The Almanac of the Dead: A Novel (123 page)

Ferro had told Paulie nothing about Jamey’s moving into the town house with him, but Paulie had sensed a rival almost at once. Ferro hated the puffy, bloodshot eyes staring at him mournfully.

Ferro had thought Jamey was too beautiful even to consider him. Ferro was thick around the belly and face while Jamey was lean and blond and perfectly proportioned.

Jamey said himself he was no Einstein. The university was only a place he and friends of his had heard about for good parties. But even when Jamey did not bother to go to his classes, Ferro had not been able to get over the awful feeling Jamey would find a new lover on campus, someone who was as blond, slender, and blue eyed as Jamey. Ferro could not stop making comparisons between Jamey and a runt like Paulie. Paulie was rough trade; Paulie was a sucker. Whatever white powder or substance was put before him, Paulie had lapped it up. Paulie had a grimy face and the close-set eyes of a rodent. Paulie had wandered up like a stray dog that got fed and had stayed. Ferro had never wanted Paulie. Paulie had only been there to work for the old woman, Zeta.

Later Ferro recalled conversations with Jamey; and Ferro hated himself for not guessing Jamey’s secret then. Ferro blamed distractions for his lapse: Lecha’s unexpected return, the unrest and the U.S. troops
along the border; Jamey himself had been a distraction. The mere sound of Jamey’s name had caused Ferro’s heart to beat faster and sent chills down his neck. Ferro had never been so in love before. He had been consumed with pleasure as long as Jamey had remained close by; but if Jamey was away, Ferro’s pleasure had suddenly given way to the most terrible sensations of doubt and fear that somehow Jamey and Jamey’s love for him were about to be lost.

Ferro savored each moment and all the pleasure he got with Jamey. Jamey and Ferro. Ferro and Jamey. Ferro wanted to stop Jamey’s nights on the town without him. Ferro had offered to match whatever “Perry” paid Jamey for the drops and pickups, but Jamey had lightheartedly refused. Ferro was reacting to the stress and the pressure, Jamey said. There were important details Ferro could not work out when his mind was always whispering, “Jamey, Jamey.” It seemed funny how Jamey had eclipsed all the rest of it—the return of Lecha, the trouble with Max Blue, even the rumors of war in Mexico. Ferro was relieved he was about to retire. He did not want to take any chances of losing Jamey; all the nights Ferro had to spend with Paulie moving shipments might jeopardize their love. The reappearance of worthless Lecha was another sign it was time for him to retire with Jamey and enjoy life far from the dirt landing strips and desert jeep trails. Ferro wanted to escape the stink of women in the ranch house. Zeta had always said half was his. Half of all the gold and the guns Zeta had hidden in abandoned mine shafts on the ranch property. He would finance Jamey’s calendars, and later they might branch out and publish a men’s magazine. As magazine publishers, they would travel the world together. Ferro was glad to take his share before Zeta gave away all of it to the Mexican rebel Indians or worse, to the new religious cult founded by the twin brothers who took their orders from two blue macaws.

JAMEY LOVED the purple, pink, and violet of the sky over the Catalina Mountains after sundown. He loved feeling the warm desert breeze against his face when he drove the Corvette with the top down. He knew wind-whipped hair got split ends that looked tacky on long hair. Appearance was nine-tenths of undercover work or any other police work for that matter. The undercover assignment had been a disappointment because Jamey had loved how he looked in his police uniform. But the new police chief had chosen Jamey right out of police academy to begin a special undercover assignment, to be part of an internal security unit for the police chief. The others in the narcotics undercover unit had no idea Jamey was there to watch them as well as to work with them.

Jamey loved the mock orange blossoms’ perfume in the air, and he loved his role of “boy toy” for a shakedown at the Stage Coach later in the evening. Jamey liked to sing along with the radio and talk to himself. Working undercover two years had changed Jamey’s idea about wearing a uniform and being a cop. All the uniform cops ever talked about was their dicks and how much they hated homosexuals. Jamey had felt so lonely he wanted to quit the department, but then Ferro had come into his life.

Jamey had never responded so strongly to a man before, and Ferro had wanted to keep fucking all night. Jamey had not been taken to an expensive resort suite before; he had been accustomed to the hurried brutal thrusts and abrupt embraces in the dark with balding fraternity alumni brothers. Ferro had been different from the start for both of them. Jamey had not felt so captivated in years; Ferro’s blazing dark eyes made Jamey weak with desire.

The police academy had not really been Jamey’s idea; he had followed two fraternity brothers to the police academy after graduation. His two buddies had dropped out the first week, but Jamey had stayed because it seemed easier to stay. He liked being with the rest of the guys,
and he didn’t mind having someone else make the decisions. That was what Jamey had enjoyed most about Ferro; Ferro took command and told Jamey what they would do. Jamey got chills whenever Ferro gave him instructions. Jamey had got chills too whenever the police chief called him into his office alone to brief Jamey on his special assignment. Upon graduation Jamey had left the academy immediately on special assignment to narcotics and vice. The police chief said they liked his “blond, blue-eyed good looks” so necessary for undercover work at university fraternity and sorority parties.

Jamey was proud of his versatility; he could look preppy and clean-cut or grow out his hair like this and walk on the wild side. Jamey enjoyed watching his own reflection in the plate glass as he eased the Corvette up Oracle. Tonight he wore tight black leather pants and a black leather shirt with silver studs open to his navel. His blond hair had grown so long it had reached his shoulders. He looked perfect. He loved his life undercover, dressing up and pretending to be someone he was not.

