Mace wasn't sure how to answer. This was the kind of talk usually reserved for two in the morning, after a night of drinking. He wondered if this was the booze talking now, or perhaps Ladoor was going through that midlife thing.
"What do you mean?" he asked, playing it cautious.
"I mean, do you think you're making a difference? You keep busting the same assholes for the same thing, a couple of years later, months sometimes, they're back out on the street. You don't even get to do real police work anymore. You spend half your time writing paper. The DNS case is more important than catching the guy who did it. Catching the guy is just the beginning. Knowing in your gut he's the one. It don't mean shit anymore. First they expect you to put together a packet of evidence and deliver it the DA with a one hundred and ten percent bulletproof case. Then, with some pencil-pusher's approval, you can go back out and try to find the guy again." He paused to sip his drink, then fixed Mace with a penetrating look.
"What do you want? What are your dreams? Weren't you and your dad going to take a trip, see the country in that train of yours?"
Mace was happy with the shift of the conversation. It was the second time in almost as many days that the same subject had come up. What he wanted and what he had to do were not always the same things. But if they were talking dreams--
"There are stretches of track that go through the Rockies in Colorado," he told Ladoor, "through the Royal Gorge of the Arkansas River, that are so beautiful they'd make you cry Trout as big as tuna, clean water, totally untouched." He sipped his water. "I'll get there someday"
"That's why I wanted to talk to you. You can't always count on someday being there. Every year, before my birthday I have my annual physical."
Mace stopped cold, the hair on the back of his neck pricked up, and a cold chill ran down his spine. Wvhat did they call that? Someone walking over your grave. He waited for Ladoor to finish delivering his news.
"I'm dying, Mace. Cancer, it's in my liver. I've got six months."
"Mark, I . . . "
"Save it, there's nothing you can say. Think about what I said." They ordered lunch. "So how's your tag team investigation going? I hear you're giving the boys at RHD a run for their money"
"Yeah, the Ducks been chewing my ass out for it, too."
"Donald's just running scared. He isn't getting any younger. "
"It's not just that," Mace said, feeling like his problems were insignificant in light of what Mark Ladoor had just confided. "I feel like every time I make a discovery on the Glassen case that I'm covering ground that should have . . . I don't know. It's like there's no follow-up."
Ladoor nodded. ‘You had trouble with Ernie before. Remember that teenage girl at Venice
High?"
Mace nodded. "Santos, Christina Santos. She took a four-story nose dive off the football field
bleachers."
"As I remember, Emie tried to convince the ME that the cause of death was suicide. The coroner didn't want to back him up. The girl was eight weeks pregnant. There were too many things that didn't add up."
"Her purse was never recovered, for one thing," Mace said. "When I asked Ernie what he made of that, he didn't think it was important. ‘Case closed,' he said. His actual words were, 'The bitch did it to herself.'"
"What can I say? The guy can be an asshole."
"I suggested we talk to her boyfriend. Ernie said the boyfriend had nothing to do with it. Like he'd already talked to the guy Later I discovered that Ernie never even identified the boyfriend, much less questioned him."
"Everyone gets lazy now and then," Ladoor said.
"It's human nature."
"He gets paid to do the job."
"You used some pretty strong language in the report you filed," Ladoor said. "I seem to recall phrases like grossly incompetent and unfounded assumptions; pretty gutsy talk for a rookie detective."
Mace felt the color rise in his cheelc. "Hey I was young, but I meant every word. Didn't exactly endear me to the brass, did it?"
"Fuck them," Mark said and motioned to the waitress for a refill.
"You know, the patrolman who responded to the Santos call said he found one of her molars fifty-four feet from her body"
"Fifty-four feet?"
"Yeah, he said he paced it off while he was waiting for us."
"The boyfriend ending up confessing, right?"
"Yeah, after I found his married ass."
"You came out all right," Ladoor reminded him.
