Table of Contents
A Different Drummer is the first story in the V&D Chronicles. It’s their origin story.
Authors’ Notes: The Vastarnyi & Dexter Chronicles — an Introduction.
Enter the World of Vastarnyi and Dexter!!!
They are not Starsky and Hutch. Let’s start with that. If they existed in the same universe, Starsky and Hutch would probably want to arrest them. There may be likenesses. After all, the TV series was in a way their progenitor. So, at a stretch, they may be considered bastard sons…
Since these were our characters, we were not constrained by the ‘canon’ of an aired show. So all the stuff we wanted to do with S&H, and didn’t dare because for one reason or another it didn’t fit, we were able to do with V&D. We have been able to invent backgrounds, families, relationships, and all the other good stuff, but with far more freedom and scope. And the interest of our readership during the years we produced these typed and printed stories and sent them through the mail makes us think we must have done something right!
We are always happy to receive questions and comments. Tell us what you think!
Archivist Notes: You can read more about Vas & Dex on Fanlore. These stories, written before computers and the internet, were produced between 1976 and 1987. Special thanks to Donna F for proofreading!
If a man does not keep pace with his companions,
perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer,
Let him step to the music he hears,
however measured or far away.
—Thoreau
Chapter One
0900 hours, said the Xeroxed letter, was the time all cadets should present themselves for processing into the Academy. Processing? David Andras Vastarnyi decided he did not like the sound of that, but it was too late to get cold feet now, and he did not chicken out of anything. He yawned, and stretched his powerful, stocky frame, kicked off the single sheet and rolled over onto his stomach.
Processing. Sounded like some kind of factory — the Pig Processing Plant — and a snort of laughter escaped him.
“Vas.” Eight-year-old Mei-Lan’s dark head appeared round the door. “Mom said to say the bathroom’s free, your breakfast is ready, and your clothes are pressed. And Pop says you’ve got 2 minutes.”
“Okay, honey. M’goy.” He glanced at his watch. Two and a half minutes, hell, he’d got over an hour. “Fat, you’re a congenital liar, an’ tomorrow I’ll be able to collar you for it!” he yelled at the top of his voice.
“Only the ass can bray louder than the water buffalo’s bellow,” echoed up from the store below, and Vastarnyi grinned affectionately in the dimness. That sounded as if it ought to be Confucian, or from Lao Tse, but knowing Hung Fat, was just as likely to be invented for the occasion.
He stretched again, slowly and luxuriously, like a cat, then sat up, automatically ducking his head to avoid the underside of the stair-treads, and reached for the light switch. The naked bulb was of low wattage but gave him all the light he needed to find towel, shaving, and washing gear. Not that the light was necessary at all; he knew every inch of the tiny closet-room built under the stairs to the second floor of the apartment block. He’d lived in it, off and on, for most of his life, coming back to it after a gypsy-existence that had taken him across America, Canada, and Mexico in his vacation times since he was sixteen. He was now twenty-one by a matter of weeks, barely of age to take the oath at the Academy, but he knew what he wanted, where he was going, and why.
The reasons, however, were not on display. Only Hung Fat knew why a ghetto-kid from downtown backstreets was hauling himself out of his environment towards a kind of heritage.
Not that Vastarnyi would have put it like that, but Hung Fat had that kind of mind that used words as a patterning, either to enlighten or obscure, and Vastarnyi had long since given up trying to find the key thread.
He had been born one of twins, in the small, one-room apartment on the third floor where Dave Vastarnyi had brought his bride nine months previously. His father’s hands had helped his birth but could not give life to the second-born boy; there was no money for doctors or medicines. Nor was there eighteen months later, when Lisa Vastarnyi died giving birth to a still-born girl.
The Vastarnyis had been cripplingly poor, and a home in the polyglot ghetto had not been the one that Dave had wanted for his adored and lovely Lisa, but both had a fierce peasant-pride, and would not ask for aid from his family, or Lisa’s, the Mancinis. The two had met in Sacramento, where Lisa was visiting with a friend of convent-school days, a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl not seventeen, who met and fell in love with, in the space of a heartbeat, a gypsy of a youth six months her senior.
In San Diego the Mancinis were horrified. Councils of war were held — the Vastarnyis were not only Hungarian, but were new immigrants, Dave being born on the ship carrying them from Europe. While the Mancinis had left Italy four generations ago.
In Sacramento the Vastarnyis were equally incensed. David Gyorgy was their first-born son, and he would marry a girl of Hungarian blood. He would have no truck with foreigners.
Two months after their first meeting, Dave and Lisa met at the Greyhound Station and took a bus to Los Angeles. In a small backstreet church they lied about their ages and were married with the rites of the Holy Catholic Church.
After Lisa’s death less than three years later, the Mancinis appeared in Los Angeles. They could never, they said, forgive the sin of Dave Vastarnyi seducing her away from her family and home, but her son need not suffer, he had committed no sin. They would take him back with them to San Diego — which was as far as the deputation got. The four men were routed by flying fists and feet as the Vastarnyi temper exploded, and Hung Fat intervened with Oriental cunning before knives could be brought out; “Police!” he had yelled up the stairwell, causing an immediate retreat, and peace of a kind descended on the brownstone block. But an attempt to snatch the baby while his father was working nights brought a new problem, so Hung Fat took a hand again. He owed Dave Vastarnyi — for what, no one knew, but the obligation had made them close friends.
Hung Fat was sixteen and fitted four jobs into his day. Now he took on a fifth, and Vastarnyi’s son’s earliest recollections were of the back of Fat’s head as he was carted with him, strapped Chinese-style to the boy’s back. He went with him on his paper-rounds, dish-washing in restaurants and bars, to the garage where Hung Fat washed cars, and the hardware store on the ground floor of the brownstone where Fat served behind the counter, and slept with him in the tiny under-stair room while his father took what jobs he could find regardless of hours, and refused all offers of help from his own kin.
Some nights Dave Vastarnyi worked, some nights cheap wine gave him forgetfulness; he had had Lisa barely three years, and she had left him with a son who sometimes bore a painfully exact resemblance to her. Alcohol could numb that pain, and the memory of what he had lost.
Eventually, the offers of help from Sacramento stopped coming, even the oblique ones aimed at the now sturdy four-year-old who could speak Hungarian and Cantonese with equal fluency, and a fractured version of American that another tenant of the block worked to improve when she had the opportunity. By the time he started school, he was the only child in his class who could swear at length in three languages.
A few years later, life got a little easier. Dave Vastarnyi found a regular job in the workshops of a service station, refurbishing clapped-out car engines for resale, and could spend more time with his son. Soon the boy’s out-of-school time was divided between running colt-wild about the backstreets, helping Hung Fat in the Aladdin’s cave of the hardware store, and getting himself incredibly dirty learning the intricate mysteries of car engines.
In his ninth year, a dark-haired man of Italian appearance had tried to haul him into a car, but Hung Fat had taught the boy some Oriental self-defense as well as the more unsubtle backstreet methods, so young Davie had bitten the man’s hand, twisted like an eel and kicked him twice in the groin, then bolted like a rabbit to its burrow for the nearest point of safety, Hung Fat.
That was not the first time, nor the last, that such methods proved needful, though on that occasion it was his maternal grandfather he had defended himself against. Apart from the vicious rough and tumble of kid’s street gangs, there were the pimps who were always on the hunt for new stock for their stables and preyed on the good-looking children, boys as well as girls, for prostitution covering both sexes.
Once a year Davie’s paternal grandparents, his one uncle, and growing band of aunts, visited briefly. They timed their arrival midway between New Year and his birthday in March, so that useful presents could be given and received without loss of face on either side; an oddly oriental piece of reasoning that Hung Fat, at least, found richly amusing, and heartbreakingly touching.
But when Davie was twelve, the safe pattern of his life was shattered.
On the afternoon of the 29th of March, Dave Vastarnyi had taken his son to Dodger Stadium to watch the home team play. The man had made some enemies in the local hierarchy of con-men and hoods with his typically forthright refusal to play the game according to their rules. He wasn’t interested in being anyone’s wheelman or providing stolen cars with disguising facelifts and false license plates, but he knew a lot — too much — without being involved. So Dave Vastarnyi would have to be dealt with.
As father and son paused at the pedestrian crossing, waiting for the lights to change, a car slowed to a crawl, two shot guns discharged twin barrels simultaneously, and Dave Vastarnyi was blasted across the sidewalk, almost torn in half by the impact of the scattering lead.
The boy, uninjured, but stunned mute, could not help the police. Hung Fat, now married to Wei, with a four-month-old son, took David back home and sat with him, waiting for the storm of grief that did not come. David was two days past his twelfth birthday.
There were no tears two weeks later, either, when Hung Fat decided he must take the boy to Sacramento. He was a Vastarnyi, and blood must go to blood at such times; Hung had no right to keep him. No matter that the boy was dear as son and younger brother in one, he must go to his father’s family.
There were no tears, no protests, just one plea of — please let me stay — then nothing. But in the shuttered face, blue eyes were black with pain and a new loss. It would take him a long time, years, to make close attachments with the ease of his dead childhood — friends, people you love, die, or send you away because they don’t want you. If you don’t love, you can’t be hurt. Later on he would come to terms with, and understand, both his father’s death and what he at first saw as Hung Fat’s betrayal, but, catapulted into a new way of life among virtual strangers, the barriers he was building grew stronger.
Alexei Vastarnyi helped to break them down to a certain extent. Like all the Vastarnyi men, he was tall, well over six foot and heavily muscled; a big, laughing man so like his father that David had little resistance.
But three years later, Alexei was dead, blown up with his little corner delicatessen as an object lesson because Vastarnyis didn’t pay protection money, and the barriers slammed up again.
After the funeral David informed his grandmother he was returning to Los Angeles, and packed his few belongings into a rucksack. A battle of wills raged in the household like that of some sixteen years before, and the Vastarnyis discovered that whatever the stocky teenager lacked in inches, he more than made up in aggressive stubbornness, and would not be browbeaten any more than his father before him. Once again the rebel won; he was enrolled in U.C.L.A., and went back to the brownstone of his birth.
David came back to changes. Of children he had grown up with, four were dead, killed by drugs. Two more had died in the endemic street-fights, and another girl, a year younger than he was, had been murdered by a pervert she had solicited. Three more girls and a boy were experienced prostitutes, and all but a few used and/or pushed drugs. Only Hung Fat and Wei had not changed. The welcome he received from them would have moved him deeply if he had let it.
At the U.C.L.A. David Vastarnyi majored in Social Sciences and Economics. For laughs and light relief he had taken the Drama course as well, but did not bother to sit the finals. During the long vacations he had disappeared from Los Angeles. He drove trucks, dug ditches, swept streets, served drinks, washed dishes, emptied garbage cans. He drove taxis in Quebec, New York, and Tijuana; sold brushes and magazines subscriptions door to door, herded cattle on a run-down ranch in Arizona, was a lumberjack in Edmonton, and a night-club bouncer in New Orleans. He also stole cars and sold them, hired out as a wheelman in Detroit, worked as a numbers-runner in Chicago, and a gigolo in Miami; each time coming back to L.A. and settling into being a normal student again. After graduation he was gone sixth months, then came back to the city, freeloaded on casual friends, and put his name down for the Los Angeles Police Department Academy.
When Hung Fat learned that, he tracked him down to the apartment of Lena, a childhood friend now a prostitute, hauled him out of her bed, and home. Future police cadets, Vastarnyi was told, do not give hookers’ pads as forwarding addresses, and having discovered that he had to ignore the price ticket where Hung Fat was concerned, he gave the small, lean Asian one of his spontaneous bear hugs, and meekly acquiesced.
At twenty-one, he stood five foot ten, weighed some 170 lbs, all of it muscle on his compact, stocky-shouldered body. His hair was very dark, almost black, a thick unruly mane that curled wildly from forehead to nape of neck as if it rarely knew a comb. His features had a somewhat fierce, gypsy-like handsomeness emphasized by the thin, aquiline nose and high cheekbones. The jaw jutted with belligerent stubbornness, and the very blue eyes, set deep beneath heavy black brows, were as likely to view the world with blazing anger as ribald amusement. He had a crazy sense of humour, a temper that had long ago earned him the nickname of San Andreas, more loyalty than common sense, and could be both introvert and extrovert in turn. He was fluent in Hungarian, Italian, Spanish and French, understandable in Cantonese, knew a peculiarly individual version of Judo and Karate, and possessed a deadly skill with handgun and knife.
And he was going to be a police officer — more — he was going to be a detective; a plain-clothes undercover man, and hit-men, vice rings, and drugs dealers would be his main target. It was a crusade, though he would never have thought of himself as a crusader, and he would follow his path in or out of the police force. Preferably in. Neither side would know what had hit them.
* * * * * *
The two letters were propped side by side, one against the cereal packet, the other against the milk jug, and it seemed appropriate to Dexter that one from Carol’s lawyers should have arrived today of all days. He picked it up and read it through again.
In the strangely separate language of lawyers, it informed him that the divorce was now absolute, alimony would be paid until such time as his ex-wife, Carol Elizabeth Dexter, nee Lanham, married again, and upon the receipt of his check for $20,000, the deeds of the property known as Casa Nueva, Ocean Avenue, Santa Monica, would pass into his sole ownership. Failing this, the said property would be put on the market and the proceeds split between the two parties in accordance with their original contribution — three-quarters and a quarter. As for the contents of the house, a further check for $5,000 in lieu of his ex-wife’s share would be sufficient. A grand total of $25,000. He could pay it — just. A year last September, on his twenty-first birthday, he had received $40,000 from his grandfather’s will, plus an allowance of $12,000 per annum, and after buying a new car, there was enough left of the lump sum to cover it.
Of course, he would sell the place himself in the near future. Being single again, an apartment mid-city somewhere would suit him better than a house on the north-east fringes of Santa Monica. Being single again. On his own. Suddenly at a loss, feeling disorientated, Jon Dexter gazed around him. The house had never seemed as empty since the day Carol had walked out. Through the open hatch, the lounge furnishings seemed to shout her name at him. She had chosen them, the colour schemes, and arranged their placement, as she had in every room in the small, one-story Spanish-style house. There was, he realised with something of a jolt, nothing at all of him in the place, even after a year of marriage. Nothing.
Abruptly he picked up the second letter with the crest of the Los Angeles Police Department on its heading, instructing him to present himself at the Police Academy, Elysian Park, at 0900 hours. Dexter glanced at his watch. Even allowing for traffic, he had plenty of time to reach downtown L.A. before nine.
He drained the last of the coffee, and stood up, stretching long muscles; a tall, lean man, two inches over six foot, with the rather angular frame that promised heavy muscular development as he grew older. His features were light-boned, looking younger than his twenty-two years, and were saved from being too handsome by the stubbornness of mouth and jaw. His hair was pale flax-blond, of that heavy, fine texture that was able to ignore all attempts to comb it out of its natural way of growth; it fell forward from the crown of his head — he combed it back from his forehead and lost the battle every time. He pushed it back now with a quick, impatient gesture, a frown in his blue eyes, and headed out into the hall, collecting suitcase, jacket, and car keys on the way.
At the front door Dexter paused briefly, checking that he had forgotten nothing, including the note to his cleaning-lady, then climbed into the green Dodge station wagon and switched on the ignition. He had half-hoped his father would have phoned, to maybe say good luck, but after the telephone call of last night, that could only be wishful thinking.
Philip Dexter II, head of Dexter, Dexter & Shaw Associates, had phoned at about eight o’clock, to enquire as to whether his only son had come to his senses and abandoned his childish impulse to become, of all things, a police officer. Had he forgotten that he had been educated, trained, to be an architect, that there was a place waiting for him in the family business? He had managed to drive his wife away with his foolish ideas, but now it was time to grow up, get sensible, and conform, before it was too late. And so on. By the time the third generation of Dexters could get a word in edgeways, his usually slow-to-rise temper was at flashpoint, and he snapped back a curt response in the icy sarcasm that Dexter Senior could hand out, but rarely, if ever, got back. Except from his son. The result was inevitable; another row that left the younger man wanting to smash his fist into the wall in lieu of his parent’s mouth.
An hour later, his mother had phoned, and the black mood evaporated. Eleanor, once Dexter, now Reiland, was the one person who assumed without question that he was doing the right thing according to his own beliefs. And Frank, he acknowledged, listening to his stepfather’s wryly humorous drawl wishing him good hunting. Then his mother’s voice again, gently demanding a day-to-day report on his progress through the Academy and probationary time — or at the very least, a weekly letter, even if it was his usual two-line scrawl. He promised a weekly report, certainly regular phone-calls, then they had rung off. Dexter had replaced the handset and wandered out onto the patio, hands in pockets, and in the stillness of the backyard, among the fruit trees, had re-examined his chosen future. He found no flaws, no doubts.
