The Mercedes Coffin (12 page)

O’Dell seemed grateful for the reprieve. The food came, and Decker watched him chow down in silence. Halfway through his veggie curry, he said, “About a year, year and a half ago, his mum called me out of nowhere. Mudd was out of the hospital, living in a halfway house on disability. She told me where. She didn’t say go visit him, but that’s what she wanted. So… I went to see him.”

“How was it?”

“Not nearly as bad as I expected. Mudd was always a big guy, but he had gained about two hundred pounds. His brain wasn’t totally scrambled. He recognized me instantly… hugged me.” O’Dell’s eyes watered. “He was so bloody happy that I came by to say hi.”

“You did a good thing.”

“I did what was right. Which brings us back to Banks. About six months before my visit, Rudy started peddling his
Best of the Doodoo Sluts
over these sleazy cable stations. When Primo first mentioned that we should sue, I thought what the fuck do I need it for? But then, after I saw Mudd, I said to meself: I don’t need it, but balls if I would let Rudy steal Mudd’s money. So I called up Primo and that’s how it all came about.”

His jaw tightened. “If Banks would have given us something, if he would have given
Mudd
something, all this lawyer nonsense could have been avoided. But Rudy is Rudy and a skunk can’t change his stink. If I could kill that bastard and get away with it, I would.”

“Let’s hope for your sake, he doesn’t show up dead.”

O’Dell rolled his eyes. “How’s your food?”

“Very good actually,” Decker said. “Where’s Mudd living now?”

“Still at the halfway house.” O’Dell gave him the address. “If you go by, tell him Mad Irish says hello.”

“I’ll do that.” Decker placed the slip of paper in his wallet. “How’d you wind up hooking up with Banks, Liam?”

“Banks and Primo had been doing this punk thing for a while. They brought me in because they needed a drummer, even though my first love is guitar. That’s how it works. You play whatever the band needs, and they needed a drummer.”

“When did you hook up with the band?”

“Late eighties. I was twenty-three. Primo and Mudd were a bit older, but Rudy was younger than I was. Made it hard for us to get booze in the places we played. Most of the time, we’d nick it. The bartender looked the other way.”

“How did Mudd come into the band?”

“That was Banks, too. He’s a bastard, but he had a good ear. Mudd was with another group, his talent wasted. With Mudd on guitar and Primo on bass, Banks started playing keyboard and the band just clicked. Banks, being a master of self-promotion, got us a record deal almost immediately. We put out an album. It made the charts. We made money. We partied. We had pussy coming out of our ears. We were perpetually wasted. We never thought it would end, but it did. Primo and Banks became producers. I managed to find some paying gig. I knew the big time was over. I keep it all in perspective, but Mudd couldn’t handle it — the crash. In the recording business, there’s always a ‘next big thing’ breathing down the neck.”

“Did you write your own songs?”

O’Dell laughed. “You think a cut like ‘Bang Me’ came from Harold Arlen?”

Decker smiled. “You know your music, Mad Irish.”

“I like Harold Arlen. I wish I woulda written ‘Over the Rainbow.’ I’d be set up for life.”

“Who wrote the band’s songs?”

“Mostly Banks and Primo.”

“So they got most of the royalties if someone did a remake of the band’s numbers?”

“A-right about that. And over the years a lot of artists have covered our songs. I’m not claiming a piece of that. That battle’s between Banks and Primo. What burns my arse is Banks remastering and selling a
Best of the Doodoo Sluts
CD without giving us a bloody red cent in royalties. It’s my vocals on those songs. It’s Mudd’s vocals. What gives that arse-hole the bloody right to take silver from our pockets?”

“So let me ask you this, O’Dell. What were you going to say to Banks if you would have found him this morning?”

Mad Irish hesitated. “I’d worked meself up real good when you saw me. I suppose it was a good thing he wasn’t there.”

“You should stay away from him, Liam. Let your lawyer do the talking.”

“That’s what I was doing. I really was. I said to meself that it isn’t worth getting meself in a mess over. But now with Primo gone, who’s gonna fight for Mudd? I don’t have the kinda money to support a lawyer. And Mudd
needs
money.”

“Threatening Banks isn’t going to do you any good.”

“I don’t
threaten,
mate.”

“Liam, think about it. If something happens to Banks, guess who I’ll be going after?”

“If something happens to Banks, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, mate. Rudy only has enemies, and over the years, he’s made hundreds of them.”

