Bowden drops his smoke, steps on it. His mouth turns down. "You've lost me, Doc," which is a bald-faced lie, "which file are you talking about?"
"27ME1642," Doc replies. "You know, that writer guy, Stryker."
Bowden kicks the wall in frustration. "Doc, where are you?"
"I'm on a land-line, but it's a pay phone outside the office. Don't worry."
Yeah, but I'm on a goddamn cell phone, Bowden thinks. He's getting pissed off, but it's really just fear. "I'm worried, believe me. Drop it here, Doc. Please."
"Scotty, I found something really weird."
"You tell anybody about it?"
"I left a message for Burke, but he hasn't gotten back to me yet."
Bowden grunts, runs sweaty fingers through his thinning hair. "Doc, leave him out of the loop. You hear me?"
"Scotty, there's a piece of the guy's bowel missing."
Bowden is speechless. Then: "Say what?"
Doc is excited, a bit fascinated. "I was flipping through the files when I came across something so odd it doesn't fit any scenario I've ever seen before, not suicide or homicide. Dude, remember that he did himself in the bathtub, the old hari kiri thing?"
"Yeah. It kind of ruined my lunch to read that."
"Catch this, dude. I found an area of the lower bowel where two surgical cuts had been made, neat and clean and professional, one on each side of what was probably about a ten inch section."
"So?"
"So there is absolutely no way the guy could have tortured and disemboweled himself, then made two neat surgical cuts in the mess of his own lower GI. Not a fucking chance. He would have been too deep into shock."
Bowden tap dances. "I read he took a lot of drugs, Doc, all different kinds. Hey, you're the Doc, but, with the right mix of painkillers and stimulants, who knows?"
"Scotty, catch this." He pauses, the timing of a little kid about to give the punch line to a dirty joke. "You know that maybe nine or ten inch long, stinky hot dog of a bowel piece?"
"Yeah?"
"It's missing."
Bowden closes his eyes as the sidewalk collapses around him and becomes a black hole in space. "Doc, don't tell Burke."
"Why not?"
"Don't tell Red, my friend. Please. We need to talk, okay?"
"But . . ."
"Doc, I can't go into this now, but it is not in Burke's best interest that he hear about this, man. It will dig him in too deep. I'm trying to cover him and he's almost out of the woods."
"What woods are those, man? You're not making any sense, here."
"If you tell Red about this, you are going to drop him into one hell of a shit storm. Just take my word on that. Can I come by later?" He looks at his watch with blurred eyes. "Maybe around closing time, five or six?"
Doc's voice loses steam, gains suspicion. "Yeah. I guess."
"And don't talk to anybody else about this before then, okay?"
"Scotty . . ." A warning mixed with growing mistrust.
Bowden interrupts him. "Think Feds, Doc. Think witness protection, top secret, for-your-eyes-only, need to know type shit, okay? And then trust me and keep your mouth shut. I'll explain later."
"Yeah. Okay. Sure thing."
Bowden closes the phone, blows air like a man running track. Well that is just what I fucking needed.
A bookish brunette in a knit woolen business suit and large glasses strides by with her eyes locked forward. She seems offended. Bowden realizes he's spoken his thoughts. He gives her a weak smile and follows her into the tiled, gilded lobby where footsteps echo and voices generally whisper, but big money shouts. He rides up in a bronze elevator with other city functionaries, all of them jammed together like Vienna sausage.
The buxom receptionist eyes him, bird to worm. Bowden shows his badge, gives his most winning smile and his name. He wanders over to thumb through some out-of-date magazines while the receptionist carries on a hushed conversation with her high-tech head gear. "He'll be with you in a moment."
Bowden grabs Sports Illustrated and stares down at an article that attempts to explain the collapse of the St. Louis Rams. He is too preoccupied to read. His descent into hell has been so rapid, so dizzying, that he still finds it difficult to retrace the steps. Now Doc is going to need to know what's up. Bowden doesn't like that. He has already told Jack Burke part of the truth, the part Burke needed to know. He'll have to keep his story straight with Doc. Say just enough.
