"I don't blame you," I said, quietly. "What were you carrying back then?"
"I didn't like the 9mm at the time, so I had a Smith & Wesson Model 66, .357 Magnum, brushed stainless finish with night sights and Pachmeyer combat grips."
"Serious weaponry."
"Anyway, I wind down and I'm about ready to give it up. I say fuck it and turn back towards the squad car. I'm moving down the sidewalk, and I'm starting to let up, you know?
"And there he was, like magic. He just appeared, all of a sudden. I saw his gun. I don't know how it happened exactly, but I pulled my 66. I had it up, hit my stance, and fired two rounds into his chest before I had even made the decision. He fell back a step, kind of leaned against a fence, and looked down at the mess that had been his chest like he was amazed. And then he dropped like a bag of sand."
I reached out, touched her hand with the tips of my fingers. She started to cry, but was determined to finish. "Up close, I could see he was maybe seventeen years old. Oh, he had a gun. He was going to kill me. It was a righteous shoot. But just like that I had ended a life."
"It feels unresolved," I said. It wasn't a question, just a fact.
"Sure. But not because of what I felt, because of what I
didn't
feel. I kept waiting for a wave of guilt, or shame, or rage or something like that to come over me. I just sat there and looked at the body.
"The spotlight found us, and so did the neighbors, and then eventually my so-called partner. I just waited, shaking from adrenaline but not even crying, just trying to sense something that wasn't even there. And do you know what I was really feeling, looking down at that poor kid?"
"No," I said, although I
did
know.
"I was glad it wasn't me."
I rubbed my knuckles. "Makes perfect sense. That's what I've heard from everyone I've ever talked to who's lived through something like that."
"Clients?"
"A couple of Viet Nam vets I worked with, and one guy who had to kill the kid that ripped off his liquor store."
"Wow."
"Anyway, my stepfather, when he wasn't pounding on me, used to tell me things about Viet Nam. He said that when it comes down to it, nothing matters but survival. Forget the movies and the stories you've heard. Push comes to shove, you will kill, and that's the end of it. Your friend dies, you leave him there and keep going. You just want to live through it, and come out okay, that's all. You just want to be able to go home. The feelings, they come later."
"That's the truth. Mick?"
"Yeah."
"He was pretty bad, huh?"
"Daddy Danny? He was pretty bad, but I think he meant well. In his own twisted way, he was convinced he was doing me a favor by toughening me up. I can see my inner turmoil in the way I dream. Sometimes he's a monster chasing me, and sometimes he sits around giving me advice, sometimes both at once. It's strange."
"Unresolved?"
I laughed. "That's right. It's unresolved."
Darlene stood up and began to pace. I just waited her out again and tried not to stare at her body.
Can't you show a little class?
Finally, Darlene said: "Is your offer still good?"
For a moment, I was confused. "Oh! Of course it is, and Hal is good for the money. The checks will clear."
"I don't care about the money, but it has to look legitimate."
"It will. Why did you change your mind?"
"I think we need to find out if Fancy is keeping your housekeeper's nephew and a bunch of other kids as sex slaves. That, and because I think he ordered the shooting."
"Darlene, look . . ."
"I'm not done yet. And also because until I got to know you better, Larry Donato was the only decent man I had ever met."
I couldn't think of anything to say to that.
"And I need your word on something." Darlene walked in close and looked up.
My heart fluttered. "Okay."
"I'm going to help you find Mary, Callahan. I'm going to help you find that kid, too, if he's with Fancy. But I need to know you will stick to the cover story no matter what."
"No matter what."
"Hal's company hired me to moonlight on my vacation time, because we're friends. I will be advising you on a couple of documentary projects and providing security. That's it, right?"
"That's it."
"If we get in any trouble with that bastard Fancy, if it comes out that he ordered the hit on you, I am going to swear on a stack of Bibles that I didn't know there was a connection."
