Copp On Ice, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (10 page)

      
"I thought we covered that last night. I run this house for him. And his office."

      
"Can I see the office?"

      
"You're in it," she said, smiling.

      
"That informal, huh?"

      
"Mr. Schwartzman is the soul of informality."

      
I said, "I'll bet. Can I go upstairs?"

      
"Why?"

      
"I'm looking for Tim Murray."

      
"Here? He doesn't live here. But I'll take you upstairs if you want me to."

      
"What would we do up there, without Murray?"

      
She shrugged, grinned. "Whatever you had in mind. We could watch TV. There are some great tapes up there."

      
I said, "I sampled a couple last night while I was here."

      
"Oh, that's naughty," she said. "You should never watch tapes like those all by yourself."

      
I said, "With someone else, why watch tapes? I'd rather make my own."

      
Her eyes did that coy thing that only female eyes can do as she told me, "Okay, we could do that."

      
"But that would be part of playtime," I said regretfully, "unless... that's not part of your employer's business interests, is it?"

      
She laughed teasingly and said, "Gosh, you do love to play cop, don't you?"

      
"Five people were killed last night," I said. "That's not playing."

      
Her eyes jerked a bit. "Five people?"

      
I read the roster of the recently dead from memory, then asked her, "Did you know any of those people?"

      
She said, "No, I—just Frank Jones. But. .. what's going

      
"How well did you know Jones?"

      
"Not well. He's worked here for years, but I didn't see that much of him . . . My God!—are you saying that they were all connected?"

      
"Yeah. That's what I'm saying. And I suspect they were all connected to your boss." I stood up. "I really need to talk to him. Tell him for me, won't you?"

      
She was still
my Godding
as I let myself out.

      
I retrieved my car and rolled back down the hill toward Helltown.

      
I would have loved to have stayed and played.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Helltown looks different by daylight too
. Take away the neon surface and what's left is aging and neglected buildings, dirty streets and cracked sidewalks, a general ambience of decay. It even smells different by daylight.

But that did not seem to keep anyone away.

The whole boulevard was bustling with activities which only looked different by daylight. The hookers, the dealers, the johns and the jerks did not need the cloak of darkness here for a sense of security; their security came with the territory. Maybe a listless sweep by a sheriff's squad once or twice a month just to feed the myth that the strip was being policed—an occasional item for the newspapers, couple of small drug busts, a hooker or two slapped on the wrists—that was about the extent of official police presence here.

Ah, politics—and the price we the people pay for the illusion that we are in charge of our government. The politicians are in charge, folks—the politicians—and don't

ever forget it. Show me one who is living entirely off his official salary for "public service" and I'll show you a guy who has not yet learned the ropes. Give 'im time, just give 'im time, and he'll soon be as big a whore as any, lying down for anyone when the price is right.

And it's not just our elected officials who see "service" as a one way street leading only to themselves. Look at your bureaucrats too, look—no, don't let me get started, I'll talk all day, and talk means nothing. Throw out one bunch of crooks and you merely open the doors to another. We can't talk our way out of this problem, can't bitch it away; we're stuck with it because we created it—and some very wise man a few thousand years ago told it the way it is: a people have the government they deserve.

If I sound cynical it's because I've been a garbage man all my life, and people who deal with garbage all the time stop believing the illusion.

While I'm on the subject, though, you want to hear something cute? A day has not gone by for months when there has not been a news item buried in the interior of the local newspapers or given a two-second blurb on television mentioning that another innocent child has been gunned down on some neighborhood street or while playing in his yard or sleeping in his own bed. It has become such a routine event that it is no longer regarded as hot news. The news people report it almost as an obligation, usually under the heading of "another drive-by shooting."

What is this shit? It's a crowd of hyped-up, drugged- out, fucked-up, soul-dead moral midgets drawn together as juvenile street gangs who think it makes a big man to pull a trigger on a two-year-old child asleep in his crib. These are gangs that can't live straight, can't think straight, and can't even shoot straight; they're killing everyone except the people they're shooting at. The gag is this: you pile three or four jerks just like yourself into a car, give everybody a gun that doesn't have to be aimed—just point it and pull the trigger, you're bound to hit something besides air—and drive through a neighborhood that is not your own. Then you pull the triggers any time you see something move. If you don't see anything move, pull the triggers anyway—what the hell, you came down here to pull triggers, didn't you?

What has happened to public outrage? Why hasn't the national guard been activated by the governor to go into these neighborhoods and round up these jerks, throw them in a bag, and toss it in the ocean? Know why? Because they're mostly juveniles, and we don't treat juveniles that way nowadays. We send them to school. They get out of school, go back to their neighborhood, and start cruising other neighborhoods again. There are more out of school than we can ever get into school, so it's a revolving door and a losing battle—and, before you know it, you've got brigades of adult jerks who've learned all the wrong lessons in the right place, and the cycle continues.

Know what's cute? Nobody gives a shit. That's why you don't see screaming headlines and outraged bulletins on the TV. Nobody gives a shit.

Interested in knowing what happened to public outrage? Look at what is news. Protest marches on abortion clinics, debates on the environment, obscenity trials, political scandals and campaigns, white collar crimes, anti-smoking crusades, the drug wars.

Jesus.

Where has our outrage gone? It has gone to the minor issues, pal, and we've all been seduced by the illusion. Murder of children in the streets is not nearly as outrageous as cigarette smoke in a restaurant or cruelty to animals, not in this America.

Do we have the government we deserve?