For over three years he had not known what he had wanted out of life, had been searching without any real clue as to what he was looking for; apart from the knowledge that there were a lot of things wrong with society as a whole, and that he had to make some attempt to adjust it, however small. Put like that, it had sounded both grandiose and trite, but it was something he felt so deeply embedded in blood and bone, there was no way he could ignore it. But he could not make either his father, or Carol, understand, no matter how he tried.
Carol: he had known her for as long as he could remember. They had been born and brought up in the same Bel Air community. Clive Lanham was a golfing crony of his father’s, and her mother, Doris, a lifelong friend of his mother, a friendship not broken by his parent’s divorce when he was fourteen, and Eleanor’s subsequent move to San Francisco as Mrs. Reiland.
It seemed natural and inevitable that he and Carol should marry — sooner than their respective parents had wanted, at eighteen and twenty — but they were both so sure, it was pointless to wait until Carol was twenty-one.
But even after knowing him for so long, Carol could not see why he would not settle into the glittering social life she considered their birth-right, but must throw it away to save the world in a police uniform. It was bad enough, in her opinion, when he was spending his time among the scum of the city doing community-work, but this last step was too much. She was not going to change her life for his crazy ideals, so he had a choice — the uniform or her.
Philip Dexter had been bitterly hurt by what he frequently stated to be his son’s defection from both family duty and tradition, and his own inborn talent — the boy had a gift for line and design, had the creative instinct for the three dimensions, and had walked through Harvard University with little effort. In fact, he had taken on other courses apart from those linked to the family’s concern, and had finished up majoring in Economics, Social Sciences, and Modern Languages, as well as the subjects selected for him. And now was planning on effectively flushing it all down the drain — wasting a fine mind writing traffic tickets.
Dexter swore under his breath, slammed the car into gear, and headed up the short drive, tires screeching on the gravel. Over the last few months he’d heard all about his fine mind, great potential, et cetera, until he was sick of it. It was his life, goddammit, and he’d live it his own way, not as a carbon-copy of his father. He was Jon Dexter, as well as Jonathan Dexter III, he knew what he was doing, and knew it would not be easy. For a start, with his social background he would automatically be labelled a ‘do-gooder’ and was aware of the general contempt held for that label. But like any other problem, it could be overcome. Backgrounds need not be revealed, and there was no reason for anyone to connect him with Dexter, Dexter & Shaw, whose business came mostly from the Beverly Hills, Bel Air, Palos Verdes communities and their like, and all the wealth and social strata it represented.
The challenge took hold of him, starting the adrenaline, and putting the glint of battle into eyes that looked tired and lost.
It was a new day, a new beginning in a new way of life. He’d be damned if he’d bomb out on this one.
Chapter Two
David Vastarnyi walked down the corridor with a jaunty swagger and a set to his shoulders that said ‘move aside.’ He was also wishing he’d taken time to eat more of the breakfast Wei had provided, instead of making do with coffee and a bagel — his stomach had a distinctly empty, sinking sensation which he refused to admit might be of nervous origin. But, Holy Mother, this place looked like an institution of some kind. It even smelt like an institution. Abruptly he caught himself wondering if he was doing the right thing, and stomped on it, hard. When Dave Vastarnyi made a decision, he stuck with it all the way.
His stubbornness was part of his heritage, but it was also very much his own. When you are third generation Hungarian immigrant stock on your father’s side — when your ancestors might have fought with Rakosy, warred with the Turk, the Prussian, and the hated Cossacks, ridden in the last hopeless cavalry charge against Hitler’s tanks — if they hadn’t it was because history and circumstance had conspired to put them somewhere else at the time — when you are the last male Vastarnyi, you walk with a show of at least surface confidence to your own particular destiny. Dressed in washed-out Levi’s, sneakers, a blue tee-shirt with the cartoon character Snoopy emblazoned on the chest, and patchwork denim jacket.
The large lecture-hall was packed with men, nearly a thousand of them, mostly young, of every colour God made, and some perhaps he never intended, every social level, every accent; and all with the same ambition. A voice boomed over the commotion, ordering them into sections by district. David Vastarnyi headed for his, pushing his way to the front, regardless.
“According to height!” A new command. “Tallest guys in the front — anyone over six-three? C’mon, jump to it! Tallest in front, others fall in behind.”
Vastarnyi was a stocky five-ten. He elbowed his way into the front row and stood there, hands in pockets, ignoring his taller neighbours.
The hall echoed with the voices of all nine hundred-odd recruits taking the oath of service as Patrolmen on probation with the Los Angeles Police Department.
Two hours later, with a new uniform, a badge, a gun, and a room-number apiece, they were turned loose to get themselves straightened out, find their way around, and get to know those detailed to join the same classes and share the small, twin-bunked rooms.
Vastarnyi, Angelino born and bred, figured he already knew his surroundings, and he had things to pick up from his room above the hardware store before moving into the room that would be home for the next thirteen weeks. He headed for the parking lot and his motorcycle. It was a Harley Davidson, or had been; by now the manufacturers might have had difficulty recognizing their bastardized child. The machine had been stripped down and tuned up so many times by a succession of enthusiastic owners, each with his own idea of what the bike should look like, that it bore little resemblance to the original model. When Vastarnyi took possession of it, it had just received a new paint-job — remarkable shade of flaring orange. He had changed the chopper handlebars for straight, had put his own finishing touches to the tuning and chrome-work, and the machine had been the one constant love of this life for nearly two years.
He was straddling it, about to kick it into life, when someone called his name.
“Vas! Dave Vastarnyi!”
He turned, a frown slanting down the heavy black brows, but his face lightened into a wide white grin as he recognised the man running towards him.
“Pete! Hey, man, what’re you doin’ here?”
“Same as you, good buddy,” the lean young black said, delighted. “Davie, it’s been years — I never expected to see you after we moved out to Pasadena, especially here! Are you headed somewhere, or can we talk?”
“I was, but it can wait — we’ve got a lot of time to catch up on. Who’re you roomin’ with?”
“Red Carter — you don’t know him. Neither do I, if it comes to that, but he seems like he’s okay. You?”
“Some dude called J.M. Dexter. Ain’t met yet. Climb aboard. Where to, the T-Bar?”
“Yeah! Ain’t been there for God knows how long.”
* * * * * *
The catching-up session was the main reason why, at almost half-after-ten, J. M. Dexter was wondering where his unknown roommate might have got to. He had expected to meet him during the afternoon or evening, when he had met most of the others in his twenty-strong class, but although he knew the name — D.A. Vastarnyi — he had not come upon its owner. Ten-thirty p.m. was curfew-time, a practice that took him back to his boarding-school days, but he was more than ready to turn in at that time, having had a wearing day. The room had two single beds, a study area with bookshelves and desks, and a compact bathroom with a shower. Dexter had unpacked, happily spread his belongings in his own designated section, taken a shower, and climbed into bed with a science-fiction paperback.
It was just 10:29 by his watch when the door slammed back on its hinges, and a denim-clad young man with wildly untidy hair bounded in.
“You’ve cut it kind of fine,” observed Dexter, re-adjusting the black horn-rims he usually wore for reading. Vastarnyi smiled, from the teeth out, taking an immediate dislike to the disapproving, studious face behind the heavy-rimmed glasses.
“I’m a big boy now,” he said, tossing a couple of battered rucksacks on the untenanted bed, and headed for the bathroom. The shower hissed briefly, and Vastarnyi emerged, briskly towelling himself dry. The light over his roommate’s bed was already out, all he could see in the dimness was the pale blond head above a pair of wide shoulders in dark blue pyjamas. Vastarnyi hauled the rucksacks off his bed, dropped them on the floor with a thud, and shoved them under the bed. He’d unpack in the morning. The damp towel was tossed in the general direction of the bathroom door, and he scrambled into bed and put out his light. Then remembered he was hungry and that there was his usual survival kit in one of the rucksacks, and hung out of bed, upside down, fishing in the darkness, muttering in what the exasperated Dexter realised was a language or languages other than English.
“For God’s sake!” He sat up with a jerk and switched on his light. “I’m trying to get to sleep! If you’re going to practise Yoga, go do it in the gym!”
“Ah, shuttup,” Vastarnyi grunted, found his trophy and hauled it out, unfastened the buckles and up-ended it, tipping its contents over the carpet.
“The lights are supposed to be out at 10:30,” Dexter snapped.
“So put it out, if you’re so law-abidin’. Didn’t haveta put it on in the first place.” He found his prize, a nut and raisin candy-bar, and scooped the remaining debris back under his bed.
“No? With you making enough racket over there for the whole of the L.A. Rams?” Dexter retorted. “Have you about done?”
“Yup,” said Vastarnyi, and the light click out. Moments later, seeming magnified in the darkened room, came the rustling of plastic and foil wrapping, and a healthy crunching as the candy bar was disposed of without ceremony.
That brief exchange set the tone of their enforced relationship — both were all-too-clearly aware that they were total opposites and could not get along without friction. Dexter, after the first week, considered asking for a transfer, but hated the idea that his uncouth roommate had succeeded in driving him out. The second week he gritted his teeth and tried to be tolerant. It didn’t work.
They clashed at every turn, and, moreover, Dexter could not understand how the aggressively insolent Vastarnyi, in spite of never studying, spending prep-time sprawled on his bed reading comic books and eating an incredible variety of junk-food, always came in the top 10% in the weekly test papers. Dexter, to achieve a like result, was working his tail off. Vastarnyi was also rarely punctual — late for lectures, scraping in past curfew, and only turning up on time for meals. His scratchpad, instead of lecture-notes, contained many doodled scribbles — the artistic representations were either of a motorcycle, the female form unclothed, and more frequently, unflattering caricatures of lecturers and classmates. In fact, it was a complete mystery as to what Vastarnyi was doing in the Academy, since he showed no interest in police-work whatsoever. This even seemed to be reflected in his person; somehow he avoided the military-style haircut smiled upon by authority, and his dark-brown curls did not appear to be overly familiar with brush or comb, while the grey uniform of blouse and pants was soon reduced to the common state of the rest of his clothing, which, though clean, was rarely tidy. Tidiness, in fact, was not a word in the Vastarnyi vocabulary, as Dexter rapidly found out.
An orderly soul himself, he had periodic clean-ups which Vastarnyi promptly reduced to merry chaos again. The situation was becoming intolerable.
So it was that Vastarnyi came in one evening to find a line of tape delineating two separate areas. Dexter, tight-lipped, said tersely, “That’s your side — this is mine. Just keep your trash to yourself from now on.”
Vastarnyi grinned at him. “What’s up, college-boy? Don’cha like my lifestyle?”
“Your life has no kind of style! And I don’t like living in a pigpen!” Dexter snapped back, unwisely.
“What’y’doin’ here, then?” The grin widened. “Maybe you don’t know what we call the police in the backstreets?”
“Sure I do,” Dexter said, on his mettle. “Fuzz,” and got a hoot of laughter from his opponent.
“Hey, c’mon! Have you been livin’ in a Disney movie? Pigs,” he corrected succinctly, “an’ this is the Pig Processing Plant.”
It was, at least, his private name for the Academy — one of the few printable ones. He was not having an easy time, however it looked to outsiders. But he had not expected it to be easy; though he had expected to be treated like an intelligent, responsible adult, not a moronic reject from a remedial class. He had never liked school, but had gone through junior high and college, working his way through the latter, not from any real love of learning, but because he knew that without education he would get left behind in the attainment race, and, he, Dave Vastarnyi, knew exactly what he was going to do with his life; be a success. A success in what he had not found out until his last vacation from the U.C.L.A., then he knew it was policework — detective squad — solo undercover work out on the streets.
Well, that was the original plan. Now he was wondering about it. The place was full of rules, regulations, procedures, and traditions, that all got together to sit on whatever aspirations you might have started out with and smother them to death. After three weeks, every day of which had been either class-studies, pure theory, and book-law, with only an hour a day given to workouts in gym and on track, his volatile temper was smouldering on a very short fuse. All it needed was a trigger, a focal point for the aggression building up like a head of steam, and it was obvious to a lot of people, if not the two protagonists themselves, that both focal point and trigger could well be Jonathan Dexter.
“Pig Processing Plant?” Dexter repeated scornfully. “That’s just about your mental level, I guess. And you’re the runt that should have been drowned at birth!” he snapped over his shoulder on his way to the bathroom. Vastarnyi glared at the closed door, stalked over and kicked it. He was sensitive about his height, coming from a family of six-footers.
“One of these days, punk!” he yelled, and slammed out of the room to pick an argument with the long-suffering Pete.
Dexter emerged from the bathroom, showered, and wearing pyjamas, and crawled into bed. He was vaguely surprised to see no sign of his roommate’s disapproval of the new décor. Maybe, he thought hopefully, he’d finally got through to the Bohunk. After all, he had enough to contend with, without the added obstacle of a semi-literate, bloody-minded, belligerent, pain in the neck named Vastarnyi — well, okay, he wasn’t semi-literate, but the rest still stood, and it was making Dexter’s life difficult.
He had discovered a vocation while working in the Centres, trying to help drug-addicts, winos, drop-outs of all types; but while there were few people working on the cures, even less were working on prevention. He knew it was of little use to try and break the young kids of the drug-habit — better to strike at the pushers and suppliers, the pimps, the muggers, protection gangs, rapists, and murderers, and so lessen the potential victims. The Police Force was the obvious choice for him, a way of life with a worthwhile goal, a purpose to stick to. If he could stick with the initial training. Theory and discussion were all very well, but surely the place was out on the street, actually doing something constructive.
However, there was something called a Rule Book, and anything not in black and white there-in, was verboten, beyond the pale, and not considered. He would like to tell them what they could do with their Rule Book, sometimes, but he recognised the need for it. It was to keep little backstreet slobs like Vastarnyi in their place.
* * * * * *
The star-lecture of the fourth week was to be given by a Captain of Detectives, a career-man who enjoyed a kind of infamy in the L.A.P.D., having worked in Homicide, Vice, and Narcotics, and chalking up an impressive number of successes. Dexter, reading idly through the introductory notes for the lecture, caught himself wondering why Captain Lorenz hadn’t made it further up the scale. He soon found out.
There were two reasons, the first being that Lorenz liked to keep in touch with his men, not being above joining them on the street if necessary, and sometimes when it was not, for the sheer hell of it; the second reason was that someone up there did not like him or his methods. Lorenz was not orthodox in his approach to his work.
Five minutes into the lecture, Dexter was hooked, his attention riveted on the speaker, an intense, electric figure who delivered his speech with staccato forcefulness, unable to stand still, stalking the platform like a limping tiger, hammering home his points with accurate verbal punches, and colouring the talk with a zany, cynical humour that poked holes in pomposity and made fun of everyone in the system, including himself.
It was a brilliant lecture, though not appreciated as such by all the students, and ran an hour overtime, though no one noticed except the increasingly agitated instructors. Lorenz finally took notice of their signals and wound up, gathering the notes he hadn’t referred to in an untidy bundle.
“– This is the first time I’ve been asked to lecture.” he said grinning down at the cadets. “I guess it’ll be the last. I’ve not told you what they expected; I’ve told you what you’ll find out for yourselves, if you don’t flunk out or go under before you make it. If you make it, some of you are gonna find yourselves in the detective squads — I’d like to think some of you will be good detectives. You won’t get into my squad, because I’m getting kicked upstairs; some turkey did the department a favour when his bullet grazed my knee. But wherever you end up, you’ll learn damn-fast the detective-work isn’t a whit more glamorous than any other job in the Police Department. The whole scene can be boring, tedious, dirty, distressing, sickening, and deadly. It can be the best thing you’ll ever do in your lives, or the worst. You go through Academy, you get the best training available, and at the end of it you come out with pretty uniforms, shiny badges, and heads full of ideals — a lot of ’em may be kinda dented, but they’ll be there. And then you’ll come up against the System in all its glory.”
He leaned forward, and his voice deepened. “Now, if you won’t, or can’t, bend, the System will break you. So bend a little. It’s fairly painless — kind of like losing your virginity; it won’t hurt too much if you don’t fight it. Bend a little — not a lot — and hang on to those ideals. Some of them are illusions, but some are worth having, so brush the crud’n’dust off ’em an’ hold on. Because you’re gonna realise pretty soon that what you’re doing is shovelling shit against the tide, and when you realise that, you’ll do one of three things. You drop out and get out. Or you drift with the tide and do just enough to keep your nose above the surface. Or you keep on shovelling, only faster and harder.”
Jonathan Dexter sat in the hard, uncomfortable chair, a cold shiver creeping up his spine to join with the stunned feeling in his head. The notebook in front of him was blank, his glasses sat forgotten in his pocket, but his brain was spinning. What he had been listening to was the voice of truth and experience, and it had told him more in the last two hours plus than any of the other instructors in the whole of the four preceding weeks. Why were there not more like Lorenz teaching recruits? Why had they waited this long before producing him? Why–? endless stream of questions to be directed at the System.
