handle on-why the hell would a little fuck need such a goddamn big place?
He bought three hot dogs with kraut, washed it down with a chocolate malt, and cruised over to the Cave, parking his scoot with all the others in front, hoping no one would look close. Inside, he hoped for brotherhood, had to spend his last dough on beer when no one offered to buy him one. Eating three pickled eggs and stuffing some Slim Jims in his pocket before the bartender evil-eyed him.
No one gave a shit about the picture of the rat. Everyone was watching fuck films on big-screen TV. When some chick did something especially nasty up on the screen, a low growl of support rose up from the bar.
Forty, fifty crank-glazed eyes fixed on cum shots, no interest in making twenty-five big ones, except for one dude who didn’t really seem that interested, either, but said he might know something. Motor arranged to meet with him at eight tomorrow-maybe he’d bother; maybe he wouldn’t.
So might as well bunk down. Not exactly the Holiday Inn, but nothing he hadn’t seen before. Even though the chemicals gave him a headache, the aloneness turned him on, like the time he was celling with a greaser in Perdido, a DUI rap, three days of inhaling the motherfucker’s stale farts, ready to strangle him, and then the fourth day they took the guy away because it turned out he had federal warrants.
Aloneness was like someone massaging your body, only there was no one there, just the feeling.
Now it was Friday morning, ten o’clock, his eyes were swollen, and all he wanted to do was cut off this fucking head so he could replace it with one that didn’t feel like it was about to explode.
Pissing on the floor of an adjoining room, he spit out morning taste, rubbed his eyes till they focused, and wheeled his scoot outside into the sun. Strong m-f sun-that didn’t help either. He was hungry, had no money; time to go to work.
It took him two hours to find a Mexican chick walking all alone on a side street, no little gangbangers to protect her honor. He drove past her, stopped, got off, walked toward her, and she was scared right away. But he passed her by and she relaxed and that’s when he turned around and grabbed her purse and shoved her to the ground.
Telling her, “Don’t fucking move.”
She didn’t understand the words, but she got the tone of voice. He kicked her in the ribs just to make sure, walked as fast as his bulk would allow to his scoot, and drove a mile away.
Twenty-three bucks in the purse, along with a tin cross and pictures of little Mex kids in some kind of costumes. He took the money, threw the rest of it down a storm drain, drove back to the Boulevard, found the same stand where he’d bought the hot dogs, and got two more, along with a fried egg on a muffin with hot sauce on the side, extra-large coffee that he drained and refilled, an apple turnover, and one of those little containers of milk like he used to get in school and jail. Now he was ready for a day’s labor.
He walked the picture up and down the Boulevard again, got nothing but dirty looks, was hungry again by three, forced himself to continue for another couple of hours, till he finally couldn’t stand it anymore. Figuring he’d earned a real meal, he went over to Go-Ji’s and used up most of the Mex chick’s money on a corned beef sandwich, fries, onion rings, double banana split, more coffee. Telling the nigger waitress to keep filling his cup till she just left him a pitcher.
Someone had left parta the paper in his booth, but it was nothin’ but words. The TV over the counter was going-news, sports, weather, dead stuff. Then he saw the rat’s picture again; stopped eating bananas smothered with whipped cream and paid attention. His heart was zooming away-the coffee-and he was totally awake and ready to do something, anything.
Asshole on TV saying something about the beach-“… reported to have been spotted near Ocean Front Walk in Venice.”
So fuck the dude at the Cave.
Time to putt west-after dark. If the rat saw him, it wouldn’t be good.
CHAPTER
58
Larry Schick wore a cheap-looking brown suit that probably cost three thousand dollars, all puckered around the lapels and sagging on his meager frame. Instead of a handkerchief in the breast pocket, he carried an ornately carved meerschaum pipe. The bowl hung out like a talisman. Woman’s head. Creepy.
The attorney was younger than Petra expected, early to mid-forties, with a very tan pencil-point face, jet- black Prince Valiant ’do, and pink-plastic-framed eyeglasses. Snakeskin cowboy boots. Like one of those English rock stars trying to stretch the hip thing into middle age.
He and Ramsey arrived at the Montecito house just after six, Schick behind the wheel of a black Rolls-Royce Silver Spur. Malibu Colony sticker on the windshield, a bunch of club emblems fastened to the grille. Another car boy.
Ramsey got out first. He wore a faded denim shirt, black jeans, running shoes; looked even older than the last time she’d seen him. Taking in the scene, he shook his head. Schick came around from the driver’s side and touched his elbow. Petra and Ron were with them before they could take another step. Ramsey kept staring at the crime tape.
The estate was quiet now; only a few techs still working. No word from Sepulveda on the warrants yet. Sergeant Grafton remained stationed near the pond. She’d introduced herself a while back. First name, Anna. Bright, art history degree from UCSB, which gave them something to talk about during the dead time. She was flying to Switzerland next week. “Major burglary, old masters. We recovered almost all of them. It’ll never hit the papers.” No interest in homicide, no attempt to take over the case.
Now she watched the arrival of the Rolls, met Petra’s eye, studied Ramsey for a while, and turned the other way.
Petra said, “Evening, Mr. Ramsey.”
“Larry Schick,” said the lawyer, interposing his arm between them.
Ramsey stepped back. He looked at Ron, then zeroed in on Petra. “What the hell is going on?”
“Estrella Flo-”
“I know, I know, but what was she doing up here?”
“We were going to ask you that, sir.”
Ramsey shook his head again and clicked his teeth together. “Unreal. The world’s gone nuts.”
Schick’s facial muscles hadn’t budged. He said, “What exactly happened to her, Detective?”
“Too early to give out details, Mr. Schick, but I can tell you she was murdered very brutally and buried over there.” She pointed at the pond. The gravesite was marked by a stake.
“My God,” said Ramsey, turning away.
Petra said, “Mr. Ramsey, did Mrs. Flores ever work at this house?”
“Sure.”
“Recently?”
“No. Back when Lisa and I were together.” By the end of the sentence, Ramsey’s voice had thickened. He glanced at the stake again and winced.
Schick said, “Detective, why don’t we do this a little later-”
“It’s okay, Larry,” said Ramsey. “Lisa and I used to spend weekends here. Sometimes Lisa brought Estrella with us to clean. I don’t think Estrella had a key, though. And I can’t see why she’d come up here.”
“Who cleans the house now?”
“A cleaning company. Not regularly, maybe once a month. I never use the house anymore.”
“What’s the name of the company?”
“I don’t know. Greg handles it.”
“Does Mr. Balch come up personally to let them in?”
“Sure.” Ramsey studied her.
“Where is Mr. Balch now?”
Ramsey looked at his watch. “Probably on his way home.”
