Authors: Gerald Petievich
"Listen to this," Kelly said. He read from an arrest card: "Identifying marks: Tattoos of devil shoveling coal on each buttock." Kelly laughed hysterically. "This freak has tattoos of the devil shoveling coal into his ass!" They roared.
An hour later Carr rubbed his eyes. "Let's catch a couple of hours," he said. Kelly's head was already down on the table.
Arriving home a half hour later, Kelly parked his car in the driveway, because the garage was filled with bicycles of various sizes. He went in the kitchen door, switched on the light, and took lunchmeat and a beer from the refrigerator.
Sitting at the kitchen table, he chewed slowly, as if in a trance. He was exhausted.
He looked up as his wife walked into the kitchen buttoning her housecoat, removing her long braids from inside its collar.
"Do you want me to fix you something?"
He shook his head and took a long pull from the beer bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"What's new around here?" he said.
"Stevie got an F in spelling. Jimmy and junior took their bikes apart and left them all over the garage floor. That's about it."
"Uh-huh."
She would not ask him about work. That issue had been resolved early in their marriage. He didn't like to talk about the job, because there were too many things to explain, too many impossible
translations. It
had been easier to sever the ties between the two worlds.
Such things had really never been a problem between them. They had never tried to change one another.
Removing a crayon and coloring book from a kitchen chair, she sat down, softly rubbing her eyes.
"Do you want to talk?"
"Yeah, uh, sure," he said with lunchmeat in his mouth.
"This is the earliest you've been home since it happened."
"I guess you're right." He stopped eating momentarily and unloosened his tie.
"I went to early Mass this morning and prayed for Rico. I've had nightmares about it. I've been worried about you, too." She stared at her folded hands.
"God bless you, Rose." He patted her hands. "Everything will be back to normal pretty soon."
"How could they do that to someone? Take someone's life...a young man like he was. He'll never be able to have...raise children, to have a family."
He looked away from his wife's eyes.
"Are you going to come to bed?" Rose said.
"Can't sleep right now. I think I'll watch TV for a while." He put things back in the refrigerator.
Rose got up and went into the bedroom.
Kelly fell asleep after watching ten minutes of a Richard Widmark movie. He awoke an hour later and telephoned Carr at his apartment. No answer. He phoned Sally's place. Carr answered.
"Just thought of something," Kelly said. "There used to be a red-haired stickup man that hung around that bail-bond place on North Broadway..."
"He's in San Quentin."
"You sure?"
"Yes. Delgado thought of him and had him checked out."
"Oh. Uh. Sorry to wake you up."
"Good night, Jack."
"Good night."
Carr hung up the phone on the nightstand.
"Who was that?" Sally said.
"Kelly."
"Do you feel like playing?"
"I don't know. Do you?"
She rolled over away from him and mumbled something.
"What say?"
"I said
never mind."
Carr thought about the Sunset Motel again.
It was 8:00 A.m. Driving back toward the women's jail, Carr wondered if it would have been better not to try to sleep at all. The fatigue had set in.
"What happens if Vikki doesn't recognize any of the mug shots?" Kelly said, looking blankly at the road.
"Back to square one," Carr said. He yawned.
While putting their service revolvers in the jail safety locker, a hefty matron in a green uniform told them that Vikki had just bailed out. The lady sheriffs glossy lipstick was painted slightly over the edges of her lips, giving her mouth a gigantic appearance.
"Bail bondsman from the San Fernando Valley," she chirped. "He had an order from a judge."
"Well, I'll be god damned," Kelly said. "You might have figured that some Communist judge would screw things up."
"Communist?" the heavily rouged deputy said, smiling.
"That's right, sweet meat. Why else would a judge release a hype on bail? Hypes are sick. They couldn't find their way back to court even if they wanted to."
"Well, they all do it these days."
"That's because they're all Communists. Lawyer Communists. All judges were lawyers once. Don't forget that."
"I guess I never looked at it quite like that." The deputy adjusted a straining bra strap.
Carr and Kelly walked across the parking lot to the government sedan. "I hope Vikki went back to Leach's place," Carr said. "Otherwise we might never be able to find her." He put the stack of mug shots in his coat pocket. He really hoped Vikki was home.
Kelly parked the sedan in the driveway of the pink apartment house next door to Leach's.
"Watch this," Carr said. He stuck his head out the passenger window and spoke in a loud whisper toward the apartment house.
"Is she home?"
"Came in two hours ago in a taxi. She's alone. Why'd you let her go?" said the woman.
