No Human Involved - Barbara Seranella Page 14
Carolines eyes filled with tears and she placed her hand on his.
"Have you ever seen those places?" he asked her. "They're like warehouses. I couldnt do that to him. Besides, he does all right. Don't kid yourself, he's sharp when he wants to be."
"How long did the doctor say he would live?"
"Probably another twenty years." Mace wiped salsa from his mouth. "If I'm lucky" He signaled the waitress. "Enough of this. I'm sorry I burned your ears off. Lets get something to eat."
Caroline nodded.
"I thought you said you didn't date cops," he said after they had ordered.
"The full quote is, 'I don't date someone just because they're a cop.' I date the man."
She fixed him with a searing look. At least, that was the effect it had on him. Those blue-gray eyes of hers seemed to burn right through to his inner-most self. Her intensity dried up his throat and made his heart thump. It was as if she discarded all the bullshit on the surface and got right to his core. He found again that the challenge in those eyes was one he wasn't up to.
He tried to remember what she had said. He needed to shift the conversation back to a verbal level. Something about not dating cops just because they were cops. He knew the phenomenon she was referring to. He had first encountered it in the service. Girls who never looked at him twice began falling all over themselves to go out with him. It happened right before he shipped out, after boot camp, when he had come home on leave. Digger told him it was the uniform. The new popularity pleased the other guys, but left Mace strangely empty. A feeling he had always kept to himself. The transition to instant sex symbol didn't stop when he left the service. Whatever successes he had in dating tripled when he joined the police force. The ugliest guy in the world could put on the badge, it seemed, and get laid. Sometimes he wondered if that should somehow be incorporated into recruitment literature.
Caroline was different, he realized that. But before he let her peel through his inner layers, he'd have to know a lot more about her.
After dinner, they stopped for a drink at a small bar in the Marina with pool tables and live music. The musician was a longhair who alternated playing an acoustical guitar and chromatic harmonica while singing sixties folk songs.
"Do you play?" he asked Caroline, gesturing to the empty pool table.
"A little," she said.
The second time she ran the table, Mace decided the woman had a gift for understatement
and made a mental note to look up her juvenile record.
***
On Sunday Mace took a ride out to Playa del Rey An old boyfriend of Vicky Glassen's had agreed to meet with him. Mace assured the boy that anything he said would be off the record. They met at a hamburger stand with a view of the ocean. They ordered cheeseburgers and french fries and found an empty table on the patio.
Mace let the boy choose his words.
"Vicky was a great gal," the boy said.
Mace nodded and threw a piece of his bun to a seagull, who snatched it up quickly.
"Real pretty, real smart."
"How long did you two go together?" Mace asked. The seagull invited a few of his friends, and now five of the big white birds sat on the railing.
Mace threw them french fries.
"A year and a half."
"Who broke it off?" The birds grew bolder. They hopped to the table next to the men and made demanding noises. Mace tried to shoo them away.
"I did."
"Why?"
The boy fidgeted.
"Don't worry You can trust me." He watched while the boy came to what looked like a difficult mental crossroad, torn between speaking ill of the dead and telling the whole truth. There was a tenseness in the boy's face. His chest filled with a deep breath that he held for some seconds. Mace held his own breath and sat perfectly still, recognizing the fragile moment. With a slight nod, the boy exhaled. His eyes closed slightly and his shoulders slumped. End of conflict; decision made. Mace leaned closer to catch every word.
"She started getting too . . . kinky"
"Kinky?" Mace asked quietly A bird walked over and pecked at the tassel on his loafer.
"She wanted me to do things to her. Like when we were, you know, doing it."
"What kind of things?" He kicked lightly at the bird. It flapped its wings but made no effort to fly away
"First, she just liked it when I talked dirty More than just dirty degrading. She told me to call her a bitch and a whore. Then that wasn't enough. She wanted me to slap her breasts and spank her. It was getting too weird. I couldn't get into it, so I broke it off."
"Was she upset when you did?"
"I think not," he said. "She just kind of laughed at me and said that was fine with her. I think she was already seeing somebody else."
"Somebody else?"
"The week she died, she gave me a little going away present."
"What was that?"
"A dose of clap. Not just any clap, some new strain that's resistant to penicillin."
17
MUNCH WENT OVER TO RUBY'S APARTMENT ON Sunday afternoon to begin her fourth step inventory Ruby's apartment was in Sherman Oaks, north of Ventura Boulevard, the street that divided the socioeconomic borders of the San Fenando Valley neighborhood. The million-dollar homes on the hills that overlooked the valley were south of the boulevard. The people who worked in the service industries lived in the smaller, older homes and apartments to the north. Ruby's building was a typi1 cal example of sixties architecture, a boring stucco structure of straight lines and indented balconies.
The landscaping consisted of close-cut squares of lawn and box hedges, but it was well maintained if uninspired. They sat in her living room on an old sofa full of cat hair. Ruby set out a plate of cookies and a pitcher of lemonade. She apologized as two tabbies repeatedly rubbed themselves against Munch's legs.
