Gary Brandner - Walkers

"Not much to sum up a man's life," Hovde said.

"At the end, what do any of our lives add up to?" Olivares said.

"Is there any history of mental illness?"

"We didn't turn up any."

"Too bad."

"Why?"

"Because then we'd have some kind of explanation for his weird behavior."

"Yeah." Olivares sat looking at the doctor. "You said you might have some information for me."

"It's more in the nature of a suggestion," Hovde said. "And I'm not quite ready to make it yet. What's your next move?"

"I'm going out to the garage where Frankovich worked and talk to his boss."

"Mind if I come along?"

"It's all right with me." Olivares gathered up the cassette recorder, the photograph of Frankovich, and the stapled-together report sheets and shoved them into the attache case. He looked up at Hovde. "Can I ask you something, Doc?"

"Go ahead."

"What's so special about this homicide? Why should a doctor take half a day off from his practice to follow a detective around?"

Hovde thought a moment before answering. "I've got myself involved with these young people, Dan, without trying to, and without really wanting to. It's like the old Oriental custom that says when you save somebody's life you're responsible for that person forever afterward."

"Did you save the girl's life?"

"I'm not sure."

"What kind of an answer is that?"

"It's an evasive answer, Dan, and I'm sorry. Let's go on out to where Frankovich worked, then I'll try to tell you about it."

McCoy's Auto Repair occupied a lot on a cluttered block of Figueroa. On one side was a wholesale plumbing supply house; on the other was an abandoned Gulf station with weeds growing up through cracks in the asphalt. Sergeant Olivares parked the unmarked police car next to the dead gas pumps and got out. Dr. Hovde followed.

They walked up behind a skinny blonde youth who was up to his elbows in the engine of a battered old Chevrolet.

"Where can we find the boss?" Olivares said.

"Inside," said the boy without looking up. He pointed a greasy elbow toward a low cinder-block building that seemed to overflow with broken-down automobiles.

"Thanks," Olivares grunted, and led the way into the building.

Inside, a badly tuned engine was being gunned and eased with a machine-gun popping of backfires. Above the din a man's voice could be heard shouting. Olivares and the doctor followed the voice and found a short fat man with a sweaty bald head confronting a frightened looking dark-eyed boy. The bald man waved his stubby arms up and down to emphasize his words.

"Goddamn it, don't you understand a simple fucking parts order? Are you so fucking stupid you don't know a head gasket from a rocker-arm gasket? Jesus, no wonder you people haven't got fucking shit." He paused in his tirade to acknowledge Olivares and Dr. Hovde. "Yeah?"

"You the boss here?" Olivares said.

"My name's McCoy, and that's the name on the sign, so I guess that makes me the boss."

"Like to talk to you."

"Just a minute." He returned his attention to the boy, whose eyes darted around as though searching for an escape. "Now get your ass over to the fucking parts house and this time come back with the right fucking gasket. Comprenday?"

The boy bobbed his head up and down, and with an embarrassed glance at the other two men, he hurried out.

McCoy pulled a crusty handkerchief from the pocket of his coveralls and ran it over his glistening scalp. "Stupid fucking Mexicans," he said. "You can't teach them shit. Come up here and take our welfare and spray-paint their fucking names all over our property, but just try and get one of them to do a day's work. They're born lazy and they die lazy."

"That so?" said Sergeant Olivares. "Here's my identification." He flapped open his wallet to show McCoy the L.A.P.D. badge and I.D. card. He held it out long enough to be sure the fat man had time to read his name.

"Uh-look, nothing personal, Sergeant. I wasn't talking about all Mexicans. Hell, some of them are fine people. I mean, I've had Mexicans over to my place for dinner…"

Olivares let the man run down, then said, "Forget it. Is there someplace where we can talk?"

"Yeah, sure," said McCoy, eager to please now. "We can go in the office."

The "office" was a plywood cubicle sectioned off from one corner of the garage. It had a high counter with an old hand-crank adding machine and a litter of bills and invoices. A single high stool stood behind the counter. Taped to the walls were poster-size calendars from parts manufacturers that featured glossy 1940s-style pin-ups.

"Things are hectic around here today," McCoy said. "My best mechanic got himself knocked off last night, and I have to make do with these stupid-" he broke off and glanced at Olivares. "I have to get along with temporary help."

"Your mechanic was Edward Frankovich?" the detective said.

"Yeah."

"That's what we want to talk to you about."

McCoy looked relieved. "There was already a couple of cops here this morning. They told me what happened to him. You could of knocked me over with a feather. Who'd of thought a thing like that would happen to Big Ed? That's what we called him, Big Ed, on account of his size."

"Would you say he was a violent man?" Olivares asked. "Did he have a temper?"

"Big Ed? Hell no. He didn't have a violent bone in his body. Smiled a lot, didn't have much to say. He was a damned good worker. Never sick, never came in late. You could of knocked me over with a feather."

"Did you ever hear him mention the name Joana Raitt?" Olivares asked.

"Nah. But then, he never talked much about his personal life. He didn't have much of a personal life, if you ask me. He did his work. That's all I care about in a man." McCoy mopped the perspiration from his head again. "And now he's dead. That's a funny coincidence."

"What do you mean?"

"For a while I thought he was a goner last Friday, right in front of my eyes."

Dr. Hovde felt a chill between his shoulder blades. "What happened?" he said.

McCoy looked at Hovde as though seeing him for the first time, then switched his eyes back to Olivares.

"He's with me," the detective said. "Go ahead and answer the question."

"Well, what happened, we was eating lunch out in the back, me and Big Ed. We had sandwiches that we bought off the caterer's truck. There's no place around here where you can buy a decent sandwich. All they got is tacos and that shit." He glanced suddenly at Olivares, cleared his throat, and went on. "Anyhow, all of a sudden I hear Ed go 'Hut!' like that, and I look over to see him floppin' his head around with his eyes bugged out to here. At first I thought he was havin' some kind of a fit, then his face starts turning blue and I know what's happened. He swallowed something and got it caught in his throat. I ran over and pounded him on the back, but it didn't do no good. He kind of staggered around the yard out back, grabbin' at his throat, and all the time gettin' blacker in the face. Then all of a sudden he goes down, whop, like a sack of potatoes.

"I got down next to him and I seen he ain't breathin' at all. I felt for his heartbeat and didn't get nothing. I said to myself, 'Oh, shit, this guy is dead or damn close to it.' I ran around to the front and got a couple of the guys to come back with me. When we got out there I'm damned if Big Ed ain't on his feet and walkin' around."

"He was all right?" Hovde asked.

"I didn't say that. He was up on his feet, but he sure as hell didn't look good. His face still had that purplish color, and his eyes didn't seem to quite look at you, if you know what I mean. I asked him if he was okay, and he said yeah in a funny voice."

"Funny in what way?" said Hovde.

McCoy shrugged his meaty shoulders. "Thin, kind of. Flat. Like it was just coming from his mouth, not his chest. Anyway, I didn't like the way he looked at all, so I said why don't he take the rest of the day off. He said yeah again, and just walked out. Didn't even take his toolbox. I yelled 'See you Monday,' after him, but he didn't answer. I never saw him again."