The Clinic

29

L.A. to Palm Springs is 120 miles of a single monster interstate, the 10.

The first half of the trip takes you through downtown, Boyle Heights, and the eastern exurbs- Azusa, Claremont, Upland, Rancho Cucamonga- and into San Bernardino County, where the air varies from sweet to toxic depending on wind and God's whim, and the view from the freeway is a lulling homogeny of marts and malls and car lots and the kind of housing you'd expect to find hugging the freeway. Then comes agriculture and rail yards near Fontana and just after Yucaipa most of the traffic drops off and the air gets dry and healthy. By the time you pass the cherry groves of Beaumont, you're rolling through a platter of gray dirt and white rock, Joshua trees and mesquite, the San Bernardino Mountains off to the right, capped with snow.

The empty road's an invitation to speed and most people RSVP yes. During spring break, golden kids tank up on beer and weed and delusions of immortality, whooping and high-fiving on truck beds, hanging over the sides of little convertibles, flashing sexual greetings. Most make it to downtown Palm Springs, some end up roadkill. The highway patrol stays furtive and watchful and does its best to keep the death toll within acceptable limits.

Milo got stopped only once, just before the San Gorgonio Pass, well after darkness had set in. He'd pushed ninety since Riverside, the Porsche barely working. It's a white 928, five years old, in perfect condition, and the young CHP officer looked at it with admiration, then inspected Milo's credentials, blinking only once when Milo said he was working a homicide case and he needed to catch a material witness by surprise.

Handing back the papers, the Chippie recited a warning about nuts on the road and the need to keep an eye out, Detective, then he watched as we rolled out.

We cruised into Palm Springs at 10:00 P.M., passing block after block of low-rent condos and entering the outer edges of the business district. Unlike Bakersfield, here little had changed. The same seedy mix of secondhand shops posing as antique dealers, motels, white-belt clothing boutiques, dreadful art. All the big money was in Palm Desert and Rancho Mirage, along with the streets named after Dinah Shore and Bob Hope.

“Look for Palm Grove Way,” said Milo. “The Sun Palace Casino.”

“This doesn't look like an Indian reservation.”

“What'd you expect, tepees and totem poles? These are the lucky Indians: booted into the desert but their patch just happened to leak shiny black stuff so they got rich, learned about loopholes, figured they were a nation to themselves and sued for the right to run games. The state finally gave 'em bingo but remained penny-ante about the immorality of gambling.”

“Then the state started running the lottery,” I said, “so that argument became a little inconsistent.”

“Exactly. Indians all around the state are catching on. There's a new casino up in Santa Ynez. State continues to screw around, taking its sweet time to grant permits, not allowing the Indians to manufacture slot machines or bring them in from out-of-state. Which is a big deal because slots are the number one moneymakers. So they smuggle the suckers in on produce trucks and once they're on the reservation, nothing anyone can do about it.”

“Detective,” I said, “sounds like you're condoning law-breaking.”

“There's laws and there's laws.”

“Palm Grove,” I said, pointing to the next block.

He turned left onto another commercial street. More motels, a laundromat, a run-down spa, fast-food joints crowded with people soaking up grease and the hot night air. Then up ahead, bright, blinking turquoise and yellow lights in the shape of a cowboy hat, crowning a fifty-foot tower.

“Tasteful, huh?”

“So all of downtown's a reservation?” I said.

“Nope, it varies from lot to lot. The key is to search land records, find some square footage once owned by an Indian, go into partnership. Here we are.”

He zipped into the massive dirt parking lot surrounding the casino. Behind the hat tower was a surprisingly small one-story building trimmed with more blue and yellow lights and huge, upslanting letters that shouted SUN PALACE in orange neon surrounded by radiating fingers of scarlet.

Between the tower and the building was a brightly lit car drop-off. A brand-new purple Camaro was parked up against the building, a pink ribbon wrapped around its hood. The sign on the windshield said FOUR BLACKJACKS IN A ROW WINS THIS CAR!

Another sign leaning against the hat tower promised VALET PARKING! but no one was around and Milo found a space in the lot. Just as we got out, a husky, brown-skinned boy in a white polo shirt and black slacks trotted toward us.

“Hey, I woulda taken that for you.” Hand out.

Milo showed him a badge. “I woulda joined the Beatles if my name was McCartney.”

The valet's mouth closed. He stared for a second, then ran to open the doors of a urine-yellow, boat-sized Cadillac full of laughing, sun-broiled, silver-haired optimists.