Because the rest, an embarrassing collection of sordid events involving prostitutes, recreational drugs, and off-duty chores for corrupt city officials like Deputy Mayor Paul Grace, Bowden had elected to keep secret. This is a mess becoming a whirlwind. One thing has to stay under wraps . . . and that's this meeting. Paul Grace is not someone he is proud to know.
Deputy Mayor Grace, a sleek and well-tailored young Harvard law graduate, comes from what was once old L.A. money. His family built its fortune the new-fashioned L.A. way, meaning in the entertainment business. His father, Jack Grace, co-founded Cyclops Productions, a company known for cranking out bad films and worse television. By the time young Paul had graduated from Harvard, his cocaine addled, sex-addicted father had run the family business into the ground. So young master Grace made the logical move. He switched from entertainment to local politics—considered by many to be one and the same. Paul Grace's superior, Mayor James Shelton, does not merely stand on a platform of 'family values,' he paces around ranting and raving about the same. Mayor Shelton is not the sort who handles unpleasant issues personally. Being a man who dreams of federal office, the Mayor, ever conscious of the need to leave himself 'plausible deniability,' delegates those to Deputy Mayor Grace.
Scott Bowden, under pressure from IA for his peccadilloes, suddenly found himself summoned for a personal conference with Mr. Grace. Ever the suave attorney, Grace managed to make the terms clear while keeping the precise agreement completely off the record.
Bowden caught on rapidly. He promptly 'volunteered' to work special assignments for the Deputy Mayor's office. In exchange for that clandestine service, his IA record would be expunged and the charges filed against him deleted from the system. As Bowden thumbed through a magazine he could not see, he remembered a quotation from somewhere—Mark Twain perhaps?—that the 'greatest trick the devil has ever pulled is convincing us that he doesn't exist.'
He does. And his name is Paul Grace.
The 'assignments' began simply enough. Bowden got a call asking him to meet Mr. Grace for a drink. Grace had a bodyguard with him, a former homicide dick named Roy Garner. In the men's room, Garner patted Bowden down, pronounced him clean. Then, with the water running to foul up any electronic bugs, Grace showed Bowden a piece of paper with a name and an address. He made it clear that Bowden's job was to find something, anything, to pin on the guy.
"The guy" was Jack Reilly, a congressman from northern California who was leading a movement to block the flow of illegal immigrants into the state. Bowden didn't know much about politics, but he did know that the Mayor had a lot of money invested in industry from south of the border, and was friendly to businesses that employed workers at below minimum wage. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that Reilly was starting to cost the Mayor some serious bucks. Bowden switched to a day shift and followed Congressman Reilly during his off-duty hours, looking for a chink in the guy's armor. Turned out he didn't drink or party much, didn't gamble, and didn't seem to have any white collar scams going; if he did, they were very well hidden.
But the guy was a chicken hawk.
When Bowden uncovered Reilly's penchant for young male hookers, Deputy Mayor Grace was thrilled. He slipped Bowden a grand and promised that a bit more of his jacket had been cleaned up. For a little while, Bowden had believed him. I wanted to believe him. But now, nearly two years later, Scotty found himself back in the office of the Deputy Mayor, waiting for another assignment, wondering what it would be this time: character assassination, a slight beating, blackmail? Bowden thinks he'll pr
int some new business cards soon. Hey, maybe something like SCROTUMS 'R US would look cool. What made him feel the sleaziest was that he had been handing assignments to Jack Burke for months that in some way originated with the Deputy Mayor without Burke realizing it. Bowden didn't like using his friends, but the idea of being a cop behind bars was even less appetizing.
Miss Boobs speaks: "Deputy Mayor Grace will see you now." She stands, turns on her high heels, and leads the way down the hall. Bowden thinks she walks like she has a corn cob up her ass. Must be those stiletto heels.
The receptionist knocks on a tall, thick door. After a respectful few seconds she opens it and ushers Bowden in to a spacious conference room. One long window faces the city of Los Angeles. Grim, smoggy clouds hang like pads of steel wool over the toothy skyline of irregular buildings. Grace is seated alone at the head of a ludicrously long, varnished wooden table, with a coffee service and croissants on a tray before him.