I stood up and stretched. "We shall take our secret to the grave, Deep Throat. I have to ask you something, okay? Do you blame me for what happened to Larry? I'd understand if you did."
Darlene crossed her arms over her chest and paced in a small circle. She kept her eyes on the cement. "I did for a while, not now. Are you blaming yourself?"
I hesitated. "Yes, in a way."
"Well don't. Mick, one last time I want your word you'll perjure yourself, whatever, to back me up all the way. I really don't want to lose my career."
"Then maybe you shouldn't do this. It's a big risk."
Darlene stopped pacing and looked up. Her eyes were puffy, but dry. "Now I want to, because I'm calm."
"I don't understand."
"I'm Latino," Darlene said. "And revenge is a dish that tastes better when it's served cold."
I gave her a hug. She remained stiff at first, but eventually relaxed.
"Do we have a deal?"
"We do. And remind me not to piss you off, okay?"
* * * * *
. . . The boy was hungry.
Loco smelled hot soup. He opened his eyes and realized they had decided to feed him again. The food came intermittently, at odd times of the day or night, which only added to his confusion.
Anxiety flooded through him, and he felt in the back of his pants. They had not discovered the screwdriver. It was still there.
Loco sighed with relief. He looked around. He was still in the van again, but now only his legs were bound. He realized he'd been lucky. If he'd tried to cut the bindings on his wrist, they might have noticed. He turned and looked down. The three screws controlling the bottom of one metal panel were still loose. He grinned and turned back around.
The tray sat on the metal floor. It held one large piece of bread, some broth in a plastic bowl, and a glass of apple juice. He ate and drank rapidly, his eyes darting about; chewing like a small animal stealing food from a trap.
Someone will come for me, he told himself. Someone will come.
Meanwhile, he knew that time was running out. He knew that the evil ones had decided to kill him. They no longer even tried to hide their faces. The one who brought him food now had a strange way of looking through instead of at him, as if he were already dead.
FIFTEEN
"Excuse me, miss?"
"Buzz off," the girl said. She was a pallid, pimpled white teenager wearing heavy jewelry, torn cut-off jeans, and an egregiously padded bra. She spat on the ground, turned on her slightly wobbly high heels and strode away. I motioned for Jerry to stop filming.
"Somehow I think you need to come up with a warmer, more effective approach," Jerry deadpanned.
"Well, we'd best do it soon."
Jerry's baseball cap was now on sideways, for no apparent reason. His eyebrows danced. He shifted the camera to his right and rubbed his lower back. "This goddamned thing is getting heavy."
I caught a slight slur on the word 'is,' and it troubled me. Had he been drinking again?
The Pomona Valley night was sultry, perfumed by trapped smog; the street air thick with the pheromones of unrequited addiction and sexual desire. Flashy, indolent crack dealers were doing a brisk business in the alleys and skinny addicts prowled the burgeoning shadows with flickering, orange pipes.
Hour after hour, dozens of cars, all sizes and models, rounded the corner one after another. A driver or passenger would buy drugs, or arrange for a sexual favor, and the vehicle would slowly drive off again.
A bleached blonde in white shorts stepped out of a doorway and stood watching. She wore a plain white blouse, which seemed odd, and something about her struck me as familiar. Jerry was also staring, briefly puzzled, but the girl did not react to us or wave. After a few moments, she went back inside the building.
"I thought I knew her for a second."
"Probably from one of your many late-night binges. Heads up."
A buxom black girl in red hot pants and a white halter came waltzing around the corner, swinging some ample hips. A middle-aged, balding man in a battered black Ford was following, chattering like a wind-up set of teeth. They were negotiating.
"Aw, don't be that way," the man whimpered. He had the sad, wrinkled face of a bulldog. "I'm all worn out and I need me some sugar. That's all I got, I swear.
Shit!"
He saw me holding the microphone like a low-rent
60 Minutes
guy, saw the camera in Jerry's hands, backed up with a squeal of brakes and sped away. The girl swore and stomped the sidewalk. She shot Jerry a withering glare.
