Memorial

LXXIV.Ray

THE men carried her upstairs on a gurney. Big Gulp was happy to be home; the cousins followed like an entourage. Thank God for those girls.

He put roses by the bed along with a dozen DVDs. A man from the computer store fixed her laptop so Ghulpa could use the Internet without a wire. When Ray surprised her with that, she said, “Oh Gawd!” and got happy as hell. She was even nice to the Friar, who, thankfully, was on best behavior. The old man hadn’t the energy to take him for walks, relying on the Center instead. Still, Cesar was right — exercise was doing the trick. The little fellow was a champ, and acting the total gentleman. His animal sense probably picked up that BG was carrying.

A gaggle of Artesians prepared food in the kitchen while Ray showed off a copy of the settlement papers. She smiled broadly, resting a swollen hand on her gut. He reiterated that it came to half a million, free and clear. She asked When? and he answered, Any day now. Ghulpa rubbed her stomach like one of those sleepy, big-bellied buddhas — it was about the best homecoming she could have had. She kissed the old man on the mouth to show her pleasure (at being home again too), nothing fancy, but a cousin who came into the room with soup sniggered and quickly disappeared.

HE got his suit out of mothballs and slapped on the Old Spice. Big Gulp looked him over from the Sealy and bobbled her head, clucking and smiling. He said never mind about me, just make sure you stay put. He admonished a pair of cousins to make sure she did.

The plan was for Staniel to pick him up but at the last minute the detective phoned with an emergency. If it was all right, he’d meet Ray at the Dining Car. Might be a tad late.

Now the old man thought he’d be late, which, as host, would be in poor form. Not that it was anyone’s fault. He was too nervous to drive and wound up hailing a cab. He’d been to the bank and drawn out 15 C-notes — he knew the steakhouse wasn’t cheap (part of the reason why Ray chose the detectives’ atmospheric haunt) and his credit cards were maxed. These boys meant a lot to him. He wanted to do it up right and show them a good time; he’d even extended the invite to wives and girlfriends. Not all of the cops who broke down the door were available, and knowing Ray’s fondness for Cold Case Files, Detective Lake had petitioned a few “closers.” Staniel said he would probably recognize some faces from the TV show.

As it happened, he got there 1st. He told the maître d’ he was “with Detective Staniel Lake” and felt a surge of pride on being escorted to a large table in the back room — just like he was LAPD. Slowly, the younger officers began to arrive, and introductions were made. They were a handsome, bashful bunch with big gold rings and a lot of hair. (All wore suits; Ray was glad to be “in uniform” himself.) The seasoned investigators came in a 2nd wave, paunchy and ruddy and not afraid to show their wild side. A few rounds of drinks were consumed before Staniel finally made an entrance, all apologies. That’s when things really started loosening up.

Ray didn’t remember any of the men, even though some said they were present on the night of “the mishap” on Mercantile Road. True to Staniel’s word, there was a fellow from the cold case squad, and a detective from the West Side who Lake went to the Academy with.

No one brought a date — it was stag. They toasted the old man’s pending fatherhood (instead of congratulating him on the settlement, which might have been awkward) and pretty much treated him like one of their own. The officers never condescended or made him feel small; they seemed genuinely moved when he raised a glass to them and choked up. There was a nice mix, a good cross-section — a motorcycle cop, 3 of the SWAT guys who broke down the door (one said he was sorry about putting the cuffs on too tight, which triggered a whole, off-color discussion about hookers and handcuffs. Ray could see why they didn’t bring any lady friends along), the cold case chap, and a detective or 2, one of whom was retired. They were raunchy and “regular,” and didn’t censor themselves. They talked about the Aryan Brotherhood, “hot prowls,” baby-rapers, panty sniffers, and necrophiliacs — nothing was off-limits. Some of it Ray didn’t even catch. He swore to himself he’d never repeat any details to Big Gulp.

LA’s finest shot the shit about a breed they called the lowest of the low: those who prey on the elderly. For a moment, the topic’s irony was tacitly noted — afterall, this was a group of men Ray had met under circumstances that might, in a stretch, be so classified — with the faintest nod of the collective’s bent for black humor. The motorcycle cop spoke of a 90 year old who died in the act of fellating her attacker — which he forced her to do after slitting her throat — while he sat on the washing machine eating a sandwich. Before he left the house the guy impaled Granny on some gardening shears and stole the money she’d saved for her own funeral. Another fellow — a WW2 vet — was nearly beaten to death by his dopefiend neighbor. The hospital released him a week later when Medicare ran out; the orderlies literally shoved him in a taxi with a catheter strapped to his leg. The driver half carried him into the house, where an hour later the dopefiend beat him again. This time he died from his injuries.