He paid little attention to the rest of the classes that morning and took the first opportunity after lunch to visit the library with Lorenz’ list of recommended reading from the pre-lecture notes. He was disappointed. Of the seven particular books and case histories he wanted, only two were available. Someone else had checked out the other five, he was told, as soon as the lecture had finished. He put in a request for their reservation and took the two he had been able to get back to his room for the private study period, secure in the knowledge that, for a couple of hours at least, he could study in peace, since his disruptive roommate invariably went missing during this time, though what he did and where he went Dexter neither knew nor cared.
He walked into the room, therefore, not expecting what he found. The floor was littered with books, notes and David Vastarnyi, who was sprawled belly-down in the middle of the mess, scribbling indecipherably in a notebook, his source volume open in front of him, propped against four others. A chili-dog on a paper plate was at his elbow, a can of Coke beside it, and it was the can that Dexter collided with before he could stop himself. The sticky sweet liquid fizzed and foamed in a stream over the notes and Dexter’s suede shoes — he stepped back automatically and trod on the chili-dog.
“What the shit are you playin’ at, punk!” an outraged yell from Vastarnyi as he rolled out of the way and bounced to his feet to confront an equally furious Dexter.
“What am I playing at?” Dexter shook the squashed, repulsive remains of the chili-dog from the sole of his shoe, gazing pained at the smeared suede. “My God, Vastarnyi, hasn’t anyone told you what a chair is for? And those desks over there aren’t part of the décor!” The other shoe, liberally stained with Coke, was treated to the same unhappy examination.
“Listen, I don’t interrupt your readin’ –”
“You were reading?” Dexter cut in amazed. “Gee, I didn’t know you could. All the literature I’ve seen in your hands hasn’t been more complicated than Howard the Duck! For Christ’s sake, get this mess cleaned up –”
“You caused it, you clean it up!” Vastarnyi yelled, “Or don’cha want to get your lily-white hands loused up?” He snatched up a book and notepad and headed for the door. “You’re in the wrong business — you should be modelin’ fashions, or auditioning for the next Doris Day movie!” and slammed the door in Dexter’s furious face.
He stood there for a moment, clenching fists and teeth in his anger before picking up the rest of the books. They were four of the ones he’d wanted. He did not need to guess that the fifth was in Vastarnyi’s hands right now.
Out of curiosity he began to leaf through the notes, but apparently the Bohunk wrote in a private form of shorthand, or maybe it was Sanskrit. Either way, it was completely indecipherable to Dexter. Written in water-and-Coke-proof ball-point, they should dry out okay; he spread them on one of the desks, mopped up the spill on the carpet; disposed of the unspeakable remains of the chili-dog, and with cool decisiveness resolved to put the ghetto-trash right where it belonged. He had tried to get along, tried to be tolerant; not everyone started off with the advantages he’d had. But he’d reached his limit, and the oblique but offensive reference to his blond good-looks — the latest of many — was the last straw. He didn’t like his own face much, but he’d be damned if anyone else was going to insult it. So Vastarnyi would be taught a lesson. But how and where?
How was easy, but the where not quite so. Other disputes between individuals had been settled in the gym, but Dexter did not want the inevitable audience. It wasn’t fear of losing — simply the desire to smear the punk kid without some philanthropist stepping in to save the creep from the ignominious defeat that was going to be inflicted on him.
Dexter considered the problem, eliminating idea after idea, until hit upon the perfect solution. The cypress grove at the far north end of the Academy grounds was almost always deserted in the evening, and would provide the ideal site, being secluded and invisible from the buildings. Dexter could take Vastarnyi apart there at his leisure.
He had no doubt that his challenge would be accepted, as it was, instantly. Although the response to his curt “I’ll meet you in the cypress grove at eight” was an unexpected lopsided grin and a quirk of the eyebrows, and a drawl of “this is so sudden. I didn’t know you cared, sweetness.”
Dexter could feel himself colouring up, the easy flush that was the curse of the light-complexioned. “Be there,” he said tightly.
“I never stand up a date,” Vastarnyi smiled, but the blue eyes were glacial. “Don’t you be late, huh?” And he turned away, back to the interrupted poker game with Pete Vickers.
Pete glanced up at him shrewdly, but Vastarnyi’s expression told him nothing. “Thought you already had a date tonight?” he hazarded, curious.
“I have,” Vastarnyi said, eyes on his cards.
“Yeah? Only now it’s with our Society play-boy?” Pete chuckled. It had not taken long for word to somehow get round that the tall blond cadet was the scion of Dexter, Dexter & Shaw, Associates.
“Yeah. He may ask me to wear his ring,” and spread out a royal flush led by a king that Pete could have sworn was in the pack. He shrugged, tossed his own cards down.
“I hope you’ll be very happy together. Which one of you’s the bride?”
“Not me, pal, I’m the best man,” Vastarnyi smiled mirthlessly.
“Sure. Remind me to tell him not to play poker with you. Hey, can I come along and throw rice?”
“No. You keep out of it. This is strictly between him an’ me, an’ any spectators will need surgery. Got it?”
“I can take a hint.”
“Fine. So you stay away — and keep your mouth shut.” He knew, though Pete did not know he knew, that the black cadet was running a book on the rivalry between himself and his roommate, the primary bets being on who would be in hospital first. Vastarnyi didn’t mind being bet on; he’d known Pete since early childhood — he was one of the few who had risen out of the ghetto area of Palmetto and Seaton, like Vastarnyi himself — and Pete had always been a gambler, prone to bet on which fly would settle first if there was nothing better. If the coming evening did not settle things, unlikely though that was, he’d even place a few bets himself, just for the hell of it. But his money was pretty safe. By the time he’d finished with that chorus-line reject, the creep would be a stretcher-case. Though he’d have to careful not to damage him too much; it would be stupid to risk his career merely for the pleasure of re-arranging those stupid blond features.
Chapter Three
Dexter sat beneath the cypress, gazing up at the sweeping branches that spread over him like a benediction, breathed in the tree-scented air, and contemplated the approaching battle. He’d seen the Vastarnyi’s fighting style in the gym workouts; a kind of bastardized version of a combined judo and karate and was confident on handling it easily enough. At Harvard he had taken both disciplines, and while he was not black belt standard, he had no doubts that his knowledge of the orthodox methods would defeat Vastarnyi’s technique.
He glanced at his watch; it was one minute before the hour and there was no sign of the Hungarian. He might have known the backstreet hoodlum wouldn’t show. Shouldn’t have expected any different –
“You’re early.” The drawl was quiet, but deadly. Dexter looked up. Vastarnyi was standing, hands in pockets, and he was smiling in the late sunlight, a look of almost eager anticipation on his face.
“You’re late,” he said curtly. Vastarnyi strolled forward.
“I’m here. It’s eight o’clock. Now what?” he did not wait for an answer, continuing immediately; “You reckon you can cream me? You’ve been wanting to for quite a while, but you’ve not had the chance. Now you’ve got it.” The smile vanished. “You’re not the first to try it. So go ahead. Try.”
Dexter swallowed a knot of sheer annoyance.
“Rules?” he said. “You name them.”
“No eye-gougin’ an’ bitin’,” Vastarnyi studied him thoughtfully. “Otherwise, no holds barred.”
“Christ!” Dexter stared at him. “Where the hell did you learn to fight?”
“The backstreets, Mary Poppins, where else?” and attacked on the last word with a lightning-fast pivot on his right leg, the left snapping out and up in a chest-high kick that, if it had connected, would have knocked Dexter off his feet. As it was, he barely managed to deflect it, collecting a numbing blow to the forearm, and countered with a hard left cross. But his knuckles only grazed Vastarnyi’s cheekbone as the hated face swayed back out of reach. Then was deflecting short, vicious chops and another raking kick. In self-defence he used some of his own skills, finding it curiously hard to pit the formally learned and exercised moves in actual combat against the wildly unorthodox enemy. Then it was in-fighting, and both men threw any pretence of skill to the winds and succumbed to the primitive urge to inflict as much damage to the other regardless of the punishment taken; knees, elbows, fists, and no science.
They were evenly matched in weight, both being 175 lbs, and Dexter’s extra height and reach was nullified by Vastarnyi’s speed and agility; neither could get a straight advantage. Both were sweating heavily, breathing hard; but Vastarnyi, Dexter saw in amazement, was laughing. From sheer exuberant exhilaration.
“Can’t you take anything seriously?” he yelled in breathless outrage before he thought.
“You’re something else, Dexter! Want to quit while you can?”
“Like hell,” he growled “try this for size,” and tried a snap-kick of his own. It landed in a glancing blow, and he waded in on his reeling opponent.
But the advantage was momentary. He wasn’t getting anywhere; they were too much of a match for each other — but he would not acknowledge the fact that he could not win.
Neither would Vastarnyi, whose laughter did not last more than a few seconds. Breath was too valuable to waste, and he had to find a way to put the blond punk down and make him stay down.
* * * * * *
Andy Scott and Gus Doran were two of the retired police officers who had chosen to become security groundsmen for the Academy, an often dull job that had its compensations. They came upon the Battle Royal in the course of their evening patrol at 8.30, and stopped in their tracks, out of earshot, but with a good view of events.
“Hey,” said Doran. “That’s the Coffee-Break kid, ain’t it? The Dawn Patrol?”
Scott nodded, grinning. They had handed Vastarnyi those nicknames, having come to know him during the last four weeks since he was to be found every morning, between five and seven, with an armful of textbooks, studying in the solitude of the tree-lined perimeter. They had got into the habit of sharing their coffee-break, at six-fifteen, with him, and he was always ready to hear police work from their point of view as opposed to the instructors’.
“Yeah. And the blond must be his roommate. The one that snores.”
“Look pretty fit. Five bucks he’ll put the Kid on the floor.”
“Ten the Kid smears him,” Scott said. “Hey, nice one, son. And again. Ruffle his hair for him!”
They stood and watched with ribald appreciation, but the rooting, the increasing bets, came to a gradual silence. Finally, Doran said quietly, “Let’s break it up.”
“Yeah,” Scott agreed. “Before they kill themselves.”
It was 9:15, and both combatants were very much the worse for wear; out on their feet, but refusing to admit it and give the other the victory. It was a simple matter to step between them, and Scott caught Vastarnyi’s shoulders as he lunged blindly at the adversary he could no longer see.
“Okay, Kid. All over.”
“Take it easy, son. You’re about through,” said Doran to a Dexter in the same condition.
They had fought themselves to a standstill; it was a complete stalemate, and, deprived of the momentum that had kept them on their feet and fighting, collapse was inevitable, and the security team had a problem on their hands.
“Now what?” Doran propped Dexter against the tree behind him. “If we leave ’em here, they’ll just start in all over again soon’s they get their wind.”
“Yeah, and curfew’s in about an hour. They could well be for the high jump over this, but how ’bout givin’ them some first-aid, gettin’ them back to their room, and lettin’ them sleep it off? By Monday the worst of the bruises should be on the way out, and with any luck there won’t be too many official questions asked.”
“Good thinking,” Scott grinned. “Jesus! What a pair of paint-jobs! What the bettin’ their own mothers wouldn’t know ’em?”
* * * * * *
Dexter surfaced sluggishly out of a sleep so heavy it might have been drugged. He was uncomfortably aware that the surface beneath him, instead of the smoothness of linen, was gritty and abrasive on his aching body, like sandpaper to his bruises. He opened his eyes and experienced a minute of total disorientation. He was in bed, but not his own bed. It was in the wrong place. Unwisely he sat up, abruptly; and groaned, clutching his head.
The fight. Judas Priest, he’d got a pasting — he must have done, because he could not remember winning, and briefly, that hurt more than all his physical pains put together. Then again, he couldn’t remember losing, either. But maybe he wouldn’t remember that?
A moment of panic when he caught sight of his watch was averted when he recalled it was Saturday, so no classes. Carefully, and with painful awkwardness, he climbed out of bed; Vastarnyi’s bed, he realised, having got his bearings. Which also explained the gritty bits; cookie crumbs.
Slowly Dexter straightened his back and hobbled for the bathroom, and there discovered a minor miracle. For the first time in many days he was able to have the luxury of first shower and dry towels, but was in no condition to appreciate it. Even the light beat of water on his skin was an agony to be endured with gritted teeth.
But after a while he felt the benefit as the hot water loosened up stiff muscles, and moved over to inspect himself in the shaving mirror. It showed his injuries to be spectacularly colourful, but nothing serious, as far as he could tell. He checked for loose teeth; all were present and correct, but he could not get his right eye open more than a slit.
Again he wondered about the outcome of the fight. Someone had put him to bed — the wrong bed, which made him doubt that Vastarnyi had been the victor, now he came to think of it, because the Bohunk would undoubtedly let him lie, wouldn’t have hauled him back here. Knotting a towel round his hips he padded back into the room, leaned over the body in his bed, and felt smug satisfaction. If looks were anything to go by, Vastarnyi was in a marginally worse state than himself.
Someone knocked on the door, and he hesitated before limping over to open it, wondering if it was a summons to explain last night’s happenings to higher authority, and realising for the first time the consequences he could face. But by the time he got there, the corridor was empty of people. On the threshold, however, was a plastic bag containing two icebags and a note that stated succinctly enough, “It was a draw.”
He read it aloud, slightly stunned, and from his bed came a groan of, “Wha’?” then, “Christ! I can’t see!”
In spite of himself, Dexter gave a snort of laughter, crossed to the bed and hooked out one of the icepacks.
“This’ll take the swelling down some,” he said, and relished the full-throated howl of anguish as he applied it to the puffy discoloration of Vastarnyi’s eyes and cheekbones. “I’ll put your name down for a Seeing Eye Dog right after I get dressed.”
“Thanks a bunch. I’ll train it to feed on Society blondes,” he mumbled, kicked off the covers and clutched at the icepack, subsiding with a moan.
With a feeling approaching pride, Dexter surveyed the damage he’d done. Some of his best chops and punches had landed right on target, leaving large areas of bruising on Vastarnyi’s upper body and arms. But nothing he had done had succeeded in putting the smaller man down for more than a few seconds.
“You’re a stubborn bastard, aren’t you?” he said quietly, a smile beginning on his split lips. Right now he almost liked the creep for his courage, his fierce pride; could respect and admire the tenacity and stubborn endurance that would not admit defeat.
“Come from a long line of ’em.” Vastarnyi probed thoughtfully at a tooth that didn’t feel as secure as it might. “‘Course, some guys are too dumb to know when they’re beat. Guess it goes with the plat’num hair.” But there was no venom in his voice.
War had been declared, and if the first open battle was a stalemate, they had, at least, learned respect for the enemy, and could skirmish in the open. Paradoxically, they got along better for it in some ways. Rivalry can be a healthy thing, and how they began to compete with each other in every field available.
Dexter never knew how Vastarnyi explained away the bruises that, by Monday morning, were fading but still visible. He himself brushed aside queries from friends and instructors with his best choirboy smile, and a long, involved story about a shoe-lace not tied and a trip into a chair which over-turned. But most of his class-mates added two and two together on getting a look at Vastarnyi’s Technicolor features, and Pete Vickers experienced a small gold-rush in the way of bets that next time one or both would end up in hospital.
It was inevitable that the physical training instructor, Officer Martin Nilson, known familiarly as the Lamb, would discover first that the snarling dislike had turned to open combat. In one way it amused him; two opposites like these being roomed together by some bureaucratic toss of the dice. On the other hand, it got up his nose. Before he put a decisive stop to it, they were using his P.T. classes to score off each other, with the rest of the class as fascinated audience, which was not good for discipline. He had nothing against either of the cadets. In fact, after their first confrontation, he had formed a grudging admiration for Vastarnyi, something he rarely extended to any of his trainees, and never showed at all. He was known as the Lamb for his soft-spoken manner and mild temper, both of which gave added bite to a remarkable gift for ego-crushing invective. That first session, he had stood, hands on hips, looking at the latest group of cadets with the expression of every top-sergeant faced with new recruits since man first organised himself into war-bands. Revulsion and a deep contempt.
“You want to be policemen in Los Angeles?” he said, disbelief patent. “You aren’t fit to wash police cars, let alone drive ’em. And I’m supposed to get you into some kind of shape in thirteen weeks? Oy yeh!” The Lamb wasn’t Jewish but had lived in Little Venice for all of his forty-odd years, and had picked up some of the dialect. Nor was his disgust deserved. To get this far, each cadet had to qualify physically in a stiff test, as well as academically. But the Lamb had something to teach, and believed in teaching the hard way. “Okay. Is there one of you over-fed goy cream puffs who reckons he can show me anything? Huh?” No one moved. The Lamb’s eyes moved disparagingly over them, fastened on Vastarnyi, a slouching, untidy figure with the suspicion of a smile on his mouth.
