Telling Lies

Chapter Nineteen

“Crackhead named Theophilus came after me with a steak knife.” Officer Paula, the Amazon goddess, pulled up her trouser leg to show me the five-inch zipper in the skin of her muscular left calf. “He pulled out a boot gun. My partner got him, right in the ten ring. What a mess.”

I turned over my wrist to show her the faint-white half-moon gouge in the skin. “My pony, Sugar, balked at a jump and threw me into a sprinkler head. I was ten.”

We were in the emergency room of French Hospital, comparing scars. Paula was winning. She had shown me the war trophies on only one of her legs. I had nothing left to offer, except an episiotomy and the head gash Dr. Song was closing up.

“All finished.” Dr. Song made a few snips and laid his scissors and a roll of tape on the stainless steel tray Paula held for him.

“Nice job,” she said, leaning in for a close look. “You’ll have to part your hair on the other side, Mag, but the scar won’t be too noticeable, given time.”

“Good to know,” I said. “Thanks, Dr. Song.”

“You may need a little painkiller tonight,” he said. “How are you with codeine?”

“It makes me throw up.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’ll see what I can find. Go ahead and get your things together. I’ll be right back.”

I got up from the table and tried not to look as wobbly as I felt. Paula didn’t seem so imposing when she had her muscles covered with street clothes. She was very nice, and very funny, but not what anyone would call sweet. I didn’t want to pass out on her. She had given up part of her afternoon off to bring me in for repairs. I didn’t want her to think it was effort wasted on a wuss – her word.

I went to the mirror over the doctor’s wash basin to look at my new stitches. There wasn’t much to see. The hair he hadn’t shaved off he had braided over his handiwork as a sort of home-grown bandage. The whole mess was covered with light gauze and taped down. I thanked God for giving us Novocain.

Dr. Song came back and handed me a small sealed envelope. “This is pretty mild stuff,” he said. “Take two when you get home. If your head starts to hurt after about four hours, take two more. Keep ice over the area. And don’t wash it for a couple of days.”

“But it’s gross now,” I protested.

“Sorry. The end of next week, have your own doctor look at it.” He held my arm and walked me toward the exit. Paula followed with the remains of my jacket rolled under her arm.

Outside, Dr. Song put a tentative arm around my shoulders. “I’ve been waiting for you to come in and say hello. I’m sorry it was under these circumstances.”

“This isn’t an easy place for me to come for a social call,” I said.

“I understand,” he said. “I spoke with Stanford this morning. Emily is hanging in.”

“Did they say anything about her prospects?”

He shook his head. “I hope this officer takes good care of you, Miss MacGowen. First Emily, now you…”

I reached for my jacket from Paula. “Thanks for everything, Dr. Song. If you send the bill to Emily’s address, Mrs. Lim will forward it.”

He raised his hands. “This hospital does not bill a Duchamps.

“Good-bye,” I said.

“Dang, you rate,” Paula said as we walked toward her 4-by-4 truck. “Where can I drop you?”

“What time is it?” I asked.

She checked her watch. “Two-fifteen.”

“Do you have plans for the next hour or so?”

“Nothing special.”

“You saw what happened to my car. I have no wheels. I really want to pay a quick visit to an old friend in Holmby Hills. She won’t come to the phone. Can I talk you into driving me?”

“After what just happened, you want to go see a friend? If you want to go visiting, let’s drop in on the coroner and see if he’s IDed the driver of the Volvo yet.”

“I’d rather go to Holmby Hills.”

“Must be some pretty good friend,” Paula said, sounding a lot like Mike. “Who is it?”

“Mrs. T. Rexford Smith.”

“Oh yeah?” Her expression told me I had just found a driver. “She’s some bitch.”

“Do you know her?”

“Just stories.” We had reached her shiny red truck.

“I have a few stories of my own,” I said. “You go first.”

Paula’s little truck was as cute as it could be, the ultimate in road toys. Sensaround CD, Posturepedic seats, tinted glass, whatever. It was still a truck. I felt every pothole like a knife through my head. Paula was a fearless driver and a great storyteller.

“Swear to God?” I said, as Paula came to the end of a long, lurid tale about Celeste.

“My partner rolled on the call,” she said. I trust it. This guy, the banker, had sucked his revolver. Brains everywhere. My partner read the note he left. The banker said he couldn’t take the pressure anymore. He’d covered some of Mr. Smith’s dirty dealings in exchange for a weekly blow job from Mrs. Smith. They’d got him into a deep hole, and when he asked them for a hand up, they threw him in a shovel. Symbolic end for the guy, don’t you think, his gun in his mouth?”

“Was this story in the papers?”

“Not the part about Mrs. Smith. I’ve heard other stories, how she invited a rookie cop up to the mansion and screwed her way out of a DUI rap, and how she got drug charges against her daughter dropped after an hour in private consultation in judge’s chambers.”

“You’re making this up,” I said.

“I’m not making it up. It’s what I heard. She’s a slut. A rich and powerful slut.”

The mansions of Holmby Hills may not be as showy as those in Bel-Air or Brentwood, but the wealth is there. The difference is old money versus Hollywood.

The Smith house was nice. About the size of a small European hotel. Vines clung to the faux stone facade. In the gathering afternoon, tiny white Christmas lights outlined the bow-front windows and the hipped roof and twined among the shrubs that lined the circular drive. The effect was antique doll house.

Paula pulled her truck into the porte cochere, and we walked around to the front.

“She’s expecting you?” Paula asked.

“No. I doubt whether she would even open the door if she knew I was coming.”

“If we’re lucky, we’ll catch her in the sack, see what she’s got.”

