Over the Edge

13

THE GOLDEN Eagle was a one-storey trapezoid of chocolate stucco on a bleak industrial stretch stacked with warehouses and chain-linked auto storage lots. The lounge squatted in the shadows of the San Diego Freeway overpass, so close to the LAX runways that the jet roar caused the glasses above the bar to quiver and tinkle like keys on a vibraphone. Despite the location, the place was jumping.

The gimmick was aural voyeurism: Cushioned headsets wired into the sides of each hexagonal table enabled the tipplers to eavesdrop on cockpit banter, and a wall of plate glass exposed a lateral view of the runway.

I got there at nine and found the place dark and smoke-filled. All the tables were taken; Milo wasn't at any of them. The bar was a pine semicircle coated with an inch of epoxy resin and padded with sausage-coloured vinyl. Smiling salesmen bellied up to it, drinking, eating nachos, and tossing lines at stewardesses on layover. Waitresses in salmon-coloured microdresses and seamed mesh stockings pardoned their way through the crowd, trays aloft. In a corner of the room was a small plywood stage. A skinny middle-aged man in a kelly green suit, open-necked lime green shirt, and stacked-heel oxblood patent oxfords sat in the middle of it, tuning an electric guitar. Nearby were a microphone and an amplifier. Atop the amplifier was a synthesised rhythm box; in front of it, a propped cardboard sign that read THE MANY MOODS OF SAMMY DALE in gilt-edged calligraphy. Sammy Dale wore a goatee and a dark toupee that had come slightly askew, and he looked as if he were in pain. He finished tuning, adjusted the rhythm box until it emitted a rumba beat, and said something unintelligible into the microphone. Eight beats later he was crooning a mock-Latin rendition of "New York, New York" in a whispery baritone.

I retreated to a corner of the bar. The bartender looked like a moonlighting college boy. I ordered a Chivas straight up and, when he brought it, tipped him five dollars and asked him to get me a table as soon as possible.

"Thanks. Sure. We've got a couple of campers tonight, but that one over there should be clearing soon."

"Great."

I got the table at nine-fifteen. Milo showed up ten minutes later, wearing beige jeans, desert boots, a brown polo shirt untucked, and a bold plaid sportcoat. He scanned the room as if searching for a suspect, found me, and shambled over. A waitress followed him like a lamprey pursuing a bass.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, sinking into the chair. A 747 was coming in for a low landing, and the plate glass was vibrating and awash with light. At the next table a black couple wearing headphones pointed up at the plane and smiled.

"Can I get you something?" asked the waitress.

He thought for a moment.

"Beefeater and tonic, easy on the tonic."

"G and t, Beef, low t," mumbled the waitress, scribbling. Looking at my half-empty glass, she smiled.

"Another for you, sir?"

"No, thanks."

She hurried off and returned quickly with the drink, a cardboard coaster, and a bowl of nachos. Milo thanked her, ate a handful of chips, and fished the lime wedge from his glass. After sucking on it thoughtfully, he raised his eyebrows, ate the pulp, placed the rind in an ashtray, and swallowed half the drink.

"Radovic's in for forty-eight hours tops."

"Thanks for the tip."

"Anytime."

We drank in silence. Waves of bar chatter filled the room, as impersonal as white noise. Sammy Dale, having inexplicably programmed the rhythm box to a slow waltz, was singing about doing things his way.

"Is he a serious suspect?" I asked.

"You're in the enemy camp," he said, smiling faintly, "and I'm not supposed to be fraternising with you, let alone handing out investigative details."

"Forget I asked."

"Nah," he said, finishing his drink and calling for another. "It's nothing Souza doesn't already know. Besides, I don't want you building up false hope about Cadmus's being innocent and chasing after Radovic, so I'll tell you: No, he's not a serious suspect; Cadmus is still our main man. But Radovic's crazy enough for us to want to keep an eye on him, at least as a co-conspirator. Okay?"

"Okay."

He met my glance, then stared at the tabletop.

"What I can't understand," he said, "is how you let yourself get roped into doing a dim cap."

"I'm not roped into anything. I'm collecting facts without obligation."

"Oh, yeah? Word has it Souza considers you a prize witness — to the tune often grand."

"Where'd you hear that?" I asked angrily.

"DA's office. Don't be so surprised; news travels fast on a case like this. They dragged me in the other day and pumped me for information about you, weren't a bit happy when I told them you weren't a sleaze. Not that my say-so will stop them from trying to make you look like the ultimate whore if you take the stand."

I told him of my intention to return the money.

"Very noble. But you won't start smelling sweet until you walk off the case."