“You,” said the Lamb. “Yes, you. Out here.”
Vastarnyi raised one eyebrow and strolled forward willingly enough.
“Sir?” he queried.
“You a Chicano? Or what?”
“Hungarian. Sir.” Vastarnyi gave him a white, mirthless smile.
“Okay, Bohunk. Square up. C’mon, straighten up. Shoulders back, suck your gut in, tighten up your ass. You look like you was assembled in pieces.” Vastarnyi obeyed. “That’s better.” But the cadet’s lips were set in a thin angry line, and there was a steely glitter in his eyes. The Lamb smiled on him, lovingly. “Now, I guess you reckon you can handle yourself, huh, Bohunk?”
“I don’t throw it around. Sir.”
“No? Well, start now. You’re gonna attack me.”
“Attack you? Sir?” The blue eyes widened; Vastarnyi looked mildly horrified.
“Yeah. Don’cha savvy English? You want I should put it in picture-writin’? C’mon, dummy, attack-”
The last word was not out when Vastarnyi hit him, and not with the expected fist, but felling him with a beautifully timed high-kick to the jaw that owed more to Karate than anything else. The Lamb was down and out in seconds flat.
As the assistant crouched to revive his superior, Vastarnyi turned to his classmates.
“Lesson One,” he said brightly. “Always expect the unexpected–” broke off and started to turn, sensing the Lamb’s silent approach, but too late to entirely avoid the chops to the back of his neck and kidneys. Gasping and stunned, he half-stumbled to his knees, holding himself upright by clutching at Pete Vickers.
“Lesson Two,” said the Lamb, grimly. “Never turn your back on a guy you’ve put down until you’ve got your cuffs on him. Or you’ve blown his skull apart. On your feet!” Noting the unabashed grin and giving him due credit for it. “Got any more surprises, smart-ass? D’you know Savate? Judo?”
“Some, sir.” Vastarnyi grinned, standing free of Pete and balancing himself, but the Lamb knew a natural when he saw one, and passed on to the lesson proper.
Over the next few sessions they reached a tacit agreement not to smear each other too frequently, and Vastarnyi learned to channel most of his frustrations, work off a lot of his inborn aggression, and after a while, not to antagonize the Lamb. Because the Lamb, once he had got the measure of his opponent, could and did wipe the floor with him. For Dexter he had a different kind of respect, given for the young man’s willingness to work himself into the ground, and learn without rancor from his mistakes. Dexter he could handle with one hand tied behind his back, but there was a steel core to the blond kid, and he knew it would be only a matter of time before he forgot his manners and formal karate, would mix-it with the best of them, and fight as dirty as the Vastarnyi.
But the Lamb was the only one who could handle Vastarnyi of the many — pre-Dexter — who had tried, having been teamed against him. Dexter, however, had not been so teamed. That, the Lamb had seen at the start, would be asking for trouble. Doubly so now, with them both sporting battle trophies, and he made sure they did not come into direct combat under his aegis.
But they scored off each other in other areas, principally on the target range which was out of the Lamb’s jurisdiction and under the control of Sergeant Morris ‘Shark’ Solberg. The instructor discovered that Vastarnyi was able to make his classmates look like kids with zip-guns, admitted learning to use a handgun in his early teens, and being the type that worked at a skill until it achieved perfection and then worked some more, his prowess with a revolver was phenomenal. Dexter was one of his close rivals, since he fancied himself as a marksman, but he could not match Vastarnyi. With a rifle it was a different story. Dexter had a cool deliberation and concentration with the high-powered weapon, and marginally outclassed the Hungarian.
So the score was level between them, and Pete was hiding the collected stake money under Red Carter’s mattress as well as his own.
* * * * * *
Then came the Lamb’s endurance test. He’d had them running laps of the track daily, pacing them and bawling comments that made most of them blush, hardened though they thought themselves. After five weeks of driving on his part, and low-voiced but vociferous complaints on the part of his victims, he explained it to them.
“Okay, I run you hard. I’m training police officers not track-stars, so I don’t ask for the four minute mile, but I do ask — demand! — endurance.” He glared around the class, fixing them with basilisk eyes. “Because that’s what’s gonna save your skins. I can’t teach you proper self-defence in thirteen weeks, but, by God, when you walk out of here, you’ll at least be able to outlast the bastards. So now we’re gonna get on that track and see just how long you can last.”
After twenty laps Vastarnyi was concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and keeping pace with Dexter, who was a few yards ahead and still going like an antelope, matching strides with the Lamb who was encouraging him with comments on his fitness and general condition that were insulting, untrue, and designed to goad the trainee that little bit further along the track than he might otherwise have managed. Vastarnyi, his eyes stinging and blind with sweat, a tight, burning constriction in his chest and the sour taste of bile at the back of his throat, lurched on, every step jarring him clear to the skull. He no longer knew how many of the class remained on the track, had lost count of the number of laps, but he wasn’t about to give up. Not yet. Not while that damnable blond head was still up in front of him. When Dexter dropped, then he’d pull up. Half a lap on.
Dexter knew he was ahead, or the Lamb wouldn’t be pacing him. He thought he’d gone thirty laps now; and wondered how many more he could do. A glance over his shoulder had shown him five men still in the field, one of whom was Vastarnyi, face contorted with agony as he pushed himself beyond the limits of endurance. He knew that Vastarnyi was running against him; and also against his own failings, that he’d die before he gave up, unless his own body betrayed his intentions. But Dexter had neither the time nor the energy to worry about his roommate. He was too involved with his own problems.
He never saw the incident behind him when one of his pursuit-pack went down writhing with cramp, and caused a small pile up as the rest, too close to avoid the body, stumbled over it and went down too. Vastarnyi was one of them, and once down could not regain his feet. His legs no longer seemed to belong to him, would not answer his need to rise, so he dragged himself to the side of the track, lay there, one arm across his eyes, his tortured muscles twitching spasmodically. He felt sick and giddy and violently disappointed. He had failed, even if he had outlasted the majority of the others. Dexter was still running.
Dexter was suddenly aware he was running alone, without the whiplash voice pushing him on, and discovered that the Lamb had dropped back to sort out a tangle of limbs behind, that he no longer had a pursuit. He ran on perhaps another hundred yards before he pulled up, turned and walked back. The Lamb gave him a brief approving glance, then devoted his attention to the retching Crocker. Dexter walked past Vastarnyi, walked into the changing room, and there could no longer hold control. His legs folded under him, pitching him in a semi-conscious sprawl on the cold tiled floor.
Vickers coined it in after that. Few of the cadets had guessed that their Society-boy colleague could even hold on for the usual twenty-odd laps, let alone lead the field completely. Vastarnyi had been one of the favourites, along with Ross, Somers and Carter, three good athletes. Pete had happily shortened his friend’s odds to 5 to 1 on, and rated Dexter as a 13 to 1 outsider — he made an easy hundred on the test, and prepared for a further killing on the Survival Course.
* * * * * *
The Survival Course was a voluntary thing midway through the training, and it covered six days of what would otherwise have been a long-weekend vacation. It was said that only suckers and masochists volunteered for it; certainly, when the instructor looked at his charges, he shook his head in pitying wonder. They weren’t to know he did that every time.
Rumours had been flying wildly around that the field-test would be held in Death Valley, which none of the candidates believed — or pretended not to believe while praying fervently that it wasn’t. In fact they were shipped north, to Santa Maria, and dumped in the Sierra Madre Mountains, not far from the 5,845 ft. McPherson Peak. From there, it was little more than a three-day orienteering test, with no real danger as long as elementary care was taken. And if you couldn’t survive that, you weren’t likely to survive anything. So Dexter told himself, cockily confident with the training of an Eagle Scout behind him, sure that he’d meet up with nothing he couldn’t handle.
Orienteering was fine. It was even fun. So was living rough — it was going back to his boyhood and Scout-camps and hiking through the woods around the Reiland summer house outside of San Francisco. Dexter was enjoying himself so thoroughly he made an elementary mistake and walked straight into a bog, was up to his knees instantly and sinking fast. Panicking hadn’t helped; he was waist-deep in the ooze, yelling for help and not expecting any, when a figure came crashing through the undergrowth to stop dead when he saw what had happened.
But the pause was fractional; armfuls of brush and branches were scrabbled together to make a raft for the rescuer’s weight, while he gave a running commentary on a movie he’d seen — Errol Flynn had used the same trick. “Kind of neat, huh?” Dexter, the mud lapping at his chin, said nothing, and did his best not clutch convulsively at Vastarnyi when he crawled out to him. Somehow the smaller man got hold of him under the armpits, and with great difficulty heaved him out of danger and onto the spread brushwood. Slowly they inched back to firm ground, and there Dexter went limp, drawing deep breaths into his lungs.
“You okay?” Vastarnyi said quietly.
“Yeah,” he said after a while. “Thanks, Vastarnyi.”
“Don’t get me wrong, pal,” came the aggressive reply. “I didn’t want to have to break in a new roommate, is all. Besides, you get wasted, I’m suspect number one in all the books, and books are what they go by in the Processin’ Plant. See you around.”
* * * * * *
At the first stream he came to, Dexter stripped off, washed the filth from body and clothing, then continued on his way cautiously, but with only half his mind concentrating on the immediate task in hand. The other half was steeling itself to face the inevitable hooraw he’d get when he reached the finishing point, building up an armour against the sneers and jibes that would be coming his way, and late on in the next day, he entered the small cluster of campers and made for the man with the clipboard.
“Dexter,” the officer said, marking off his name. “You made good time. Go get yourself some coffee — chuck-wagon’s over there.”
He headed for the mobile canteen, joined the group at the counter and was served coffee. They were swapping notes and horror stories; Pete Vickers relating a dramatic episode where he had been stabbed in the leg by a splintered stick and thought for a moment he’d been bitten by a snake. Vastarnyi obligingly checked the kinked black hair for strands of white, claimed to find some, and prepared to hand-scalp his friend. Carter forestalled the brawl by announcing he hadn’t been bitten by a snake — he had bitten it. In awed fascination they all listened as he described killing and roasting a rattlesnake. He was, he said modestly, quarter-Crow, an’ that was the way Grandpop always said he did it. No one mentioned swamps, and society play-boys who weren’t safe outside of their back-yard tennis-courts, and Dexter slowly realised that Vastarnyi hadn’t broadcast it, that no one knew. It was ideal score-material, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to put Dexter down so far he’d never climb up, but he hadn’t used it.
The incident, as far as anyone else was concerned, had never happened. Nor did Vastarnyi refer to it, even in the privacy of their shared room.
So Pete cashed in again, since his punters had expected Dexter to flunk out in the Survival game, and the odds had been 20 to 1 against him finishing the course. It was, Vastarnyi considered, as he tucked the ten ten-dollar bills into his hip-pocket, the easiest hundred he’d made in a long while. In fact he was the only one to put money on the Dexter’s nose, and was so full of himself, so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed after what he referred to as his quiet country weekend, that the Lamb found it necessary to take him firmly in hand the next workout session, and when the Lamb took anyone in hand it meant that the victim ended the bout thoroughly deflated and submissive. Vastarnyi was no exception to the rule; was so cockily bumptious that he underestimated one of the Lamb’s finest and went down in a crumpled heap, out to the wide, surprising the Lamb, who had expected him to dodge and retaliate. However, after he was revived, he was subdued enough to satisfy the instructor. Vastarnyi, he thought, had learned his lesson, would keep his nose clean, and not hunt trouble. Which only goes to show that even those who have the intuitive gift of understanding their fellows, like the Lamb, can be wrong occasionally.
* * * * * *
Dexter was in the locker-room, having showered and changed back into uniform, and was just packing his kit away when he realised he wasn’t alone. He glanced up, questioningly, and met hostile eyes.
“We’re two hundred bucks down because of you,” said Harlow, spokesman for his six comrades. “Guess you could say we’re sore losers — especially when it’s the pocketbook that’s hurt. So we reckon on collecting interest, and we’re gonna take it out of your skin, Shirley Temple.”
Cornered, Dexter calculated his chances, not listening to sneering insults, concentrating on holding down his temper and waiting for an opening to take the initiative. He wasn’t going to run, not from creeps like Harlow, but at those odds he wasn’t going to come out of it without something broken. Insults he was used to; he’d been hazed at various times from kindergarten up to Harvard, either about his looks or accent or background. He’d learned to take it, but he never liked it, and he didn’t like it any better now, and saw no reason why he should take it for much longer. Before long they’d get tired of throwing insults and throwing punches; he tensed himself, ready to counter the first move.
“Unimaginative.” A new voice. “Worse, incorrect. Society playboy, fink, creep, sure. Tailor’s dummy, okay. But yellow-bellied cream puff? Hey, c’mon, Harlow, you can do better than that.” Everyone looked at the newcomer; David Vastarnyi, leaning against the door-jamb with an expression that said he’d been there some time, was smiling at them, a quietly amused smile that did not go anywhere near the cold blue eyes. The Lamb’s bruise darkened the point of his jaw, but he looked anything but subdued.
“Stay out of this, Vastarnyi,” Harlow snapped.
“You mean you can’t think of anythin’ more appropriate without inventin’ it? What the hell they teach these guys in school these days? Ain’t got no education. Well, if you can’t, you can’t, I guess. So just apologise for the cream puff, huh, an’ we’ll call it quits.”
“What’s it to you what I call him?” Harlow challenged; he had barely made the passing grade on the academic side, scraping into the Academy on his Army background. Vastarnyi straightened up.
“It’s just that I happen to room with the blond bombshell,” he said with a wide-eyed choirboy innocence, “an’ you callin’ him a cream puff kind of casts aspersions on my masculinity, indirectly. So I figure you’d better apologise nicely. Or maybe you’d like me to underline it some — like with a fist?”
“Maybe we got a pair of ’em here,” Harlow sneered, secure in his superior force. “The Odd Couple — Beauty and the Beast. C’mon, Dexter, your Bohunk boyfriend’s earned himself a real big thank-you kiss, buyin’ in on your side, so how about deliverin’? Hey, what do you do that turns him on?”
Enough was enough, Vastarnyi decided, and kicked Harlow in the teeth. At the same time Dexter lost control of his temper and waded into the group behind the leader. With both of them fighting in cold-blooded fury, odds of seven to two were as nothing. The flying fists and feet were just as devastatingly effective outside the gym, and though it cost them a split lip, a cut eyebrow, and assorted scrapes and bruises, Vastarnyi and Dexter won their war, routing the opposition.
Dabbing with a wet handkerchief at the rapidly swelling right eyebrow, Dexter regarded the damage morosely in the washroom mirror. It stung, but what rankled more was that he needed help, and that Vastarnyi of all people had provided it.
“I can fight my own battles,” he growled.
Vastarnyi, holding bruised knuckles under the cold stream of water from the faucet with an expression of concentrated anguish, gave him a long hard look. “Sure you can. So can I, if it comes to that. But some odds are kinda high an’ I’m not suicidal. When they’d finished you off, they’d’ve gone huntin’ for me. This way we’ve stymied them. So now tell me to stuff my help.” Dexter glared at him.
“Okay!” he yelled. “Stuff it!”
Vastarnyi astounded him then, by giving a wide, delighted, genuine grin.
“Maybe I will,” he said. “But don’t tell me where or Harlow will get ideas again, an’ I’ll have to readjust his thinkin’. Again. It could get kinda tedious.”
Chapter Four
For all his faults, no one had ever accused Dexter of lacking a sense of humour. He had one all right, the visual kind that would suddenly show him the ridiculous aspect of a situation and ambush him with laughter. It didn’t take long for him to see the funny side of the locker room incident once his resentment had cooled off. Grown men trotting out insults like kids in third grade! Vastarnyi had passed over them all, except one, with an expression on his face that made Dexter yearn in retrospect for a camera.
At 10:30 he put himself to bed and religiously switched out the light. Vastarnyi was still absent, shaving the curfew again. Dexter stifled a snicker as the door banged open and shut, and his roommate dived for the bathroom, shedding clothes as he went. He showered in frantic haste, dried himself sketchily, and shot into bed as a tap sounded on the door and it opened on the darkened room.
“Dexter? Vastarnyi?” the officer’s voice said.
“Yeah,” they grunted in chorus, and the door closed; too many cadets had been jumping curfew, so of late patrols had been made after lights-out, and any recruits caught out of bed, fully-clothed, or with the lights on, were carpeted. Vastarnyi had not been caught out, yet.
