And while he talked, she soaped up her left hand and wrist, moving herself into more of a sitting than reclining position so that he would not see the soap slime running down her bare arm. There was one more movement she was depending on: a bowel movement, a real one this time. His. She needed him in that bathroom. But as she twisted and pulled, her hand was not slippery enough. It wasn't working!
He came back from the kitchen and said, Okay, I gotta call a cab, and I'm gonna have to chain you up real good and tape your mouth. Sorry about that.
Jerzy, Eunice said. I'm about to faint from hunger. Before you go, can I have something to eat? Anything.
All we got is some bread and a package of salami.
That sounds great, Eunice said. Please bring it here.
Jerzy went to the kitchen and came back with the package of meat he hadn't opened and the loaf of bread.
You wouldn't have anything to put on the bread, would you? she asked.
I got a jar of mayo in there, he said.
That's perfect, Eunice said.
When he came back with the jar of mayonnaise and a plastic butter knife, she'd already torn open the meat package and was making a sandwich. Would you like one? she asked.
Naw, I only get the munchies when I smoke pot, he said. When I get the money, I think I'll switch to blow. I'll be able to afford first-class booger sugar after you make me rich.
Can you open the jar for me? Eunice asked.
He opened the mayonnaise jar and handed it to her, watching her spread a small dab on the sandwich with the plastic knife.
Don't try stabbing me in the throat, Jerzy said with a revolting leer.
Eunice wished she'd had a cigarette to calm herself, but with as much self-control as she could manage, she said prosaically, Maybe you need to have a poop too before you leave here, Jerzy. You're gonna kill a man with a knife. And it won't be a plastic knife like this one.
He stared at her fiercely, and she froze, shivers shooting through her. Had she gone too far and made the dolt suspicious? Or was he just contemplating the impending murder, something he'd never done before?
Finally he said, Yeah, I gotta admit I'm a little nervous about guttin' your old man, but once I startf_U
Jerzy stopped talking and lumbered into the little bathroom, leaving the door open. She heard him unbuckle his belt, and as soon as his bathroom noises began to tell the story, she reached into the mayonnaise jar and scooped out a handful, slathering it on her left hand and wrist. Then she rotated her wrist and pulled, all the time trying to hold the chain in her right hand to keep it from striking the steel bed frame. The mayonnaise oozed down her arm as she twisted her wrist and tugged. And suddenly, her left hand slipped past the linked manacle! She sat upright, and when she heard him grunting, swung her feet to the floor, grabbed her purse, and bolted for the door.
Jerzy saw her flash across the open bathroom door and yelled, Hey! Then he leaped to his feet with his jeans down around his boots, and fell forward onto his knees and then onto his face, yelling, I'll kill you! Now I'll kill you! You're a dead woman!
But he was yelling into an empty room. Eunice was already halfway down the steps, not knowing what part of L. A. she was in, running barefoot along the sidewalk in Frogtown, absolutely certain that if she let him get close, he'd shoot her dead.
Tristan Hawkins and Dewey Gleason were exhausted from having ransacked the apartment for hours. They had not found a key, nor any evidence of a storage facility, a safe deposit box, or anything else to provide a clue as to where the money could be.
Tristan was slumped in Eunice's chair in front of one of the computers, and he said, Maybe we gotta admit the possibility that your old lady put all the money in a bank account. Or maybe more than one account. If she did that, we're gonna have problems.
Dewey, who looked to Tristan like a man facing a firing squad, said, I don't understand how she could be holding out so long. What could he be doing to her?
We're way down the road past all that, Tristan said. We gotta depend on the Polack to make her talk, and that's the end of it.
I wish I had it to do over, Dewey said with a bleak stare into the abyss.
Well, you don't, Tristan said, and I'm sick of hearin' you say that.
And that was when Tristan's cell rang, and Dewey said, Thank God! Maybe she's talked!
Yo, Tristan said into the phone, and Dewey studied him, seeing the alarm grow on his face as he listened to a long monologue from Jerzy Szarpowicz.