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Professional obligation."

"Aw, come on, Alex, when's the last time you saw the kid? Five years ago? What do you owe him?"

"I could have done better by him five years ago. I want to be sure I do my best now."

He leaned forward scowling. In the stingy light of the lounge his complexion seemed ghostly.

"Pretty abstract, pal. And pure crap. You never did a half-assed job in your life. Besides, no matter what he was then, he's a bad guy now, and nothing you do is gonna change that."

"In other words, you're sure he's guilty."

"Hell, yes," he answered through a mouthful of ice.

The second drink arrived. As I watched him down it, I realised how worn out he looked.

"Speaking of walking off the case," I said, "why haven't you? Working with a couple of homophobes like White-head and Cash can't be a barrel of laughs."

He laughed bitterly.

"Like I have a choice."

"I thought you had flexibility in assignments."

"That's the way it used to be, when Don Miller was in charge. But Miller died a couple of months ago."

His face sagged, and he tried to hide it behind his glass. I knew he'd been fond of his captain, a tough but tolerant man who'd recognised his ability as a detective and hadn't let his homosexuality get in the way.

"What happened?"

"He keeled over on the twelfth hole at Rancho Park. Clogged arteries, probably had chest pains for a while but never told anyone." He shook his head. "Forty-eight years old, left a wife and five kids."

"That's terrible. I'm sorry to hear it, Milo."

"A lot of folks were sorry. The man was a prince. Damned inconsiderate of him to check out early like that. The asshole they replaced him with is a piece of garbage by the name of Cyril Trapp. Used to be the biggest booze-hound, pillhead, and whore freak in Ramparts Division. Then he found Jesus and became one of those born again scrotes who think everyone who doesn't agree with him deserves the gas chamber. He's opined in public that faggots are moral sinners, so needless to say, he adores me."

He tilted his head back and emptied the last drop of gin down his throat. When the waitress walked by, he flagged her and ordered a third.

"It wouldn't be that bad if he were blatant about it — good old honest hostility. I could quietly put in for a transfer on the basis of personality conflict and maybe squeak through. I like working West L.A., and it wouldn't do wonders for my personnel file, but I could handle it. But a transfer wouldn't satisfy Trapp. He wants me off the force, period. So he takes the subtle approach — psychological warfare. Puts on the polite act and uses the duty roster to make my life miserable."

"Bad cases?"

"Faggot cases!" He raised his big fist and put it down hard on the table. The black couple looked over. I smiled, and they returned to their headphones.

"For the last two months," he went on in a low voice, starting to slur, "I've had nothing but gay cuttings, gay shootings, gay stompings, gay rapes. Faggot DOA, call Sturgis, captain's orders. It didn't take long to see the pattern, and I protested right away. Trapp put down his Bible, smiled, and said he understood how I felt but that my experience was too valuable to waste. That I was a specialist. End of discussion."

"It doesn't sound all that subtle," I said. "Why don't you file for transfer anyway?"

He twisted his lips into a frown.

"It's not that easy. Trapp's manipulated it so what I do in bed would be the issue. Once he gets a piece of that, he won't let go, and I'd have to go public or keep eating it. No doubt the fucking ACLU would love to help me, but I don't wanna be a headline. It's not that I'm denying what I am — you know I worked that through a long time ago — but I've never been one for airing my skivvies in public."

I thought back to what he'd once told me about his childhood, what it had been like to grow up as a shy, oversized, overweight boy in a working-class family in southern Indiana, son to a macho father, the youngest of five boisterous macho brothers. Though outwardly one of them, he knew he was different, had been terrifyingly aware of it since the age of six. The secret gnawed at him like a tapeworm, but when he heard his brothers joke contemptuously about fairies and queers, he knew that its release would mean disaster — perhaps, his young imagination suggested, even death. So he laughed at the jokes, went as far as cracking some of his own, churning inwardly but surviving. Learning early the value of privacy.

"I know that," I said, "but it doesn't sound like the alternative's any too good."

"Yeah, that's what Rick says. He wants me to assert myself, to put up a fight. But first I have to get in touch with how I feel about the whole thing. To unburden myself. Which is therapy talk, right? He's been seeing a shrink; now he wants me to go with him. I've resisted, so it's a major issue between us."

"If you're that unhappy," I said, "therapy could be helpful."

The waitress came over with his drink. He took it from her before she had a chance to lay it down. The moment she walked away he began gulping, and when he lowered the glass, most of the drink was gone.