Silence settled over the dark room, and Dexter lay grinning inanely at the ceiling, while the moon moved across the sky and put a swathe of white light along the strip of tape between their areas. The memory of that moment before the fight popped unbidden into Dexter’s mind; the expression of angelic purity on the gypsy features, and that jewel of a phrase ‘kind of casts aspersions in my masculinity’ all combined in a bubble of laughter that rose in his throat and threatened to choke him. He rolled over and smothered it in his pillow, but it escaped as a snort, and he disguised it by swiftly clearing his throat, and saying, “Vastarnyi.”
“Yeah?” an evil sounding growl.
“Just thinking. What kind of name is that?”
“Hungarian!” came the snarl, and Dexter decided to get the needle in, just for the hell of it.
“Yeah? You sure about that? I mean, it could be Russian, couldn’t it? You got Cossack blood, Vastarnyi?”
“No! I said Hungarian!”
“Oh sure. Keep your cool. I’m not casting aspersions –” he fought down a snicker and lost, ” — on your nationality. We’re all American these days; I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t rooming with a third-rate fugitive from the Steppes, is all,” and got a muffled snarl that sounded more canine than human. “All I got is a third-rate fugitive from hard work. G’night, Bohunk.”
One hundred and seventy pounds of infuriated Bohunk, goaded past endurance, landed on him and hauled him bodily from his bed with a strangle-hold on the collar of his pyjama jacket. Vastarnyi might be four inches shorter, but he made up for it in sheer belligerence. Dexter, half-throttled and unable to get a grip on his adversary since Vastarnyi wore no pyjamas to grab, and moreover, was still damp of skin from his late shower, finally managed to hook a foot behind his knee, tripping him backward and falling with him.
They landed hard, Vastarnyi underneath, receiving Dexter’s weight solidly on his midriff, and responding with an explosive “Ooff!” as the breath was forced from his lungs.
A hand clamped over his mouth; Dexter, finger on lips, said desperately, “Ssshh!”
For an incredulous few seconds, they stared at each other, nose to nose in the moonlight. Then Vastarnyi began to shake with helpless laughter that was, of necessity, smothered into near silence. It was contagious. Admonishing each other with hysterical hisses of ‘ssshh!’ every time the hilarity reached a dangerous decibel level, they crawled back to their respective beds and collapsed, holding aching sides and howling into their pillows.
* * * * * *
Shared laughter is a natural enemy of hate. It is close cousin to love and the brother of friendship. Vastarnyi revised his opinion of his roommate, and promptly decided to test the new aspect of their relationship by making Dexter the butt of a series of practical jokes. These ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous, from the hoary classics like apple-pie beds and booby-trapped doors, to door-knobs and drawer handles that came off in his hands and/or were covered in syrup, and all the buttons removed from his uniform. Dexter replied in kind as best he could, discovering that the Hungarian’s crazy sense of humour struck an answering chord of ridiculousness within himself, but could not match Vastarnyi’s remarkable inventiveness, or deviousness. Only the button-joke strained Dexter’s patience somewhat, as he was totally ham-fisted with a needle and thread, and Vastarnyi awarded him the accolade of piling on the agony even more, with efforts that were so intricate they sometimes backfired on their architect.
They still loathed each other, and in one area only they did not trespass. By unspoken consent neither of them singled out the other for public humiliation, keeping this newest battlefield strictly private. Subconsciously perhaps, they knew they needed this area as a safety valve, a way of letting off steam generated by the increasing mental and physical pressures exerted by the instructors.
The course was drawing to a close, mistakes were no longer tolerated, and cardinal errors were dealt with by the use of biting scorn that was in itself a test of character. Vastarnyi blotted his copybook a couple of times by arguing back when he was convinced he was right, until he learned to imitate Dexter’s stony-faced silence under the tongue-lashing. But when he knew he was wrong, depending on the instructor involved, he was liable to pantomime abject repentance and the return of the humble Prodigal, begging for forgiveness, and reducing the class to helplessness. But not many would tolerate it, though the wiser among the instructors were aware that every group needs a clown for light relief, and the release of tension that might otherwise turn sour.
Already a number of disillusioned recruits had dropped out of the total intake. Vastarnyi was not going to be one of them, however, in spite of bombing out spectacularly in the one area the Lamb and Solberg expected him to excel, the team practice. This was a set-up of a series of dangerous situations which the trainees would be faced with out in the streets. Vastarnyi was usually teamed with Pete Vickers, but both were individualists, natural loners, and found it impossible to achieve the rapport essential for the team to work in the field.
The practice became a shambles, with Vastarnyi very thoroughly killed ‘several’ times over, simply because he had disagreed with his partner’s methods and tried to go it his own way. The two instructors gave him a royal bawling-out, holding him up as a prime example of what-not-to-do, and during the acid diatribe he stood there, head hanging in false contrition, supremely unrepentant. He waited dutifully until the dressing-down was finished, then went into a routine of his own, the spontaneity of it sparking off impromptu performances from Pete and a couple of cronies.
Vastarnyi wilted dramatically to the ground, clutching the last ‘death-wound’ he had received — buck-shot in the belly — while Ross sang a muted Hearts and Flowers in an improbable falsetto and mimed violin-playing. Red Carter, he of the part Crow, part white, and part African blood, being copper of skin and eyes, and a wild afro-bush of copper hair, made like a sunset in the background and hummed two-part harmony — Violins Ross and Sunset Carter went through the whole of their police careers with the new nicknames — while Pete knelt mournfully beside the ‘dying’ man. The stage thus set, Vastarnyi launched into a purple-prosed expiry, begging Pete to take care of his horse, his dog, his girl, his wife, seventeen children, and his dear old white-haired grandmother.
“Hey, c’mon, buddy, you’re not gonna die. You’re gonna get well, honest…” Pete mopped away invisible tears, drew a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s gonna be okay. Would I lie to you?”
“Don’t — don’t snow — me, pal.” Vastarnyi got a death-grip on Pete’s shirt front. “Level with — me, huh? I know I’m — goin’. It’s the — end of the — trail. I’m goin’ to that — great Fuzz Fact’ry — in the Sky. I’m gonna — give traffic tickets to the Angels–” That was where Pete broke up and had to hide his face in his hands. “Don’t — take on so, buddy,” Vastarnyi gasped, pathetic but noble in extremis, rolling wide eyes at his audience. “Gee, it’s gettin’ — awful — dark–” and scored his coup with; “It is a far, far better rest I go to than I have ever known.” Then, crossing his arms over his chest, he lay back and ‘died’ with a convincing death rattle and perfect decorum.
So the class buried him. With due ceremony and full military honours in the sand pit of the assault course, Violins Ross doing the Death March from Saul, Sunset as the chief mourner, and Pete doing the obsequies. Dexter enjoyed that; he had the idea of putting pennies on the corpse’s eyes, thereafter covering his face reverently with a handkerchief while the others manfully shovelled sand with their hands.
Vastarnyi had to get his revenge for that, and the assault course provided him with the chance. It was not planned. It was sheer spur-of-the-moment brilliance. The assault course had been rigged, but by the instructors, to put the cocksure cadets back to square one. They were used to the course by now, thought they could stroll it; so it had been doctored. The Tarzan-style rope-swing, Vastarnyi discovered in mid-air, had been shortened so that it was almost impossible to get across, and he, like his predecessors, hit the mud below. It was mud of a particularly glutinous consistency, kept that way with loving hosing by the ground staff, and the Hungarian landed in it with a satisfying splat. However, instead of wading out, he slid to one side, sat there making mud patties like a five-year-old, until the next competitor, the six-foot-six Ross, launched himself onto the swing. With his extra height, he might just make it. Vastarnyi yelled “The Rope!” in accents of panic at the crucial moment, and as planned, Ross joined him in the mud.
“The rope what?” Ross growled heavily.
“It’s been shortened,” Vastarnyi told him innocently.
That was his standard explanation for each of his fellows that his helpful shout distracted. Not one got across unscathed.
But Vastarnyi, unwilling to be defeated, had got the jump worked out and decided for a second try. If you let go at the right moment, arched the body like a pole-vaulter, it should be possible to gain the platform; his muddied team watched him, and at the critical apex of his swing, an unidentifiable voice yelled “–The Rope!”
Vastarnyi measured his length in the mud again.
“Hoist,” said Pete, a wide white grin on his streaked face, “with your own Petard, Vas. Face it, pal; Johnny Weismuller you are not.”
The next morning, the sugar on the class breakfast table had been replaced with salt, and Vastarnyi, who had refused his usual dish of cereal and had chosen orange juice instead of coffee, had the joy of seeing his most obvious joke yet come off with beautiful precision. They all knew it was him, but they couldn’t prove it. Not even by using those skills they had recently learned, because Vastarnyi had also learned them and, in any case, had more sense than to leave fingerprints. It was agreed that he had definitely scored one up on that one, and the ribald amusement of the surrounding classes was not appreciated.
It was Somers and Williams who hatched the plan that would put the Bohunk down, Somers who asked Dexter if he wanted a piece of the action. He was surprised when Dexter, who of all people might be expected to leap at the chance with both hands, just grinned and refused without waiting to hear the plan. It didn’t matter. There were others that would accept. So eventually there were five to set up their own booby trap for Vastarnyi.
The theory was simple enough. They knew that Vastarnyi invariably returned from his various evening activities at the last possible moment, riding the Harley Davidson at a speed illegal within Academy precincts. Know your enemy and his habits and let them work for you; Williams produced the instrument of their enemy’s downfall, again, simple. A strip of metal carpet-gripper with narrow V shaped teeth protruding upwards in a series of needle-sharp spikes.
It was laid in the road, invisible in the dark under the trees. No one else was due in at this hour; the conspirators crouched behind tree-trunks and waited for the victim and victory.
Then, perhaps a minute behind the expected time, they heard the roar of the approaching bike.
Somers turned a suddenly pale face to Williams.
“He must be doing over forty! It’s way too fast to, Vic! He can’t –”
It was too late to withdraw, too late do anything but watch in frozen horror as the motorcycle turned the last corner, slowing as it did so, but not enough.
Vastarnyi saw something gleam in his headlight, something on the dark tarmac that shouldn’t be there. He didn’t know what it was, but instinct made him wrench the handlebars to the right, avoiding the what-ever-it-was, but not, unfortunately, the kerb. The Harley Davidson bucked uncontrollably as the front wheel hit, hurling its rider from the saddle. Vastarnyi’s shoulder ploughed a yard-long furrow in the soft earth of a flower bed before he finally came to rest, a loose sprawl among the petunias, and did not move.
“Christ!” Williams whispered. “We’ve killed him!”
But Galbraith was already beside the motionless body. “No. He’s out cold, but I don’t think he’s hurt. What about the bike?”
“Front fork’s buckled, wheel’s gone, too. What the hell are we gonna do?”
Somers, who had conceived the idea in the first place, took charge. “Tolly, you see to the bike. Vic, you and Gal come with me. We’ll get Vastarnyi inside. Chas, you check there’s nothing left here. Okay?”
Somers knocked cautiously on Pete Vickers door, and prayed that the man wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t. Shuffling footsteps and a muted growl approached the door.
“Hey, c’mon, man, it’s past curfew,” Pete groused as he opened the door, to have Williams and Galbraith push past him with Vastarnyi supported between them. “What the hell –?”
“There’s been an accident,” Williams panted. Pete stared at him. “Your pal came off his bike.”
“You don’t say.” Pete regarded Vastarnyi’s body, now stretched out on his bed. “Anyone gonna tell me how? Or do I haveta guess?” with a menacing edge to his voice.
Sunset was in on it now, but while his roommate concentrated on bullying the truth from the retreating conspirators, he called to mind the first aid lectures, and checked out their victim.
“Cool it, Pete,” he said quietly. “He’s been asking for trouble. Riding the way he does without a skid-lid, it’s a miracle he’s not left half his head on the freeway before now. He’s okay, I think, just knocked silly.”
“Out,” said Pete. They did not argue, and he locked the door behind them. “Right, let’s get him cleaned up and back upstairs before Boy Wonder reports him missing.”
Knocked silly was a good description of Vastarnyi’s state when he regained consciousness. He could remember a brief instant of flight, but nothing further. Focusing on a pair of familiar faces, he gave them the wide, feeble grin of intoxication.
“Hi, Pete. Hi, Shunsh — Sh — Red.”
“Jesus wept! He’s not stoned as well, is he? Why dump him on us?” Pete complained of no one in particular. “What have we done to deserve this? Why the hell’s name couldn’t they have shovelled him through his own door? Why should it be me who — Vas? Can you walk?”
Vastarnyi thought about that, decided he was going to try, and rolled off the bed. He landed on all fours and found the sight of Pete’s bare feet under his nose inordinately funny.
“He won’t feel so hilarious in the morning,” Sunset commented, getting an arm round Vastarnyi and hauling him upright.
“No,” Pete agreed. “Especially if that beloved machine of his has got dented. Vas can take the knocks himself, but if anyone just kinda breathes heavy on that damned piece of orange suicide, the balloon goes up — Vas? Goddam it, man, I’m not gonna carry you up three flights of stairs, so stay on your feet.”
He had to in the end, as the combination of alcohol and the crash had rendered Vastarnyi legless, and they daren’t use the elevators because of the patrols. As it was, they played an uncomfortable game of tag at the head of the last flight of stairs, then bundled the Hungarian into his room, pathetically grateful that Dexter was a heavy sleeper. They left him fully dressed but for his sneakers, and stretched out on his bed, then got back to their own room before a chance head-count found them missing.
* * * * * *
Dexter, woken by his alarm for a change, not by the hiss of the shower and a healthy baritone singing Hungarian hymns — he assumed it was Hungarian, and they might have been hymns — headed for the bathroom before his luck could change. It didn’t, and he was able to shower and shave in peace, without hefty kicks landing on the locked door; locked because otherwise he would find himself crowded out of the shower cubicle; and without querulous insults singeing his ears. He took his time, made a point of using all the towels provided, but when he came out, Vastarnyi was not up. Awake perhaps, but collapsed belly-down on the bed, propped on his elbows, head in hands. As he was still clad in Levi’s, tee-shirt, and a somewhat muddied jacket, Dexter surmised it had been a heavy night.
“You’re going to be late,” he volunteered finally, when Vastarnyi had not moved from his position of suffering and there was only five minutes to breakfast. No response. “You’re skipping the meal?” incredulously, and got a grunt of a reply which he took as affirmative.
Shrugging, he went on his way, but when he returned afterwards to pick up his textbooks and notes for the first class, it was to find Vastarnyi apparently frozen in the same position. It was none of his business, and if the Bohunk was suffering, it was his own fault, and he couldn’t stand the little punk, but —
“Hey, d’you need any help?” he asked quietly. A shake of the head answered him, followed closely by a hissed imprecation as Vastarnyi discovered that movement was unwise; his neck and shoulder muscles appeared to have seized up with painful thoroughness, and there was a pair of synchronised trip-hammers in his skull. “Okay,” said Dexter, and left him to his misery. But he loitered just inside the class-room and collared Pete Vickers as soon as he entered.
“Your buddy’s in kind of a bad way,” he said. “I don’t know what he was up to last night, but he’s in a hell of a state this morning.” Pete stared, a worried scowl on his face that surprised Dexter, but when the Pete turned for the door with a muttered curse, he was brought up short by the entrance of the instructor, who fixed him with a jaundiced eye and told him he should have gone before he came out, he’d just have to cross his legs and wait.
An hour later Vastarnyi appeared; the instructor took one look at him and said quietly: “Report to the Sick Bay, Vastarnyi.” Without a word, he obeyed.
There was nothing broken, the diagnosis discovered, but he’d managed to bruise himself severely, and had strained his shoulder muscles. He was lucky to have escaped concussion.
“How did it happen?” the doctor asked, applying antiseptic to the various contusions and bruises. “Looks like you took some kind of fall.”
“Yeah,” Vastarnyi said, and for the first time, but not the last that day, gave his version of the accident. “I was late, ridin’ too fast so’s I’d make it before curfew. Took a corner kinda close. Guess I hit the kerb, got thrown off.”
“I see. This has to be reported, you know that?”
“Yes, sir.”
But even in front of the Academy Principal he stuck to the story, which was true as far as it went. It just didn’t go far enough. He received a bawling-out that, with its icily calm sarcasm, blistered his ego and made his ears burn. He managed ‘Yessirs’ and ‘Nosirs’ at appropriate intervals, eyes fixed on the middle distance. In essence, he was informed that if he didn’t have a good record he’d be out so fast his ass would blister, and he’d better keep his nose clean from now on or good grades or not, he’d make history by being the only ex-cop in L.A. given a dishonourable discharge from the force before he’d finished Academy training.