We walked through the casino's glass double doors and into a wall of noise just as a very tall man in Johnny Cash black stumbled out. Behind him was a four-hundred-pound woman in a flowered sundress and beach sandals. She looked ready to deliver a speech and he kept well ahead of her.

The doors closed behind us, locking in the noise and eye-searing fluorescence. We were on a small, elevated, brass-railed platform covered with blue-green industrial carpeting and sectioned by arbitrary columns of polished mahogany. Steps on both sides led down to the playing room: one single space a hundred by fifty. More aqua carpeting and columns under acoustical-tile ceiling. White walls, no windows, no clocks.

To the right was a single stud-poker game: hunched men in plaid shirts and windbreakers, black-lensed sunshades, paralyzed faces. Then row after row of slots, maybe ten dozen machines, rolling, beeping, blinking, looking more organic than the people who cranked their handles. The blackjack tables took up the left side of the room, crammed together so you had to either sit or keep circulating. Dealers in deep red polo shirts and white name tags stood back-to-back, laying down patter, scooping up ante chips, sliding cards out of the shoe.

Bings and buzzers, nicotine air, cash-in window at the rear of the room. But this early no one wanted out. The players were a mixture of desert retirees, Japanese tourists, blue-collar workers, bikers, Indians, and a few dissolute lounge bugs trying to look sharp in fused suits and long-collar shirts. Everyone pretending winning was a habit, pretending this was Vegas. Perfect-body-less-than-perfect-face girls in white microdresses walked around, balancing drink trays. Big men dressed in white and black like the valet patrolled the room, scanning like cameras, their holstered guns eloquent.

Someone moved toward us from a corner of the platform, then stopped. A gray-haired, gray-mustachioed man in a gray sharkskin suit and red crepe tie, fifty-five or so with a long, loose face and purse-string lips. Walkie-talkie in one hand, hair-tonic tracks in his pompadour. He pretended to ignore us, didn't move. But some sort of signal must have been sent because two of the armed guards strolled over and stood beneath the platform. One was an Indian, one a freckled redhead. Both had thick arms, swaybacks, hard potbellies. The Indian's belt was tooled with red letters: GARRETT.

People came in and out of the building in a steady flow. Milo moved closer to the brass rail and the gray-mustachioed man came over as Garrett turned and watched.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” Deep, flat voice. The name tag, computer-printed. LARRY GIOVANNE, MANAGER.

Milo showed his ID in a cupped hand. “Ted Barnaby.”

Giovanne didn't react. The ID went back in Milo's pocket.

“Barnaby's working tonight, right?”

“Is he in trouble?”

“No, just some questions.”

“He's new.”

“Started two weeks ago Wednesday,” said Milo.

Giovanne looked up, taking in Milo's face, then down to the green poly shirt hanging over tan chinos. Looking for the gun-bulge.

“No problems?” he said.

“None. Where's Barnaby?”

“Did you check in with the tribal police?”

“No.”

“Then technically you have no jurisdiction.”

Milo smiled. “Technically, I can walk around the room til I find Barnaby, sit down at his table, play real slow, keep spilling my drink, ask stupid questions. Keep following him when he moves tables.”

Giovanne gave a tiny headshake. “What do you want with him?”

“His girlfriend was murdered half a year ago. He's not a suspect but I want to ask him a few questions.”

“We're new, too,” said Giovanne. “Three months since we opened and we don't want to break up the flow if you know what I mean.”

“Okay,” said Milo. “How about this- send him out when he goes on break and I'll stay out of the way.”

Giovanne shot French cuffs and looked at a gold watch. “The dealers do thirty-minute shifts at each table. Barnaby's set to change in five, break in an hour. If you don't cause problems, I'll give him his break early. Fair enough?”

“More than fair. Thanks.”

“Five minutes, then. Want to play in the meantime?”

Milo smiled. “Not tonight.”

“Okay, then go outside, over by the Camaro, and I'll send him out to you. How 'bout some drinks, peanuts?”

“No, thanks. Give any cars away lately?”

“Three so far- after you're finished with him, come back and try your luck.”

“If I had some, I'd try it.”

“What's your game?”

“Cops and robbers,” said Milo.

A microdress girl brought out two beers anyway and we drank them standing against the cool block wall of the casino, waiting behind the purple car, watching the in-and-out, able to feel and hear the gambling inside. The outdoor lot seemed to stretch for miles, bleeding into black space and star-painted sky. Motor drone and headlights defined a distant road but for the most part all the movement was here.

Just as we emptied our glasses, a tall, thin, red-shirted man came out and looked from side to side, long fingers curling and straightening.

