“I’ve got to get out of here,” she said, panting. “I’m going nuts. I need to escape to a desert island.”
“Just take me with you.”
Jacob began to howl.
She chomped on her thumbnail, trying to steady her shaking hands. “I can’t deal with this, Peter.”
Decker stood up, buttoned his shirt, and tucked it into his pants. “You sit and dream of rum and coconuts. I’ll see what’s wrong with Jake.”
When he came out, she had regained her composure.
“Is he okay?” Rina asked.
“Yes,” said Decker. “For the time being.”
“It’s going to be a long night.”
“Would you like me to stay-”
“No,” Rina answered quickly. “No, that won’t do at all.” She took Decker’s hands, squeezed them, then let them go.
“Now I know why there are such strict separation laws in Judaism,” she said.
“I hate every one of them,” Decker answered. “I don’t suppose you’d want to continue where we’d left off.”
She shook her head. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve become very tired, Peter. I’d probably be terrible.”
He could deal with that, but didn’t push it. The moment had been lost.
14
The alley was a tunnel of black and smelled liked a setup. Decker unhitched his gun and took out a penlight. Shining it on the lumpy asphalt, he inched his way toward the rear of the third building on his left, nostrils flaring at the odor of rotting garbage and excrement. He stopped. There was something wrong, and as much as he wanted a handle on this case, this wasn’t the way to get one. Turning back, he froze suddenly at the sound of a hiss.
“Son of a bitch,” the hoarse voice croaked.
Decker spun around in the direction of the whisper and saw nothing but boxes and dented trash cans.
“Clementine?”
“I said no pieces, Cop.”
“It’s my security blanket.”
“That wasn’t the deal, Cop.”
Decker said, “I’ve got the cash, Clementine.” He began to sweat. Killing the penlight, he backed up against a wall. The conversation was taking place in the dark. No sense being in the spotlight.
“Throw over the green,” the raspy voice instructed. “Across the alley, second building on your right.”
“First you tell me what you know about the Countess.”
“First you toss over the bread.”
They were at a standstill. No one so far had known the Countess’s true identity, and all roads pointed to Clementine. This pow-wow had been arranged via the pimp’s number one lady. Info for cash-$200 in twenties.
He played the scenario in his head. Once he forked over the money, the pimp couldn’t escape without coming into his line of vision. And he did have his piece…
He shone his penlight across the alley and pitched the envelope of cash where Clementine had instructed.
“It better be good for what we’re paying you, Clementine.”
The pimp made no move to pick up the package.
Silence. Decker turned off the light. In the distance he saw the glowing orange tip of a cigarette.
“Name was Kate Armbruster. A mud duck from Klamath Falls, Oregon,” the voice whispered. “Picked her up when she was fourteen. She wasn’t even fresh then-a had-out piece of shit. But she worked her tail off. Got a lot of action from her. Then she got weird.”
“What happened?” the detective asked.
“Met up with a dude called the Blade-skinny, crazy cracker into knives and pain. Permanent pain, if you can dig what I’m saying. Boogying with the high beams on-smoking lots of Jim Jones. I know they offed animals-big dogs. Get the poor motherfuckers tightroped on water and watch them rip each other apart. They say Katie just loved puppies. Cut ’em up live and offer ’em to old six sixty-six himself. Some say they got more so-fist-to-cated in their taste.”
“Meaning?”
“Only one step up from animals, Cop. You put two and two together.”
“Who is this Blade?”
“Don’t know his real name. Dude must be in his twenties, average height, and skinny, like I said. Brown hair and maybe brown eyes. Can’t tell you much more. All white meat looks alike.”
“Where did they hang out, Clementine.”
“Don’t know.”
Decker illuminated the money with his penlight, aimed his.38, and shot off the tip of the envelope. The alley reverberated with the echo of the blast and filled with the smell of gunpowder. He reloaded the chamber and shut off the light.
“If that’s the best you can do, I’m going to blow your wad to bits, Clementine. Where did they hang out?”
A cackle came from the garbage cans.
“You’re a fuckin’ A, Decker,” said a hollow whisper. “An A number one fuckin’ felon. Don’t you know it’s against the law to shoot money in America?” He laughed again. “Shoot it until it ain’t nothing but a pile of green Swiss cheese. My answer’s the same. Don’t know where they did their shit, don’t know who their stooges was, don’t know ’cause I didn’t want to know, Cop. I wasn’t into that shit, so I closed my eyes.”
“Did they film their cult rituals?” Decker asked.
“Yeah.”
“Who has the films?”
“Don’t know who their customers be.”
“Who deals in snuffs around these parts?”
“Lots of people.”
“Names.”
Silence.
Decker waited.
“Talk says the main distributor is a fat fuck named Cecil Pode.” Clementine coughed-a dry, hacking sound. “Works out of his studio in Culver City.”
“Who gives Pode the films?”
“Don’t know.”
“Who does Pode sell the films to?”
“Used to sell ’em to the Countess. Like I tole you, don’t know who her customers be.”
“Let me get this straight. The Countess made films with the Blade. Then Cecil would buy them from the producer and sell the finished product back to her?”
“That way she be paid off twice. Once as the star, the other when the goods be delivered. She knew who all the weirdos be and have an easy time unloading the shit at the price she wanted.”
“Then why bother using Cecil as a distributor? Why not sell directly to the customers?”
“Rumor has it that Cecil does the filming as well as the distributing.”
“Are the films videotaped?”
“No way! Good old-fashioned 16 mm half-inch film. Keeps it cheap and rare. Videotape’s too easy to pirate.”
“Who paid Pode for his camera work?”
“Don’t know.”
“The Countess?”
“Don’t know.”
Decker felt frustration growing inside. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.
“Why was the Countess whacked?”
Clementine didn’t answer. Decker repeated the question.
“Sometimes people get carried away,” said Clementine softly.
“Where could I find the Blade?”
“Tole you before, man. Don’t know.”
“Cecil know him?”
“Don’t know.”
“Ever know a girl named Lindsay Bates?”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure-”
“I said I don’t know the chick,” Clementine interrupted. “You got enough for your money. I see you, Decker. Got your piece in your right hand and your smoke in your left. I got cat’s eyes, Cop-see things coming in as well as out. I didn’t trust you anymore than you trusted me, so that means, my man, that I got my piece too. You get cute, you be dead. Now get the hell out of here while you still got your balls in one piece.”
“Stick around, Clementine. I just might need you again.”
“Fuck you. Get out of here.”
Decker backed out of the black void and into the silvery mist of the street lights. Suddenly he felt hot. Mopping his forehead with the back of his hand, he stood for a moment to catch his breath, then took off his jacket. By the time he reached the Plymouth, he was drenched in sweat.
Pode lived in a frame house in Mar Vista. The neighborhood was predominantly white working class, but over the past few years, a slow trickle of immigrant Latinos had worked their way into the cheaper homes. Pode’s place was badly in need of a paint job and the lawn was a tangle of weeds. The porch steps were crumbling and the flagstone walkway was as much dirt as it was rock. If Pode had money, he obviously wasn’t spending it on hearth and home.