The head, though, had been less of a problem than he expected. Rolling away like a soccer ball, eyes open. That was funny. He felt like kicking it, but you had to get rid of the head and the fingers, let the cops have the rest of the carcass. His plan had been to take the head somewhere it would never be found, but the Boy Scouts had ruined it, hiking through the forest, yelling like drunks. So now the cops had the head; maybe they’d learn who the fat guy was. Big deal. No connection to him; he’d cleaned all the blood. And here was a cop leaning over the very same counter, no clue.
Zhukanov fought not to smile. He’d tossed the knives into five separate storm drains from Valencia to Van Nuys. The fat man’s clothing and billfold ended up in Dumpsters near Fairfax and Melrose-let the Yids get blamed.
No bills in the billfold, just a driver’s license and a nice picture of a naked girl with her legs spread that Zhukanov pocketed. The license he slipped down another drain. The fat man’s name was Moran. So what.
When he got home he washed his bloody clothes, took a shower, had something to eat, worked with the broken gun for a while, still couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it. Then a few glasses of vodka and he was out like a light by three. Five hours later, he was back at the shack waiting for the Yids to return with the kid. If they didn’t, he’d go over to the motor vehicle department on Monday.
But the car showed up, all right, pulling behind the Yid church at nine. Prayer time for the Yids, Zhukanov knew, usually till eleven or so. He kept going back to the alley every fifteen minutes; finally spotted the old guy who’d hidden the kid coming out with an old woman. They drove off, and he followed them in his car. They never noticed-too busy yapping.
And now he had an address without paying for it. Twenty-three Sunrise Court.
He didn’t write it down, the way he had with the license number, because now he was smart; no one would get it unless they paid for it.
And now look how calm he was, facing the white cop. Though if the guy had just showed the badge, no picture of the kid, he might’ve figured it had something to do with Moran-what the hell would he have done then?
“I tell the black guy,” he said. “He never call me back.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We’ve been quite busy-”
“You busy looking for the kid,” said Zhukanov, “but I see him.”
“You saw him several days ago, sir.”
“Maybe,” said Zhukanov, smiling.
“Maybe?”
“Maybe I see him again.”
The blond cop pulled out a little notepad. “When, sir?”
“I tell your black buddy the first time; he never call me back.”
The blond cop frowned, leaned a little closer. “Sir, if you have information-”
“I don’t know,” said Zhukanov, shrugging. “Maybe I forget. The way the black guy forget to call me.”
The pad shut. The cop was annoyed, but he smiled. “Sir, I understand your frustration. Sometimes things get busy and we don’t dot every i. If that happened to you, I’m-”
“Dot every i is important,” said Zhukanov, not sure what that meant. “But also money.”
“Money?” said the cop.
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“That,” said the cop. “Sure. If we find the boy and he helps us, it’s yours. At least that’s what I was told.”
“No one tell me. ”
“I’ve seen the forms, sir. My captain signed them. If you’d like to call him-”
“No, no,” said Zhukanov. “I just wanna get it square, you know? Maybe I know something more than I told the black guy, but what if kid runs, you don’t find him? What happens?”
“If your information’s solid, you’ll get partial payment,” said the cop. “Part of the twenty-five thousand. That’s the way we always do it. I’m not saying you could get all of it, but-”
“How much part of it?”
“I don’t know, sir, but generally in these situations it’s around a third to a half-I’d guess ten, twelve thousand. And if the boy is there, you’d get all twenty-five-why don’t you speak to my captain-”
“No, no,” said Zhukanov, thinking, If the old Yid did take the kid home with him, the kid could still run; better not dawdle anymore. “I want you should write it down.”
“Write what?”
“What you say. Twelve, fifteen to Zhukanov just for telling, all twenty-five if kid show up.”
“Sir,” said the blond cop, sighing, “I’m not in a position-oh, all right, here you go.”
Ripping a sheet out of his pad, he said, “How do you spell your name?”
Zhukanov told him.
The blond cop printed neatly:
This stipulates that to the best of my knowledge, Mr. V. Zhukanov is due $12,000.00 because of information he has offered about a missing boy, unknown identity, related to L. Ramsey, PC 187. Should Mr. V. Zhukanov’s information lead directly to this boy and this boy’s information lead to apprehension of a suspect, he would be due $25,000.00.
Det. D. A. Price, Badge # 19823
“Here,” said the cop, “but to be honest, I can’t promise you this means much-”
Zhukanov snatched the paper, read it, and stuffed it down his pants pocket. Now he had a contract. If the bastards gave him trouble, he’d hire Johnnie Cochran, sue the hell out of them.
“I know where he is,” he said. “Enough for the twenty-five.”
The blond cop waited, pen poised.
“The Yids-the Jews from over there got him.” Zhukanov pointed south. “They got a church. The old Jew hid him in there, took him home.”
“You saw this?” said the cop. He straightened and his shoulders widened.
“You bet. I looked for the car, followed it to the old guy’s house this morning.”
“Good detective work, Mr. Zhukanov.”
“In Russia, I was policeman.”
“Really. Well, it paid off, sir. Thank you. And believe me, I’ll do everything I can to make sure you get every penny of that twenty-five thousand.”
“You bet,” said Zhukanov. The wolf triumphs!
The blond cop said, “What’s the address?”
“Twenty-three Sunrise Court.” Twenty-five-thousand-dollar address.
“That’s here in Venice?”
“Yeah, yeah, right here.” Idiot, didn’t know his own city. Zhukanov hooked a thumb. “From alley, you go to Speedway, then to Pacific, then five blocks over.”
“Great,” said the cop, closing the pad. “You’ve been a tremendous help, sir-when you say the alley, you mean the one back there?”
“Yeah, yeah-I show you.”
Vaulting over the counter-adrenaline-charged, despite his aching limbs, Zhukanov led the blond cop around the side of the shack, past the shipping-carton trash boxes. If the guy only knew what had been in there yesterday.
“Over there,” he pointed, “is Jew church where I see car. Okay?”
“What kind of car, sir?”
“Lincoln. White, brown roof.”
“Year?”
“Don’t matter, I got something better for you.” Grinning, Zhukanov recited the license number. The cop scrawled in the darkness. “Other way is where he went.”
“North,” said the cop.
“Yeah, yeah, right up to Speedway and then Pacific, five blocks.”
The cop repeated the instructions, a real dummy.