Then Tristan said, No, don't come here! Catch a cab tof_U to the office. Yeah, wait there. We'll clean out the storage room and take the stuff there in the van.
When he closed his cell, Dewey looked at him and said, Is she dead?
No, she escaped! Tristan said. And if I can get my hands on his gun, I'm killin' that motherfuckin' Polack as soon as all this is over.
How could she escape? Dewey said.
Never mind how. We gotta get outta here. You and me're goin' back to the storage room and loadin' up every fuckin' thing in there. Does your old lady know about the office?
She knows about it but not exactly where it is, Dewey said.
Okay, Bernie, we're gonna store the merchandise in the office for a few days, and you're gonna sell all of it to your fence, and we're gonna split the money three ways. Because that's all any of us is gonna get from this fuckin' gag.
She can't call the cops, Dewey said in despair.
I ain't takin' no chances, Tristan said. She figured out this gag from the git, and at this point she might be ready to go to jail herself jist to see you go down. If you wanna pack a bag, hurry the fuck up. And I wouldn't advise you to argue about any of this, because the Polack is about ready to kill the first person that crosses him. But before you pack up, let's check somethin' out.
Dewey followed Tristan into his bedroom and watched, perplexed, as Tristan went to the window and carefully examined the drapes, running his hand over every inch. When he was finished, Tristan said, Like I thought. No key. And I don't have to look. There ain't no such business called North Hollywood Storage.
What? Dewey Gleason said in confusion.
Five cars containing motorists on their way to work drove past Eunice Gleason when she ran into the street, waving frantically. The sixth one, an old Pontiac driven by a middle-aged Mexican woman heading to her job at a restaurant in Silverlake, stopped for her.
Eunice wasn't sure how much English the woman understood, but Eunice told a tale of having been picked up by a man in a bar and literally held captive by him after she'd refused him sex.
The woman kept repeating, PolicA-a? when there were breaks in Eunice's tale, but Eunice looked out at the street, shook her head, and said, No, no police. Just drop me there at Denny's, por favor.
When she got out of the car, she tried to give the woman a $20 bill, but the woman refused to take it, once again saying, PolicA-a?
Eunice smoked a cigarette in front of Denny's restaurant and looked in her compact mirror. She had what looked like a swath of sunburn across her mouth and chin where the tape had been ripped off. Her new hairdo was tousled and tangled, and there was no makeup left except around her eyes, but she felt surprisingly relaxed when she approached the door. Nobody in Denny's seemed to notice that the disheveled woman who entered and went to a booth was barefoot.
Without looking at a menu, she said to the waitress who brought a pot of coffee to her table, Hotcakes, crisp bacon, two eggs over easy, and tomato juice. When you get a chance.
The salty-looking waitress said, Rough night, huh?
You wouldn't believe it, Eunice said, realizing that she was feeling something close to elation.
The whole kidnap might have been a Dewey Gleason gag, but the presence of Jerzy Szarpowicz was real. She had escaped torture and, finally, death. She had done it with brains and guts, and now she was free of that miserable little son of a whore who at this moment was probably trying to figure out how he could scrape together enough money to run f
or his life. Now that the weasel had realized what a formidable woman he'd married, he was no doubt panic-stricken. Well, her retirement had just arrived ahead of schedule. But it would be retirement for one person, not two, so she'd get by. She had to get back to the apartment and take the hard drives from the computers, along with all the incriminating files.
After that, she'd pack up and be on the first flight to San Francisco, where she'd establish a bank account and have the $945,000 moved from the four Hollywood banks in which she'd made deposits over the years. She thought she'd wait until the real-estate market improved before selling the family home on Russian Hill. She wanted to finally own a condo, maybe near North Beach, with its nightlife and people having fun. It was about time she started enjoying herself after so many years of hard work.
Eunice knew now that Dewey had actually bought into the many hints she'd dropped whenever he got frustrated, intimations that she'd hidden piles of money in a secret cache, like some Latin American drug lord. That was so like him. Limited talent, limited intellect, and limited imagination. Hugo could've eaten him alive. Eunice was actually smiling when she took the cell phone from her purse and dialed a number she'd been given last night.