"I doubt it," he said, swallowing. "All the talking in the world isn't going to change the facts: Being a cop and being gay don't mix in this millennium. I knew it would be tough when I joined the force, and I made a pact with myself that no matter what happened, I'd emerge with my dignity intact. And there was plenty to test my resolve — fascist instructors, abusive shitheads like Radovic. Mostly it's been cold silence. Ten years of heavy-duty social isolation. The last few in Homicide were the best because Miller's attitude filtered down to the troops, and I got respect for doing the job well — which is all I care about. I couldn't give a good goddamn if they invited me to double-date. But since Trapp's been running things, it's let-the-dogs-out-on-Milo time."

The third drink disappeared.

"The hell of it is" — he smiled, woozily — "that down deep I'm a closet homophobe myself. Show me a guy in drag or all decked out like the May Queen, and my gut reaction is oh, no! You remember that gay solidarity march in West Hollywood last summer? Rick and I went and stood on the sidelines, too chicken to join the show. It was a goddamn freak show, Alex. Guys with tails glued to their butts, guys with half a dozen socks studded in their jocks or dildos hanging outside their pants, guys in cute little hot pants outfits and panty hose, guys with purple hair and green beards. Can you imagine the feminists or the blacks dressing up like morons to make a political point?"

He looked around for the waitress.

"And it's the same goddamn exhibitionism when it comes to homicide. When gays off each other, they've gotta do it freakier and bloodier than anyone else. I pulled one squeal where the body had a hundred and fifty-seven stab wounds. Think of that. There was maybe enough skin left to cover a postage stamp. The guy who did it weighed ninety-seven pounds and looked like Peter Pan. The victim was his lover, and he was sobbing like a baby 'cause he missed him. Then there was one where some joker took a handful of roofing nails, made a fist, shoved it up another guy's ass, let go, and twisted until the poor sucker ruptured and bled to death. There's plenty more I could tell you about, but you get the point. It's a goddamn toilet out there, and Trapp's been shoving my head into it without flushing, day after day."

He caught the waitress's eye and waved her over.

"Another, sir?" she said doubtfully.

"No." He smiled unevenly. "I need vitamins. Bring me a double screwdriver."

"Yes, sir. Still nothing for you, sir?"

"I'll have a cup of coffee."

He waited until she was gone before continuing.

"The gospel according to Trapp is that I can relate to that toilet because I swim in it anyway. Even if he was sincere about it, it's total bullshit. As if the witnesses are supposed to know I like guys and open up to me. Right. When I walk in, they get that suspicious look in their eyes and clam up just like they would with any other cop. What am I supposed to do, start off an interview by announcing my sexual preference — slice myself open in the name of doing the goddamn job?"

The coffee and screwdriver came. I sipped, and he raised his glass. Before he put it to his lips, he looked at me guiltily.

"Yeah, I know. Not to mention the six-pack I put away for dinner."

I was silent.

"What the hell, I'm a minority of one, I'm entitled. Cheers."

By the time he finished the screwdriver his head was starting to loll. He called for another and threw it back in one shot. When he put down the glass, his hands were shaking and his eyes were shot through with scarlet threads.

"Come on," I said, standing and dropping some bills on the table, "let's get out of here while you can still walk."

He resisted, claiming he'd only just begun, and began humming the tune of the same name, but I finally managed to steer him out of the Golden Eagle and into the night air. The parking lot was dark and smelled of jet fuel, but it was a welcome change from the boozy humidity of the lounge.

He walked with a drunk's exaggerated caution, and I worried he'd fall. The notion of hoisting and dragging 230 pounds of inebriated detective didn't thrill me, and I was thankful when we reached the Seville. Guiding him to the passenger side, I opened the door, and he stumbled in.

"Where to?" he asked, stretching out his legs and yawning.

"Let's take a drive."

"Peachy."

I opened the windows, started up the engine, and drove onto the 405 north. Traffic was light, and it didn't take long to connect to the 90, but by the time I exited at Marina Del Rey, he was asleep. I cruised along Mindanoa Way, passed a couple of upscale shopping centres, and hooked toward the harbour. The breeze was damp and saline and bore just a trace of stench. A flotilla of pleasure craft bobbed silently in the glossy black water, masts as plentiful as reeds in a marsh. The moon broke against the surface of the bay in cream-coloured fragments.

A sharp gust of wind blew into the car. Milo opened his eyes and straightened up, grunting. He looked out the window and turned to me, perplexed.

"Hey," he said, in a voice still thickened by alcohol, "I thought I told you to be careful."

"What are you talking about?"

"This is Radovic country, pal. Fucker's got an old Chris Craft moored in one of the slips."