THE HOLLYWOOD TERRACE
sat on a side street about a mile from the Hollywood Police station, around three miles from where Primo Ekerling sat moldering in the trunk of his car. The building was a bunker, run-down and a step away from the wrecking ball. No plants in front to soften the gray stucco, just a few occupied parking spaces in a chunky asphalt lot. The glass door to the lobby was locked, the individual apartments listed on the wall with a button after each name. Ryan Goldberg lived in unit E.

Decker pushed the buzzer, and a moment later, the door clicked open. The lobby was the size of a jail cell with yellowed linoleum floors and a cottage-cheese-sprayed ceiling. There was one long, dimly lit hallway, and when Decker found unit E, he knocked on the door. He could hear the electronic noise in the background. When a heavyset man opened the door, the television volume boomed in Decker’s ears.

“Mr. Goldberg?”

The man had wilting brown eyes that blinked constantly. His facial features seemed small and piggish, but his skin was baby smooth. He wore sagging pants without a belt and a flannel shirt. Slippers on his feet. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Lieutenant Detective Peter Decker of LAPD, but I’m also a friend of Liam O’Dell’s. He gave me your address. I’d like to talk to you if that’s okay.”

Goldberg just stared. Decker knew immediately that he’d given him too much information at one time. He started over. “I’m a friend of Liam’s.”

“Oh…” Blink, blink, blink. “Okay.”

“Can I come in?”

“Okay.”

But Goldberg didn’t move aside. Decker had to skirt around him. “Mind if I lower the volume on the TV?”

“Okay.”

Decker noticed that the man’s hands shook, and he wondered why he had come to see him. Just what was he hoping to find out? He looked around, surprised that the studio was free of trash and dirt. There was a flat-screen television on a scarred chest of drawers opposite a deflated sofa. Several TV trays were folded and leaning against the wall. The place had a fridge and a hot plate. It didn’t smell great, but nothing reeked. He told Goldberg that he could sit down if he wanted.

Mudd said, “My brother’s a doctor.”

Decker nodded. “Really.”

“A lung doctor.”

“That’s impressive.”

“I used to smoke. I don’t anymore.”

“That’s good.”

“My brother helped me quit smoking. He’s a lung doctor.”

“He sounds like a nice man.”

“He’s a good brother. He’s a doctor.”

Decker nodded. “Does your friend Liam O’Dell ever visit you?”

“Call me Mudd. Everyone calls me Mudd. Even my brother. He’s a doctor.”

“Okay, Mudd, does your friend Liam O’Dell ever visit you?”

“Yes, he does. Liam’s a good friend. He buys me things.”

“What kind of things?”

“He bought me that…” Mudd pointed to the flat screen. “My old TV was a piece of shit, that’s what Liam said. It was a piece of shit.”

“So Liam bought you the new television?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mudd was still standing. Decker said, “You can sit if you want, Mudd.”

The request momentarily stumped him. Mudd kept blinking until he shook his head no. “I’m okay. It’s good to stand up and walk around. Otherwise you can get blood clots in the leg. That’s what my brother told me. He’s a doctor.”

“He’s right about that.” Decker held back a sigh. “Do you still play guitar, Mudd?”

“Oh yes, I do.” He smiled. “I still play guitar. But I can’t play loud. It disturbs my neighbors. I can’t disturb my neighbors.”

“Do you have an acoustic guitar?”

“I have a Martin. Want to see it?”

“Please.”

Mudd went to a kitchen cabinet and took out something wrapped in a blanket. Carefully, he took off the wrapping and presented him with a Martin Dreadnought. Decker wasn’t an expert on guitars but his son, Jake, had a passion for them. This one was in pristine condition. “Can I see it for a moment?”

Without any hesitation, he gave it to Decker, who looked at the label and memorized the serial number. Decker handed it back. “Can you play for me?”

A smile went on the big man’s face. “Yes, I can.” He sat down on the sagging couch and began to finger a few rifts. Within minutes, he was playing like the professional that Liam claimed he was. The transformation was otherworldly. Tension melted off his face, his tic had all but disappeared. Decker listened to him for the better part of an hour without saying a word. Finally he knew he had to leave.

“That was beautiful, Mudd.”

“Want me to play more?”

“Uh, you can, but I have to leave. I have to go back to work.” With effort, Mudd stood up, gingerly wrapped the guitar back in the blanket and stowed it back in the kitchen. “Thanks for visiting.”

