I walked into the den and checked the answering machine. It was an old machine and the remote access system had become temperamental, so I couldn't retrieve calls. But it didn't matter because there were only the same three messages I'd left for Alexa earlier. I sat in the half dark, thinking about what my next move would be. I probably shouldn't stay here because if Rafie and Tommy followed through and filed a 181 complaint on me, by morning the Professional Standards Bureau could go to the D. A. and get an arrest warrant for obstructing justice. I could be picked up, booked, and taken to the courthouse for arraignment. It would take me half a day to get through all that. I didn't have half a day.
I figured I'd better clear out and come back here only to shower or change. They would try to serve the damn warrant two or three times, but they wouldn't make a career of it. After a couple of tries, it would go on the computer along with a BOLO to pick me up. I'd broken some internal department policies, some search and seizure regs, and a criminal obstruction of justice statute, but it was all Class-C stuff. I hadn't shot anyone yet.
I stood and moved slowly out of the den. I was halfway across the partially darkened living room when I saw something move in the backyard.
I froze in my tracks and looked out. It was hard to see too much of the backyard through the room reflection on the glass, but someone was definitely sitting in one of the metal chairs back there, looking at the canal.
Had Luna Maluga already sent some energy in my direction, or was it Alexa? Taking no chances, I pulled my gun, moved to the side of the room, and edged to the glass slider. It was locked. I silently unhooked the latch and using my foot, slowly slid it open. I knelt down to nonfatal shooting height and looked outside.
There was someone stretched out on the lawn chair. It looked like Chooch. He had ignored my instructions and come home. In that instant, I was glad he had. He'd been right, I needed someone to talk this over with.
'Chooch!' I stepped outside and crossed toward him.
A man screamed in terror and jumped up, dreads and skinny elbows flying. Then John Bodine stumbled and went down, managing to catch himself with his good wrist, balancing himself precariously. 'Like to scare a motherfucker to death,' he whined.
I put my gun away. 'What are you doing here?'
'Got no place else,' he said. 'And you still got all my what-alls in the car. 'Sides alia that, I got…'
'I know. Payback coming.'
'Finally got that right, half-stepper.'
Chapter 12
I grabbed his skinny arm and pulled him into the house.
'I ain't no sack a shit you just yank here and about!' Bodine whined.
Once we were in the entry hall, I turned to him. 'I can't deal with you right now. I'm in trouble maybe about to be arrested. I've gotta get movin', so you're outta here.' I went into the laundry room to get his stuff. He trailed after me, lost in one of his rants.
'You about to get arrested, are ya? In Cameroon, during the workers' strike, I got my black ass arrested six times. Got put on trial no legal representation or any such shit. Weren't nobody there for me, but I was on a royal pilgrimage. A prince leading a people's rebellion against tyranny. In his manuscript, Tonio Kroger, Thomas Mann calls a killer one who permanently kills the ills of his people by piercing them with the arrows of the true word. That was me. Prince Samik Mampuna, killer of ills. Know what I'm sayin'?'
'No.' I grabbed his clothes out of the dryer and rolled them up in his old coat, which had not yet made its trip to the cleaners. I was definitely through with this joker.
'I grew up watching hungry folks,' he rambled on, trailing after me, blabbering nonsense as I gathered up his things. 'Watchin' them grab their swelled-up bellies; so far gone they couldn't even keep nothin' down. My daddy was a king a tribal chief. He said the act of true sacrifice is giving even when you got nothin' left to give. And that be exactly what I'm talking about here.'
'Don't move. I'll be right back.' I left him standing on the laundry porch rambling about Africa, and headed to the bedroom to get my extra gun, a small. 44 special Bulldog Pug. It's only accurate for a few feet, but it weighed less than two pounds and was an easy carry piece. I wasn't too worried about its accuracy, because I figured if Maluga came for me it would be close combat.
As I was pulling the piece out of the dresser drawer, something started vibrating in my pocket. I reached in and retrieved Stacy Maluga's pager. I'd completely forgotten about it. The number on the screen read: 310-555- 6768.1 jotted it down on a piece of paper and put the pager back in my pocket. As this was happening, I got the germ of an idea on how I might put that stolen gadget to work. I took a stack of cash out of a lockbox under the bed and stuffed it in my pocket. Then I grabbed Alexa's spare office key from the coin dish on our dresser, fitted the Bulldog into a small belt-clip holster and tucked it inside the waistband of my pants at the small of my back. My Beretta was still riding a holster on my hip. I grabbed a box of shells for each gun and left.
When I returned to the living room, true to his name, John was long gone. I found him in the den near the side window, looking out at the canal.
'Let's go.'
He jerked up, shrieked in terror, then spun around. He was sure jumpy. It took him a minute to reclaim himself. Then he was back at it. 'This ain't right. You run a man down, a prince of all things. Then you just give him a roll-up, and push him out the door with no howdy-do here's some cash.'
I pulled out my wallet, extracted four hundred dollars, and handed it to him.
'I'll drop you back on the Nickel. How you deal with all that anger down there is up to you. As of now, you and I are done, friend.'
He wouldn't move, so I grabbed his skinny arm Rafie-style, and hustled him out of the house. Ten minutes later we were in the Acura heading east on the 10 Freeway.
'Can't go to the Nickel. Ain't got no friends on the Row.'
'Okay, I'll drop you in Hollywood then.' I wasn't paying much attention to him anymore. I was trying to get my thoughts sorted out, make a list of investigative priorities. The order of my next few moves could mean everything.
'Hollywood is like Tibet on acid,' Bodine whined. 'It's all prayer rugs and hoop earrings down there. Buncha crackheads and trapdoor Johnnies. My voices be tellin' me Hollywood ain't no place for a straight Christian man to be.'
'Come on, John. I'm through. I told ya I got my own problems.'
'Hey, who run me over, huh? Was it you? I fuckin' think it was.'
We exited the freeway at Main, heading toward Parker Center.
'This ain't where I want to be at,' Bodine whined.
I had stopped answering him. I finally pulled up across the street from where I first hit him. 'Door-to-door service. Doesn't get much better than that.'
I set the brake, got out, and pulled his shopping cart out from the back of the SUV. I heard the sound of leather ripping as it snagged the upholstery. I jerked it out angrily. Pissed me off, but a torn backseat was way down on tonight's list of problems. As I started to load Bodine's junk back into the cart I could see him in the front seat. He wasn't about to move. He just sat there, rocking back and forth, moaning slightly.
When I finished with the cart I went around to the passenger side, opened the door and glared down at him. 'Let's go.'
'Half-steppers at the sperm clinic won't even take my jizz anymore,' he said, looking up. His desperate eyes blazed. 'Mutha-fuckas won't even pay me to jerk off into a bottle. Say my count is low. I tole 'em you eat outta garbage cans your sperm goes all. Ta hell. No vitamins in a grapefruit rind, know what I'm sayin'?'
'Get out.'
'Can't sell my blood, can't sell my jizz, what am I supposed to do?'
'I gave you four hundred. Don't make me drag you outta there.'
He sat still and looked up at me. 'Officer Scully, I'm kinda at my wit's end right now. I ain't brilliant or even that smart really, but you know what I am?'
'Stubborn.'
