The Bone Polisher sg-6

by Timothy Hallinan

  “Sure,” Eleanor said, looking at me. “He’ll never drink it. The alcohol content isn’t high enough.”

  “Want some, Eleanor?”

  “Thank you, dear.” She batted her lashes at me. “Doesn’t that sound maternal?”

  “Do you still want kids?” I asked.

  “Here we are.” Wayde twinkled into the room with two glasses of water and handed one to Eleanor. She had honey-colored hair above and below, an exemplary set of the usual biological accessories, and a navel that looked like Michelangelo had carved it on a good day. Eleanor eyed her appreciatively, as though she’d had a hand in the design.

  “If I looked like you, I wouldn’t wear clothes either,” she said. “Would you, Simeon?”

  “If I looked like her, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “You guys are great,” Wayde said cheerfully. “I wish more old people were like you.”

  “That’s so sweet of you,” Eleanor said between her teeth.

  “It’s just the way I feel,” Wayde said with a radiant smile. “Thanks for the wawa.” She went back on the roof.

  “Wawa,” Eleanor said thoughtfully.

  “Oh, I forgot-” Wayde said, standing in the doorway, and there was a knock at the front door.

  “I’ll get it,” I said. “I’m dressed.”

  “Very tastefully, too,” Eleanor murmured.

  “Cool,” Wayde agreed. Not way cool, though.

  “For an old guy,” I said, opening the door. Orlando stood there, offensively slender and disgustingly young and handsome in a lime-green tank top and a pair of baggies.

  “On the way to the beach,” he said. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “The aging process,” I said. “Come on in. Have some of Eleanor’s memorable coffee.”

  “Is Eleanor here? Great.”

  Eleanor gave him her fondest, whitest smile. “Hi, Orlando. Don’t you look Californian.”

  “Oh, my God.” That was Wayde. She stood in the doorway, staring at Orlando as though Apollo had risen from the carpet.

  “And this is Wayde,” I said, a host to my fingertips. “Her clothes are on loan to the children of Bosnia.”

  “Aren’t you pretty,” Orlando said.

  “Some girls are,” I said, watching Wayde with fascination. She was blushing.

  “I’ll just get dressed,” she said, backing onto the roof.

  “Get dressed?” I asked.

  “Not for me, I hope,” Orlando said. He turned to me. “Where have you been hiding? I called last night, but you weren’t home.”

  “He was undergoing surgery,” Eleanor said.

  His brow furrowed. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Having an arm removed,” I said. “But I thought better of it.” I pulled up my sleeve and showed him my orange forearm.

  “I used to love the color of Mercurochrome,” Orlando said. “I painted my whole body once, when I was around six. Sonia about killed me.”

  “Have you heard from them?” That was Eleanor, always first with the niceties.

  “Actually, that’s why I called. Where’s the coffee?”

  “Oh, boy,” Eleanor said to me. “Invite the lad in, offer him coffee, and then stand there showing off your wounds.”

  “Hi, again,” Wayde said from the doorway. She was still naked. She looked down at herself and then up at Orlando. “My dress is really ugly.”

  “It’s hard to imagine a dress that would be an improvement,” Orlando said gallantly.

  “Gee,” Wayde breathed.

  “Black, right?” said the creaking old man, from the kitchen.

  “Fine,” Orlando said. “You’ve got a beautiful neck, you know?“

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “My neck?” Wayde asked, blinking.

  “You should wear something with a little scoop in front, something to accentuate the line of your neck. I’ll bet it’s twice as long as mine.”

  “Your neck,” Wayde said shyly. “Your neck is swell.”

  “Don’t lead her on, Orlando,” I said, handing him one of my few matching cups and saucers.

  “You doddering old poop,” Eleanor said reprovingly.

  “You lack essential information,” I told her in a superior tone.

  “I doubt things have changed that much,” Eleanor said. “Sit, Orlando, don’t wait for Simeon to invite you. Wayde, why don’t you come all the way in? We can see more of you that way. What’s the word from Hawaii?”

  Orlando sat on the far end of the couch, haloed by the light through the window, and Wayde stood there and gaped. “You’ve got an attractive uvula, too,” Eleanor said.

