H is for Homicide

14

THEY DIDN'T LEAVE until nearly seven, after an agony of argument and indecision. Perro remained in his usual place by the door, gnawing on his chain. He had the kind of teeth you might see on a dinosaur skeleton, perfect for grinding up alligators and other modest-size mammals. Once the door closed behind them, I headed for the spare bedroom, where I took a minute to fish the claim form out of my bodice and tuck it under one of the couch cushions for safekeeping. Then I began to search for the missing telephone. I started in the master bedroom, checking every drawer. I couldn't believe he'd have stashed the phone among her possessions, so I skipped her chest of drawers and concentrated on his. She'd probably gone through a brief search herself without luck.

His top drawer on the left was a mass of unmatched socks, clumsily folded handkerchiefs. The drawer on the right held the sorts of odds and ends you can't bear to throw out: matchbooks, cuff links, tie tacks, a roach clip, loose change, a wallet in good shape but emptied of credit cards. A flat brown bank book for a savings account showed a balance of forty-three thousand bucks. Down a drawer were folded shirts and under them the sweaters. In a box, near the back of the drawer, I found two handguns. One was a semiautomatic, a.30-caliber broomhandle Mauser in an imprinted case, with an extra magazine, cleaning brush, test target, and a box of bottleneck cartridges. I bent my head and sniffed the barrel, without touching it. It hadn't been cleaned, but it hadn't been fired recently, either. The second gun was a SIG-Sauer P220 38 Super, which probably cost three hundred and fifty bucks. Did I dare steal one for my very own? Nah, not at this point. It wouldn't be smart. Under the box was a jumbled collection of California driver's licenses with assorted ID's. I made a mental note to go through them later if I could find an opportunity. I put the guns back on top of the documents.

I checked the closet, top and bottom, sorting through any pile of articles large enough to conceal an unplugged telephone. I peered under the bed, searched the drawers in the bed tables. I went into the master bathroom, which was larger than the other but not any cleaner. The medicine cabinet was too small to hide anything. I dug through the clothes hamper. The telephone was tucked down in the bottom. I emitted a little yelp and pulled it out from under a mound of dirty underwear. I knew there was a jack in the living room, but I was too nervous to plug in the phone out there. Luis was due any minute. I didn't want him to find; me with my mouth against the receiver.

I scanned the baseboards in the bedroom for another jack. There were none in the immediate vicinity. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled around the perimeter, toting the telephone along with me as I peered behind the chest of drawers and the bed table. I finally spotted a jack on the wall behind the king-size bed, just about dead center. By stretching out on my belly and extending my arm through the dust bunnies and the woofies, I contrived to press the little gizmo on the phone into the matching hole in the jack. I was lying on the floor between the bed and the closet when the dog began to bark. Luis. Shit! I snicked the line from the jack and jerked the length of it out from under the bed. Perro was barking so loud, I couldn't tell if Luis had let himself in or not. I made a beeline to the master bathroom, wrapping the cord and the phone as I went.

"Hey! Where is everybody?" He was in.

"Luis? Is that you? I'm in the bathroom," I called.

I shoved the phone to the bottom of the hamper and piled the dirty clothes on top. I checked my reflection in the mirror and picked a dog hair off my lip. I just had time to wrap a bath towel around my head, turban style, when Luis appeared in the bathroom doorway. He'd pulled a flannel shirt on. Long sleeves now concealed the handsome tattoos on his arms, but I could still see the two pairs of duck feet sticking out of his sleeves. He surveyed the room. His look flicked to me, his eyes chilly with suspicion.

"Where's Raymond?"

"He and Bibianna went out."

"What are you doing in here?"

"Bibianna said I could borrow her hair dryer," I said, praying she really had one. I glanced at the hamper. A length of telephone cord was dangling down the side, coiled in a tiny noose. I shifted my weight, effectively blocking his view. "I'll be out in just a second."

He stared. His face was an oval with high cheekbones and a little pointed chin. His teeth were in good shape, but he had a thin, mean-looking mouth, accentuated by that pathetic mustache. His dark hair was straight, slicked back in a ponytail, previously concealed by his watch cap. He had to be in his late twenties. "What time did they say they'd be back?"

"Could we talk about this in a minute? I'd like to do my hair," I said. I moved to close the bathroom door, which forced him to back up a foot. I shut the door emphatically, waited half a second, and then jerked the door open again. He straightened up, embarrassed. He tucked his thumbs in his belt loops and ambled casually toward the living room.