The brass had offered Mace his pick of assignments where openings were available. Vice, Mace felt, held too many temptations for a married man. Besides, he hadn't gone into law enforcement so that he could arrest victims. Narcotics involved distasteful undercover work. He had no desire to run around in dirty clothes with Vaseline in his hair and a wire around his chest. Homicide was the obvious choice, crimes against persons, that's where his heart was.
To make room on the squad, Potts was sent downtown to RHD. Whatever lapse of attention to duty that had caused Ernie to slack on the Santos murder wasn't typical of his overall performance as an investigator. He had distinguished himself time and again with his almost uncanny insights. Personal connections notwithstanding, he deserved the promotion to downtown. It was just as well, Mace thought. His and Ernie's disagreements over the handling of the Santos homicide had caused a serious rift in their relationship.
Mace and Ladoor spent the rest of the hour reminiscing. Later, Mace couldn't remember what he ate, only the offhand way in which Mark Ladoor had announced, "I'm done," and laughed at his private joke when the busboy cleared their plates.
***
The interrogation of Stinky that aftemoon went how St. John expected it to. He waved the evidence he had under the biker's nose.
"You were the last known person seen with this girl." St. John showed him the photograph. Stinky stonewalled. "We got hair fibers." He showed the biker a picture of the red panties.
"You don't like my hat?" Stinky said. "Sue me, pig."
"Get him out of here," Mace ordered, playing the frustrated cop. They could hold Stinky Seventy-two hours without charging him, then they would have to let him go. Mace was certain that Stinky could quote the laws of custody and evidence chapter and verse.
***
Stinky was put in the misdemeanor holding tank with the other arrestees du jour. On the cot next to him, another biker lolled and smoked a cigarette.
"Those pigs don't have nothing," the prone man said and scratched his chest. "If they ask you anything, just hold your mud."
"What you in for, bro?" Stinky asked.
"They think I robbed some bitch." The other biker stabbed out his cigarette against the block
wall and flicked the butt into the stainless steel toilet bolted to the wall. "I told them to kiss my ass. They can't prove nothing and I wasn't there. You hear what I'm saying?" He held out his hand. "Ugly Bud."
"Stinky" the biker answered, grabbing the others hand high in the air in an arm wrestlers grip.
"You got that midnight blue panhead, right? I've seen you at the rock shop in the canyon. Righteous sled."
"Right on, bro. You ride with the Pride, right? I hear you dudes throw some hellacious parties."
"I'll be out by Monday Look me up, I usually hang at the Venture Inn."
"I'll do that, bro. Got a smoke?"
Mace and Cassiletti watched the performance through surveillance monitors.
"Looks like we're in," Mace said.
14
HER FIRST PAYCHECK WENT TOWARDS RENT AT A motel on Victory Boulevard that offered rooms by the week. A leering manager with a greasy ponytail showed her to her room on the second floor. He left her with towels and the reminder that he worked all night. She gave him a bored, disinterested look, then locked the deadbolt after him. The kitchenette consisted of a small, noisy refrigerator, a two-burner stove, and a Formica-covered table that attached to the wall. The last paint job had been poorly done. No doubt the motel had g
otten a good price on the pumpkin-colored paint. Dried teardrops ran from the corners of the walls and flecks of apricot peppered the brown industrial carpet. A cheap, shiny yellow-and-red-flowered bedspread covered the twin bed against the opposite wall. The bathroom was the only part of the room separated with a door. Munch was delighted to discover that it even had a window that opened. All in all, she felt, it was money well spent.
She unpacked her supplies on the counter of . the small bathroom. Five dollars of her hard-earned cash had gone towards toothpaste, toothbrush, and shampoo. She spent half an hour in the shower, luxuriating in the feel of the hot water. She never knew how good soap could smell, or how bad it could feel to be dirty
She dried her hair with the skimpy motel-provided towel, rubbing her scalp briskly till her hair stood out in damp light brown tufts. The scabs on her arms were finally showing signs of healing, and the angry red scars seemed to have toned down a shade. When she was using, she kept meaning to use the veins in her legs so as to spread the marks around and not have such a telltale concentration on her left arm. It never failed, though, that when the time came, when she actually had the dope in hand, the anxiousness would overcome her. She'd say "Fuck it" one more time and go for old reliable. Often she'd just lift up an old scab with the point of the needle and reenter the same hole, convincing herself that this was just as good as a leg shot because she wasn't really making a new mark.