"I don't mind," she assured her sponsor. The truth was, it was kind of flattering to have the animals take to her so. A fat tabby settled in her lap and she stroked its head till it purred as loudly as the air conditioning unit buzzing in the window.
"Where do we start?"
"Tell me about your childhood?"
She ruffled the cat's ears and it playfully chewed on her fingers. "My mom was a beatnik. I remember that she had lots of hair; it always seemed to be covering her eyes, her face. She had a beautiful voice, kind of deep and trembling, like she was almost singing. We used to stay up late. I can remember the magic of the world after midnight. I'd be the only kid in a world of adults. Smoking, talking, they always seemed to be doing important things."
"Why do you think that?"
"I guess because I never understood what they were talking about and they always seemed to be taking each other so seriously" The cat stood up and stretched, arching his back and straightening out his tail. Wisps of marmalade-colored hair drifted lazily upwards and were caught in shafts of light from the partially open venetian blinds. "We used to go to the Sunset Strip, where the coffeehouses were. She liked musicians. I remember going to jazz sessions held in people's garages. We'd sit around on milk crates set up on concrete floors while the drummers and horn blowers played their riffs. I think she wanted to sing, but lacked the courage. She used to sing for me, but never around other people. I remember she never learned how to drive."
"How did that make you feel?"
"I didnt like it. We always seemed to be at other people's mercy. Sometimes they'd take us places we didnt want to go. She wouldnt even remember the next day how we got there or what she had done. I hated it when she wouldn't remember, like she was doing it on purpose. She'd always be sorry. Sorry and crying, face black with mascara and eyeliner."
Munch stopped, surprised at her anger.
"Sounds like she might have been one of us," Ruby said gently "Do you think she was an alcoholic?"
"She was also an addict. Totally. Heroin, mostly pills, crank, but she drank some, too. And of course, everyone was smoking pot. It wasn't like she didn
't try to change. Toward the end, she kept trying to save herself with the Lord. Every Sunday, she'd drag me to church. The rest of the week she got loaded. When I was eight, she ODed. We were staying at some musician's house in Venice. When she wouldn't wake up, the guy freaked. He was afraid he'd get busted."
"What about your father?" Ruby asked.
"Let me work up to that."
"What about your mother's family?"
"They disowned her when she was a teenager. I never met any of them."
"So, what happened to you when your mother died?"
"Flower George took me in. He said he was my father, it gave him legal guardianship and a monthly check. He also needed it to enroll me in public school, and later when he took me out."
'Was he good to you?"
"He pretty much left me alone till I was thirteen, then I started growing tits and I guess he remembered I was a female. He started saying that maybe he wasn't my father after all."
"Are you saying he molested you?"
Munch shrugged. "I guess you could call it that."
"When did he take you out of school?"
"When I was in the ninth grade. I remember I was mad about that, I liked school. George knew we could make more money on the street. That's when I started using dope. I always smoked weed, but never the needle before that. George gave me dope to reward me."
"That's awful."
"Well, he was an addict, too. So I guess we can't hold it against him."
"I'm not that forgiving. You're my friend and he did you very wrong. The son of a bitch should burn in hell," Ruby said. She stood up in her anger and the cats, sensing trouble, yowled and ran from the room.
"I'm getting to that part," Munch assured her and reached for another cookie.
18
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON MACE PICKED UP A diagnostic psychiatric manual that Dr. Miller had recommended. He returned to the Bella Donna and fixed himself a can of chili that he ate right out of the pot. When he finished eating, he settled into his high-backed wing chair and began to read. It was a pleasant evening; the Santa Anas were blowing a warm breeze off the desert. He left the door that opened to the platform open and propped his feet up on the chair's matching red Spanish leather ottoman. The first thing he looked up was Sexual Sadism.
"Sadists," it said, "derive their pleasure from inflicting pain and/or humiliation on their victims. The age at onset of sadistic tendencies varies, but is usually chronic after the condition has presented. When practiced with nonconsenting partners, the activity is likely to be repeated until the sadist is apprehended. The severity of sadistic acts tends to increase over time and when combined with Antisocial Personality Disorder may lead to serious injury or death of the victim."
The sun began its descent and took with it its light. He turned to the brass lamp beside his table and switched it on. His .38 rested beside him. The Tiffany shade cast soft spots of color on the ceiling. Nan had called him paranoid when they were going through the divorce. The book had a small section on that. It was under the Personality Change section. "Diagnosis of this condition," it said, "is reached when the subjects predominant feature is suspiciousness or paranoid ideation." Mace shook his head and snorted. He was a detective, of course he was suspicious. People did nothing but lie to him all day long. just the same, he couldn't help but sneak a guilty glance at his service revolver. A graceless, repulsive weapon, devoid of color, devoid of warmth. Its dull black barrel and handle weren't softened by the glow of dusk. He
opened the drawer of the lamp table and swept the weapon out of sight.
A moth had come in through the back door and was throwing itself at the bulb of the lamp. It ricocheted off the inside of the shade. There was no moon, and the night came quickly The blackness of outdoors seemed to increase the intensity of the light within the Bella Donna. The moth's frantic dance inside the lamp cast frenetic shadows against the window shades. He read on.