Malcolm had his box cutter in his hand and was slashing open a crate containing video games when his cell chimed. He'd been working extra hard all morning, trying to quell the anger that was still simmering.
Hello, he said.
Clark, Eunice said. It's me, Ethel. Would you like a job today?
Yeah, he said, but I'm at work right now.
That's okay, Eunice said. I'll need the rest of the day to get ready. I'd like you to come to the apartment and help me do some work.
I can't get there till after six, he said.
Can you make it earlier?
I'll try, he said. Will Mr. Graham be there?
No, I'll explain it to you when you arrive. You're gonna be well paid for your labor.
Okay, I'll be there, he said.
After he clicked off, he noticed that his battery was getting low, so he turned off the cell until he could get to his car and charge it. When he was back slashing open boxes and crates, he didn't really feel much better for at last getting a job from Bernie Graham. The tormenting memory of his mother's touch had made this an uncommonly terrible day for Malcolm Rojas.
There was some telephone debate that Saturday between the sex crimes team at West Bureau and their lieutenant after Dana Vaughn's former colleague D2 Flo Johnson phoned the lieutenant at home to explain the entire case. The lieutenant had recently come from a staff meeting with West Bureau brass where once again complaints from self-styled community leaders concerning minority-group harassment had been discussed. As usual, things ended with dispiriting lectures about the federal consent decree and fears of allegations from black and Latino citizens.
The lieutenant said, Okay, the rock-throwing prowler generally fits the description of the guy that attacked the women, but there're a lot of young Hispanics with curly hair that would also fit.
How about the light blue T-shirt and jeans? Flo Johnson said.
The lieutenant replied, Common clothing for young guys. And that girl Naomi isn't even positive which day she met her guy.
How about the damaged fists following the day when our guy attacked the second victim and put her in the hospital?
That's moref_U convincing, the lieutenant said. But we still have to be careful not to stir up any more complaints about minority-group harassment.
Flo Johnson sighed and said, My maiden name was Trevino, Lieutenant. I'm second generation from Sonora, and this isn't about annoying the Hispanic community. This is about a vicious rapist who's gonna kill somebody sooner or later.
And so it went until someone with more rank and more spine listened to the detective and gave her the okay to proceed. D2 Flo Johnson went to the website that links cell numbers to their providers. Then she wrote a search warrant and faxed it to the district attorney's weekend command post, which faxed it to an on-call judge at home, who signed it and faxed it back.
The cell provider had given the name of Madge Rojas, with an address on Maplewood Avenue in east Hollywood. It was early afternoon when four detectives went to the Maplewood address, but they found nobody at home. After that, Flo Johnson and her partner sat in their car on Maplewood Avenue and sweated in ninety-degree heat. Her D3 back at the office contacted a D3 at Major Crimes Division and explained the urgency of the case, and he agreed to go up to a satellite link and wait for whoever possessed that number to turn on his cell phone.
As this was going on, Madge Rojas enjoyed a matinee with popcorn and soda at a multiplex cinema while her son, Malcolm, worked his overtime shift on a busy Saturday at the home improvement center. Malcolm's mother decided not to rush back to their apartment. He seldom came straight home from work anymore, especially on a weekend. She'd given up questioning him about where he went at night. He'd get so angry, he was starting to scare her. She made a mental note to contact one of the free clinics about psychological counseling for her son. Meanwhile, she thought there was no reason she couldn't stay and see one of the other movies at the multiplex after this one. No reason at all.
At 3 P. M., when Dana Vaughn was about to get a shower and start preparing for work, her cell chimed.
Dana? It's Flo Johnson, the detective said. It's been a real busy morning and afternoon. How come all the good stuff happens on weekends?
Did you get him? Dana asked, trying not to sound disappointed for not having been in on it.
