Milk and Honey (6 page)

“No, Sam, not at all.”

“I mean, you’re not breaking up, are you?”

“No.”

“Because if you are and you’re just trying to protect me…”

“We’re not breaking up.”

“Well okay…Peter, can you talk her into taking us?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea now.”

“Then
when
can we come out?”

“Before baseball season’s over.”

“
Baseball
season! That could take
three
more months.”

“One thing at a time, Sammy,” Decker said. “Let me talk to your
eema
first.”

“You sure you’re not hiding some bad news from me?”

“Sammy, I promise you, I’ll see you before the summer’s over,” Decker said.

“Okay,” Sammy answered sullenly. “Here’s
Eema
again.”

Decker felt tense. The kid always wore him out. Sammy was a typical firstborn—precocious, sharp as a tack. He’d been the light of his father’s eye, Rina had told him. His father’s death had hit him very hard, made him very suspicious of losing people he loved.

Rina came back on the line.

“They’re angry I’m not bringing them home with me,” she said. “Especially Shmuli.”

“I heard,” Decker said.

“They miss Los Angeles. They miss you. I miss you, too.”

“Then come
home
!”

The line went quiet.

“You still with me?” Decker asked.

“I’m still here,” she said. “We’ve got a lot to talk about. How are your studies with Rav Schulman?”

“Fine.”

“What are you learning—oh darn! The doorbell’s ring
ing. It’s probably my sister-in-law. I’m not wearing a
shaytel
, and Esther’s going to yell at me for answering the door with my hair uncovered.”

“Tell her to shove it up—”

“Peter.”

“She doesn’t approve of me, I don’t have to approve of her.”

“Esther’s not the problem, although she
has
problems. Dear God, I never realized the extent of her problems. Unfortunately, now they’ve become my problems and—now, she’s banging at the door. Any moment one of my neighbors is going to stick a head out and ask what’s wrong. Tiny apartments they have here. I feel like a laboratory rat. Things are really a mess. I’ve got to go.”

“Wait. Don’t send me off like that.”

“Love you,” she said.

“Love you, too.”

Head pounding, Decker stretched, then filled the dog bowl with food. He opened the kitchen drawer and took out a vial of aspirin. He washed down two pills with a cold Dos Equis and looked at his watch. Six-fifteen—still plenty of daylight left to work out the horses. The temperature had dropped to a comfortable 82 degrees. An hour with the animals, another hour of study, a couple of hours of sleep, then a date with gumshoes from six over the mountains.

Hooray for Hollywood.

The Hollywood substation
was a brick building—square and windowless—landscaped with three Monterey pines sprouting from a rectangular patch of dirt. Across the street were the requisite cheap motel—a place to spend the night when your man was in jail—and two bailbonds’ store-fronts whose doors never closed.

Decker climbed the front steps and entered the reception area. The room was walled with redbrick and yellow plaster, the front desk colored Day-Glo orange. The flooring was ancient yellow tile, the grout permanently blackened. In the center of the room, inlaid in the tile, was a red-and-black granite “Hollywood Boulevard” pavement star, the words
LAPD HOLLYWOOD STATION
#6 inlaid in brass. A hype was leaning against a coke machine, swaying on his feet to keep his balance. A fat man stood against the side wall, sipping coffee, checking his watch against the station’s clock. Two teenage black girls, wearing shorts and tank tops, sat on the attached bench at the back of the room, their fingers twirling the cornrows of their hair, lips slightly parted, eyes fixed upon the star as if it represented a myriad of fallen dreams.

Decker showed his gold badge to the desk sergeant and went inside the detectives’ reception room. The detective
manning the phones had an amoebic ink stain on the pocket of his shirt. He was balding and needed a shave.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Decker from Foothill,” Decker said. “I’m looking for George Andrick.” He showed the detective his badge.

“I’m Rados,” he said. He regarded the chalkboard duty roster. “Andrick’s on Robbery. He’s in the field. Should be back soon.”

“Then I’ll grab myself some coffee and wait at his desk.”

Rados handed Decker an unused Styrofoam cup. “Help yourself to the swill in the back.”

“Thanks.”

Cup in hand, Decker entered the squad room. It was bigger than Foothill’s, carpeted, and had metal desks instead of tables. Each unit was indicated by burnt-wood signs hanging from the ceiling. Robbery was in the back, left side, sandwiched between the lockers and CAPS—crimes against persons. Andrick’s place of honor was in the middle-left of a capital I-shaped arrangement of desks. A supervising detective sat at the head of the
I
, reading a memo, his lips curled into a sneer. He looked to be in his late forties, his face scored with wrinkles, his shoulders packed with muscle. He noticed Decker’s badge and stood. They were about the same height.

“Medino,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Decker. I called earlier. I understand Andrick was the field investigator for a rape case couple of days ago. Perp was booked here, transferred downtown. His name was Abel Atwater.”

Medino said. “The gimp.”

“That’s him.”

“Scrawny thing.”

“I’d like to look over the file.”

“Andrick has it locked, and I don’t have the key.”

“I’ll wait.”

Medino shrugged. “Suit yourself. Coffeepot’s over to the right.”