The scarring was internal as well. At least that's what she figured was happening when she felt the vein push aside, resisting the rape of the needle.
God, how she missed it: her habit. She felt as if some huge part of her was missing; the foundation that she had built her life upon. It was her purpose; the thing that drove her; the disease that was killing her. How she craved the oblivion of sweet opium dreams, even the illusion of them. What a lying bastard the Monster was. It had been a long time since getting down felt good. Shooting dope just felt better than not shooting dope. She had felt some strange, sick security in the predictability of it. Life was very simple when she was strung out; her existence was whittled down to the bare bones of need. Someone told her at one of the meetings that it was a long journey between learning not to die and learning how to live. This staying clean was like a new high in itself. Who would have thought that that would be the answer? To do no drugs at all. She had always believed that it was just a matter of getting the chemical combination right.
Tonight's meeting began at 8:30. She guessed she would go.
On her way to her car, she spotted a pay phone by the managers office. She had time before she left for the meeting to give Wizard a call and let him know how she was.
Standing at the open booth, she tugged self-consciously at her new clothes. Ruby had gone through her closet and come up with a few new outfits for her. She had presented them to her after work in a brown shopping bag from Hughes market. At the bottom of the bag was a macraméd purse with a strap made out of wooden beads. Munch tried to let it hang from her shoulder as she had seen other women do, but it kept swinging out and banging into her back. It felt just as unnatural to clutch the purse in her hand. She tried strapping the purse across her chest, but then was left with an arm that had nowhere to hang.
On the third ring, Wizard answered, "Yellow Cab."
"Hey" she said. "What's up?"
"You are, little one. All kinds of people been asking for you. You best just stay gone."
"I'm doing real good. I've been clean for six days."
"That's fine, real fine."
"Who was asking about me?"
"The Man was here. He gave me a message for you. He said he talked to your PO and would square everything. All he wanted, he said, was the piece and to know where you got it."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him I hadn't seen you, didn't want to see yo u, and wished I'd never seen you. He left me his card."
"You said people. Who else?"
"Crazy Mike."
She felt her stomach clench. "What did that asshole want?"
"He said you done him dirty. He wanted to know where you were."
"What did you say?"
"I told him you was long gone."
"Should have told him I died." She studied the traffic driving by All the good citizens going home. She watched the faces of the commuters, resigned to their wait. It must be nice to be bored, she thought. She fought an impulse to wave at them. They were tired now, a good tired. They didnt know how good they had it. "Are you going to be there later?"
"I'l1 be here for a while yet. Don't do anything stupid. Don't mess things up for yourself."
Rush-hour traffic showed the first signs of dying down and the speed began to pick up. A Cadillac darted into an opening too small for him; the driver of the car he cut off honked his horn. Another commuter willing to die for ten feet of asphalt.
"I just want to square things," she said. "They never give up on murder. If I get the gun that they want so bad, I can bargain with it. They don't want me, they want the asshole I stole it from. I've never given anyone up before, but for that animal I can make an exception."
After she hung up, she went back up to her room. Ruby had given her a coat, too. It was big on her and had deep, sagging pockets that fell open below her waist. She filled them now with her few belongings and left the purse on the bed.
***
Evangeline helped Mace spread the green felt cover over the dining room table. They brought in chairs from the den and placed them around the table in readiness for the night's game. Mace put Digger in charge of distributing the chips. Cassiletti was invited, as was Bob Marshall from the DEA. The regulars would also be there: Mando Loyola from Records and Jimbo Washington from Vice. Evangeline set out bowls of chips and pretzels. Mace fitted a visor on his dad's head.