"Hello, Detective."
The Deputy Mayor had his chin cupped thoughtfully in one hand, staring out the window, a poseur channeling a burdened leader. Grace was that kind of elemental narcissist, always performing for a hidden camera.
"Pull up your shirt," Grace says, mildly. "Then turn around." Bowden complies. The air conditioned atmosphere strikes his bare skin like a slap. Grace glances over just long enough to verify that Bowden isn't wired. "Have a seat. This room is swept for bugs on a weekly basis."
Bowden moves closer, but still a few chairs away. He feels strange in the empty, cavernous meeting room. He sits. Grace does not offer him refreshment.
"We have a couple of new problems, Scotty."
Hearing his first name issue from this fur ball puke makes Scotty cringe, but he hides the reaction. "Go on."
"Your friend Burke, for starters, seems quite tenacious. He is not backing off."
"I warned you he was stubborn. I told you that if there were any slip ups, I might not be able to control him."
Grace looks up. His eyes are narrowed, pupils contracted into marbles. "If you can't handle him I'll find someone else, someone less squeamish."
"I'll talk to him again."
"You did a good job with the old woman," Grace says, quietly. "Our man took her directly to a mortuary and requested cremation."
"That's good."
"Unfortunately, despite your best efforts, it seems a report was filed."
Bowden feels the skin on his neck quiver. "Excuse me?"
"A young officer named—" Grace consults a small notepad "—Mike Gallo. I think he's one you trusted to call you."
"He made a report?"
"Apparently he had an attack of conscience, or wanted to make sure he was in the clear. So he entered a line or two about spotting a homeless woman 'who may have been ill or dead' into his daily log."
Damn it, Gallo. You moron!
"That's unfortunate. Out of curiosity, how did he explain not calling for an ambulance?"
Grace steeples his fingers, posing again. "I believe he claimed his radio malfunctioned, so he left to find a pay phone. He was also out of change, it seems, and when he returned the woman was gone."
Bowden shrugs. "Okay, so what if he covered his ass in case anything comes up? He can admit he saw her, say he tried to do his duty. It's no big deal."
"Oh, but I'm afraid it is."
"How so?"
"Someone was a busy beaver last night. Someone called around and found the mortuary we had taken her to. Someone put a stop order on the cremation and made a formal request for an autopsy."
I'm fucked. "Who is that someone?"
"Why, a gentleman of color in the coroner's office." Grace's voice had gone soft, and the effect was disturbing. "I believe you know him, too. His name is Lincoln Washington." He raises his eyes, pins Bowden like a bug.
A chill, stark as a wave of high fever, runs through Scotty's upper body and he sits back as if slapped. "Doc."
"What?"
"His nickname is Doc. And he just called me about a completely different situation. It seems he noticed something odd about the Stryker death, a section of bowel missing. I asked him to sit on it. Told him there was some federal stuff going on, high priority, and that I would explain later."
"Ah. I can understand your reasoning. Sadly, this is not a different situation."
"You mean these two incidents are related?" Bowden hears his own bloodstream hissing, aches for the well-being of his old friends. Judas and the pieces of silver.
Grace poses again. This time the stern father, pointing his finger. "I am not at liberty to discuss details. Let's just say that your concept of top secret is not far off the mark. Please understand that my superiors are very unhappy with you at present. Despite assurances, your compatriots, the young patrolman and Mr. Burke and this black fellow, are not proving as functional as you had initially represented. In fact, they are briskly becoming irritants and obstructions."
"Do you thumb through a thesaurus in the morning? Didn't anyone ever tell you nobody actually talks like that?"
Bowden likes the reaction. The younger man's cheeks turn pink. "You're a piece of shit, Bowden. It is not in your best interest to anger me. I think you should remember that."
Ignoring him, Bowden shakes his head. "Doc probably doesn't know."
"Know what?"
"Doc doesn't have any reason to think these two things are related. The Stryker suicide and the old woman. He's doing his job, that's all. He found a couple of loose ends and blew the whistle."