“Thanks.”

Decker poured himself a cup—black mud. He sipped as he walked back to the desk. “You guys have gotten carpets and new desks.”

“No thanks to the city. Some civilian donated them. Only thing the city’s given us this past year was a few push-button phones. Their idea of state-of-the-art equipment.”

“At least you got the phones.”

“Yeah,” Medino said. “But only one per unit. City doesn’t want us to become too spoiled. The individual dicks still have rotaries. Just look at the crappy colors they give us—pinks and blues and reds. Now how can you have a professional image with a pink phone? Place looks like a nursery school.”

“I noticed the playpen back there.”

Medino nodded. “We get our share of kids dumped at the doorstep.”

“I just got one of those,” Decker said. “She wasn’t dumped at the station. I found her wandering the streets. No one’s claimed her.”

“How old?”

“Two.”

“Black?”

“White.”

Medino shrugged.

Decker said, “Her pajamas had blood on them.”

“That’s unusual,” Medino said. “Kid okay?”

“Appears to be fine,” Decker said. “Can’t say I’m feeling too optimistic about her mama, though.”

“Another one bites the dust,” Medino said. “What’s your connection to the gimp? He wanted for something out there?”

“He’s an old buddy of mine,” Decker said.

Medino whistled. “You should start hunting for some new friends.”

“How deep is his shit?”

“From what I remember, neck high and still rising.”

“What do you know about the victim?” Decker said. “Besides the fact that she was a whore.”

“Not much more than that,” Medino said.

“Do you know if she had a rep for tricking with rough johns?”

“No idea,” Medino said. “Why don’t you go upstairs and try Vice?”

Decker asked, “Chris Beauchamps still work Vice here?”

“Baby-faced Beau?” Medino said. “You bet. One of our best undercover men. Looks so fucking sincere. I think he came in about an hour ago. Go up and talk to him. I’ll buzz you when Andrick is back on my nifty new push-button intercom. LAPD goes high tech.”

“Myra Steele,” Beauchamps said. “Yeah, I’ve got a file on her somewhere.”

Decker stared at the Vice detective, finding it hard to take the kid seriously. Surfer-blond hair, deep blue eyes, Malibu tan—the kind of looks that screamed party hardy, let’s shoot the curl.

Beauchamps pulled out a folder and said, “Here we go. Old Myra Steele, aka Plum Pie, Cherry Pie, Brown Sugar—a lot of them use
that
moniker.” He handed Decker a file. “The only thing I have on her was a bust three months ago.”

“That bust happened when Letwoine Monroe was still her pimp,” Decker said, scanning the papers. “Before he was whacked.”

“Right,” Beauchamps said.

Decker asked, “Was he whacked in Hollywood?”

“I don’t know where he was whacked, but we found him here, stuffed in the trunk of a black Caddy stolen from North Hollywood.”

Decker said. “Myra Steele doesn’t look eighteen to me. She barely looks pubescent.”

“Her birth certificate says eighteen,” Beauchamps said. “And she’s pubescent, believe me. I’ve seen her on the streets couple of times since, her tits are more than ample for the halters she wears. Those photos knock a couple of years off of her.”

“Who’s Myra’s old man now?” Decker asked.

“Letwoine’s ladies were divided by the other pimps in the area,” Beauchamps said. “Some went to a Mideastern prick named Yusef Sabib, some went to Willy Black, a couple went to Clementine—”

Decker groaned.

“I thought he was your buddy,” Beauchamps said, smiling.

Straight white teeth. Guy should be selling toothpaste instead of busting whores.

Decker said, “Everyone needs a pet maggot. Do you know who Steele went with?”

“No,” Beauchamps said. “And she didn’t volunteer his name when Andrick asked her. I know that ’cause Andrick asked me if I knew the name of her man. I put the word out, but so far have come up blank. There’s some new dudes in town—Cubans. Marielitos. Meanest sons of bitches I’ve ever had the pleasure of dealing with. Into weird cult things—”

“Santeria?”

“You got it.”

“I worked with Miami PD for two years,” Decker said. “We had our fair share of Castro’s rejects.”

“So you know about the dudes,” Beauchamps said. “They threaten grave bodily harm to women with loose lips. Might be one of them owns Myra.”

“They have names?”

“I’ve crossed paths with only two. They actually weren’t so bad, because they were really young. But their older
brothers and father…” Beauchamps waved his hand in the air and pursed his lips into a whistle. “One called himself Conquistador, the other was El Cid.”

Decker laughed.

“Yeah, real imaginative tags.” Beauchamps paused, then said, “Why are you so interested in Ms. Steele’s pimp?”

“I just want to know who he is,” Decker said. “A friend of mine was accused of raping ole Plum Pie, and before I pass sentence on the sucker, I’d like to make sure he’s really guilty of the crime.”

“The hillbilly gimp,” Beauchamps said.

Decker looked up. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“I was here when they booked him,” Beauchamps said. “They say he fucked her up pretty bad.”

“Well, he screwed her,” Decker said. “No doubt about that. But I don’t think he cut her.”