The traditional Friday night game had begun ten years ago. They used to rotate houses, but now they usually met at Digger's. The old man was more comfortable in a familiar setting. By seven o'clock, all the participants were seated. The buy-in was ten dollars. They had learned the necessity early on of setting a reasonable limit to keep the game friendly Mace dealt first. He called the game, "Baseball. Seven-card stud, threes and nines wild, extra card on a four."
The players anted.
"So when you going to go out with Carol?" Jimbo asked Mace. "You know she wants it."
"It's your bet," Mace said.
"Check," Jimbo said after lifting the two cards that were dealt to him face down and grimacing.
"I'm serious. She's a fine-looking piece of woman."
"She's not my type," Mace said and threw in a blue chip to see the bet on the table. He dealt another round of cards.
Bob Marshall snorted. "What the fuck are you talking about, type?"
"Yeah, she's breathing and willing." Mando jumped in to the conversation. "That's all the type Bob ever needed."
"Look where it got him," Mace said. "Child support and a one-bedroom apartment in Culver City"
"I wouldn't talk, Engineer Bill." Bob raised the bet. "How much are you paying your ex?"
"C'mon, c'mon," Digger grumbled impatiently.
"You gonna play or you gonna yap?"
Mace laughed. "He must have a good hand. I fold." The rest of the players followed his lead. Digger turned over his cards. With the wild cards, he had a total of five eights. Mace helped him sweep his chips from the center of the table to the stack in front of him. It was Bob's deal.
"I'm serious," he said to Mace. "Ask her out. Whats stopping you? You know she'll say yes."
"Don't laugh."
"Scout's honor"
"The truth?" Mace asked. At those magic words, all play stopped and the other men leaned forward in anticipation. "She bites her nails."
"Aww, man," the men exhaled in unison.
"With an ass like hers, I don't care if she bites her toenails." Jimbo seemed truly disappointed.
Mace shrugged. "C'mon, what's the game?"
"N0 peekee."
"So what's it like," Bob asked, "working with the Putz again?"
"Same old shit," Mace said. "He's not all bad."
"Who are you talking about?" Digger asked.
"Ernie Potts, Dad. You remember him. My old partner? Kind of a big guy bald head, always wore those bow ties?"
"Whatever happened to him?" Digger asked.
"He used to play with us."
"He got married, for one thing," Mace said.
"Yeah," Jimbo said, "Now every Friday night he tells his wife not to wait up because he's got a game."
The men laughed.
"What's his wife like?" Cassiletti asked.
"She's real quiet, kind of jumpy" Mace answered. "I only met her a few times."
When it was Cassiletti's turn to deal, he called for five-card draw. Guts to open. Mace opened with a two dollar bet, which put everyone else out except Mando and Cassiletti. The betting raised until Cassiletti doubled. Mace threw his cards down in disgust. "You got it."
Mando folded on the same round.
"What did you have?" Bob asked.
"Nobody paid for that information." Cassiletti said and actually blushed as he collected his pot.
"Still waters run deep," Bob said and laughed.
"Hey Mace, you don't think your bunkie here bluffed you, do you?"
"I guess we'll never know."
"Hey where's the bathroom in this joint?" Digger asked.
The men seated around the table got busy with their chips.
"What are you talking about, Dad?" Mace stood up. "Quit joking. It's down the hall where it's always been." He helped his dad up.
Digger pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. Before it swung shut again, everyone heard him say to Evangeline, "This looks just like my house."
***
The call came in at eight o'clock. Evangeline answered on the first ring and came into the dining room to tell Mace it was for him. Mace took it in the den. It was Dispatch. He was patched through to Jerry Parker, a detective on night shift.
"What's up?" he asked. Through the open door, he could see Bob trying to convince Digger to stop turning his cards face up. His dad was tired.
"We picked up a call at the cab company I think your suspect is planning to pay a visit."
No Human Involved - Barbara Seranella Page 12