Prayers for the Dead (24 page)

“I know what you’re saying.”

Bram said, “If you two would please excuse me, my attention is needed elsewhere.”

“You bet, Father.” Sanchez grabbed the priest’s hand and shook it vigorously. “You take care of your family, take care of your mother, you know what I’m sayin’.”

“Yes. Thanks for coming down and giving us your support.”

“For Granddaddy, you bet I came. That was one hell of a man, your daddy. Now you go and take care of your mamma. ’Cause that’s what family’s for, know what I’m sayin’. To take care of each other.”

“Absolutely.” Bram extricated his hand. “Lieutenant.”

“Father.”

After Bram left, Sanchez hitched up his pants and said, “One hell of a guy, that Father Bram. Granddaddy loved him, I can tell you that. Loved his boy, loved his kids. But it’s good that he left. ’Cause what I gotta say isn’t for God’s ears, know what I’m sayin’?”

“Tell me.”

Sanchez jabbed the air with his index finger as he spoke. “Because I’m talkin’ to you right now. Man to man. Know what I’m sayin’? Man to man, not pussy to pussy. And I’m tellin’ you this. Asshole who did this to Granddaddy should be stringed up by the
cojones
, you know what I’m sayin’.”

“I know what you’re saying, Mr. Sanchez. But that isn’t how we operate under American law.”

“Fuck American law.” Sanchez realized he was talking too loud. “Fuck American law,” he repeated softer. “I mean not
fuck
it… but you know, like… fuck it. I mean like you gotta job to do. And I can unnerstan’ that. And I don’t want to fuck you up—”

“That’s very wise, sir.”

“But sometimes it just don’t work the way it should. You know what I’m sayin’.” Again his finger started poking air. “Now, I’m not sayin’ I’m gonna break the law or anything—”

“That’s very good thinking. Because breaking the law can get you into serious trouble.”

“I’m just sayin’ that if you can’t get it done, then I can get it done. Now I’m talkin’ man to man, unnerstan’. You get it done. Or I get it done.”

Decker said, “Mr. Sanchez, do you have any idea who might have done this?”

“An asshole.” Sanchez tugged up on his waistband. “That’s what you gotta look for. An asshole. A punk. Someone who rips for the fun of rippin’. And that means an asshole. Probably one of these gang-bangers. Did you look at the gang-bangers?”

“We’re looking into everything and everybody.”

“That’s good. Hey, Sidewinder!” Sanchez shouted out. “Sidewinder, come on over here.”

Sidewinder was slightly smaller than Sanchez — less gut but more bottom heavy. His face, eroded by acne, held a weak chin and a mouth of crooked front teeth. He had dishwater hair tied up into a ponytail. His garb was almost identical to Grease Pit’s — black T-shirt over black jeans. His boots held tips and spurs — great accoutrements for kicking recalcitrant motorcycles.

“Sidewinder Polinski, this is…”

“Lieutenant Decker.” He proffered his hand. Polinski turned it into a high-five handshake.

Sanchez said, “Sidewinder, this guy here, he’s in charge of Granddaddy’s bump. We gotta cooperate with him. Find the asshole who did this.”

“Absolutely,” Polinski said. “Anything we can do to help. Not just me, any one of us. We all loved Granddaddy.”

Sanchez said, “One hell of a guy. I was just tellin’… tellin’…”

“Decker.”

“Yeah, the lieutenant here that either he finds the asshole. Or we find the asshole. Don’t make no difference to me. Just so long as
someone
finds the asshole.”

“Sir, it does make a difference to the law.”

“Aw, fuck the law—”

“I know, Mr. Sanchez. We’ve had this conversation before.”

“Grease Pit’s just frustrated,” Polinski said. “We all are. I mean look at it from our point of view. The tax dollars
wasted
on OJ’s trial. And then the Menendez mistrial… more tax dollars wasted. Then the retrial. More tax dollars. That’s a lot of money. So you see what he’s saying about taking the law into his own hands. I mean it’s wrong. But it’s efficient.”

“It will land you in jail.”

“More tax dollars wasted,” Polinski said. “But that’s what this society has come to. Lots of waste.”

Decker stared at the biker, took out his notepad. “Any idea who might have bumped Granddaddy, Sidewinder?”

“Me?” Polinski scratched his head. “No. No ideas.”

“Nah, we don’t know assholes who do this shit,” Sanchez said. “We don’t believe in random violence.”

Decker managed to keep his face expressionless.

