Michael Prescott: Next Victim

"Not a fucking thing. Just a matter of personal curiosity."

"You called me out here to satisfy your curiosity?"

"No, that was just a side issue. I’ve got something for you. Something you’ll like."

"I hope so. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m always grateful for a heads-up, but I’ve got a lot on my plate right now."

Dodge didn’t give a shit about Levine’s plate. "How interested are you in the Grandy case?" he asked.

That cocked eyebrow again. "What is this, an IQ test? I’m interested. Obviously I’m interested. Everybody’s interested. We ran with it as our lead story on the ten o’clock show tonight."

"I said, how interested?"

Levine considered the question. "A thousand."

"What I have is more interesting than that."

"Fifteen hundred."

"Cheap doesn’t look good on you, Myron."

"Give me some idea of what you’ve got, and we’ll talk."

Dodge shrugged. "Fair enough. I can tell you what Mr. Delbert Grandy, upstanding citizen and innocent motorist, was overheard saying not long after a nine-millimeter soft-point round pulverized his clavicle."

"Overheard by who?"

"It’s whom, Myron. Correct grammar is whom. Don’t they teach you TV dipshits basic English?"

Levine ignored this. "Who the fuck heard it?"

"Me, for one. My partner, for another. You know that Bradley and me were in the neighborhood, so we were early on the scene. Got there before the EMTs, even."

"Yeah, I know that. I also know that you wouldn’t give me anything that can be linked that closely to you or to Al Bradley."

"Of course I wouldn’t. I’m not a moron, Myron." Dodge smiled. "Hey, you ever notice how much those two words sound alike? Moron. Myron. It’s like your parents had a, what d’you call it, premonition."

"Fuck you, Dodge."

"Touchy." He sipped his seltzer. "Anyway, Mr. Grandy’s words are now known by all members of the grand jury, not to mention miscellaneous other individuals present in the courtroom today, not least of whom is the lady bystander who testified about it. So nothing can be linked to me. That’s why I’m giving it to you."

" Selling it to me."

"Your formulation is more accurate. The information is indeed for sale. What’s it worth?"

"Two thousand. That’s my limit."

Dodge pretended to think it over, though he had already known Levine would max out at two thousand and that he would take it. This was the way it always worked, and the haggling was only a game they played to show each other how smart they were.

Levine had been buying information from Dodge, and no doubt from other people, ever since his arrival in LA last year. Most journalists, whether out of ethical considerations or simple impecuniousness, refused to pay their sources. Levine was different. He was graspingly ambitious, desperate to rise to the heights of TV news stardom, probably gunning for an anchor spot on 60 Minutes someday.

He was also a pretty goddamned homely son of a bitch with limited investigative skills. To get ahead, he had to pay his own way. Since he pulled down more than three hundred grand a year for his current gig at KPTI, he wasn’t exactly hurting for cash. And as long as he kept getting the goods, his producers weren’t likely to inquire too closely into his methods.

By now, Dodge figured he’d made Levine wait long enough. "Okay, Myron, I’ll cut you a break. It’s a deal."

"So give."

"You know my policy. Cash in advance."

"I came directly from the station. I don’t have that much on me."

"There’s an ATM down the street. I’ll wait."

Levine blew out a heavy breath. "Fuck it." He opened his wallet and passed a small stack of bills under the table. Dodge pocketed the money without counting it.

"All right. Mr. Grandy, the innocent African-American motorist gunned down by racist West LA cops, was screaming, and I quote, ‘I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker. I’m gonna fucking kill you.’ End of quote."

"He was saying it to the cop who shot him?"

"He was saying it to the world in general, but I think we can safely assume his rage was primarily directed at lily-white Officer Perkins."

Levine contemplated this, probably wondering if he’d gotten his money’s worth. "Screaming threats," he said finally.

"Righty-o."

"Interesting."

"Like I told you. Suddenly Mr. Grandy’s not the victimized father of three who lives in Baldwin Hills and is pulled over for Driving While Black. Suddenly he’s not Mr. Rising African-American Middle Class. Instead he’s just another ornery, angry, fucked-up, probably drugged-up nigger asshole who probably had it coming."

Levine waved this off. "Jim…"

Dodge knew Levine was uncomfortable with overt displays of racism. Levine was a liberal, and as such, he had a certain romanticized self-image to uphold. No doubt he shared all the thoughts and opinions Dodge so colorfully expressed, but he kept them secret. In his eyes, this made him a better person. To Dodge, it just meant he was a priss and a coward, in addition to being an all-around asswipe.

"Forgive my politically incorrect characterization of the facts," Dodge said. "I’ll leave the sociopolitical interpretations to intellectuals like yourself."

Levine wasn’t listening. He seemed perturbed. After a moment he said, "You wouldn’t be spinning me, would you, Jim?"

It was Dodge’s turn to cock an eyebrow. "I never thought of myself as a PR flack."

"It just seems as if this particular testimony might be helpful to the LAPD."

"For the reasons I just stated."

"Yes. For those reasons."

"What makes you think I give a fuck about helping the LAPD?"

Shrug. "I’m just looking at all the angles. This evidence bolsters Perkins’s claim that he was shooting in self-defense."

"Grandy said it after he was shot, not before."

Another shrug. "Even so."

Dodge was amazed. This goddamn self-important little prick seemed to actually think he was an investigative reporter, when all he did was read copy off a TelePrompTer to fill time between the comedy weatherman and the comedy sports guy. Still, Levine would have to be massaged to keep things friendly.

"I can see how you might view it that way," Dodge said. "But you’d be wrong. I don’t take sides. I hand out whatever information it’s safe for me to reveal. And to prove it, I’ll give you another little tidbit that’s definitely not helpful to my brothers in blue."

Levine sighed theatrically. "How much is this one gonna cost?"

"Pay for my drink. That’ll cover it."

A skeptical squint. "You’re in a generous mood."

"I value our friendship, Myron. I want it to continue." This sort of comment was another part of the game. Both men knew that whatever the nature of their relationship, friendship was not the word for it.

Levine waited as Dodge removed a slip of paper and unfolded it. He slid it across the table, holding the corner between two fingers. Levine took a long look.

"This is from Grandy’s medical file," Levine said.

"That’s right. Bullet trajectory analysis. Want me to translate the medicalese into plain language?"

"I can read it." Levine spent another minute poring over the document. "They’re saying the bullet passed through the fleshy part of his left hand before entering his collarbone. So what?"

"Look at the entrance and exit wounds on the hand."

Levine looked. He got it. "His palm was facing out." He glanced up at Dodge and pantomimed raising both hands in front of him, palms forward.

"Not exactly an offensive posture, is it?" Dodge said.

"He was holding up his hands when Perkins capped him."

"Bingo. Still think I’m spinning?"

"No, I don’t." Levine started to pull the paper toward him. Dodge yanked it back.