"Oh, yeah," I recalled, "Souza mentioned something about that."

He swayed closer, smelling of sweat and gin.

"And you just happened to coast down here, huh?"

"Don't get paranoid, Milo. I thought the sea breeze might clear your besotted brain."

"Sorry," he mumbled, closing his eyes again. "I've got used to checking my back."

"That's a hell of a way to live."

He managed a shrug, then suddenly retched. I glanced over and saw him doubled up with pain and holding his belly. Quickly I pulled onto the shoulder of the road and braked the Seville. Running around to the passenger side, I opened the door just in time. He sagged forward, lurched, heaved, and vomited repeatedly. I found a box of tissues in the glove compartment, grabbed a wad, and, when it looked as if he was through, wiped his face.

Exhausted and breathing hard, he pulled himself up, leaned his head back, and shivered. I closed the door and got back in the driver's seat.

"Did I sully your paint job?" he asked hoarsely.

"No, you missed. Feel any better?"

He groaned in response.

I turned the car around, found Lincoln Boulevard, and drove north through Venice and into Santa Monica. He coughed dryly, slumped down in the seat, and let his head drop to his chest. Within moments he was sleeping again, snoring through his mouth.

I drove slowly through streets slick with coastal fog, breathing in the ocean air and collecting my thoughts. It was after eleven, and except for drifters, derelicts, and Mexican dishwashers leaving darkened chophouses, the sidewalks were deserted. Turning right on Montana, I found an all-night doughnut stand embedded in an empty asphalt lot, glowing Edward Hopper yellow and reeking of sweetened lard. Pulling up close, I left Milo dozing, got out, and bought a jumbo cup of black coffee from a pimpled kid wearing a Walkman.

When I brought it back to the car, Milo was sitting up, hair dishevelled and eyelids drooping with fatigue. He took the cup, held it with both hands, and drank.

"Finish it," I said. "I want to get you back to Rick in one piece."

He constructed a stoic facade, then let it collapse.

"Rick's in Acapulco," he said. "Been there for a couple of weeks."

"Separate vacations?"

"Something like that. I've been acting like a son of a bitch and he needed to get away from me."

"When's he coming back?"

Steam rose from the coffee in wisps and swirls, misting his face and obscuring his expression.

"It's open-ended. I haven't heard from him except for one postcard that talked about the weather. He's on leave from the ER and has plenty of bucks saved up, so theoretically it could be a long time."

He lowered his face and sipped.

"I hope it works out," I said.

"Yeah. Me, too."

A gasoline truck rumbled by seismically, leaving silence in its wake. Behind the counter of the doughnut shop the acned kid checked the deep fryers while bobbing to his Walkman.

"If you ever need someone to talk to," I said, "be sure to call. No need to be a stranger again."

He nodded.

"I appreciate that, Alex. I know I've been hibernating. But it's a funny thing about solitude — at first it hurts; then you acquire a taste for it. I get home from a day when everyone's been talking at me and the sound of another human voice is grating, and all I want is silence."

"If I worked with Cash and Whitehead, I'd want silence, too."

He laughed.

"The gruesome twosome? A couple of superstars."

"They thought I was gay because I'm your friend."

"Classical case of limited thinking. It's why neither of them will ever be worth much as a detective. Sorry if they hassled you."

"They weren't that bad," I said, "more ineffectual than anything. I just don't see how you can work with them."

"Like I said before, do I have a choice. No, actually it hasn't been as bad as it could've been. Whitehead's a dolt and antigay, but he's anti everything — Jews, blacks, women, conservationists, vegetarians, Mormons, the PTA — so it's hard to take it personally. On top of that he keeps his distance, probably worried about catching AIDS. Cash wouldn't be half bad if he gave a damn about anything other than chasing pussy and cultivating his tan."

"Real workaholic, huh?"

"Dickie-poo? Oh, yeah. I don't know if you ever heard about it, but a couple of years ago Beverly Hills PD had this federally funded project to bust the coke dealers who were supplying the movie stars. Cash pulled undercover on that. They bought him a wardrobe from Giorgio, leased him an Excalibur and a place up in Trousdale, handed him a fat expense account, and set him up as King Shit, the independent producer. For six months he went to parties, balled starlets, and bought blow. At the end of if they busted a couple of small-timers, and even that was dismissed due to entrapment. A real triumph for law enforcement. When it was over, Cash got to keep the clothes, but everything else went. Coming back down to earth was traumatic. He'd had this taste of something sweet, and now it was yanked out of his mouth. Real work started to seem like a life sentence, so he dealt with it by becoming a goldbrick. Half the time the guy isn't even on the job. Supposedly he's interviewing sources, developing leads, but he always comes back a shade darker with the car full of sand, so we know about that, right? Even when he does show up, all he talks about is this screenplay he's working on — real-life detective stuff. Warren Beatty loves it, you see, but they're just waiting for their agents to get together to cut a deal, blah-blah-blah."