"You are too considerate," I called after him, and slammed the door shut for emphasis. I found the hair dryer and turned it on, then laid it on the toilet lid and let it run while I wrapped the cord around the phone and placed it carefully down in the hamper where I'd found it. I rearranged the clothes on top. With the lid in place, I turned and checked my hair in the mirror. I picked up the wheezing dryer and bent over at the waist until my head was upside down. I blew a jet of hot air through my mop for about a minute. When I straightened up, it didn't look any better, but it did look different, like a sticker bush without leaves. I flipped the hair dryer off and went out into the living room.

The evening was spent peaceably. Luis didn't seem to be plagued by intellect or curiosity, so there was little conversation. He sat on the nondoggie end of the couch while I sat in the chair. He turned on the television set. He had a limited attention span and very little patience for complexity. Once in a while, he'd do something that indicated a curious awareness of me, nothing overt, but palpable nevertheless. His sexuality was oppressive, like the smell of orange blossoms on a humid summer night. He watched several shows simultaneously, using the remote control to switch from channel to channel. The dog stared at me intently through the car chases and canned laughter, and if I chanced to glance at him, he seemed to squint his little eyes.

At ten-twenty, Raymond and Bibianna came back with a bucket of parts from some Kentucky Fried Chicken rip-off. I was so hungry by then that I devoured five pieces, along with a carton of mashed potatoes with brown sludge, a squat container of coleslaw, three misshapen biscuits, and a fried pie with hardly any filling. Luis ate right along with me and finished up any food that was left. At midnight, Bibianna found me a blanket and a nightie. I trundled off to what I now considered my bedroom. I shut the door, stripped my clothes off, slipped into the nightie, and settled down on the lumpy couch.

I awakened with a start. At first I had no idea where I was or what was happening. It was the dead of night. I strained against the gloom, doing a visual search of the room I was lying in, caught in a moment of sleep-induced amnesia. A pale wash from the streetlight cast a plank of yellow on the ceiling. A thin scent of lard-fried tortillas hung in the air. I remembered Raymond. Had I heard something? Whatever the noise, I must have incorporated it into a murky dream which had evaporated on waking. Only the feeling of the dream remained – heavy, anxious. I could sense a presence in the room. My eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark. I divided my visual field into sections, which I studied one by one. My heart lurched. The door to my room now appeared to be open a crack. Luis? I struggled, trying to see if I could distinguish a silhouette against the paler gray of the corridor. The door swung open, a widening gap filled the shadows. I whispered, "What do you want?"

Silence.

I heard a tapping, the sound of metal being trailed across the floor. Fear flared in me like a match. It was the dog. I remembered him chewing the leather strap that connected his leash with the chain securing him. God only knew how long he'd been free, roaming the apartment. I could see the glint of his dark eyes, his head low. I had no weapon in range, no way to protect myself. He seemed to be sifting the air for human scent. If I could remain absolutely still, he might lose interest and turn away, heading for the room where Raymond and Bibianna slept. I held my breath. The pit bull advanced toward the couch where I was lying rigidly, his toenails tap-tapping on the bare wooden floor. I was on my right side, my face almost level with his. I had my right arm tucked under me, but my left was hanging off the edge of the couch since there was no place else to put it. The dog extended his snout until the leather of his nose touched the fingers of my left hand. I could feel the coarse bristles on his muzzle brush against my wrist. I waited, unmoving. Finally, with infinitesimal care, I began to ease my hand away. I heard him growl low in his throat. I froze, not daring to retract my fingertips. He edged closer until he was resting his chin on the edge of the couch, his mouth level with mine. He made a whining sound. I felt my brain go blank. Within seconds, he had scrambled right up on the couch with me, crowding me against the back cushions, his bony front legs pinning me in position. Tentatively, I placed a hand on his head between his ears. He licked my palm.

"I thought you hated having your head touched," I said indignantly. Clearly not. I began to rub the silky flap of one ear. The dog panted happily. His body heat quickly enveloped me from chest to knee. I didn't dare complain, even though he did exude a rich cloud of doggie B.O. It was the first time I'd ever had a bed partner who smelled like hot pork. When I woke again, he was gone.