Well, I don't know about you, but the folks along the Helltown strip certainly had the government they wanted. Don't wonder why a cop gets cynical. He's cynical because he knows where your interests lie, and they always seem to lie in the wrong places. As long as little kids are being murdered in their beds with no public outcry, don't blame a cop for being just like you. I'm talking about self-interest, yeah.

At bottom, the folks at Helltown are no different than you. Their self-interest is merely directed into different channels than maybe you would have, but the focus is the same.

I had all this shit going through my head when I walked into The Dee-light Zone that Saturday morning. It was about eleven o'clock and the joint was at full blast. I didn't see Billy Boy but a couple just like him sized me as I walked in, then turned away and allowed me to find my own way inside.

I found elbow room at the bar and cased the place while waiting for a bartender to notice me. Saw no one familiar, place was filled up and cooking, waitresses jiggling around with trays of drinks and rowdy patrons going for free feelies when the bouncers weren't looking their way. There were female patrons here and there, also, and you could easily identify them without a program: a few butches, a few hookers, an obviously "tourist" group of mixed sexes who were there just to sample the atmosphere.

About a foot above my head and no more than an arm's length removed, the gilded cage rocked with the energetic movements of two naked Mexican girls with long black hair and oiled bodies who were engaged in a simulated wrestling match, though it really did not look like that.
Each seemed to be struggling for a leglock on the other's head but the oil was making it difficult. Noise level in there was almost dizzying, and the guys around me at the bar were adding to that as they egged the girls on: "Bite 'er clit, Lola"—"Get 'er by the short hairs, Izzy!"

      
I have to admit that there's something about the sight of two pretty girls going at each other that way that turns most men on. I don't pretend to understand it even though I'm affected by it myself; most of those guys in there would have puked or thrown something at the cage if it'd been naked guys slithering around together in there—outraged, yeah.

      
Speaking of which, a bartender finally found his way to me and asked, "What's your pleasure?"

      
"Someone just got killed," I told him glumly.

      
"Yeah? Who?"

      
"Some little kid, don't know his name. Drive-by shooting victim."

      
The bartender said, "Oh, that. What're you drinking?"

      
Oh, that, sure.

      
"I'm not drinking. Looking for Tim Murray. He around?"

      
The bartender wrinkled his forehead. "Tim? Naw, I'm sure he's not. He comes in about two, usually. Anyone else? Looking for a job?"

      
I said, "I got a job. Who's in charge right now?"

      
"That'd be Vic." He pointed toward another bartender at the far end of the bar. "Hey, I got drinks cooking. Catch ya."

      
I went to the other end of the bar and stepped behind it. "Vic" gave me a quick, questioning look and moved toward me. "Stay on the other side of the bar, please," he said in a no-nonsense tone.

      
I stood my ground and told him, "Can't reach you from that side. I'm Joe Copp. Looking for Tim Murray."

      
He said, "I don't care if you're Alley Oop, you can't come behind the bar. Step back out, please."

      
So I stepped back, told him, "At least I got your attention. It's important. Where can I find Murray?"

      
"We're very busy."

      
"I can see that. Tim won't like it when he finds out you gave me a bad time. This is for him, not for me."

      
"Are you a cop?"

      
I nodded my head and showed the ID. "Tim's replacement."

      
Vic said, "Oh, well."

      
I tried to look as friendly as possible under the circumstances. "One more time, pal. Where do I find him?"

      
"Find a table, why don't you? I'll try to reach him."

      
I said okay and went looking for a table. One of the jigglers grabbed me and steered me to a booth in the rear, behind the other cages. I'd seen Vic give her a high sign just before she closed on me, so figured he'd know where to look for me. The girl massaged my shoulder as she sat me down and asked, "What can I get you?"

      
"Coffee," I replied.

      
"Nothing in it?"

      
"Just coffee."

      
She smiled and swayed away. Before I could get settled, another came along and moved on me with a seductive smile, a goodlooking brunette with hair to her hips and not much else for concealment. She slid into the booth and leaned into me, one hand rubbing my leg just below the hip, and said, "Hi, honey, I'm Sandra."

      
I said, "Hi, Sandra—get lost, Sandra. I'm here on business."

      
The smile vanished with a crash and she replied, "Oh! Well, they put you—okay, I thought you were here to cage up. No big deal." She slid out and strode away with an angry bounce.

      
The other girl came back with my coffee and set it down without a word. She was going to leave that way but I called her back. "Worked here long?"

      
"Too long," she replied warily. "Vic told me who you are so please don't try to be funny."

      
"I'm not feeling especially funny," I told her. "Four of my people were killed last night."

      
She said, "Yes, I heard it on the news this morning driving in."

      
"Did you know any of those guys?"

      
"I don't think so. A lot of the Brighton cops come in here when they're not on duty. But I don't much know for names. Please, I can't stand here and talk to you like this."

      
"Just one more. Do you know Tim Murray?"

      
"He's my boss, now. Sure, I know him."

      
"Did he come in here much while he was chief at Brighton?"

      
She wrinkled her nose. "You're trying to get me in trouble."

      
I held up both hands, smiled, told her, "No way, kid. This isn't my territory."

      
She said, "I know," and looked toward the bar. Then she turned back to me and added, "I think Tim Murray got shafted. He used to come in here as a customer now and then, sure, but he was always a gentleman and he still is a gentleman."

      
"Was he here when you came to work today?"

      
"No." Another glance toward the bar. A bouncer was coming our way. "His car is here, though. It's the gold Chrysler parked in back in the reserved slot. I have to go."