Not yet, the detective said. The phone bill goes to a Madge Rojas at an address on Maplewood. Autotrac ran the name, and credit info indicates she lives with her nineteen-year-old son, Ruben Malcolm Rojas, who has no criminal record. We did get the license number of his Mustang, and I've already phoned the Hollywood watch commander to pass it on at roll call to Watch 3 and Watch 5. We'll be waiting for the cell phone ping as soon as it's turned on. I'll personally ask your boss to let you help back us up if we ping it to a Hollywood location.
Too cool! Dana said. I'll wear a fresh uniform. I work with Hollywood Nate Weiss, and he'll figure a way to get us some press coverage if we're in on this one.
Flo Johnson chuckled and said, A little extra color instead of our usual drab lipstick shows up better on TV.
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN and those of you who do not fit either category, I have an announcement to make, Sergeant Lee Murillo said by way of beginning roll call. There is a real Hollywood moon tonight. And as you know, a full moon over Hollywood brings out the beast rather than the best in our citizens. The car that comes back with the weirdest encounter of the night will get an extra-large pizza with the works. And now to training material. Last time it was how to address our Hollywood citizens of various nationalities who speak many languages. This time it's how to address our Hollywood citizens of various genders who speak our same language. For example, you must never address or refer to a transsexual as a tranny.
R. T. Dibney raised his hand and said, Is it okay to call them trans-testicles?
After the guffaws died down, Sergeant Murillo said, And you must not address or refer to drag queens as dragons.
If they're ugly, can we call them drag-goons? Flotsam asked.
Sergeant Murillo ignored him, saying, And post-op transsexuals will be searched by female officers, pre-op by male officers. Booking in either the men's or women's jail will also depend upon their medical status and condition. And you will not refer to Santa Monica Boulevard as Sodom-Monica because of the number of male prostitutes there.
Jetsam said, Boss, it's way confusing out there. We need an organization chart to know how to talk to these people.
Flotsam pointed to young Harris Triplett, back from his loan to the vice unit, and said, The last night Triplett was working for the vice unit, a deaf guy on Santa Monica Boulevard handed him a note that said, Can I have a blow job?'
That actually got people interest
ed, and Hollywood Nate said, Did you bust the poor guy, Harris?
Reluctantly the young cop said, Uh-huh.
Then several of the saltier cops booed and chimed in with remarks like Harris the Harsh! and Harris the Horrible! and Enemy of people with disabilities!
While everyone was jeering and having a rollicking good time, R. T. Dibney leaned over to Harris Triplett and said, Kid, always be careful how much you drink if you do the Hollywood nightclub scene. You might get hammered and pick up with what you think is some smokin' hot chick and wake up with a hairy scrotum across your nose.
Sergeant Murillo flapped his hands palms-down to get them quieted, then pointed to a license number and car description on the board behind him and said, We do have some real police work to take care of tonight. Dana Vaughn has done some work that might result in the arrest of the box-cutter rapist who we think is Ruben Malcolm Rojas, Hispanic, nineteen, five eight, one forty-five, brown and brown. He lives with his mother on Maplewood, just west of Kingsley. West Bureau detectives, assisted by our gang units, are out there right now, waiting for cell phone pings that could very well track the guy right to your beat. Listen to the tac frequency and watch for that old red Mustang. I think it'd be just dandy if one of you midwatch units took him down. And remember, the Oracle said that doing good police work is the most fun you'll ever have in your lives. So go out there under that Hollywood moon tonight and have yourselves some fun.
At the end of the forty-five-minute roll call session, everyone touched the picture of the Oracle for luck as usual, like parishioners dipping their fingers into a font of holy water, and headed downstairs to the kit room to line up for their nonlethal weapons. When Hollywood Nate was loading the war bags into the trunk of their shop in the parking lot, he heard the surfer cops jawing with intensity.
Did I or didn't I? Jetsam asked Flotsam.
Dude, I wasn't watching, but it's, like, something you always do, so I'd say you did it.
Did what? Dana Vaughn asked.
Touch the Oracle's picture, Flotsam said.
You were behind me, Dana, Jetsam said. Did I touch it?
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