Deflated, depressed, aching in every muscle, and feeling he’d have to reach up to tie his shoelaces for a while, Vastarnyi limped down the corridor. He knew exactly what had happened, and had a pretty good idea who had set him up for it. But no one had ever called Vastarnyi a snitch. It was one thing he would not do; he would exact his own vengeance. Not for what had happened to him — bruises fade, flesh heals — but for Belladonna. He hadn’t been able to find her when he checked the lots before belatedly making the first class, and faced again, with a sickening lurch of his stomach, the realisation that she must have been a write-off. Until Tollard tapped him on the shoulder in passing, and said, “Your bike’s out back.”
She was, though she hadn’t been there earlier, and he found that the front forks and wheel had been replaced. He examined her with loving, meticulous attention, and had to concede that whoever had carried out the lightning repairs had done a first-rate job. All right. The debt was void. They had made good the damage done, and he, for his part, hadn’t informed on them. Honours were even in the Vastarnyi’s peculiar moral code. His scruples were few and far between, but what he had, he stuck to.
* * * * * *
Scruples, or the lack of them, did nothing for his physical state, which was not good. While the restoration of Belladonna had done something to counteract his depression, he was suffering from assorted bruises, scrapes, muscle-strain, and a monumental hangover, so the brooding malevolence that emanated from him all that day caused the exasperated Pete to label him ‘the Specter at the Feast.’ He hadn’t mellowed any by evening, partly because dessert at dinner had been lemon cheesecake, to which he had an allergy, when a small group of cadets started a rap-session in a corner of the commissariat, a group that swiftly attracted elements from all sides. A full-scale argument on training methods started up, and Dexter, who up ’til now had been listening rather than participating, could keep silent no longer. He started expounding his theories; that a certain amount of book-study and basic law was essential, but the bulk of the learning would be done after they left the Academy, when they got out onto the streets.
“– because that’s where the action is, and the whole scene there is fluid! They’re so busy stuffing set responses to set situations into our heads they’ve forgotten that it just isn’t that predictable. Okay, we’ve got to know the ropes before they send us out, but the way they’re doing it is pretty near as useless as no instruction at all.” He got a buzz of comment in answer, not all of it favorable, but got an unexpected back-up from Pete Vickers.
“What the hell are you turkeys beefing about? He’s right! That’s what me ‘n’ Vas have been saying all along — the most they can do here is show us all the tools of the trade, give us basic training on how to use ’em, and let us get on with it. T’hear some of these guys here, you’d think it’s more important to know how to fill out a requisition form in triplicate than collaring a pusher in the middle of a sell. They don’t seem to have their priorities right, huh, Vas?” He did not get so much as a grunt of agreement from the darkly-glowering young man straddling a chair on the outer fringes of the group, and did not expect one, knowing that the Vastarnyi in this mood was either mute or completely Hungarian to the exclusion of the English language.
Dexter, encouraged by Vickers’s support, carried on with his hobby-horse, not aware until afterwards that he and Vastarnyi, at least by implication, were actually in agreement over something; an important something at that.
* * * * * *
Graduation; and on a brilliant June afternoon, each qualifying cadet received his graduating certificate from the Commissioner, together with a handshake and a ‘Good Luck.’ Vastarnyi, crisply immaculate of uniform and bruised of face, had, like his roommate, come out in the top 10 percent, a fact which surprised them both, but not Lamb Nilson, Shark Solberg, and one or two other instructors.
Dexter had packed the previous night, so was able to lay back on his bed with his hands behind his head and relax for a while. He grinned up at the ceiling, smugly self-satisfied, almost euphoric. He had made the grade in his chosen career. Well, the first chapter of said career, anyhow, and done better than he’d expected. After a weekend in ‘Frisco with Frank and Eleanor, he’d be starting police work proper in his first posting.
From the corner of his eye he watched Vastarnyi ramming haphazard bundles of clothing into his rucksacks. To one side, however, were a couple of cans of Coke, several foil-wrapped sandwich-packs, and a wax-paper carton advertising a well-known chain of donut bakeries.
“Vastarnyi? You going somewhere?”
“Sacramento,” he said briefly. “Visitin’.” Then seeing the direction of Dexter gaze, he grinned. “The Vastarnyi Survival Kit,” he explained. “So’s I don’t fade away from lack of nourishment before I get there.” Which sounded sensible.
An idea germinated in Dexter’s mind; a method of getting back at the Bohunk for some of the more devilish practical jokes he had been subjected to. He knew Vastarnyi would eat anything, with one exception, and that was lemon-cheese. It came up on the menu regularly once a week, in cheesecake or pastry, and when it did, Vastarnyi went without dessert and Pete got double rations. According to Vastarnyi, lemon-cheese brought him out in a rash.
Ostensibly to say goodbye to some friends, Dexter hurried from the room and down to the kitchen. It took some smooth, persuasive talking and his best guileless smile to wheedle a carton of lemon-cheese from one of the civilian canteen staff, but the woman was not immune to handsome young men, and he was given his prize.
Then, with Vastarnyi off somewhere with Vickers, Carter and Ross, Dexter locked the door and put his plan into effect. Every one of the sandwiches, each of the donuts, were treated to a thorough doctoring with the lemon-cheese. If there had been a way of infecting the contents of the sealed cans with the stuff he’d have done that, too, but they defeated him.
Still, the thought of Vastarnyi’s reaction when he bit into a ham and pickle sandwich — with lemon-cheese — or a peanut butter and bacon with lemon-cheese, or a tuna and lettuce with lemon-cheese, not to mention the heavily impregnated donuts — Dexter could only regret that he wouldn’t be able to see the results of the joke, or know how it went. This was the last he’d see of the crazy Hungarian, thank God, since come Monday they would all be scattered about Los Angeles and its neighbouring towns and cities.
Chapter Five
It was with mixed feelings that Probationary Patrolman Jonathan Dexter presented himself at the East Los Angeles Police Headquarters on Monday morning. He was pleased to have been posted to one of the tougher areas, but not exactly overwhelmed by his reception. He knew that, as a rookie, he had a lot to learn, but they didn’t have to assume automatically that he was an idiot studying to be a moron. He was given desultory directions to the locker-room, told to report to Captain Hoffman afterwards, and left to his own devices.
The locker-room was temporarily empty. He found a spare locker, changed into his uniform, and was just tying his shoe-laces when he was abruptly seized from behind in a half-nelson, someone yelled “Végre!” in his ear, a knee drove into his back and he was face-down on the dusty floor with the someone briskly rubbing what he later discovered to be a glutinous mixture of cold chicken-fried rice and soft egg noodles into his hair, accompanied by howls of “Lemon cheese! Végre!”
It could only be Vastarnyi — and it was. Dexter, pursuing his maniacal attacker wrathfully down the corridor, was forcibly prevented from doing him any damage by several patrolmen, and spent some ten minutes having the mess washed out of his hair.
Vastarnyi, asked rather pointedly why he referred to his fellow probationer as Lemon Cheese, merely said, evilly, “It brings me out in a rash. So does he.”
* * * * * *
Dexter was far from admitting it, but he was almost glad that Vastarnyi was on the East L.A. posting. It certainly livened up an increasing dull routine, and the two young men, totally opposed in looks, temperament and outlook, very quickly discovered a shared hatred that, to a certain extent, cancelled out their mutual dislike of each other.
Lieutenant Dennis Brendan had been in the service thirty years. He had an almost religious respect for the system — some said he crossed himself when the Commissioner’s name was mentioned — and in the system, rookies were lower than vermin, to be put firmly in their place and frequently stomped on to remind them of their lowliness.
Dexter had got his back up straight away, simply by being what he was: a Harvard graduate of good family, with wealth and social status. Brendan assigned Dexter to the switchboard.
Vastarnyi also offended Brendan, by being Vastarnyi. Part of it was the uniform, which on the Hungarian rapidly assumed the appearance of welfare cast-offs, since he did not like uniforms. A lot of it was his attitude, his air of self-confidence, and disrespect for authority. Vastarnyi spelt trouble, and Brendan loathed him. He put him in Requisition.
It was not simply vindictiveness. Brendan reckoned he knew what went to make a good cop, and these two did not fit into the mold. As the probationary period is intended to sort the wheat from the chaff, Brendan promptly recognised that it was his personal and sacred duty to get these particular chaffs out of the L.A.P.D. in the only way he knew; by giving them all the hassle, all the stultifying dullness of routine jobs he could throw in their direction, making their lives so miserable they would be driven to quit.
After the first week, Dexter nearly did just that. He had created complete confusion in Communications and hadn’t done it deliberately, which made it worse. It was purely a congenital inability to get on with machines. He never played slot-machines, avoided as far as he could situations involving vending machines, and after several disastrous encounters with Laundromats, had bribed his cleaning lady to take charge of his laundry.
The havoc resulting from his week on switchboard was nearly unbelievable, and it was a toss-up who was most frustrated; the hapless callers or Jon Dexter.
Vastarnyi, too, was bitterly frustrated. Spending his time checking forms, supply-lists, and filing invoices in triplicate wasn’t what he had joined the police for. He found he was looking forward to leaving the Station each day with greater and greater relief, to get out from behind the desk and move — and most of all he wanted to do some real police work. Well, there were ways and means, and before the week was out, Vastarnyi had taken certain steps.
By Friday afternoon, with the black horn-rims sliding down his sweating nose, Dexter was a bundle of nerves. He had just put through to the Chief of Detectives an elderly woman arguing the validity of her parking ticket, had cut off the D.A.’s secretary, and in a panic reconnected her to the Vice squad instead of Hoffman’s secretary, completely lost a call from City Hall, and had dropped the ancient telephone directory, causing its already decrepit spine to finally give up, and scattering its pages all over the draughty hall.
He was of the impression that time had crept to a halt, that was locked in some kind of purgatory, but at last it was time to go. Dexter left the switchboard like a racehorse from the starting gate and dived into the crowded locker-room with a gusty sigh of relief. He took his time changing and hurried out the back entrance onto the parking lot, and into an atypically rainy evening. He decided he would eat out, then go down to the Range for a couple of hours practice, and afterwards — well, he wasn’t sure about afterwards; maybe look up some old friends, maybe start that Vidal novel Frank had raved about last time he’d phoned ‘Frisco, or listen to some albums. He was about to get into the Dodge when he saw Vastarnyi. The orange Harley-Davidson lay on its side like a dead animal, and he was sitting on it, a picture of total dejection in the rain.
Dexter put a hand on the door-catch, then took it off again, and walked over.
“What’s up?” he said. They had not exchanged more than a few sentences over the last five days, and most of those had been barbed insults or snide remarks.
“Belladonna’s gone sick,” said Vastarnyi, incomprehensibly, until Dexter remembered that Belladonna was the bike, and it occurred to him that if he knew the crazy Magyar better he might have suggested calling in a veterinary; without raising his eyes, Vastarnyi snarled “an’ if you say call a vet, I’ll put one on you!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dexter fought to keep a straight face. “What’s the problem? Can’t you fix her?”
“No way. The oil pump gave up on her, an’ with nothin’ goin’ through the engine seized up solid. Did it to me this mornin’, had to push her the last half-mile.”
“That’s bad, huh?”
“Bad?” A dismal blue gaze rose to his face. “Bad? You bet your ass! She needs major surgery, does Bella. I can do most things, but not a re-bore, that’s a garage-job. I’ll have to get Moon to pick her up. This is all I need.” It ended as a muffled moan and an involuntary squirm as cold rain trickled down his back under the leather jacket. The down-pour increased, and Dexter, soaked himself now, made a decision.
“Want a lift?” he offered. Vastarnyi shot him a brief, evaluating stare.
“Thanks,” he said. “But you don’t go my way.”
“No sweat.” Dexter opened the door, slid under the wheel and leaned across to unlock and push wide the passenger door. Vastarnyi hesitated, then hauled the motorcycle upright on its stand, and got into the car, automatically slouching back and making himself comfortable.
“You want a detour from Santa Monica, you sure as hell got one,” he grunted.
“I’m going to the Range later,” Dexter said. “But I’m figuring on eating downtown first. Hey,” he added, as he pulled out into the street, “better tell me where you live, or do I have to guess?”
“Palmetto an’ Seaton,” Vastarnyi said, and one blond eyebrow twitched. That was literally just across the railroad tracks from one of the worst, if not the worst area in downtown L.A. “You want a good place to eat? I know a few downtown.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. The T-Bar’s pretty good, just off Figueroa. Friend of mine works there, I get special rates.”
“Well, as it’s not a closely guarded secret, I don’t mind trying the place out,” Dexter smiled.
By the time the Dodge was slotted into a convenient parking space, the rain had stopped, and Vastarnyi pushed open the restaurant doors. The place, decorated in a movie-set Western style, was quite full, but a young Korean drifted over to them, round face alight with pleasure. He stood five foot five, must weigh near 200 lbs, Dexter judged.
“Hi there, good buddy Vas,” he grinned.
“Hi, Slim. Got a table free?”
“For you, sure. Number Nine, over there. I’ll be right with you.”
Within minutes he was back with them at the table in the corner, smiling genially. “An’ what’s your pleasure, huh?”
“The usual,” Vastarnyi said. “With everythin’. I’ll have a beer, too. This here is Dexter, an’ he’ll have the Special.”
“And a beer,” said Dexter. “Uh, what did you say your name was?”
“Slim,” said Slim. “Wyatts. You fuzz too, Dexter?”
“No,” said Vastarnyi before he could answer. “He’s an English earl travellin’ incognito t’see how us colonials are struggling on. Be polite or he’ll throw you in the dungeons. Move your ass’n’get our orders, willya? You want we should starve to death?” Slim grinned at him, without offence, and rolled off, returned with the beers, then departed for the kitchens.
They drank in silence, and were half-way down their glasses when Vastarnyi said solemnly, “Know what I did before I left?”
“No.” Dexter had an idea that whatever it was, it wouldn’t be popular with higher ranks.
“Filed everythin’ I could lay my hands on in reverse order, and in Hungarian. Zs to As, pencils under cerusak, handcuffs under kezbilincsak. An’ so on. Williams’ll blow a fuse — with any luck.” It was juvenile, childish, but —
“Great minds think alike.” Dexter grinned. “I tied each one of those little wires on the switchboard in a reef knot — Man Strikes Back at The Machine!”
“Hey, no kiddin’?” Vastarnyi’s answering grin was like a shaft of light through black gloom. “Must look like macramé work.”
“My new hobby,” Dexter agreed. “And I’ll bet even money I won’t be on the switchboard next week. Suspended, perhaps, but not on the board.”
“Yeah,” said Vastarnyi. “Me, too. Ah, what the hell! I joined the fuzz to work on the streets, not push bits of paper round the System!” It was the sudden intensity of that statement that clicked with Dexter. He knew exactly how the Hungarian felt; he could feel the same frustration tearing at his own nerve-ends.
“Yes,” he said, quietly, and another silence fell, oddly companionable this time.
They finished the beers, and Slim brought the food — steak with egg and side salad for Dexter, and an anchovy, mushroom and tomato pizza with sauerkraut and pineapple cubes for Vastarnyi. Dexter stared briefly, but made no comment.
Another two beers, and Vastarnyi got up, taking crumpled notes from his pocket.
“Thanks for the lift,” he said. “See you around.” And walked out without another word. Slim picked up the cash.
“He’s in a mean mood,” he said, confidentially. “Has been for days. What’s brought it on, any idea?”
“Job dissatisfaction,” Dexter shrugged, his voice telling he was suffering from the same ailment. “Uh, you got time for a beer?”
“I always got time for a beer,” the Korean grinned, then became comically solemn. “Maybe too much time,” he added mournfully, patting his large belly. “Hey, your earlship, I don’t suppose you is really an earl?”
“Uh-uh.” Dexter shook his head. “That’s a piece of Vastarnyi-inventiveness.”
“That what I thought. Pity. Aristocracy’d sure give this place some tone, Y’know? Like class, man. You’s fuzz too, I guess, huh, Dexter?”
“Yes,” Dexter smiled. “and most folks call me Dex. You’ve known Vas long?”
“Long? We was weaned together. Well, almost.” Slim brought another two beers. “Went to the same school, played on the same team. San Andreas was quite a quarterback. I wasn’t so bad either, though I guess I’ve kinda gotten out of trainin’ since then,” and he smiled engagingly.
“San Andreas?” Dexter queried.
“That’s the nickname he had at high-school — well, one of ’em.” Slim elaborated. “See, you never knew when he was gonna let rip, an’ when he did, it sure was spectacular.”
“That fits,” Dexter laughed. “I roomed with him in Academy — he’s kind of unpredictable, isn’t he?”
“You better believe it. He had some of them teachers treed — mind you, that was in Sacramento — s’where I come from — don’t know how he got on when he came back here an’ went into th’ U.C.L.A. ‘Bout the same, I reckon; he sure wasn’t no teacher’s pet.”
“I guess it must have been like sharing a classroom with a wolverine,” said Dexter, feelingly. “He must have got good grades, though. He did pretty well in the Academy on the theoretical side — top 10%.”