  “Huh?”

  “Close your mouth, dear. You look hungry that way.”

  “Sorry,” Wayde said, sitting on the floor. Her belly didn’t even wrinkle.

  “Sonia called yesterday,” Orlando said. “It’s rained nonstop, and Al keeps hauling her out in it.”

  “To do what?” Eleanor asked.

  “Visit cops,” Orlando said. “The only thing Sonia’s seen is the inside of the hotel room and the Honolulu police station. Al brought letters from a bunch of L.A. cops, and he’s determined to meet everybody.”

  “Poor Sonia,” Eleanor said sympathetically.

  “No, she’s enjoying it. She’s as bad as Al, you know. She can’t wait to get to Maui, meet a whole new bunch of cops.”

  “Who are we talking about?” Wayde asked.

  “Orlando’s sister is a, um, policeperson,” Eleanor said. “Married to another policeperson.”

  “My parents hate cops,” Wayde said. “They hate cops and politicians and the guys who own stores and everybody, and they’ve got these big love signs all over the house.”

  “I talked to Al,” Orlando said. “I told him about that sheriff, that Spurrier, and Al said to stay away from him.”

  “Who’s Spurrier?” Eleanor asked alertly.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said.

  “Al said he was a motherfucker,” Orlando continued, the word sounding awkward in his mouth. “He’s been brought up for disciplinary action a bunch of times for pounding on people, especially queers.”

  “ Orlando.” Eleanor sounded shocked.

  He looked from her to me. “You didn’t tell her?”

  Eleanor turned cool eyes to me. “Tell me what?”

  “That I’m gay,” Orlando said, a bit defiantly.

  A long hiss escaped Wayde. Her mouth was open, and she leaned forward, gazing at Orlando with a look of pure loss. Then she felt our eyes on her and sat up. “Way cool,” she said in a very small voice. I wanted to lean over and kiss the top of her head.

  “When did you meet this Spurrier?” Eleanor asked, deciding for the moment to glide over Orlando’s revelation.

  “After the wedding,” I said. “When was that, the day before yesterday?” It seemed like a week ago.

  “I have to pee,” Wayde announced brokenheartedly. She got up and left the room.

  “And why are you being told to stay away from this man?” Eleanor demanded.

  “He beat Simeon up,” Orlando said.

  “Is he the one you’re afraid of?” she asked.

  “One of them,” I said.

  “Orlando,” she said, “why don’t you and I go out on the roof and you can tell me what’s going on. Mr. Strong-but-Silent here is saving it for the third act.”

  “Sure,” Orlando said promptly, standing up. So much for male bonding.

  “And you,” she said to me, “can wash the cups and figure out what we’re going to do about lunch.”

  “I thought I’d just eat some raw beef,” I said, getting stiffly to my feet. “And ladyfingers for Orlando and you girls.” I toted the coffee cups obediently into the kitchen and turned on the tap, getting the usual mysterious clanking noises before the water made its appearance. I was leaning against the sink, counting silently to twenty and waiting for the water to turn hot, when someone behind me said, “Knock, knock,” and I jumped a
bout three feet and came down facing the door.

  It was open, and Ike Spurrier stood in it.

  “Guilty conscience?” he asked. A uniform, considerably taller than he, stood behind him, peering in at me as though the cabin were the Snake House at the Zoo.

  “What do you want?”

  “In the neighborhood,” Spurrier said, not bothering to make it sound true. He wore the same yellow tweed jacket, but today’s polo shirt was a particularly unappetizing shade of orange that emphasized the colorlessness of his eyes. He leaned forward and gave the kitchen and living room an uninterested once-over. Then he licked the red lower lip. “Guess being a gay detective doesn’t pay all that well, huh?”

  “I’d ask you in,” I said, “but I don’t want to.”

  “That so,” Spurrier said, coming through the door. “Well, don’t bother. I’m already in. Wally,” he said, “take a hike down the hill. Look around, see if there’s another door.”