It's amazing how quickly one adjusts to strange surroundings and altered circumstances. By morning, the place seemed familiar in a cockroachy sort of way. Bibianna lent me a clean T-shirt to wear with my red miniskirt. For breakfast, Luis made some bean and cheese burritos, which we washed down with Pepsi-Colas. By then, the fastidious streak in my nature had emerged in earnest. I found a sponge and some Comet and attacked the surfaces in the bathroom, scouring the floor, the sink, the toilet, the tub, and the grubby tile around the shower. I prevailed upon Bibianna to get the bags of garbage removed from the kitchen, and then I scoured the sink, the stove top, and counters. Perro, the pit bull, was back in his position by the door, standing guard. Like a one-night stand, the surly ingrate was acting as if he didn't know me from a lamppost, and he growled ominously every time I made eye contact. It was not like I expected slobbering devotion, but a simple gesture of recognition might have soothed my punctured ego.

At 9:00 A.M., Raymond left the apartment without a word of explanation. Bibianna went back to bed. I wondered if she was going to keep herself zoned out – drugged, or stoned, asleep – anything to avoid dealing with Raymond's sexual demands.

Luis surprised me by taking over the kitchen. He'd apparently decided it was time to cook. Maybe I'd inspired him by wiping all the sludge from the top of the stove, scraping grunge from between the cracks in the tiles with the blade of a knife. Nobody seemed to have heard of real dishes. I'd tossed tilting piles of flimsy paper plates and twelve place settings of plastic flatware. The remaining cheapware – plastic glasses, kitchen utensils crusted with food barnacles – I'd left to soak in a sink full of water I'd boiled first on the stove. A short time later, Luis set to work. Briefly, I wondered if in private he, too, nearly levitated trying to keep his bare feet off the crud on the bathroom floor. For lack of anything better to do, I leaned against the kitchen counter, watching him.

Hitherto hidden aspects of his nature were made manifest. Every act was small, precise. He peeled an onion. He flattened cloves of garlic with the side of a cleaver, lifting the papery skins away like insect shells. He charred peppers under the broiler, seeded and peeled and chopped them. The smell was acrid, but it awakened hunger. He was completely self-absorbed, involved in the task like a woman applying makeup. I always find myself fascinated by expertise. He opened a large can of chopped tomatoes and dumped them in the pan I'd washed. He added the onions, garlic, and chilies. There was a certain style to the work, a fastidious ordering of events. It was clearly learned behavior, but who had taught him? The air began to smell wonderful.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Enchilada sauce

"Smells great." I leaned against the counter, wondering how to frame the next question. "What's the story on Chago? Will they have a funeral for him?"

Luis concentrated on his saucepan to avoid eye contact. "Raymond talked to the cops. They won't release the body until the autopsy's done. Might be as early as tomorrow, they won't say."

"Does he have other brothers?"

"Juan and Ricardo. They were here yesterday."

"What about parents?"

"His father was sent to prison for child abuse. He was killed in prison when they heard what he did to Raymond."

"Which was what?"

Luis looked up at me. "He don't talk about that and I don't ask." He went back to his saucepan, stirring hypnotically. "His mother ran off and left when he was seven or eight."

"He's the oldest?"

"Of the boys. There's three older sisters hate his ass. They think it's his fault what happened to the parents."

"Another happy childhood," I said. "How long have you known him?"

"Six, eight months. I met him through a capper of his named Jesus."

Bibianna appeared in the doorway, a blanket across her shoulders like an Indian. "Raymond back yet?"

Luis shook his head.

She disappeared again, and a short time later I could hear shower water running. Luis left the sauce to simmer on the stove and prepared to take the dog for a walk. When he picked up the chain, he discovered the chewed leather section of the leash. Under his breath, I heard him murmur a worried "Shit." I kept my mouth shut, imagining I might engender a sense of loyalty in the mutt. Luis found another way to attach the leash to Perro's collar, and the two left the apartment.

Bibianna reappeared, fully dressed this time. She found a dog-eared deck of cards and sat on the floor next to the coffee table, where she laid out a game of solitaire. I considered hunting for the phone, but I didn't want to call Dolan with Bibianna close by. The less she knew about who I was, the better. I flipped on the television set. The day already had an odd feel to it – idle, unstructured, without purpose or appeal – like a forced vacation in a cutrate resort.

Bibianna seemed preoccupied and I hated to cut into that, but we seldom had time alone and I needed information.

"How often does he get violent?" I asked.

