Stuart Kaminsky - The Fala Factor

Carmen was just coming on at Levy’s when I called. She had the message from Sol.

“You said wrestling,” she said blandly.

“We can wrestle after the fight,” I answered. “Henry Armstrong, we can see Henry Armstrong, right there in the ring.”

“The Mad Russian of Minsk is wrestling,” she countered.

“The Mad Russian of Minsk is an ex-pug named Madigan,” I explained. “He takes off the beard and he’s Irish Joe Flannagan. He puts on a wig and he’s The Wild Kentucky Hillbilly.”

“All right,” she said, not fully convinced. “Sol says Armstrong’s fighting two guys.”

“Two guys. One at a time,” I said. “I’ll pick you up at seven,”

“Regular food this time,” she said before I could hang up.

“All food is regular,” I reasoned.

“Manny’s tacos is not date food,” she said.

“Regular food,” I agreed.

I hung up and drove back to the Farraday.

I was halfway up to the first floor when Jeremy appeared from two floors above and called to me. His voice echoed, and I looked up to see him.

“Toby,” he said evenly. “She is gone.”

“Gone? Who?” I answered, but I knew it wasn’t Alice.

“Jane,” he answered. “Alice left her to go out for groceries at the apartment and when she came back, Jane was gone.”

“Bass,” I said.

“We must find him,” Jeremy said softly, but the Farraday echo picked it up and sent his determined words echoing out of dark corners.

“Not so easy,” I called back. “I just tried, but I think I know where he’ll be tonight.”

“And where will that be?” a voice said behind me.

I almost slipped on the marble steps as I turned to face Cawelti.

“What?” I asked.

“Jane Poslik,” he spat. “You’ve had her someplace and now you’ve lost her. You think you’ve got troubles, dirty pants. Let’s tag on obstructing justice, suspicion of kidnapping.”

“John,” I said, almost putting a hand on his shoulder. “Save that for the next Laurel and Hardy short you’re in or for old ladies who heist shopping bags from Ralph’s.”

“Toby,” Jeremy called down, seeing the exchange, but not hearing it. “Do you need some help?”

Cawelti looked up at Jeremy and something like worry touched his mouth. He had survived one run-in with Jeremy a few months earlier, and didn’t want another, but I had to give him credit, he covered his fear and looked back at me.

“Let’s talk down at the station,” he said.

“I’ll meet you there,” I said, taking another step up.

“You’ll come down and get in your car and drive and I’ll be right up your ass all the way,” he said.

“Well,” I said, turning with a big fake smile, “if you put it like that, you old smoothie, how can a guy resist.”

On the eastern end of Hancock Park, which we drove past on the way to the Wilshire Station, are the La Brea tar pits, ugly black bogs where oil and tar bubble up from underground pools. When it rains, a thin layer of water covers the gunk, setting up a trap for the dolts who climb the stone wall out of curiosity. At least the dinosaurs who got oozed in were looking for something to drink, not a cheap thrill. Usually, the screaming tourist is saved by a nearby cop, but once in a while a hotshot meets the same fate as the saber-toothed tigers and ground sloths. When I was a kid I was told that the bones of flesh-eaters were sometimes found nearly touching those of the smaller victims they had leaped into the pits to eat, only to find themselves as trapped as their prey. Los Angeles hadn’t changed much in a few million years.

Cawelti gave me an impatient horn blast when I drove slowly past the station entrance. He wanted me to park on the curb, but I had picked up enough parking tickets in front of the station to know his game. If he wanted me that badly, he’d have to jump into the pit. I parked around the corner, and he pulled in behind me. I slowly locked my car, turned to look at him, stretched, and held out my right hand to indicate that he should lead the way. He decided to let me go a step ahead.

“Fireman,” I said, holding the front door open for him to step in and for an overweight cop in uniform to step out, “did you ever take an hour off and look at the tar pits?”

His pock-marked face reddened and his eyes went narrow. He wasn’t about to set himself up for an insult.

“Shut your mouth and get up the stairs,” he said.

I obeyed, giving a nod to the old cop at the desk, who recognized me and nodded back without taking his attention from the pretty young Mexican woman holding the hand of a boy of about two and going nonstop in Spanish.

“When you maracas dry out,” the desk sergeant shouted over her attack, “we’ll try it in something like English, comprende? ”

On the second floor, I automatically turned right to the squadroom door, but Cawelti’s hand came down hard on my shoulder.

“Captain’s office,” he said, helping me in the right direction with more enthusiasm than was needed.

There was no name written on Phil’s door now, which was a step in the right direction. Cawelti knocked, his eyes fixed on my face.

“Come in,” Phil shouted, and in we came.

Phil was on the phone at his desk. He glanced up at us, gave a sour look to the desk, ran his free hand through his steely short hair, and went on with his conversation. Standing in the corner looking even more cadaverous than usual was Sergeant or Lieutenant Steve Seidman.

“How’s the mouth?” I asked Seidman.

“You think I’m a violent cop, Toby?” he mumbled, the right side of his mouth rigid. I could barely understand him.

“No Steve,” I said. It was the truth.

“Then,” said Seidman, saying the words carefully and not hiding a wince of pain, “you can believe me if I tell you that if I ever run into that mouth butcher again, I’m going to pull out two of his teeth with rusty pliers, the same ones he used on me if I can find them.”

Cawelti bounced slightly, a near grin on his face. Seidman looked at him evenly.

“Something funny, John?” he said.

“Nothing,” said Cawelti, still smiling. “I was just thinking about something a guy said on the radio.”

“Get out of here,” Seidman mumbled.

“Sorry, Lieutenant,” Cawelti taunted. “I didn’t understand you.”

“Get … out … of … here,” Seidman said slowly.

“I got you that time, Lieutenant,” Cawelti said. He turned and left, closing the door behind him.

“He’s got a great future,” I said.

“Cawelti doesn’t want a future,” Seidman said, touching his cheek gingerly and gritting his teeth to keep from whimpering. “He just wants to make other people’s presents miserable.”

Behind me, Phil’s voice droned on and Steve motioned to me to take the seat across from my brother. I took it and Seidman leaned back in the corner, his dark jacket open.

“Yes, Mr. Maltin,” Phil said, still looking down at the desk. “We will. I’ll see to it. You’re right. It shouldn’t have happened and it won’t again. You have my word. I’ll have a patrol there every night till we catch whoever’s doing it. Pevsner. My name’s Pevsner, not Posner. That’s quite all right. Good-bye, Mr. Maltin.”

He hung up the black phone and looked up in a black mood.

“Responsibilities of a promotion,” I said solemnly. “Keep the public happy.”

“We got a rape-murder,” he said, folding his hands on the desk, “a strong-arm pair breaking into homes, missing kids, assaults, and I’ve got to talk to a shoe-store owner on Figueroa who complains about kids running off with his sale signs. While I have a patrolman checking out the local seven year olds, someone could be at the storekeeper’s house eating his wife for lunch.”