Barely thirty, with thick blond hair, he wore flint-colored bullhide boots under his pressed black slacks. Thin but knotted arms. A turquoise-and-silver bracelet circled a hairless wrist, and a gold chain seemed to constrict a long neck with a kinetic Adam's apple. Handsome features, but his skin was a ruin, so acne-scarred it made Milo's look polished. A couple of active blemishes stood out in the light, most conspicuously an angry swelling on his right temple. Small, round Band-Aid under his left ear. Deep pits ran down his neck.

Milo put his glass down and came out from behind the car. “Mr. Barnaby.”

Barnaby stiffened and his hands closed into fists. Milo's ID in his face made him step back.

Milo extended a hand and Barnaby took it with the reluctance of a man with wet palms. Milo started to draw him out of the light but Barnaby resisted. Then he saw the valet approaching and came along.

Back at the purple car, he looked at me and the glass in my hand. “What the hell is this all about? You just got me fired.”

“Mandy Wright.”

Hazel eyes stopped moving. “What do the L.A. cops have to do with that?”

Milo put a foot on the Camaro's bumper.

“Careful,” said Barnaby. “That's new.”

“So you're not too torn-up over Mandy.”

“Sure I'm torn-up. But what am I supposed to do about it after all this time? And why should I get fired over it?”

“I'll talk to Giovanne.”

“Gee, thanks. Shit. Why'd you have to come here? Why couldn't you just call me at home?”

“Why'd Giovanne boot you?”

“He didn't but he gave me the look. I know the look. They're bending over backward not to have problems and you just made me a problem.”

He touched the Band-Aid, pressed down, winced. “Damn. Just signed a lease on a place in Cathedral City.”

Milo cocked his head toward the casino entrance. “This ain't exactly Caesar's, Ted. Why'd you leave Vegas after Mandy was killed?”

“I got… I was bummed, didn't want to deal with people.”

“So you took off?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“To Reno.”

“After that?”

“Utah.”

“Why Utah?”

“It's where I'm from.”

“Mormon?”

“Once upon a time- listen, I already told those Vegas cops everything I knew. Which is nothing. Some customer probably killed her. I never liked what she did, but I was heavily into her, so I stuck around. Now what am I supposed to tell you? And why are the L.A. cops interested?”

“Why didn't you return to Vegas, Ted?”

“Bad memories.”

“That the only reason?”

“That's enough. I was the one identified her body, man.” He shook his head and licked his lips.

“You weren't avoiding anyone?”

“Who should I avoid?”

“Mandy's killer.”

“A customer? Why would I avoid him?”

“How do you know he was a customer?”

“I don't, I'm guessing. But what else? Working girls get messed up all the time- who'm I telling? You know. Occupational risk. I warned her.”

“She'd been roughed up before?”

“A mark here and there. Nothing serious. Until.” He touched the Band-Aid again, rubbed his pitted neck.

“Any idea who roughed her up before?”

“Nah. She never gave me names- that was our arrangement.”

“What was?”

“I stayed out of her face and she gave me her spare time.” Twisted smile. “I was into her a lot more than she was into me. Ever seen a picture of her? From before, I mean.”

“Uh-huh,” said Milo.

“Gorgeous, right?”

“The two of you ever live together?”

“Never. That's what I'm trying to tell you. She wanted her own place, her own space.”

“Her own place for work.”

“Yeah,” said Barnaby, louder. Cracking his knuckles, he looked at his fingers sadly. “She was unbelievable. Part Hawaiian, part Polynesian. They're the finest-looking people in the world. At first, I was totally nuts over her, wanted her out of the life, the whole bit. I told her, babe, learn how to deal, the way you look you'll clean up on tips. She laughed, said she had to be her own boss. She loved money, was really into stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Clothes, jewelry, cars. She used to buy a new car every few months, sell it, get another one. Corvettes, Firebirds, BMWs. The last one was a used Ferrari convertible, she got it at one of those car lots outside of town where the losers dump wheels for cash. She used to tool around the Strip in it. I told her you're the first girl I know so into cars. She laughed, said I'm into big engines, Teddy. That's why I like you.”

The hands started moving again. “So look where it got her.”

A vanload of buzz-cut GIs was disgorged into the casino, laughing like schoolkids. Barnaby stood straighter and stared at the swinging glass door.

“That's all I know, okay? You had to come out here because the same fuckhead did some girl in L.A., right? Same way Mandy was done.”

Milo didn't answer.

“One of those serial killers, right?” said Barnaby. “Figures.”