  The uniform didn’t move, so Wally was presumably someone else. Spurrier put both hands in his jacket pockets and smiled at me, the red lip stretching unappealingly beneath the mustache. “Hot, isn’t it?”

  I could feel the edge of the sink pressed against my back, and I forced myself to step forward. “Do you have a warrant?”

  “In this heat,” he said, “I’m surprised to see you in a long-sleeved shirt. I had you figured for a T-shirt kind of guy.”

  I buttoned the cuff I’d opened when I showed Orlando my arm. “Did you.”

  “Sure. All you buff guys, that the word? Buff? Like to show off your biceps. All that work in the gym, looking good for the other buff guys. Figured you for a formfit T-shirt.”

  “How about that,” I said.

  He focused on the door to the deck. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

  “Who?”

  “Got a lot of them, huh? I guess a buff guy like you would. Nordine. Where’s Nordine?”

  “I haven’t got any idea.”

  “There’s a room down the hill,” a male voice said from behind Spurrier. “No one there.”

  “Well, he’s somewhere,” Spurrier said.

  “I’m sure he is,” I said. “But he’s not here.”

  “I really need to talk to old Christy,” Spurrier said confidingly. “This thing with Max-you remember Max.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You ought to turn that water off,” Spurrier said. “There’s a drought.” I reached behind me and twisted the tap without turning my back to Spurrier. “Somebody was in old Max’s house last night. Went right through the seals. Used a key, how about that? Bled all over the place, too.”

  “What do you want, Sergeant?”

  “In the neighborhood,” he said again. “Guy who bled like that must have got cut up pretty good. Maybe on the arms, what do you think? Well,” he said, turning his head, “look who’s here. Hey, Chiquito.”

  Orlando came into the living room, giving Spurrier several hundred volts of pure disdain. “Has he got a warrant?” he asked me.

  “Everybody wants to know about warrants,” Spurrier said. “You wouldn’t know where Nordine is, would you, sweetie?”

  Orlando let a beat pass before he answered. “I’ve never met him.”

  “And I thought it was a small world.” Spurrier took a hand from his pocket and tugged on his lip. “Well, I’ve got something he might want to hear about, in case you ever do. Tell him old Max’s index finger showed up in Boulder, Colorado, this morning.”

  For a long moment no one spoke. Spurrier looked at us expressionlessly. Then Orlando put a hand against the back of my rocking chair and said, “I beg your pardon.”

  “Special delivery.” Spurrier looked from him to me watchfully. “In a nice little ice pack. Along with a bunch of disgusting letters about what kind of guy he loved best in the whole wide world and some pictures. Cute pictures, too. Him and Nordine.”

  “Sent to whom?” I asked.

  “The newspaper.” He gazed at us, apparently thinking of something else. “Also a note suggesting it might make a good story. HOMETOWN BOY MAKES BOYS or something. Guess old Max was still in the closet back in Boulder.” Shaking his head, he came back to us and said, “Where you from?”

  “Here,” I said. “I was born where I’m standing.”

  Eleanor came through the door and headed for the kitchen, passing in front of Spurrier with an incurious look. “What about lunch?” she asked me, opening the refrigerator.

  “My, my,” Spurrier said, aping surprise. “The fair sex.”

  “His finger,” I said. “Why his finger?”

  “You’re supposed to be a detective,” Spurrier said reprovingly. “So it could be printed, of course.”

  “What’s this about a finger?” Eleanor asked, holding a bottle of Evian.

  “Never you mind, little lady,” Spurrier said. “Although I’m not quite sure what the hell you’re doing here.”

  “Me do laundy,” Eleanor said in a singsong voice. “Velly fast, velly good. Even that coat I can get crean. Who are you supposed to be?”

  “So you see,” Spurrier said to me, “I’ve got to talk to Nordine. And I figure you’re the guy who can tell him so.”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with Christy,” I said.

  “Hell, I know that.” Spurrier’s eyes opened in mock surprise. “Oh, I haven’t made myself clear. This more or less lets Nordine off the hook.”

  “You’re a policeman,” Eleanor said.

  “Here to protect you, my dear.”

  “I’ll take my chances with the crooks,” Eleanor said. “Is your name Spurrier?”