Sanchez said, “You shoulda seen Granddaddy on a bike, Lieutenant. Man, he was somethin’. Burnin’ the tar, smokin’ dirt through his tailpipes. And he put his money where his mouth was. Came through when it counted.”

“How so?”

“In the cause, man.”

“What cause?”

“He means,” Polinski said, “that Granddaddy came through when you needed him.”

“Fucking-A right!”

“What cause?” Decker repeated.

“Like when Benny got wrecked.” Polinski scratched his head again. Flakes snowed from his scalp. “Man, did he get
wrecked
!”

Sanchez said, “Yeah, man, that was somethin’. He really got wrecked, man.”

Decker said, “What happened to Benny?”

“Asshole was skunk drunk.” Sanchez adjusted his pants. “Went flyin’ head first into the ground. Blood squirtin’ all over the fuckin’ place. Granddaddy sprung into action. Man, it was somethin’ to see that guy in action when Benny got wrecked. Old guy like him.” He snapped his fingers. “Moved like that.”

Polinski said, “He had him bandaged up and ready to go way before the medics came tooling by. It was something to watch him. We were all in awe.”

“What happened to Benny?” Decker asked.

Sanchez said, “He died, stupid fuck. Massive brain injuries.”

“Not that he had much brains to start with.”

Decker said, “He wasn’t wearing a helmet?”

Sanchez sneered. “We was playin’ around in the desert. You don’t expect to get wrecked playin’ around in the desert. Besides, helmets are for pussies.”

Too bad Benny wasn’t around to offer a rebuttal. Decker said, “How did Dr. Sparks come to join your group and ride with you?”

“I asked him,” Sanchez said. “I fell in love with the old guy, know what I’m sayin’. He comes into the lot with his sons, I thought, Shit, another stupid fuck. Turns out the guy wasn’t a stupid fuck. Knew what he wanted, knew what he was talkin’ about. I asked him… I said… hey, Granddaddy, want to ride with us on Saturday. I kinda threw it out like a joke. But he said, Yeah, I’ll come ride with you on Saturday. And you know what? He came and rode with us.”

“He was good.” Polinski ran his tongue over equine frontal incisors. “Could have used a little polishing when taking the curves. But for an old guy, he had great balance.”

Decker said, “Either of you have any theories about his murder?”

“Yeah,” Sanchez said. “It was some asshole.”

Polinski said, “It’s absurd. Someone murdering Granddaddy. For what reason? Grease Pit’s right. It had to be some hyped asshole.”

Sanchez hit Polinski’s shoulder, pointed to someone in the crowd. “Who’s that guy, Sidewinder? Don’t he look familler?”

Decker looked to where Sanchez was pointing. Muscular build, curly black hair, blue eyes. “That’s Paul Sparks. One of the doctor’s sons.”

Sanchez pulled up his pants. “Who’s he talking to?”

Decker regarded Paul’s companion. A ruddy man who appeared to be in his sixties, around six feet with a sizable spread about his middle. Soft features — thick lips and a thick, veiny nose. White hair cut short and blunt. Dressed in a gray double-breasted suit, white shirt, red tie.

From Decker’s viewpoint, the old guy seemed to be lecturing about something important. Because Paul was listening carefully, nodding at frequent intervals, his eyelids calm and steady.

“Don’t he look familler?” Sanchez repeated.

“Yes, he does,” Polinski agreed. “He’s obviously a friend of Granddaddy’s. But I don’t remember him ever riding with us.”

“No, he didn’t ride with us.”

The two bikers continued to stare.

“Didn’t Granddaddy brought him into the store once?” Sanchez said. “When he looked at the Harley Bagger.”

“Granddaddy bought a Bagger?”

“I knowed he looked at one,” Sanchez said. “A thirtieth anniversary Ultra Bagger. But I don’t think he buyed it.” To Decker, he said, “That is one mean mother bike — 1340 ccs at 5000 rpm, 78 pounds of torque, and fuel-injected. Tops out ’bout ninety which ain’t bad considering all the shit it got on it. I remember Granddaddy was looking at a Victory Red.”

“Cool,” Decker said.

Polinski continued staring at the man.

Sanchez said, “Think we should go over and say somethin’ to him?”

“Like what?”

“I dunno,” Sanchez said. “Like hi or somethin’.”

Again, Polinski tongued his front teeth. “I don’t even remember his name.”

“I don’t, either.”

Polinski said, “Nah, I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Me, neither,” Sanchez said. “I was just thinkin’ that we should be… you know… like payin’ our respects.”