She turned a dark look on me. "Not every day. Sometimes two or three times a week," she insisted. "I talked to Chago about it once and he told me it started when Raymond was just a little kid. He'd blink his eyes and then the twitches started and pretty soon he was barking and coughing. His father figured he was doing it on purpose, just to get attention, so he used to beat him up. He did some other stuff, too, which got him thrown into prison. Poor Raymond. He was hyperactive in school, in trouble all the time. It's probably why his mother left…"

"And he's done it ever since? The whole time you've known him?"

"He got better for a while, but then it started up again, worse than before."

"Can't the doctors do anything?"

"What doctors? He doesn't see doctors. Sometimes sex calms him down. Booze or sleep, dope. Once he got the flu and had a fever a hundred and three. He was fine, no problem, never even had a twitch. He was great for two days. Flu went away, he was at it again, this time licking his lips, doing this weird thing with his hands. I don't want to talk about it anymore. It's depressing."

Raymond returned just before lunch with a folded newspaper and a bag of doughnuts. Luis and the dog came in right behind him. If Raymond was in mourning for his brother, I saw no signs of it. The ticcing seemed less evident today, but I couldn't be sure. He left the room at intervals and I began to suspect he was venting in the other room. That or shooting up. I was just getting into a really trashy soap, my bare legs thrown over the arm of the chair, sandal flapping on one foot, when he and Luis sat down at the kitchen table, talking softly in Spanish. During the next commercial, I went into the kitchen and got myself a glass of water. I paused, peering over Raymond's shoulder to see what they were up to. It was pure nosiness on my part, but he didn't seem to mind. What I'd thought was the daily paper turned out to be a throwaway rag filled with classifieds. Luis flipped to the automobile section and folded back the pages. I checked the dateline. Thursday, October 27. These were probably new listings for the weekend coming up. Luis skipped over the trucks, vans, and imports and concentrated on the domestic cars for sale.

"Here's one," Luis said. With a Magic Marker, he circled an ad for a 1979 Caddy. I leaned closer, reading, "Good condition. $999. OBO."

"What's OBO?" I asked. I knew, but I wanted to demonstrate some interest and I thought showing ignorance was the safest bet.

"Or best offer," Raymond said. "You want a Cadillac?"

"Who, me? Not especially."

"I like that Chrysler Cordoba," Raymond said to Luis, pointing to the next box. Luis drew a wobbly-sided egg around the ad for a "77 white, runs/looks great. $895/obo." A telephone number was listed on both ads.

Raymond got up and left the room, returning with the telephone, which he plugged into the wall jack. I pulled up a chair and sat down. Luis continued to circle ads while Raymond placed call after call, inquiring about each car that interested them, making note of the address. When this exercise was complete and they'd culled out the ads of interest, Luis made a list on a separate piece of paper.

Raymond glanced at me. "You have car insurance?"

"Sure."

"What kind?"

I shrugged. "Whatever the state of California requires. I've been thinking I should drop it since my car's dead. Why?"

"You have liability and collision?"

"How do I know? I don't walk around with the details of my car insurance memorized. The policy's up in Santa Teresa."

"Can't your insurance company give you the information?"

"Sure. If they looked it up."

"Might be worth it to get your car fixed if you got collision coverage." Raymond lifted the telephone receiver and held it out to me. "Call 'em."

"Right now?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Not at all," I said with an uneasy laugh. I could feel my heart start to bang in my chest. The thumping felt so conspicuous I checked to see if my T-shirt was pulsating in the front. For a moment my mind went blank. I couldn't remember California Fidelity's number, I couldn't remember the contact number Dolan had given me, and I couldn't decide which to try in any event. I took the receiver.

I punched in the 805 area code, hoping for the best. Automatically, my fingers moved across the face of the telephone, dialing CF in a medley of musical tones that sounded like "Mary Had a Little Lamb." I wondered if Dolan had been in touch with Mac Voorhies. Was I going to have my cover blown right here on the spot?

The number rang twice. Darcy answered. I hoped I didn't sound like myself when I said, "May I speak to Mr. Voorhies?"

"Just a moment, please. I'll ring his office." She clicked off. Music played in the background, filling telephone limbo with an orchestrated rendition of "How High the Moon." Inexplicably, the lyrics popped into my head unbidden. I thought about Dawna, wondering how long the cops could hold her. Wounded or not, she was dangerous.