“What does?”

“They always go after hookers.” Frowning. “Which is what Mandy was, even though she thought of herself as an actress.”

“She tell you she was an actress?”

“Yeah, but half-kidding.” Barnaby looked down at the pavement, bounced one sharp toe against the other.

“What do you mean?”

“Like, I pretend to be what the customer wants, Teddy. I'm an actress.”

“She ever do porn movies?”

“Not that I know.”

“No?”

“No!”

“She ever get specific about what kind of pretending?”

“No.”

“Or who she pretended for?”

“When I asked she got pissed, so I stopped asking. Like I said, she kept everything separate.”

Psychic link between call girl and professor. Milo glanced at me.

“She had her place, you had yours, Ted?”

“Right.”

“Where'd you and she get together?”

“Mostly my place.”

“Never hers?”

“Hers on Tuesdays. Her day off.” He licked his lips. “I got another girlfriend, now. She doesn't know about Mandy.” Flexing his fingers. “Only thing she's gonna know now is I signed a lease, and all of a sudden no job.”

“What line of work is your new girlfriend in?”

“Not Mandy's.” The hands were fists again. “Cashier, okay? She works at Thrifty Drug. Not even close to Mandy in the looks department but that's fine with me. She lives out in Indio, we been talking about moving in together.”

“Where'd you meet?”

“Here. What's it matter? At a party.”

“Where'd you meet Mandy?”

“On the floor at my casino. I was good so they put me on the 500-dollar table and she used to hang around there. She played once in a while but I knew what she was after.”

“What?”

“Snagging a high roller. She used to look for the highest pile of chips, edge her way over to the table wearing a low-cut dress, lean over, blow in the guy's ear, you know.”

“Did it work?”

“What do you think?”

“She have regulars?”

“I don't know, man. Can I go?”

“Soon, Ted,” said Milo. “So what you're telling me is in terms of your relationship she called all the shots.”

“I let her,” said Barnaby. “She was gorgeous. But I learned. Like the song. If you wanna be happy, marry an ugly girl.”

“You and Mandy ever talk marriage?”

“Right. Picket fence, two kids, and a fucking station wagon. I told you- she liked stuff.”

“Clothes and jewelry and cars.”

“Yeah.”

“And coke.”

Barnaby's hands clenched again. He looked upward. “I am not getting into that.”

“Why not?”

“You got no rights on the reservation, I'm just talking to you 'cause I cared about Mandy. I can walk anytime. It's my right.”

“True,” said Milo. “But what happens if I drive over to Cathedral City PD and tell them about your past?”

“What past?”

“Vegas cops said you and Mandy used heavily and that you were her source.”

“Bullshit.”

“They said after she died you used even more. That's why no one in Vegas wanted you back.”

The sweat on Barnaby's creviced face gave it the look of a fresh-glazed doughnut. He turned his back on us. The scars on his neck stood out like braille. “Why're you doing this to me?”

“I'm not doing anything to you, Ted. I just want to know as much as possible about Mandy.”

“And I'm telling you what I know!”

“I brought up the dope because I'm interested in Mandy's lifestyle.”

“Her lifestyle? What do you think it was? Doing johns!”

“Dope means bad guys. Bad guys hurt people.”

Barnaby didn't answer.

“Did she owe money to anyone?” said Milo.

“I never saw her bankbook.”

“Any of the guys you bought coke from pissed at her?”

“You say I bought for her.”

“Any bad guys pissed at her?”

“Not that I knew.”

“She trade sex for coke?”

“Not that I knew.”

“And you never set her up to do that?”

“I'm no pimp.”

“Just her spare-time buddy.”

“Look,” said Barnaby, “it wasn't like that. I had nothing over her, she was her own boss. She liked me 'cause I listened to her. I'm a good listener, okay? Work the casinos, you hear sad stories all day long.”

“What were Mandy's problems?”

“She didn't have any that I saw.”

“Happy girl.”

“Seemed to be.”

“And you have no idea who her regulars were?”

“No.”

“The night she was killed, did she say anything about who she was going to meet?”

Barnaby massaged his neck. “You're not getting it. She never said anything about work.”

“You told Vegas you were working that night.”

“I didn't have to tell them. Tons of people saw me. I didn't even find out about her being killed until the next day when I called her and some cop picked up the phone. They asked me to drive over to the station. Then they asked me to go to the morgue and identify her.”

“Did she work anywhere else but her apartment?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“If she picked up some player and he had a room in the casino, they probably went upstairs.”

“If?”