“Yeah? How ’bout that!” Slim grinned. Dexter did not know it, but he was giving the impression that he and Vastarnyi were real close friends; so Slim loosened up and became more voluble, and as Dexter was leaving, said with exasperation, “Oh hell, I forgot to tell him — hey, Dex, tell Vas I’ve got some words on Cesare Donato.”
“Who?” Dexter halted in mid-stride. That name rang a whole carillon of bells in his memory.
“Cesare Donato,” Slim repeated. “Vas said to keep my eye’s’n’ears open, an’ I have.”
“Uh — yeah, thanks, I’ll tell him.”
Dexter did a mental flick through the bulletins. Cesare Donato. Three counts of A.D.W., armed robbery, and categorized as armed and dangerous. What in hell’s name did Vastarnyi want with information on a character like that?
He passed on the message, but did not get an answer to his question for several days, and it was indirect even then. The Station House buzzed with the news that a rookie had pulled an off-duty arrest in Metropolitan Division; a drug pusher who was a badly wanted and important link in a chain that involved most of the county, and the arresting officer was none other than Probationary Patrolman David Vastarnyi.
Dexter put two and two together and came up with a solid four. Vastarnyi was moonlighting, using informants like Slim Wyatts; stuck for action during working hours, he was spending off-duty time carrying on his own private one-man war against the enemy.
It was an activity not smiled upon by the higher echelons of the Force. Rookies were supposed to keep their noses out of trouble, not go hunting for it and, as in Vastarnyi’s case, finding it. He was warned, discreetly, by Captain Hoffman, and put on night foot-patrol the next week in a half-hearted attempt to give him some of the action he seemed to crave.
Coincidentally, Dexter got night-patrol that week — or, rather, not much of a coincidence, as Brendan had drawn up the roster, and decided that the twin banes of his life could both start their first tricks on the unpopular graveyard shift.
* * * * * *
The first quarter-hour break came after two hours of uneventful walking by Dexter and his veteran partner. Uneventful in as much as all the incidents were all of a very minor nature, that is, and Haines showed a tendency to overlook anything that might be of a more serious cast, and ignored Dexter’s attempts to draw his attention to it. His dour counsel to the young rookie was: ‘Quit huntin’ trouble, kid. Wait till it comes to you an’ flatten it pretty damn quick. But don’t go pokin’ around lookin’ for it.’ Dexter did not like the sound of that advice. Consequently, while Haines went inside the Bergiere Bistro for his perks, Dexter stayed outside and worried the situation round his head like a terrier with a rat. The idea of perks made him uncomfortable — okay, it was only a couple of free beers, but it was still bribery in his book, or was he being over-sensitive? So maybe he was being idealistic, but he did not like it and wouldn’t join it.
A pair of uniformed officers appeared round a corner, split up; one going into the Bistro, the other halting not far from Dexter, leaned against a convenient wall and pushed his cap back. No mistaking that tangle of dark curly hair; it was Vastarnyi. Dexter cleared his throat.
“Hi,” he ventured.
“Hi,” said Vastarnyi, glancing across. “Quiet tonight?”
“According to Haines it is,” he growled, disgust in his voice. “This their regular stop-over?”
“Yup,” said Vastarnyi. “One of the many, I guess.” After a brief hesitation, Dexter walked over to join him.
“Your nursemaid on the take as well?”
He got a venomous look. “Aren’t they all?” the Hungarian said bitterly, eyeing him up and down. “It’s enough to put a guy off the human race.”
“Didn’t know you were part of it,” Dexter snapped, caught on the raw by the tone that asked, by implication, why wasn’t he in there getting free beer as well.
But Vastarnyi’s response was cut short by a sudden “Davie! David Vastarnyi!” A feminine shriek, and a girl hurled herself out of the night-shadows into his arms. “Mmm, it’s been years since I saw you last,” planting a solid kiss on his mouth. “Hey, what’s with the fancy-dress?” Vastarnyi returned the kiss with interest.
“Marie, you haven’t changed a bit,” he grinned, and kissed her again. “How’s business?”
“Pretty good — But the uniform, dummy.”
“Didn’t you hear? I’m fuzz now.”
“For real? I heard it, but I figured it had to be that crazy Bohunk playing one of his jokes.” She leaned back against his arms, a lovely black-haired, green-eyed girl who looked like a school-kid dressed up in her older sister’s make-up and party-clothes, and inspected him thoughtfully. Then she gave a throaty, seductive chuckle and wound her arms around his neck, knocking his uniform cap to the ground. Feeling bemused and superfluous, Dexter picked it up. “Hey, Davie,” she drawled in his ear, “gonna collar me?”
“I might, if you step out of line, honey,” he said cheerfully. “Who’s your old man these days?”
“Carlos. Remember him? Used to be Luis, but he got killed a few months ago.”
“Yeah, I heard about that.” A spurious grief in his voice. “Traffic accident, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she said, equally lugubriously. “I kinda miss that guy. He was real kind to his ladies.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too.”
“Y’know, when it gets around that you’ve turned pig for real, there’s gonna be some hassle,” Marie said, suddenly serious. “A lot of guys aren’t gonna like that too much, Davie.”
“Don’t. I may cry.”
“Oh, sure, that’ll be the day. Hey, you take care, you hear?”
“Don’t I always?”
“Oh, sure, sure! Listen, I’ve got to go — isn’t too good for trade if I’m seen with a cop. Listen, Davie, I’ve got a pad above Joey’s Pizza Place — room 206 — come up an’ visit me, soon, huh?”
“Sorry, sweetness.” He shook his head regretfully. “I can’t afford a girl like you on a rookie’s salary.”
“Nuts — for you there’s no charge!” she protested, then Dexter’s blond good-looks registered, and she turned her attention to him. “This your partner? Mmm, he’s kinda tasty, too. Hey, bring him along with you, we could play troy-games. See you around, Davie,” kissed him again, wriggled free with deliberate provocation, and went back to her station near the bar entrance with a jaunty wave of her hand, and a slinky sway to tightly encased hips.
Vastarnyi took back his cap, and wiped lipstick from his mouth.
“Who was that?” Dexter demanded, colour high.
“Marie Lamonde.” He grinned reminiscently. “She –”
“Why didn’t you take her in? She’s underage, for God’s sake!” The indignation in his voice seemed to startle Vastarnyi.
“Take her in?” he repeated. “What for, dammit?”
“She’s a hooker, right?”
“Sure she’s a hooker, but did she proposition us?”
“Of course she did –”
“Like hell. C’mon, college boy, smarten up. No charge the lady said, and no charge she meant — so no propositioning. And she isn’t a juvie. Marie’s–” he paused to work it out, “nearly twenty. I’ve known her most of my life.”
“Oh,” said Dexter, lamely. “But she looks about thirteen, fourteen –”
“Sure she does. Part of her stock-in-trade. Mind you, she’s been flat-backin’ since she was eleven, has Marie.” Dexter was speechless, and before he could find his voice, their designated ‘wet-nurses’ emerged from the Bistro, wiping beer suds from their lips, and viewing their charges with jaundiced eyes.
“C’mon, let’s go.” Baker growled at the Hungarian, and two patrols went their separate ways into the night.
Dexter looked back just before they turned the corner of the block, and the girl blew him a kiss.
* * * * * *
Vastarnyi’s moonlighting continued, in spite of warnings from superiors, and he was not always successful; a fact borne out by the paint-jobs he occasionally sported. The stories he used to explain away the bruises, however, were almost always pure fantasy and got wilder and wilder, ranging from attacks by the Golden Horde to attempts to repel, single-handed, a full-scale Klingon Invasion. They became something of a locker-room feature; Vastarnyi would try them out on a receptive audience before replaying them for one or other of the Lieutenants. Lt. Neale listened with tolerant patience — Brendan would not listen at all, but would refer Vastarnyi to the Captain. Who, after the first few incidents, just sighed and dismissed him. Most of the other officers had gotten used to the Hungarian, poetically known as the Mad Magyar, the One Man Horde, Brendan’s Bane, and other, unprintable, nicknames, and were prepared to put up with his crazy-headedness so long as he did not make too many waves.
Vastarnyi was careful not to antagonize too many people — he intended to be a good cop, if only to prove them wrong — it was only Brendan he singled out for real hassle and healthy hatred, a sentiment Brendan returned with interest. Nor was Dexter forgotten; he, too, had a special place in the Lieutenant’s heart. They were despised and detested, and he made sure they knew it with enough effort to earn the occasional cautionary remark himself.
Dexter was beginning to enjoy police work, in spite of Brendan. He was finding his illusions shattered at every turn, but walked over the broken pieces and carried on, learning and absorbing and beginning to understand the kind of career he had taken upon himself; finding it far harder than he had thought it would be, and knowing with increasingly strong conviction, that this was the right one for him. The chip he had carried on his shoulder for over a year — guilt for the break-up of his marriage — was getting less weighty as he made friends and began to feel complete again. There were other scars, deeper and less easily healed, but even they might go, given time.
The T-Bar and Slim Wyatts saw him at least once a week, sometimes with feminine company, more often alone. The T-Bar had some very strange customers, and you never knew what you might find out just by sitting quietly, keeping your ears open. Not that he would consider moonlighting — at least, not yet a while — but there was no harm in looking up some of the people he had gotten to know when he was doing community work before Carol had left. Some of the down-and-outers, the winos, must pick up useful odds and ends of information, and some might be willing to pass it along to Jonno. So he made some tentative contacts, renewing old acquaintances and making new ones, some with the help of Slim Wyatts, who provided useful introductions; after all, Dexter had been introduced to the Korean by Vastarnyi, so Slim automatically extended to him the same trust and friendship he had for the Hungarian. It was a trust that manifested itself in several ways; apart from the names and intros, Dexter was given cryptic scraps to pass on to Vastarnyi, was regaled with Slim’s life-story and woman-problems, was touched for the frequent loan of twenty or thirty bucks. So he was the natural choice for Slim when faced with an emergency he couldn’t handle, and the result would trigger something entirely unexpected into being.
Chapter Six
“Vas! Hey, Dave!”
Vastarnyi, on his way from the Station to the T-Bar before going back across downtown to home, was on foot because Belladonna’s condition was worse than his original diagnosis, and Moon’s repair-shop had her in Intensive Care. But the sound of his name penetrated his brooding gloom, and he turned to find the owner of the voice standing in a brightly lit doorway. Leroy Judson.
“How you doin’ Lee?” he acknowledged.
“Pretty good but could be better.” Judson gave a grin and stepped out to join him. “Haven’t seen you around for quite a while, pal. Where you been?”
“Around.” Vastarnyi shrugged, beginning to walk on. Judson had never been one of his favorite people — a mutual feeling — and he did not plan on altering the relationship. “See you sometime, huh?”
“Hang loose, Dave,” Judson objected. “You got time for socializing with you old buddies, ain’t you?”
“Buddies?” Vastarnyi’s left eyebrow twitched up.
“Yeah, me an’ the boys have been lookin forward to rapping with you, buddy.” Judson laid a friendly arm around Vastarnyi’s shoulders, and several other shadows took on substance in the darkness. “See, we heard tell you’re a pig now, Dave. Y’know how these stories get about.”
“Jungle telegraph,” Vastarnyi agreed, resisting the urge to throw off the arm. “I’ve joined the fuzz. So?”
“Hey, don’t get uptight, man!” Judson grinned, hearing the sudden aggressive bite to his voice. “We ain’t prejudiced, are we, fellas?”
Vastarnyi could see six of them, apart from Judson. His hackles were on end; this was going to be heavy. “Glad to hear it.” He kept his voice neutral with an effort. “Thought you were looking for hassle, and I’d hate to disappoint you.”
“Hassle? Us? And you won’t do any disappointing, Davie.” Judson smiled. “We just want us a little talk, is all.”
He had already guessed what they wanted. On the theory that every man has his price, they wanted to know his; how much would he want to turn a blind eye to their illegal activities, to pass on information? He heard them out, standing in the unlit alleyway between blocks, Judson’s arm still across his shoulders, then very quietly and in full control, gave them his answer.
“No deal. You stay out of trouble, and you keep out of my patch. If you don’t, I guess you know what you can expect.” And turning abruptly, he headed back for the street, knowing it wasn’t going to be that easy. Judson’s hand caught his arm.
“Hey, Dave,” he protested, and someone else said, viciously, “He’s holding out for more — he wants a bigger cut –”
His memories of the next few minutes were confused. He chopped at Judson’s wrist, swung a right cross at his surprised face. He felt the impact clear to his shoulder, and then the rest of the gang bought in on the act. He drove a snap-kick into someone’s stomach, stabbed speared fingers at eyes and throats, used feet, knees, head, elbows, fists and teeth. Seven to one, he had once said to his Academy roommate, were long odds. He didn’t like long odds. But there was no one to buy in on his side to shorten them, and Hung Fat’s version of Karate was not enough against those odds. His attackers closed in, depleted in numbers but not in vindictiveness, and he was down, choking in pain, no longer able to fight back nor effectively defend himself from the fists and feet.
A voice said, from a vast distance away, “Ease off, you guys. We can’t kill a cop!”
Then Judson’s voice, cold with an unrelenting hatred, “We’re not gonna kill him. Just gonna hurt him so’s he knows what he gets for turning against his own kind. We’re gonna hurt him good –”
* * * * * *
The phone rang quite a few times before Dexter could get to it, his supper half-finished, and he had to swallow a mouthful of sandwich before he could speak.
“Yes? Who is this?”
“Slim,” said a breathless voice. “Dex, can you come over? Got myself a problem on my hands.”
Dexter picked up jacket, car-keys, the remains of his sandwich, and headed out. The journey downtown from Santa Monica took him three quarters of an hour, and when he pulled up outside the T-Bar, his watch registered just on midnight. The bar was more than half-full, mainly with regulars, and Slim met him at the door.
“Straight through to the kitchen — there’s a store room out back,” he said, before Dexter could start on his questions.
“What’s the trouble?” he demanded again, and the Korean rolled the whites of his eyes.
“Take a look. Me, I gotta get him off the premises before the Boss-man shows.”
“Oh,” said Dexter. Slim obviously had wino-trouble. So he’d take the poor devil along to the nearest hostel and book him in for the night. He followed the directions through the kitchen with its two stony-faced personnel, to the narrow lobby and the storeroom beyond. The door was unlocked. He opened it.
“OhmyGod!” he whispered, and knelt beside the unconscious occupant. Slim hovered in the doorway behind him. “What the hell –? Slim, have you got a first-aid kit?”
“Yeah, sure.” And fetched it. “Found him ’bout an hour ago — pretty near fell over him when I went out back with some trash — he was sprawled out right on the step. So I hauled him in here, an’ called you.”
“Didn’t think of calling an ambulance, I suppose?” Dexter snapped with asperity, finding that the first aid box contained nothing more than a few small band-aid and an empty bottle of iodine. “Good Lord, I’m not a doctor –”
“No, but you’re his buddy, an’ Vas don’t like hospitals.”
“But I’m not –” Dexter started, then discovered the depth of the scalp wound that had masked face and chest with blood. This was no time to explain that far from being buddies, the one time they had come to the T-Bar together was the only friendly contact they had had, and the longest they had spent in each other’s company since the Academy. “We’ll need some kind of antiseptic.”
“You got it.” Slim produced a bottle of 80 proof vodka from a carton, and opened it.
The injuries that Vastarnyi had somehow sustained were spectacular and bloody, but less serious than they at first seemed. Dexter thought he could cope, at least, he could patch him up until he could get proper medical treatment.
The sting of the alcohol in the open wounds brought Vastarnyi a measure of consciousness — he moaned, tried to move his head away from the firm grip and painfully probing fingers.
Dexter, not pausing in his investigation of the scalp wound, said, “Slim, you better give him a shot of that stuff.”
It was liquid fire on the raw surfaces inside his mouth, but he swallowed it, and got one eye open. The other eye wouldn’t, but it was enough to recognise the man kneeling at his side, working on him with intent seriousness.
“S’th’ Lemon Cheesecake,” he mumbled thickly. “Hi there, Jonno Three.”
“You got yourself worked over pretty thoroughly.” Dexter ignored the hated nicknames. “Listen, Slim wants you out of here before someone blows the whistle on him. Reckon you could walk to my car? I’ll drive you to the hospital –”
“Uh-uh.” A definite negative. “No hospitals.”
“Goddammit, you need –”
“Just a couple of Aspirin.” Vastarnyi tried vainly to lever himself to his feet. “Gimme a hand up, willya?” he demanded querulously.
“Can you walk?” Dexter asked again and got a snort of laughter from his patient.
“Walk? Gimme another shot of that rotgut glory, and I’ll flap my wings and fly.”