"Excuse me, ma'am," I said pleasantly. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"The fuck you doing down here, you lily-white, ugly-assed, broken-nosed muscled-up giant honky mother fucker?"
I laughed and applauded. "Hot damn, that was a string of invective. Girl, you're a poet. What's your name?"
She arched a brow, somewhat mollified, and sized me up. "Dolly," she said, strutting towards me. Even the words felt well lubricated. "They call me Dolly."
"Dolly, look here, I'll pay for your time."
"That's entrapment, officer," she sneered.
"I'm not a cop, I'm a television guy. And I will pay."
She eyed me with suspicion. "Like how much? My time is expensive, you know. I ain't no common street ho."
"Any fool could see that," I said, unctuously.
"God damn right."
"Would twenty dollars be sufficient?"
"Twenty dollars don't even buy your ass the right to order me a tropical drink, boy. Damn, you a cheap bastard."
I pretended to consider my options and then enunciated carefully. "I'm on a limited expense account, Dolly. How about fifty bucks?"
She sidled over, ran her practiced hands up my pants leg and purred. "Just what did you have in mind, honey?"
Jerry was caught off balance. All elbows and eyebrows, he stepped sideways to try for a better angle and banged the camera into a metal telephone pole.
The girl jumped, scowled, and turned her back on him. She leaned close, tickled my bare arm and whispered, "This geek got to be there to watch, Daddy?"
"Sure does," I chirped, feeling totally ridiculous.
"That camera thing got to be on, then?"
"Well, you see, it's like this. We're making a documentary," I said, and moved her educated fingers away from the crotch of my jeans. "But don't worry about a thing. We'll go back and cover your face up later on, before it's done."
"Make it look all blurry and shit?"
"Absolutely. All blurry and shit."
She held out her hand. I paid her and the money immediately vanished into her ample bra. "Okay, handsome." She ran a finger over my broken nose. I tried not to think of where that finger had been. "What you want to know, then?"
I waved Jerry closer. "Just talk to me, tell me about how you came to be a working girl, things like that."
"Shit, honey. Why you wanna know?"
"It's my job, nothing personal."
"Oh, 'cause me, I get these captain 'save-a-ho' types all the time, want me to talk about my childhood right while I suck they dick and shit. Oops. Can I say dick?"
"We'll bleep it," I said.
"Sure?"
"Absolutely.
Bleep
. Just like that."
"That's cool. Funny thing is, everybody always want to know why you a ho. It not all complicated, you know? It's the damn money, honey!"
"I see. Nobody forced you?"
"You mean like my Uncle Ray or somethin' like that?"
"Exactly."
She dug into her purse for a tissue and blew her nose. I read her at once. She was covering up. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"
She shook her head. "You think talking about that slime-ball, lame-dick, pencil-necked, circus-geek cheesy motherfucker of a step daddy make me uncomfortable? Oh,
hell
no. Whatever make you think that?"
"Okay. Just checking."
"Let's just say this. Mommy, she had her some bad taste in men."
This was not a wise time or place to do therapy. I shifted gears. "Do you work for yourself, or do you have a pimp?"
"White boy," she said, "only a fool be out here alone without no man looking after her. I ain't no fool."
"I can see that. Does he treat you okay? The man you work for?"
"He okay," she said. She was already shutting down. I was losing her.
Before I could say anything else, Jerry piped up from behind the camera. "Can you talk a little more about the other thing, like going down on the guy while he asks you questions?"
"Jerry, shut up."
"Okay."
I took one last shot. "What's his name? Your pimp. The man looking out for you."
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why you want to know?"
"No reason, I was just asking. A first name is fine."
"You ask questions like that round here, you could end up dead," she said. "You want to be dead?"
"No, ma'am."
"Good thinking. We done now?""
"Well . . ."
"
Kaching
!" she said. It sounded like a sneeze. She smiled broadly and closed her purse again.