. Luis seemed right at home, sauntering to the bar with his macho attitude. In his snowy white undershirt, his bare arms were a moving cartoon, Daffy Duck and Donald Duck in aggressive black and yellow.

  While Luis fetched four more beers, we pushed through the crowd toward the back. In a second room about half the size of the first, there were three pool tables, two of them occupied. The felt surfaces looked as green as grassy islands under hot hanging lights. The dark of the ceiling was broken up by the blinking of multicolored Christmas tree lights that were probably strung up year-round. Raymond found an empty booth and Bibianna slid in. I was bringing up the rear, sidetracked by the jostling of the intervening mob. I felt a hand on my arm, impeding my progress. “Hey, babe. You play pool?” I knew the voice. I turned and it was Tate.

  I could feel my heart do a flip-flop, fearing Raymond’s reaction. I glanced back at Bibianna automatically. She was squeezed into the booth, facing in my direction. She must have recognized Tate about the time I did because her face seemed to pale.

  “Let’s just mosey over to the pool table,” Tate said under his breath. “Has Raymond figured out yet it was me killed Chago?”