“You’re welcome. Your guitar is very expensive—”

“It’s a Martin.”

“I know that. Don’t tell anyone you own it, okay? Some not nice people might try to steal it.”

“That’s what my brother says.”

“Your brother is right.”

“All right. I won’t tell anyone else except my brother.”

“Good. Take care of yourself, Mudd.”

“Oh, I will take care of myself.” The big man nodded. “I promised my brother I will take care. He’s a doctor.”

MARGE LANDED WITH
a half hour to spare, just about enough time to rent a car, check the maps, and arrive at Darnell Arlington’s house on time if traffic wasn’t a problem. And from the looks of the town, it appeared that traffic was never a problem. An empty highway passed through a commercial area that was gone in a heartbeat, and then it split through a residential neighborhood of modest houses composed of brick and stone.

In the dark, Marge could see that Arlington’s two-story home was set on a patch of lawn, the lane shrouded in the shadows of lacy elms. Street lighting was minimal. Perhaps crime was so low that L.A.-style klieg lights weren’t necessary. She parked in front of the address, walked up a cement pathway, and rang the bell. The woman who answered the door had a baby on her right hip and a toddler on her left clutching the hem of the woman’s skirt. Both children appeared to be girls. “Sergeant Dunn?”

“Yes, that’s me.” She showed the woman her badge. “Mrs. Arlington?”

“Yes. Call me Tish. Please come in.”

“Thank you, Tish.”

She nudged the toddler. “Crystal, get out of the way.” The little girl didn’t move. Tish then scooped the girl up until both babies were in her arms. She managed to hold the load with an erect spine. “Come in.”

The house was tidy and furnished conservatively: flowered sofa with a matching chair, coffee and end tables with lamps and magazines, a fireplace with family photos. There was also a large playpen filled with toys. Tish lowered both girls inside the cage. “Y’all be good, you hear?” She turned to Marge. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

She disappeared into the kitchen but continued to talk. “How long have you been in town?”

“About twenty-five minutes,” Marge answered while looking at the framed snapshots. Arlington was almost a foot taller than his wife, and Tish seemed around five four. His complexion was also much darker than that of his wife. Tish’s hair was tied in a ponytail, and her eyes were light brown. Her face was long, and she had a slender figure. “Can I help with anything?”

“If you could keep an eye on the babies. Crystal’s a good girl, but she’s only nineteen months. She loves Moisha, but sometimes she loves her too much.”

“They’re doing fine,” Marge told her.

“Let’s keep our fingers crossed.” A few minutes later, Tish brought out a coffee tray. “Darnell is running just a little late. The team made regional finals and practice sessions have become longer.”

“Congratulations.”

“Darnell has really turned it all around. We moved here five years ago and Polk High was a joke.” She sat down and handed Marge a coffee cup. “I don’t know how you take it. Help yourself.”

“Thank you.” Marge doused the coffee with cream and sweetener. “Where’d you move from?”

Tish said. “I’m originally from North Carolina, but I met Darnell in Cleveland. Big cities have their advantages and disadvantages. I don’t miss the noise, the crime, and the traffic, but I do miss having a black community. Kensington has been very welcoming to us, but I can still feel eyes on the back of my head.”

“It’s a good thing that Darnell turned the team around.”

“Yes, he’s a local hero.”

“Has he experienced any racism?”

“Nothing overt, but until Darnell proved himself we didn’t receive a lot of invitations to the neighborhood barbecues. That’s changed, but you wonder what if the team starts losing.”

“You’re only as good as your last victory.”

“Exactly.” Tish sipped coffee. “Oh, I think I hear him. I’m going to warm up dinner. Do you mind keeping an eye on the kids again?”

“Not at all.”

Marge heard the keys slip into the door, and within seconds, Darnell filled the doorway. “Sergeant Dunn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Take your time.” In the background, Crystal was shrieking “Dada, Dada, Dada.” Arlington went over to the pen and lifted both girls in a single motion. He kissed both of them on the forehead. “Hey, little women.” He gave Marge a cursory smile. “Excuse me for a minute.”

From the kitchen, Marge heard low noises. No one was arguing, but there was conversation. Then one of the girls started to cry. Five minutes passed; then Tish emerged and was hip-carrying the girls. Crystal was babbling “ba-ba,” which in Marge’s ear could have been bye-bye or bottle. Moisha was wailing, her face beet red. “Time for baths and bed.”