Grace thinks for a moment. "Let me put it to you this way. The people I report to cannot afford to have him put those pieces together. That must never happen. Do I make myself clear?"
"I'll talk to him today."
"I have already taken care of that."
"Don't!" Bowden hears the plea in his voice, cannot help it. "Let me handle him."
Grace stands, motions to the door like Nero at the games. "I would prefer you devote your limited time and attention to Mr. Burke. He looks to be a far more complicated individual." Those eyes again. "Convince him to look elsewhere, Mr. Bowden. Do it quickly."
Bowden gets to his feet. For a moment he considers blowing the dick away and then turning the gun on himself. I just wish I had the balls . . .
Bowden is numb during the ride down the elevator, in the lobby, and all the way up to his car. He starts the engine. When he puts his hands on the wheel they are shaking. He looks around the garage, finds it empty. He slides a pint bottle of vodka from under the seat and gulps.
"That rat bastard." The tears come. Bowden ends up sideways on the front seat, shaking and crying. The episode lasts for several minutes. Eventually he sits up, starts his car, and drives out into a crisp daylight that has somehow darkened.
THIRTY-SIX
WEDNESDAY
"Have you seen this film, Esteban?"
"No, Buey."
"That is Mr. Steve McQueen who should have got the Oscar for the job he did. I love this fucking movie, Esteban. It is called 'The Sand Pebbles' because the boat is the San Pablo. You understand?"
"No, Buey."
"You make me laugh, Esteban. That is why I enjoy to drink with you. Come, sit by me on my couch. Later, there will be women."
"Yes, Buey."
"Watch. Watch. This part is good."
"May I have a drink, Buey?"
"What? Oh! Of course, Esteban. Help yourself to some fine whiskey, or perhaps a cerveza. The tall one is called Taj Mahal, it is imported from India, some very good shit. There is coke on the table. Do a line, relax."
"Ah, blow does not relax me, Buey. It makes me want to fuck."
"Well, then you can do that too! I said there will be women, didn't I? Ha!"
"This is a good movie."
"Yes, Mr. McQueen is so upset when he has to shoot his Chinese friend in the head to save him from torture. This breaks your heart, no?"
"Very sad."
"Yes."
"Buey?"
"Esteban, I am
watching the movie. Shhh, it is nearly over. He will go to the courtyard to save the woman and they will shoot him."
"Who will shoot him?"
"The Chinese, you fool."
"I thought they were his friends, Buey. I am mixed up."
"Some are his friends and some are not."
"Ah. I see."
"Look, they shoot him now. And listen, he says 'what happened, I was almost home,' or something like that. I love this fucking movie."
"This is good shit."
"The best. Now, please. You asked to see me."
"Buey, I am a loyal man and I have served you for many years. Please do not think I would question your judgment."
"But?"
"I am troubled by something."
"And this is what?"
"It is this new man we are doing mucho business with these days. The one who works with our scientists. He worries me, Buey. I do not trust this man or the people he brings here."
"You are concerned for me. I am touched."
"You are not angry?"
"Oh, of course not, Esteban. I admire your courage in coming to speak with me this way."
"This is good."
"Ah. You have not shared these feelings with the others, behind my back, have you?"
"I have said nothing, Buey! I would never do such a thing."
"This is good. Because then I would have to kill you, Esteban. I would not like being forced to do that. Continue to say nothing. You see, this man from America is going to make me very, very rich. He will also give me revenge on a man who tried to shoot me last year, an American operative named Burke. So I value his friendship, you understand?"
"Yes, certainly."
"But know this, my friend. I have not lived this long or grown this fat by trusting people, eh? And certainly not some asshole from America who thinks he is on a first name basis with God."
"I see."
"Fear not, Esteban. I have a plan of my own in mind. I fully anticipate to confront him, and soon. I expect his treachery and will meet it with a nasty trick or two of my own."
"That makes me feel better, Buey."
"I wish you to feel well."
"And I promise that I will keep your confidence."
The Pressure of Darkness Page 22