“Okay, when.”

“She ever work the street?”

“Yeah, right. She was a hard-up, two-bit hooker.”

“Any idea why she was killed out on the street?”

“Probably walking the john out and he freaked.”

“Did she make a habit of walking johns out?”

“How would I know? You asked me to guess, I'm guessing.”

“You never dropped in on her during working hours?”

“Yeah, right. And piss her off grandly.”

“So she laid down the rules.”

“She was the star, man.” Faint smile. “One time, when we were- she was in a good mood, she said, I know you're bugged by what I do, Teddy, but try to get past it, it's no big deal, just acting. Right, I said. And the Oscar goes to. And she laughed and said, exactly. They should give an Oscar for what I do- best supporting actress with her legs spread. I- it, that bugged me. I didn't like hearing it. But she thought it was funny, laughed like crazy.”

“When did she get sterilized?”

Barnaby's hands dropped. “What?”

“When did she get sterilized- have her tubes tied?”

“Before I knew her.”

“How long before?”

“I don't know.”

“So she told you.”

“It only came up because I got stupid, started talking about how I liked kids, one day it would be cool to have a couple. She laughed- she laughed a lot.”

He licked his lips again. “I said what's funny, babe? She said you're cute, Teddy. Go ahead, have some rug rats with some nice girl. Have an extra one for me 'cause I got fixed. I said what do you mean? And she said fixed. Operated on. I said what'd you go and do that for? She said no fuss, no mess, no pills to give me cancer. Then she laughed again, said I consider it a business expense, wish I coulda taken it off as a tax deduction. Big joke. I didn't like it but with Mandy, you went along or you got off the bus. When you went along with her, laughed with her, things were cool.”

“And when you didn't?”

“She shut you out.”

“So she got sterilized before you met her. Meaning over a year ago.”

“I met her a year and a half before she died and it was before that.”

“Did she say where she had the operation?”

Second's hesitation. “No.”

“She ever mention the name of the doctor?”

“No.”

“What, Ted?”

“She never mentioned the name.”

“She tell you something else about him?”

“No, but I saw him.”

“Where?”

“The casino.”

“When?”

“Maybe a month before.”

“Before she was killed?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Why, is he some kind of-”

Milo held a big hand up. “Tell me, Ted.”

“Okay, okay, I was working and saw her doing her thing. Slinking around in a little black halter dress, her hair up, fake diamond earrings.” He closed his eyes for a second, preserving the image, opened them, tugged at his red shirt. “I tried to catch her eye, so I could maybe get to see her later. She gave a big smile, then I saw she was smiling past me, not at me. At someone else.”

“The doctor,” said Milo.

“I didn't know he was a doctor. Later she told me he was. She walked right past my table, he was at another 500-dollar table, big pile of chips. She said hi to him and some other guy, hugs and kisses, like old friends. He collected his chips and they all walked off. Next day I told her nice of you to say hi. She said don't get touchy, I go way back with the guy. He's the doctor who fixed me. I owe him.”

“What'd she owe him for?”

“Maybe he did it for free, who knows?”

“A trade?”

Barnaby shrugged.

“What did he look like?” said Milo.

“Nothing special. Thirty-five, forty. Short. But big here.” Touching a shoulder. “Like a gym rat. Short hair, almost skinned, kind of jap eyes. Good threads- suit, tie, the works.”

“And the other one?”

“What other one?”

“You said there was another guy.”

“Yeah, but he was old, no big deal. Sick-looking- yellow skin, in a wheelchair. The doctor was pushing him around. Maybe he was a big-bucks patient having a last fling. You see that all the time in Vegas. Totally fucked- up people, paraplegics, people on air tanks, losers with no legs. Getting pushed around the casino with cups full of chips. Like a last fling, you know?”

“What else did Mandy say about them?”

“She didn't say nothing at all about the old guy.”

“And the doctor?”

“Just that he fixed her.”

“And she owed him.”

“Yeah. Is he some wacko?”

“No,” said Milo. “He's a hero.”

Barnaby looked confused.

Milo said, “Anything else you can think of?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Yeah. You're welcome.”

“The address on Vista Chino your current one?”

“Yeah.”

“What's the address of the place you're leasing?”

“What's the diff, you got me busted, I can't take it now.”

“Just in case.”

Barnaby recited some numbers and a street. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he started to walk off.

“Want me to talk to Giovanne?” said Milo.

“It won't do any good.”

“Suit yourself.”

Barnaby stopped. “Hey, you wanna do it, fine. You wanna feel like a hero, too, fine.”