Jamey had told Ferro about his passion for uniforms, and he had told Ferro about his fraternity brothers who had wanted to be cops. Jamey remembered vividly how Ferro had spat at the mention of cops. Right then Jamey had known that silence was better, silence had always been better than trouble. Jamey had intended to explain to Ferro that police work was only a job; but Ferro had not wanted to talk so Jamey had let the subject drop. Jamey had learned as a rookie not to be surprised when he saw the undercover officers and cops in uniform fill their pockets with the cash and the drugs they had confiscated for evidence. Jamey had learned the rules. He let the others know he was easy. When they offered him a share or cut, Jamey took it. Jamey had played the dumb fraternity jock who did anything the others told him to do.

The chief had asked Jamey to watch for any suspicious behavior he might notice among his fellow undercover officers. The chief had spent an uncomfortable interval staring directly into Jamey’s eyes after he said that. It was crazy, but when Jamey was under intense pressure such as that, he sometimes imagined straight men were coming on to him. At first, it had seemed to Jamey, the police chief had done him a favor by assigning him directly from the academy to narcotics undercover work; others waited years walking a beat or writing traffic tickets. Undercover narcotics was the big cookie jar. But very soon Jamey had sensed jealous undercurrents within the department, and
suspicion focused on him. Jamey didn’t know why the police chief had singled him out from the other recruits, but others in the department thought they knew. Jamey was one of the new chief’s pets, and a spy sent to report on the others in the narcotics unit. Jamey found his picture from the Cop Cakes calendar taped to the door of his department locker. Jamey had felt all their eyes on him, but Jamey had been cool; he had laughed it off. He knew the sergeant and the others behind desks had the best jobs of all; they got thousands in cash just for passing on classified police information, or for zealously “cleaning out” files or for evidence in the department vault that had mysteriously disappeared.

Jamey drove past the Stage Coach to check out the vehicles in the parking lot to see if the others were there yet. He drove under the freeway overpass to the bridge on the Santa Cruz River. The water in the river came from the city sewage treatment plant; still the cattails and other greenery along the banks looked succulent. Jamey parked the Corvette and walked down the riverbank. He was always a little nervous before a shakedown, and this one at the Stage Coach was important. According to Perry, the guy Tiny who managed the Stage Coach owed them because his dancers didn’t keep their pussies covered. Anyway, Perry said all they had to do was wait until they saw the blonde go into Tiny’s office. Tiny had called them about the blonde with the kilo of “top grade”; Tiny was setting up the blonde so they would get a kilo worth five times what he owed them.

Jamey was supposed to pull his .38 to make the shakedown look convincing. Jamey let the others handle the details; he was content to follow orders. Still, he could feel his stomach tense and his bowels heat up as he parked the Corvette next to a row of Harleys in the parking lot. It all seemed simple enough. They would wait until backup units had surrounded the bar parking lot. They wanted to give Tiny and the blonde enough time to cut up some lines to sample before they rushed the office door. Perry would give the signal, and uniformed officers would kick in the back door to the office a moment before Jamey came through the front door.

SEESE REMEMBERED a horror movie she had once seen in which blood had flowed out elevator doors in waves and had flooded a hotel lobby. The police had forced Seese to sit in the chair with her feet in the pool of Tiny’s blood. The blood had soaked through the soles of her shoes and through her stockings, but the police refused to move her. She sat handcuffed in the chair until six o’clock the following morning while internal affairs investigators came and went. Seese had closed her eyes but kept remembering the movie with the blood flowing from the elevator doors, oceans of blood. Tiny had been a huge man, over three hundred pounds. How many pints in a quart? How many quarts in a gallon? Seese could not stop her thoughts from spinning; her brain was a slot machine rolling up words and images from everywhere. Her father’s blood in the South China Sea. The undercover pig had deserved what he got. Maybe Tiny had deserved it. Or maybe the police had got sick of Tiny. Now they were rid of him and they had got his bar and assets too. Seese couldn’t stop thinking. She had been drinking vodka tonics with Cherie before she took the train case into Tiny’s office.

Seese had watched the police all night. They regularly had different interrogators ask her the same questions again and again. Did she remember
who
came through
what
door first? Who was shot first? Who shot the undercover officer? Who shot Tiny? No questions about the kilo of cocaine in the train case. The train case had been removed by the first undercover-unit officer into the room after the firing had ceased. She had hit the floor after she had seen Tiny reach for his gun. She had been splattered with the undercover cop’s blood after Tiny had fired and had dropped the cop in his tracks as he came through the door. She had been facedown on the floor when the other cops in uniform had opened fire on Tiny, so she had only heard him hit the floor.

Seese began to notice the odor of the blood almost at once. The police had turned off the air conditioner in the office, and the big pool of Tiny’s blood was beginning to spoil. They had removed the dead undercover cop almost at once, but they had left Tiny on his back near Seese’s feet. Somehow the police had assumed Tiny was her lover, and the sight of his body was intended to shake some information loose from Seese. Where had the kilo come from? They had already assumed the cocaine did not belong to her because bitches might haul coke for their men, but it wasn’t theirs.

Seese could think of no reason why she was still alive. Why hadn’t the police shot her? They had shot fat Tiny full of big holes. The explosive force of the bullets had blown out his fat like pillow stuffing. Human fat was bright white. She had dived to the floor to save herself; but for what? Every chance she might have had to find Monte and all her hope were gone now.