"She bailed out," Carr answered. He opened the door and got out of the sedan. Kelly followed.
"Who the hell is that?" Kelly said.
"I don't know," Carr said.
They walked to the front door. Kelly knocked loudly. There was no answer. The house was still.
Kelly stayed at the front door. Carr walked along the driveway and into the back yard. He knocked on the screen door and waited. No answer. Cupping his hands to his eyes, he leaned forward against the screen. Vikki was at the corner kitchen table. Quietly, he felt the door
handle. It
was unlocked. He opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. Hothouse air. A burner on the gas stove was on.
Vikki was sitting in the greasy wallpapered breakfast nook, in a dinette chair. A fixing spoon, cotton ball, and an open can of dog food decorated the table. She leaned forward, resting her head on the Formica table as if taking a nap, her right arm, palm up, outstretched.
The syringe was still in her arm.
Carr touched her neck with two fingers. He could tell she was dead.
He sat down resignedly at the table, not concerned about disturbing the evidence. It was accidental, and if it wasn't, he knew there was no way to prove otherwise in an overdose.
Kelly came in the back door.
"We're back to square one," Carr said. He looked at Kelly.
Kelly turned slightly pale. He stepped back.
"O.D.?" Kelly's voice was thick.
Carr nodded.
"I'll get to the radio," Kelly said. He trotted out the back door.
Carr removed the stack of photographs from his pocket and shuffled through them.
****
ELEVEN
The doors of the postwar apartments faced a cement rectangle the width of a boxing ring. On the windowsills were red clay pots containing cacti and other succulents, some of which were alive. The area smelled of fried food.
Red Diamond knocked three times on a screen door that had a sign saying MANAGER.
A middle-aged woman in a helmet of hair rollers opened the door. She wore a housecoat.
He asked her about Mona as if he had a right to.
"Mona Diamond?" she said. "She moved out of apartment number four about two years ago. Who wants to know?"
"Routine credit investigation," said Red. "She's applied for a loan with our company."
The woman nodded tediously, as if she had something better to do.
"Was she living with anyone?"
"Lived alone. Seldom saw her with anyone. Once in a great while some man would spend the night and leave the next morning. Different guys. This only happened every couple of months. She kept to herself. Did you know her husband was in prison? Some kind of a confidence man. Apparently he really dumped on her. She hated him."
Red shook his head calmly.
"That's all I know about her. Nice gal. Kept to herself. No parties." The woman took a bobby pin from the pocket of her housecoat and plunged it into one of the hair rollers. "Is there anything else?"
"Where did she work?"
"She was a waitress-you know, coffee shops, restaurants--nothing too fancy."
"Where is she working now?"
"I saw her a couple months ago at a coffee shop about six blocks from here. It's on Wilcox below Hollywood Boulevard...the left side...Who did you say you were with?"
"National Credit Bureau," said Red.
"I always ask. You never know who you're talking to these days. There's millions of rapists and stranglers. I hate like hell to even open the door."
"Yes, ma'am," said Red in patrolman style. "Thanks for your help." He walked away holding his breath.
Though dark, it was still sweltering in Hollywood.
Red parked the Cadillac in front of the bay window of the Movieland Coffee Shop. He got out of the car and walked to a sidewalk pay phone without taking his eyes off Mona. Looking bored, she served steaming coffee to customers at the counter. He dropped a dime in the telephone.
A woman answered. "Sovereign Rent-a-Car, Hollywood office. This is June speaking."
Red cupped his hand around the mouthpiece. "Hello, June. This is Dr. Richard Sanders. I rented a Cadillac from you two weeks ago."
"Dr. Sanders...uh...we've been expecting you to return the car. Your contract was a two-day rental."
"That's what I called about. I'm in Phoenix for a heart surgeons' convention and I just wanted to let you know I'll have the car back to you in another week or so."
"Oh...well, I guess that will be okay. It's just that you didn't have any credit cards..."
"Young lady, I certainly wouldn't call if I didn't intend to pay for the rental."
"Certainly, doctor. I apologize if. .
"No problem. See you in a week."
"Thank you for calling, doctor."
Red hung up the phone. He wrote "Heart Convention Phoenix" on a card in his wallet, because he knew that details were always important. Stories must be kept straight.
Mona wiped the counter with a rag. Red asked himself how many women over forty could be attractive, yes, sexually attractive, dressed in a puff-sleeved waitress uniform? Perhaps it was the combination of the tiny waist and the full, high breasts. Her blonde hairdo was the same as years ago, when she served drinks at the Sahara in Las Vegas.