“You’re saying the pimp slashed her and she laid it on your friend?”

“It’s a possibility,” Decker said.

“Anything’s a possibility. Just a matter of how much you want to play ostrich.” Beauchamps paused. “I busted your buddy a while back.”

Decker winced. “When?”

“A year, maybe two years ago.”

“What for?”

“Soliciting an undercover police officer.”

“Female officer?”

“Yeah,” Beauchamps said, grinning. “She was female. I worked the van. He was hobbling around the mean streets, saw our lady, and took the bait. Didn’t seem the least bit upset when he was arrested.”

Decker said, “Know if he was ever arrested for anything else?”

“You haven’t checked to see if he had priors?”

Decker shook his head. “I’d better stop acting like a dick and start acting like a dick.”

Beauchamps burst into laughter. “Loser friends can take it out of you. I had this old high school buddy, a real rotten SOB, but at sixteen, I thought he was great fun. He’s at Folsom now, and he keeps telling all his washed-out mutant relatives to contact me if they get into trouble. I don’t think a week’s gone by where one of those nut cases hasn’t called me up and asked for a favor or free advice. God, that jerk has caused me nothing but grief.”

“Did he give you a hard time?” Decker asked.

“Who? My loser buddy? Constantly.”

“No,” Decker said. “
My
loser buddy.”

“Not while he was here,” Beauchamps said. “Very cooperative. Served his time down here and that was it. He was a weird guy, Decker. Used to wash his hands about six times a day.”

“An LB,” Decker said.

“What?”

“A Lady Macbether,” Decker said. “Some of the guys in the platoon had a hard time washing away the blood and guts.”

“He was an army buddy of yours?”

“I hate that term—army buddy.”

Beauchamps shrugged. “Want me to get his rap sheet?”

“Yeah.”

Beauchamps punched Abel Atwater into the computer. A few minutes later, he handed the printout to Decker.

“Three priors,” Beauchamps said. “All for trying to buy undercover pussy. Horny little bugger.”

“It ain’t nice, but not exactly sexual assault,” Decker said.

“Maybe Myra made him real mad.”

Decker said, “Why would Myra Steele keep quiet about her pimp if he didn’t have anything to do with the assault? You’d think she’d get in touch with him first thing.”

“I don’t know what was inside the lady’s head, but I’ll tell you this. Some of the ass-peddlers get real pissed at their ladies for getting beat up—treat them like damaged
goods. Hers probably has a vile temper, and maybe she doesn’t want any more pain.”

“She still in the hospital?”

“For sure. Likely to be there a while.”

“Where?”

Beauchamps shrugged ignorance.

“Know who’s paying the bill?” Decker asked.

“Nope. But I suspect she’s at County, and the city’s footing the expenses.” Beauchamps’s phone rang. He answered the call and said, “Andrick’s back.”

“Super.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“Torres and Hoersch were the first unit to respond to the four-fifteen hotshot,” Andrick said. He was in his late fifties, overweight, with a florid complexion. “There was a lot of commotion, a lot of blood, and they immediately called it in as an ambulance cutting. I got there about fifteen minutes later. The girl was being loaded onto the stretcher, your friend was cuffed, crying and bleeding from a huge gash across his head.”

Andrick unlocked his file cabinet and loosened his tie. Decker noticed he was breathing heavily, sweat stained his armpits.

“You okay?” Decker asked.

Andrick said, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“You don’t look so hot.”

“I said I’m okay,” Andrick answered tightly.

“Fine,” Decker said. “You’re okay. Can I see the file?”

Andrick tossed him the folder. Decker read a moment, then said, “The ambulance took the girl. Who took Atwater to the hospital?”

“I don’t remember,” Andrick said. “Someone must have called another, because they didn’t put the two of them in the same wagon.”

“Nobody was tending to Atwater’s head wound all this time?” Decker asked.

“Look,” Andrick said, unbuttoning his shirt, “you got a victim, you got a perp. One ambulance. You’re gonna lose some sleep because some rape-o asshole bled to death?”

“No.” Decker scanned the file. “You heard him say this? Or is this what the uniforms reported that he said?”

“Nope,” Andrick said. “Everything I wrote down in my notes, I heard with my own ears…. What exactly did I write?”

Decker read, “‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Fuck, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.’”

Andrick said, “Yeah, I heard him say that. Those kind of statements don’t do much to clear your good name. Is it hot in here?”

“A little,” Decker said absently. Lost in thought, he remembered Abel uttering similar words before. One particular memory suddenly flooded Decker’s consciousness. Heavy fire. A gutted village. A little girl around six, her belly blown away. Abel standing over her, his eyes watering from all the smoke. He had whispered it:

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt anybody, honest to God, I didn’t
.

Ugly recollections. He pushed them away and looked up at Andrick. His coloring had become pale, his skin pasty, dripping with sweat.

“Jesus!” Decker whispered. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“A minute.” Andrick looked around. Medino had gone to the john. It was safe. He yanked open his desk drawer, and with shaking hands opened a vial of tablets. He placed a pill underneath his tongue.

A minute later, Decker said, “How long do you think you can hide your condition from the department?”