“We showed up and signed into the book,” Polinski said. “That’s enough. You know what?
I’ve
had enough. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

“Yeah, good idea.” Sanchez turned back to Decker. “You remember what I told you, right?”

“If you remember what I told you.”

“What did I miss?” Polinski said.

“I was just informing Mr. Sanchez that lynch mobs are against the law.”

Polinski waved Decker off. “He’s just frustrated. We all are. Too much tax dollars wasted on psychos. Too many laws restricting freedom of choice. The government should be catching criminals… real criminals. Not passing meaningless shit that the cops can’t enforce. I mean the drug czar, for instance. What a waste of tax dollars. I’m not saying drugs are good. I’m just saying the drug czar was a waste of money. No wonder people get mad and blow things up.”

“Because it’s meaningless,” Sanchez said.

“Exactly.”

Decker said, “You’re entitled to think a law is meaningless. Just as long as you obey it.”

Polinski said, “If the law told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it?”

“You’re speaking in absurdities, Mr. Polinski,” Decker said.

“That’s the point,” Polinski said. “The law’s absurd.”

Decker said, “Let’s talk bottom line, gentlemen. I don’t want any trouble with you, I don’t want you getting in my face. Do we have an understanding?”

“Hey, you do your job,” Sanchez said. “You get no trouble from us.”

Polinski hit Sanchez’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Before you two go, can I get your full names and addresses?”

Polinski said, “Stanislav Polinski, aka Sidewinder. He’s Emmanuel Sanchez, aka Grease Pit.”

“Addresses?”

“Right now we got a trailer in Canyon Country,” Sanchez said. “But that don’t mean nothin’. ’Cause we’re always on the move.”

“Where in Canyon Country?”

“Somewhere,” Sanchez answered.

Sidewinder said, “No sense giving you a place ’cause we move around a lot.”

“What about the shop?” Sanchez said.

“What about it?” Decker asked.

“I work at a used-bike dealership Thursday through Saturday. You can call me anytime.” Sanchez moved in and smiled. “Give you a great deal on the bike of your choice. Specially if you got trade-in.”

“I’ll bet,” Decker said. “What’s the address of the dealership?”

Sanchez gave it to him. “Good meetin’ you.” Sanchez grabbed Decker’s hand with a leathery palm, shook it hard. “You’re gonna find this asshole, right?”

“I’m going to do my best.”

“Come on.” Polinski gave Sanchez a slight nudge. To Decker, he said, “Ciao.”

“Ciao.” Decker watched them go, swaggering and jingling, with Sanchez tugging his pants upward to hide his butt crack. Grease Pit talked a good case of avenging Granddaddy, but he was probably more smoke than fire. Still, one never knew. They both merited further investigation.

Decker made some final scratches in his pad, notes reminding him to check out certain things. He finished his scribblings, tucked the pad into his jacket. Then he looked up and scanned the crowd. Paul was conversing with a bunch of white-haired church ladies. And the man with the thick lips and veiny nose had disappeared from sight.

The captain was
in. Phone in hand, he pointed to a seat and continued talking into the receiver. Decker sat and waited. Strapp’s office wasn’t much bigger than his lieutenant’s cubicle, wasn’t any better decorated, either. Standard-issue desk and chairs, file cabinets, a separate work station with the computer. He had a phone, a fax machine, and a slotted paper holder overflowing with multicolored police forms. The desk held the pictures of the wife and kids, the walls were hung with photographs of the professional man. A smiling Strapp showing lots of teeth standing next to the mayor, Strapp with the Guv, Strapp in uniform between the president and first lady. Other snapshots, among them a photo of the Captain standing next to a little girl holding a teddy bear. The man who stood at her other side wore a white coat.

Dr. Sparks.

Decker remembered the four-year-old headline. The girl had been given a new heart and life from the tragedy of another child’s untimely death.

Strapp hung up the phone, folded his hands on his desk. He was about to speak, then noticed where Decker had focused his attention.

“Patty Harrison. Cute little thing, isn’t she?”

“Adorable. Do you know how she’s doing?”

“No, I don’t.” Strapp grew tense. “I hope they’re coping with the news of Sparks’s death. This could be devastating. How’s the investigation going?”

“Still gathering information. Dr. Craine should be getting back with an initial autopsy report, Farrell Gaynor’s been doing paper trail for the last eight hours, the others are asking questions, sorting through physical evidence. The investigation’s proceeding nicely, sir. But
I’ve
got a problem.”

“What?”

“My wife knows one of Dr. Sparks’s sons. The priest, Abram Sparks.”

Strapp pondered the words. Slowly, he asked, “Does she know him well?”