The section on Sexual Masochism read like the mirror image of Sexual Sadism. It described a sexual masochist as an individual who derives sexual pleasure from being made to suffer. "This includes fantasies of rape," it stated, "while being held or bound with no possibility of escape."
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, remembering enactments he had staged with an old girlfriend. She had asked him to use his cuffs. He had played along, even gotten a thrill from the total power he had felt over her. Idly he wondered what it would have felt like if the woman had been unwilling. The moth fell to the table next to him, stunned and singed. He finished the paragraph.
"Sexual masochists," the section concluded, "often increase the severity of their acts." The consequence, it warned, was that over time their actions could result in injury or even death. The moth regained consciousness and flew drunkenly upward for a final assault at the light. Mace flipped off the switch and closed the book. His phone rang.
"Mr. Mace?" Evangeline sounded breathless.
"Mr. Digger is lost again, I think."
He told her that he would be right over. In minutes, the Bella Donna was locked tight and he was out the door. It wasn't the first time Digger had wandered off and been unable to find his way home. Fortunately he was well-known in the community The few times before, he had been recognized and helped home. Of course, that had been when it was broad daylight, not on a moonless night when all manner of predators roamed the streets.
Mace cursed himself for not getting the ID bracelet the doctors had suggested. To tag his dad thus had seemed so undignified. He'd rejected the idea immediately He couldn't feature his dad with a tag that said, "My name is Digger, if found please return me." The guy was a war hero, not some German shepherd. Now he was lost and wandering the alleys of Venice because Mace was too stupid to accept the truth, too caught up in his ideas of fucking dignity He fought mental images of his dad, beaten and bloody, lying face down in his own blood. He'd seen it too many times. Victims stabbed for their wristwatches. Digger always wore a big gold Citizen. Mace beat his hand against his steering wheel and cursed himself as he raced towards Venice.
Ten minutes later, he arrived at the house on Carroll Canal. Evangeline met him at the door. She'd been crying. "Mr. Mace, he said he was getting the paper. He never came back. I called his name. The lady at the end of the block thinks she saw him walking that way" She pointed north. Towards the gym, towards Ghost Town."
"What's he wearing?"
"Those pants you hate, the red ones. He wouldn't let me throw them away He kept digging them out the trash."
He squeezed her shoulder. "That's all right. That's good. He'll be easier to spot." He didn't add that a white-haired white man wandering the streets of Ghost Town was already going to stick out like the proverbial snowball in hell, with about the same chances of survival. Mace called Dispatch and asked them to keep an eye out, then he hopped back in his car and headed towards the direction where Digger had last been seen.
He thought about the time when he was a kid and Digger had taken him to the La Brea Tar Pits. They had seen a cottontail caught in the oozing mire. Mace had wanted to scale the chain-link fence to save the little bunny Digger had stopped him, saying that the rabbit was too far gone. "Look at his eyes, son," Digger said. "He knows he's done." Indeed, the rabbit's eyes were blank and glazed, the animal clearly was resigned to his fate, sunk into shock, and had already begun to die.
Mace had refused to leave. He had watched till all that was visible was the little white ball of its tail. He now crossed Venice Boulevard and made a swing around the loop at the beginning of Main Street, the old Windward Lagoon. The winos on the steps of the Post Office didn't remember seeing anyone matching Diggers description. Mace continued down Main, past the park known as "Hooker Hill" that faced the elementary school.
He passed the bus station and slowed down when he reached the row of houses on the other side of its parking lot. He spotted an elderly couple. They were sitting on their stoop in mismatched chairs, enjoying the respite from the winter chill. Th
e man, a thin black skeleton in a threadbare t-shirt and old uniform pants, sat with his wife, a heavy woman in a bright yellow muumuu. They looked like they had been there awhile. He called to them, but they refused to acknowledge him. They just stared vacantly ahead. He gave up.
Halfway down the block he spotted another woman watering down her yard. She tugged on the hose attached to her whirlybird. As the sprinkler scooted across the grass, it fell to one side. She righted it with an expert flick of her wrist, making the hose jump like a lariat. He rolled down his window and yelled to her.
"Have you seen a white man? Five-eleven, one-sixty, red pants?"
The woman shook her head and looked down till he rolled past. He knew she probably didn't want her neighbors seeing her talking to the police. The people in that neighborhood could spot an officer of the law a mile away, off-duty or not. Mace continued to cruise. When he got to Brooks, he turned right. The free clinic where Nan volunteered a day of her time a week was on the corner of Brooks and Main. Now it was closed and locked up tight. All the homes and businesses of the area were sealed with burglar bars. Every flat surface was marked with gang writing and the wounds of past gunfire. He wound in and out of the alleys and streets, wishing he had a searchlight. On the corner of 7th and Sunset he spotted them.
A skinny black kid held Diggers hand and was leading him to a car.
Mace honked and stepped on the accelerator.
"Dad, Dad," he yelled. The two men looked at him and waited till he pulled up alongside.