  “Why does it let Christy off the hook?” I asked.

  “Because it’s happened before,” Spurrier said, speaking as he would to a very slow child. “Max isn’t the first.”

  “Ah,” I said. It was happening too fast for me.

  “So if you see him-” Spurrier began, and then he stopped short and his jaw fell open. Wayde ambled out of the bathroom, naked as the dawn, across the living room and out onto the deck. “Jesus,” Spurrier said to me when she was gone, “you’ll jump anything, won’t you?”

  “Next time, Ike,” I said, leaning close to him, “come alone.”

  His face went white. Both hands came up in front of him, balled into fists, and Eleanor stepped between us, holding out the bottle of Evian. “Would you like some water?” she asked. “You look hot.”

  “You and I,” Spurrier said over her shoulder to me, “will have to have another talk. Our last one was obviously too brief.”

  “Go away,” Orlando said from the living room.

  Spurrier stared at him but spoke to me. “Tell Nordine,” he said, his voice thick and tight. “Tell him he can come out from under his rock.”

  “Cheer up, Ike,” I said with a courage I didn’t feel. “You’ll get a chance to punch someone out yet.”

  He glared at me and then turned quickly, pushing with his fingers on the chest of the cop behind him, and they were gone.

  “Okay, Simeon,” Eleanor said flatly. “Tell us everything.”

  TWO

  The Black Widow

  Most of the time I’m so removed from belief that I confuse it with having an opinion.

  — Patricia Hampl, Virgin Time

  11 ~ Killing Them Twice

  Norbert Schultz had teeth like a mouthful of yellow paint chips. He’d been steeping them in coffee and nicotine for thirty or forty years, and they’d finally achieved the rich and variable patina of long-buried bones. In his work as a psychiatrist, he bared them frequently on the mistaken assumption that a smile made him look friendly. What it made him look like was someone who gargled with urine.

  He was showing them to me now, without even knowing he was doing it, letting me know how happy he was to see me. We’d met under difficult circumstances when he was under contract to the LAPD, lending his expertise in the case of a lad who found meaning in life by setting people on fire and had decided to target
me. Schultz was back in private practice now, but he still had a pipeline to the Department, and I was taking advantage of it.

  “Five of them,” he said without consulting the bulky LAPD printout on the desk in front of him. We were in his office on the ninth floor of a peeling, half-deserted medical high rise at the corner of Pico and Bundy, south and west of West Hollywood. The office was done in the Jung Moderne style favored by psychiatrists everywhere: industrial furniture, a battered leather couch, and spiky seventies abstracts on the wall. Some of them seemed to be made of stretched and pasted yarn, a medium that, for me, at least, ranks right up there with tempera on black velvet.

  Friday afternoon had rolled around at last, bringing the promise of a more than usually stifling weekend, and the office’s unwashed windows offered a daunting view of traffic clogging both streets in all four directions. Dirty sunlight highlighted Schultz’s really remarkable nose as he ran a finger down the page to check his memory and then glanced up at me. “This is between us, right?”

  “Right.” I’d assured him it was confidential four or five times when I’d called him the day before, as soon as I was sure Spurrier was gone, but Schultz was a cautious man.

  He went on being cautious. “Who’s your client?”

  It was a good question. I’d turned down the five hundred dollars Christy had offered me to go talk to Max, and no one had mentioned money since. “I suppose you could say I’m working for the victim.” Another freebie for Max.

  He nodded automatically, glanced down at the list, and then heard what I’d said. His head stayed down but his eyes came back to me. “How’s he going to pay you?”

  “Think of it as pro bono. And don’t worry about it. It doesn’t have anything to do with keeping this talk confidential. Treat me like a patient.”

  “Might not be a bad idea,” he said, keeping a lemon-yellow forefinger in place on the page. “A little introspection might do you some good.”

  This was getting to be a familiar theme. “I’m not interesting enough to think about for any length of time.”

  “You have no idea,” he said, giving me the teeth again. Fluorescent light gleamed on his skull. “You’re a locked box, Simeon, and that’s not healthy.”