“I don’t know,” said one of the cops, with mock skepticism. “Sounds like Death-by-Celebrex.”

“Oh, we get the sophisticated ones on the West Side,” said Detective Whitsell, Staniel’s friend from the Academy. “None of that meth-lab trailer trash you guys have to deal with. We’re chasing a gang now who gotta thing going you wouldn’t believe. It’s essentially a lottery scam — we call em the Blind Sister Crew. They just grabbed a million dollars off the sweetest old lady you’ll ever meet. She took a pretty good beating from em too, which was unusual. I mean, these guys are ferocious. Terrorized her just for jollies. But they’re amazing. Talk about imaginative, I’m impressed!”

“You sound like you want to spread for em.”

“Yeah, right after you — I got dibs on the washing machine. But before you blow me, make me a sandwich, will you?”

“How about pork?”

There was laughter all around and Whitsell continued.

“They had to wire her jaw.”

“She can’t open her mouth? Cancel that sandwich.”

More laughter.

“They walk right in the bank with seriously forged papers. They claim to be hooked up with Pataki and Bloomberg, and make sure their marks check out the Town Cars they ride around in — they all have chauffeurs. I mean, these guys could write bestsellers. Da Vinci Code shit. Their scams are so convoluted, the department’s in fucking awe. Have you ever seen any movies by David Mamet? He’s pretty good. Kinda unrealistic, but pretty good. He has a show on cable called The Unit?”

“I got your unit right here.”

“Your dragqueen snitches already told me it’s nothin to write home about.

“I seen that show. It’s good.”

“Entertaining. He writes plays and does movies too. The Heist? I think he wrote Scarface. Naw — something else. Anyway, he did — what’s it called? — I’m blanking — most his movies are about people getting short-conned. Well, these ‘Blind Sisters’ could give Mamet a run for his money. I’m telling you, if they knocked on my door, I might fall for their shit. And the horrible thing is, I just got a call there was a fire over there. At her place — the old lady’s.”

“No shit,” said Staniel.

“Did she burn?”

“Naw, she’s all right.”

“It was the crew? The people that shook her down?”

“We don’t have evidence of that. At this point, I’m not sure I’d be surprised.”

“That’s evil.”

“Nice house too—nice little house. She wasn’t hurt. Had a nurse staying with her. Everybody woke up.”

“Fires tend to do that.”

“Or not.”

“If you don’t have a smoke detector.”

“Our African-American friends tend not to.”

“Where there’s smokes, there’s fire.”

“Racist motherfucker.”

“Blow me.”

“I told you, 1st make me that Maytag sandwich.”

“So they had a little barbecue?”

“House is torched. They pulled her from the bedroom. She’s OK. Shaken up though.”

“Tell me about it.”

The men slipped into simpatico mode.

“On top of everything, they had to use wirecutters cause she was hyperventilating.”

“Jesus.”

“At least now Ma Clampett could give you some acton.”

“You’re evil.”

“Diet Coke evil.”

“Her money stolen, beat up, jaw wired, house burned. Not exactly the Golden Years.”

“More like the Golden Shower Years.”

“Hey now! We’re not talking about what you do with one of your hookers — we’re talking about a sweet little old lady.”

“Think it’s arson?”

“ATF’s all over it. We’re not even close to ending our fraud investigation.”

“ ‘The Blind Sisters.’ Got a nice ring to it.”

“Hey meester,” said the motorcycle cop. “Wanna fuck my blind seester?”

More laughter.

“Kinda makes you wonder,” said Whitsell, “what they’d have been capable of if they applied all that energy to something positive.”

“HIV positive.”

“Yeah. Makes you all wistful.”

“Seriously. These guys could have been CEOs.”

“Right. Too bad. They could’ve founded Halliburton.”

“They coulda come up with the iPod.”

“Or built special washing machines for blowjobs.”

“Only thing is, if they were CEOs…their rapsheets would probably be twice as fucking long!”

They laughed uproariously and tucked into their steaks.

Ray flagged the waiter for another round of drinks.