"Sounds like the L.A. blues."

"You got it."

He was talking clearly and seemed alert, so I started the car and headed back south. Talking about Cash had triggered an association to the bloodstained room he'd shown me this morning.

"Can we talk about the case?" I asked.

He was surprised by the abrupt turn in the conversation but collected himself quickly. Finishing the last of the coffee, he crumpled the cup and tossed it from hand to hand.

"Like I said before, no investigative details. Besides, what's there to talk about?"

"Open-and-shut, huh?"

"Close enough to it to answer my prayers."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"What success? Sure, but I'm learning how to cope with it."

"I'm serious, Milo. Half a dozen homicides that have baffled the police for a year suddenly solve themselves. Don't you find that strange?"

"It happens."

"Not very often and not in serial murders. Isn't a big part of the kick for serial killers hide-and-seek, playing ego games with authorities? They may throw out hints and tease the police, but they go out of their way to avoid detection. And plenty of them — Jack the Ripper, Zodiac, the Green River Strangler — kill for years and never get caught."

"But plenty of 'em do, pal."

"Sure, through bad luck or carelessness — like Bianchi and the Yorkshire Ripper. But they don't just sit there holding the knife and wait to get picked up. It doesn't make sense."

"Slicing people into cold cuts doesn't make sense, either, but it happens — more often than you'd like to know. Now, can we change the subject?"

"There's something else that bothers me. Nothing in Jamey's history indicates sadism or psychopathy. He's profoundly psychotic, much too muddled to plan and carry out those slashings."

"You're getting abstract again," he said. "I don't give a damn how you diagnose him; the bottom line's the evidence."

"Let me ask you one more thing. Before you arrested him, did you have any other leads on the slashings?"

"You've gotta be kidding."

"Did you?"

"What's the difference if we had four hundred leads? The case is solved."

"Humour me. What were they?"

"Forget it, Alex. That's exactly the kind of stuff I don't wanna get into."

"The defence has access to investigative records. I can get it from Souza, but I'd rather hear it from you."

"Oh, yeah? Why's that?"

"Because I trust you."

"I'm flattered," he growled.

We drove in silence.

"You're a persistent bastard," he said finally, "but you don't try to change me, so I won't try to change you. If I tell you, will you drop it?"

"Sure."

"All right. No, we didn't have any leads to speak of. In a case like this you get plenty of information — people turning in their neighbours or ex-lovers. All of it dead-ended. The closest we got to anything of value was that three of the victims were seen going off with biker types before they disappeared. Now don't get excited. I said closest only because we cross-referenced everything and bikers came up three separate times. But if you know Boystown, you know that's no big deal; leather freaks abound, and the chickens pull ten, fifteen tricks a night, so they're bound to interact with some tough-guy types. Nevertheless, being dutiful public servants, we hit the pavement, checked out all the leather bars, and came up empty. Satisfied?"

"What kinds of bikers?"

"Bikers. Slobs on choppers. No names, no colours, no club ID, no physical description. It came to zilch because the parties responsible weren't cruising around all night on Harleys, Alex. They were hacking and choking pretty boys in the privacy of a big white house in Beverly Hills. All right?"

"All right."

We arrived back at the Golden Eagle just before midnight.

"What are you driving?"

"The Porsche. It's over there."

The bone white 928 was sandwiched between two Japanese compacts in a far corner of the lot, gleaming like a slice of moonlight. A young couple was admiring it, and when I coasted to a stop at the rear bumper, they looked up.

"Nice wheels," said the man.

"Yeah," said Milo, leaning out the window, "crime pays."

The couple looked at each other and hurried away.

"It's not nice to frighten the citizens," I said.

"Gotta protect Dr. Rick's bitchin' wheels."

"Think of it as a positive sign," I said. "You don't leave fifty grand worth of car with someone you're not planning on seeing again."

He considered that.

"Collateral on the relationship, huh?"

"Sure."

He put his hand on the door handle.

"It was good seeing you, Milo," I said.

"Ditto. Thanks for the shoulder and keep out of trouble."

We shook hands, and he stepped out of the Seville, hitched up his jeans, and searched through jangling pockets for the car keys. Retrieving a gold-plated set, he looked back at the Porsche and smiled.

"Or at the very least, alimony."