Paula pounded on the front door. When it was opened by a uniformed maid, Paula whipped out her police ID.

“Like to talk to Mrs. Smith,” Paula said.

“Come in, please.” The maid bowed. I will see if Mrs. Smith is in.”

The maid left us in a foyer festooned with garlands of fresh cedar and holly tied with mammoth red-velvet bows and braided gold cord. The foyer was an oval, with a staircase curving up one side, and tall polished oak doors opening off the other. There was good art on the walls, old architectural prints, and an exceptional oil portrait of the Smith family: Celeste, T. Rex, the deceased Carrie, Rex, Jr., and Paix. The overall effect was intentionally subdued; a lot of money, it said, doesn’t have to advertise.

“Holy shit,” Paula said after making a circuit. “My apartment isn’t as big as this entry.”

“We can leave now,” I said.

“We haven’t even seen the lady of the house yet,” Paula protested.

I reached for the door. “We don’t have to. I’ve learned everything I need to know.”

It was just past three-thirty when we got back to Chinatown. Mike had already staked out the wishing well. When we drove up, we saw him pacing around the plaza that fronted Broadway. I watched him stop an elderly housewife and try to question her. She did a lot of bowing, backward. She left in such a hurry that the parcels in her arms took a good bouncing.

Paula parked in the red zone in front of Sun Yat-sen’s statue. “Won’t you get a ticket?” I asked.

“Who gives a fuck?” She flexed one mega bicep for me. “I’m the police.”

“Mike says that even the mayor gets ticketed in L.A.”

“Sure,” she snickered. “The mayor gets ticketed all the time. He left his limo unattended at the airport-in front of the Tom Bradley Terminal, no less-and it got towed. But that’s the mayor. I said, I’m the police.”

She locked her truck and met me on the sidewalk. “So, where’s your squint?”

“Mike isn’t a squint,” I said. “He spent about fifteen years patrolling the streets. He’s that dear old thing in the gray suit, the one accosting housewives.”

“Gray suit?” she sneered. “Not only a squint, but a pogue.” I laughed. “Come and meet him.”

When Mike saw me, he started running for me. It was too TV. All we needed was a field of flowers and a slo-mo camera. His first words, however, weren’t greatly romantic.

“Shit, Maggie, where the hell have you been? I’ve had the coroner up my ass all afternoon.”

“Hi, Mike,” I said, grabbing him under the chin and kissing his face. “I want you to meet Officer Paula Ericksen.”

“Yeah,” he said with a curt nod in her direction. “What the hell happened at the academy?”

“Paula, here, bench-pressed one-eighty,” I said. “Some guy took a shot at me and somehow got himself blown up.”

He let out a lot of saved-up air and folded me into his arms. It felt awfully good. I let my head fall against his hard shoulder, made the back of my neck available for kissing, if he felt so moved. Fortunately, he did.

“Flint?” Paula said, narrowing her eyes to look Mike over. “You ever work canines?”

“No,” Mike said, coming up for new air. “My old partner does.”

“Doug?” she squealed. Truly. She even blushed a little.

“Yes,” Mike said, relaxing his hold on me. “You know Doug?”

“We were partners for a while, in Southeast. He ever tell you about busting an old hooker named Queen Esther?”

“That was my bust,” Mike said, blushing himself.

“Ohhh.” She waggled a finger at him. “You’re that Flint?”

“Everything he told you about me is a lie,” Mike said.

“Oh yeah?” Paula nudged me. “Ask him to tell you about Queen Esther. I’ll see you guys around.”

I caught her hand. “Aren’t you eating with us? I told you, Mrs. Lim is a great cook.”

Paula looked at Mike and winked. “Maybe another time.”

“What division you working out of?” Mike asked her.

“Best duty in town,” she answered, thrusting up her chin.

“Rootin’ shootin’ Newton. Never a dull watch.”

“I’ll call you,” Mike told her. “There’s a decent taco place on Tenth.”

“Lechuga’s?” she asked.

“Right.”

“Sure. I’ll meet you there. We’ll swap some lies.” She made a gun with her thumb and forefinger and aimed it at his chest. “See ya’, then.”

“Thanks for everything, Paula,” I said.

“Been an education.” She glanced at Mike, then gave me a wicked leer. “Maybe we should have waited around to get some pointers from Celeste Smith.”

“Honey,” I said, “I don’t think you and I need any pointers.”

“Got that right,” she laughed and jogged off to her truck. I liked Paula. I was sorry to see her go. Dinner at Emily’s would have been fun with the three of us. And I knew she would know when to disappear afterward.

As she roared down Broadway in her truck, Paula beat out “Shave and a Haircut” on her horn for us.

“Sweet young thing,” I said, watching her exhaust. Mike was quiet, watching me watch her. When I looked up at him, he covered my mouth with his. I lost track of everything else for a moment.

Traditional Chinese are very reticent about public display of affection. The women skittering home to start dinner all seemed moved to giggles as they passed us.

I came up for air. “Hi, Mike.”

“When the report came in about what went down at the academy, I was scared to death,” he said. “I tried to find you. Where did you go?”

“Paula took good care of me. First, I got my head sewn up. Then she drove me out to Celeste’s house.”

“What happened to your head?” he snapped.

“No big deal. The important thing is what I learned at Celeste’s.”

“What?”

“The Smiths are a lovely family. The two younger children have red hair and freckles, just like their mother.”

“Funny how that works out,” he said.

“But that’s not the good part.”

“Go ahead.”

“The elder boy, Paix, is the spitting image of Ho Chi Minh.”