Obligingly, Slim gave him more vodka, and although no wings became apparent, it did steady him somewhat once on his feet.
“Okay,” said Dexter, getting Vastarnyi’s right arm round his shoulders and hooking his free hand under his belt. “Walk, Magyar.”
Dexter got him into the passenger seat and strapped him in, gave him another slug of vodka, then climbed in and pulled away into the late-night traffic. Vastarnyi did not make a sound during the drive across to Palmetto and Seaton; the reason being, he discovered when he drew into the side of the street at a loss, he had quietly faded out again. Dexter swore under his breath, and did an expert job of frisking the limp body. He found a letter — written in Hungarian, but the address on the envelope was English, more or less. Mr D.A. Vastarnyi, c/o Hung Fat’s Hardware Store, 443 Palmetto — he glanced across the street, located the place, and swung the car across lanes to park in front of it. The area was rough, no doubt about that. How come Vastarnyi had picked here for a place to rent a room? He turned back to the body again, frisked it for keys, and was startled by a muffled snicker as he found some in the hip pocket of the Levi’s.
“Do I have to book you f’indecent assault?” A slurred query.
“Nope, but I could collar you for these.” Holding up the ring that held a selection of skeleton keys as well as the regular variety. Vastarnyi regarded him owlishly through his one eye.
“Thass awful sneaky,” he said, closed the eye, and to all intents and purposes, passed out. Dexter surveyed the dark store frontage. There was no sign of another entrance to the upper floors.
“Vas.” He shook the body.
“Mmm?”
“Where’s your room? Is there a rear entrance?”
“To my room?” and he began to snicker again. “Uh-uh, buddy.”
“To the apartments!”
“Through the store.” Vastarnyi homed in on a key with his right forefinger. “S’that one.”
“Where’s your room?”
“Second floor. But don’t wanna wake the kids.”
“Kids?”
“Yuan’s not been too well, lately. He’s teething kind of late,” he told him earnestly. “Don’t wake the kids, Jonno.”
“Okay,” he agreed, doing a quick calculation and realising he had poured the best part of half a bottle of vodka down Vastarnyi’s throat. “So where?”
“Back of the store. Fat’s got a place there where old Wong sleeps when he’s here.”
“Okay,” he said again, hauled him out of the car, discovered he was legless, and hoisted the dead-weight across his shoulder, carried him to the door and got it open. Vastarnyi seemed to find his inverted and ignominious position amusing, muttered something in Hungarian, and began to giggle inanely.
“You’ll wake the kids,” Dexter snarled, stumbling into the pitch-blackness and shutting the door behind him. The tinkle of the bell above their heads echoed into heavy silence, and Dexter groped for a light-switch. Vastarnyi’s mirth had gasped itself out, and he hung over his shoulder like a totally inert, seemingly jointless, bean-bag.
Dexter followed his nose through a store that looked like a rummage sale in Aladdin’s Cave, found and went through another door into a room that was part storage, part kitchen, turned right to face yet another door into a small, bare, scrupulously clean room holding a low divan bed and nothing else. He lowered his limp burden onto the coverlet, went back into the kitchen and hunted through cupboards until he found cotton-wool, a proprietary brand of antiseptic, some codeine, and various other items necessary for first aid.
In the following hour, he never once asked himself why he was doing this, going to this amount of trouble for someone he did not like; it seemed the natural thing to do. Vastarnyi did not question it either. When he came round, he just lay there and let Dexter get on with it as if he expected no less.
Finally, having done all he could, Dexter straightened up and surveyed his handiwork.
“You should see a doctor,” he said quietly. “That head gash needs stitching, and your left hand needs X-raying.” The palm and fingers looked as if someone had stamped on them with a heavy boot. “Here, take these.” Obediently, Vastarnyi swallowed the codeine, brought near sobriety by the pain.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I’ll report you sick tomorrow.”
“What? For a few bruises? Forget it!”
“Then you better get your story straight. And make it a good one, huh?” Dexter made for the door, hesitated, then said; “I’ll pick you up, 7:30,” before making a swift exit, not waiting to hear another refusal. Vastarnyi, however, was not about to refuse, was in no condition to refuse, and did not want to, anyway.
“Viszontlatasra,” he said drowsily.
* * * * * *
At 7:30 next morning he was waiting on the sidewalk when the green Dodge pulled up. Dexter leaned across, opened the passenger door, and he climbed in. Spectacular wasn’t the word for the paint-job this time, Dexter thought, and wondered again what had happened. Had Vastarnyi’s moonlighting got him into deep water? Had he leaned too hard, or come on too heavy, and gotten himself beaten up as a result? Curiosity burned in him, but he would not give in to it. He would not ask. Vastarnyi, both eyes open, if blackened, shot him a wry glance.
“I fell down stairs?” he offered hopefully. Dexter chuckled.
“You can do better than that. Try again.”
“Uh, the stairs I fell down were the Music Centre’s? All three theatres?”
“What was playing?” Dexter grinned, “The Anvil Chorus, and your face got in the way?”
“Something like that,” Vastarnyi agreed with an answering grin that must have hurt. “Does it hold?”
“Like a sieve that just fell apart.”
“Oh. Uh, I took on a part-time job as a sparring partner for that black guy — the boxer — what’shisname?”
“Hoffman might buy that, but Brendan won’t,” Dexter said.
Vastarnyi’s luck was in, there. It was Neale who took roll-call, and the sight of the young probationer’s bruises merely elicited a raised eyebrow and drawled; “Fell downstairs, Vastarnyi?”
“Got goosed by a revolving door, sir,” Vastarnyi informed him in tones of mild outrage. “An’ it fought kind of dirty.”
“Looks like it. You’re on R & I today, so avoid all revolving door, they might gang up on you. See the vet before you go on duty.”
Dexter got traffic duty, and had a boring quiet hour before the rest of the morning became one long hectic chase, when every driver he saw seemed hell-bent on committing one violation after another, so that for every one he collared, two more would get away with it while he was tied up with the booking. His veteran watch-dog did not exert himself. Haines reckoned it was enough that one fool was working his tail off. When Dexter got back to the Station lunch-time, he felt as limp as a wrung-out rag, and it was an effort to climb the stairs to the locker-room. By the time he got there the place was deserted. Or seemed to be. Until he saw the only other occupant hunched on the bench against the wall, oblivious of everything but his own suffering.
“Vastarnyi?” he said. No response. “Hey, are you okay?”
Blue eyes dulled with pain lifted blindly at the sound of his voice. Vastarnyi was startlingly white under the bruising, and his skin glistened with sweat.
“Yeah,” he said tonelessly. “I’m fine.”
“You didn’t see the vet,” Dexter guessed, and after a long pause got a silent negative. “Come on,” he said crisply, getting an arm round the Hungarian and lifting him to his feet. “You’re going there now.”
Predictably the Police Surgeon gave Vastarnyi a bawling-out for not reporting when ordered; equally predictably, Vastarnyi took very little notice of it. Under orders, Dexter drove him to the nearest Emergency Department for X-rays and handed him over. Their uniforms ensured prompt attention, and Dexter had to wait only an hour while he was processed. No ribs were broken, but a bone in the left hand was, and several were displaced. They fixed it, strapped it, and finally released their truculent patient with his left arm in a sling, a black scowl on his face, and with strict instructions as to what he could, and could not, do. He did not seem surprised to find that Dexter had exceeded his instruction and waited for him, however, and took up the offer of a lift as if he had expected it, too deeply locked into his own misery to question his easy acceptance and asked to be dropped off at the T-Bar.
“Want to thank Slim for last night,” he said as Dexter’s eyebrows climbed. “Could have landed him in the shit. But I guess I wasn’t thinking too clear at the time, and the T-Bar was the nearest bolt-hole I’d got.” Dexter said nothing, although he itched to ask why had Vastarnyi needed a bolt-hole. There was a short pause. “Guess Marie called it right,” Vastarnyi reflected obliquely. And Dexter remembered the little hooker and her casual warning.
“You got beaten up by some of your backstreet buddies,” he said, making it a statement of fact, not a question.
“Buddies?” Vastarnyi queried, without denying the rest of it.
“They know you, at least. And you know them. So why not report them for assault –”
“I’m no fink!” Vastarnyi said, the softness of his voice a menace and a warning.
“No,” Dexter snapped. “You’re a mule-headed moron, is what you are! And pretty soon now you’re going to get yourself killed if you carry on the way you’re going! What do you think you are? Immortal? Indestructible? If you want to commit suicide, why don’t you find a less devious way of doing it?” His outburst amazed both of them, and he set his teeth, gripped the wheel harder, and tried to ignore the slow flush he could feel colouring him from collarbone to hairline. So he gets himself killed, so what? Who cares, for God’s sake? he asked himself savagely. And got the answer back; he did. It was beyond all reason and logic, but life would be awful dull without the Vastarnyi around disrupting it.
Vastarnyi bounced upright in his seat, blazing with fury. “Ain’t none of your business what I do with my life!” he yelled. “It belongs to me, goddammit, and I’ll go to hell any way I choose! You get that, college boy? I go my own way, I cut my own trail, and no one bails me out, or picks up the tab for me! When the check comes in, I pay it!” He groped for the door catch, but was handicapped by his immobilized left arm, and the car was doing forty, anyhow.
“Don’t you fret, pal!” Dexter snarled back. “No one’s going to jump in for you! Sit down and shut up! For once in your life!”
“Like hell! Pull up, I’m getting out!”
“No way!”
“If you — hey, where’re we going? This isn’t Figueroa!”
“No. We’re going to Palmetto. By the shortest route!” And drove in freezing silence the rest of the way, ignoring the furious monologue on ham-fisted vets, blond punks trying for the Old Maid of the Year Award, L.A.’s answer to Mary Poppins, and what would happen to said punk when he, Vastarnyi, got his hand back. Dexter understood barely half of it, the rest being in Hungarian; but the concentrated venom in the diatribe was unmistakable in any language.
He parked the Dodge in the slot next to an ancient delivery van and got out, opened Vastarnyi’s door and waited. He climbed out, stiffly awkward, face white under the tan — whether from anger or pain wasn’t clear — but Dexter did not make the mistake of offering a helping hand.
The store had customers, but as the two uniforms walked in they seemed to fade away and disappear into the woodwork. The small, lean Asian man behind the counter, however, came to meet them, concern on his face.
“What happened?” he demanded. “You’re Dexter? What –?”
“Nothing!” Vastarnyi snapped. “For Christ’s sake, you two are worse than a T.V. soap opera!”
“He’s been sent off-duty,” Dexter said. He had phoned into the Station and the Surgeon as soon as he had E.R.’s recommendations. “They don’t want him back until the day after tomorrow.”
“What did the Police Doctor say?” Hung Fat asked.
“Said he was a congenital idiot — that scalp wound should have been stitched, but it’s too late now, and sent him out for X-rays. There’s a bone broken in his hand, and when he does get back to work, it’ll be light duties. Pity he’s left-handed.”
“Yes, but with rest — and we’ll see he’ll get it — it won’t be –”
“Will you quit talking over me like I wasn’t here!” Vastarnyi exploded. “Listen, you sawed-off little runt,” grabbing a bunch of brown overall with his good hand. “The years since you could ride herd on me are long gone!” The smile of indulgent affection Vastarnyi got from the small man startled Dexter.
“True,” Hung Fat acknowledged. “The tiniest of reptiles can grow into the mightiest of dragons. Though I sure wish I could still tie you to the table-leg sometimes.” Vastarnyi gave a snort that was half-laughter, half-anger, and released him with a bear-hug.
“You’re a fraud,” he said. “Get rid of that blond creep — he’ll give the place a bad name,” and headed for the back-room.
“Any bad name this place has got, you brought!” Dexter retorted, then caught Hung Fat’s eye and colored up.
“Will you stop for tea — coffee?” Hung Fat offered. Dexter shook his head.
“Thanks, but I better be getting back to the Station, or they’ll think I’ve got lost, or something.”
“The debt,” said Hung Fat, “is ours. Thank you for bringing him home — both times.” Dexter flushed again.
“No thanks needed. Just did what was necessary,” he muttered. “Same as anyone else.”
“Not quite I think. I hope you’ll visit again, in a less — official? — capacity?” Hung Fat smiled.
“Thanks,” Dexter said. “I’d like to, one day–” and retreated to the door. “Goodbye, Mr. — uh — Hung.”
* * * * * *
I cut my own trail. No one picks up the tab for me.
It was, Dexter realised, as clear a précis of the Vastarnyi philosophy as he was ever likely to get. It had been laid on the line for him, in words of one syllable, and the implication was equally clear; keep out of his life, don’t interfere. All right. He wouldn’t interfere. Hadn’t been going to. The last thing he wanted was to get mixed up with that crazy barbarian’s fast slide to immolation.
Chapter Seven
Vastarnyi had learned early that to lay trust in anyone but yourself was to court disaster. Either they let you down, and you find you have to depend on a broken reed at a crucial time, or the price ticket that is attached to every relationship has to be paid, and you find you are awful short on credit.
It was a hard lesson, and he learned it the hard way. It is easier and safer to be a loner, to avoid the pitfalls of dependence.
It did not preclude him from friendships — he had friends, plenty of them, but there was always an insurmountable barrier between him and them that could not be broken down, must not be broken down, for he needed the distance it guaranteed. And those friends were carefully chosen, either for their usefulness, or because they, too, knew about price tickets and held aloof. There was no way he was going to let in that long streak of crusading self-righteousness who seemed to see himself as Archangel Gabriel and Florence Nightingale rolled into one. No way.
Okay, so they worked in the same district; he couldn’t do anything about that, yet, but that was as far as it went. It was bad enough that he owed the fink. Normally Vastarnyi was very careful about to whom he became indebted, but on this occasion, thanks to Slim, he didn’t have a choice, and it rankled like red-hot needles under his skin, that of all the guys he knew in L.A., it had to be this one he owed. Unfortunately, Vastarnyi never welched on a debt.
He was moonlighting again within a week — still on foot, which restricted his activities to the downtown area rather than the also rough areas in Long Beach, San Pedro, East L.A., and their like, and while he made no collars, quite a few pieces of useful information were filed away in his mind. Most of which, because he was without transport, he was unable to follow up, and that fact, combined with a wet evening and the added penalty that his feet hurt, made him hesitate when a familiar green Dodge pulled up, and Dexter said, casually, “Hi, your bike still off the road?”
“Hi,” Vastarnyi said, without his usual snide insult. “Yeah. Moon’s got all her guts spread out on his bench. Gonna cost me a packet when he’s done with her.”
“Do you want a lift?”
Vastarnyi gave him a bleak stare. “Where you heading?” guardedly.
“The T-Bar. You?” He grunted, and Dexter rightly took that for assent. He opened the passenger door, and the Hungarian got in, a heavy scowl pulling down the black brows. “How’s the hand?”
“Okay.”
“How long before Moon’s finished with your bike?”
“Don’t know. He had to order some components.”
“Tough luck. You want to get yourself a car.”
“Like hell I do! Bella’s fine! Anyhow, can’t afford one.” The snarl was back in his voice, and a barbed silence fell for five minutes. Then; “What’re you doing downtown? You hang out in Santa Monica, don’t you?”
“Yes. I like the way the T-Bar does the T-bones.”
“Huh.”
“Where are you headed afterwards?”
“Around. Why?”
“Guess you could maybe use a set of wheels?” He said it on an impulse, as he had pulled up on an impulse, and it earned him another measured stare.
“I don’t aim on going far,” he said, coolly. So Dexter was angling on horning in, was he? Okay, Vastarnyi would show him where it was really at; would show him that life wasn’t like a T.V. cop show. And that should get this college boy fink out of his hair, and, with any luck, out of the force as well. “Just Fifth and Stanford. You want to see some action?”
Almost every Angeleno knows Fifth Street, east of Main, the Los Angeles area that can compete with any Skid Row slum anywhere. Dexter knew Fifth Street. And picked up the gauntlet.
“Okay,” he said, voice expressionless. “After we’ve eaten.” Vastarnyi grunted again.
* * * * * *
Having received a bawling-out from Vastarnyi that nearly singed the ears off his head for calling in Dexter, Slim Wyatts was understandably non-plussed to see them walk into the restaurant together. He stared at the joint apparition, remembering with painful clarity what he had been called for involving a Dexter described in the obscenities of several languages, and Dexter, who had not visited the T-Bar since the evening he had been summoned to take charge of the unconscious Hungarian, met the horrified gaze with surprise, followed by amusement, guessing the reason for it.
“Hi, Slim,” he said. “Got a table?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” he answered nervously, eyes on Vastarnyi. “Over here, fellahs.”
“Two specials, and two beers,” Vastarnyi snapped.
“Coming right up,” Slim assured him, and headed for the kitchen as fast as his bulk permitted, then brought the beers.
The meal and the beers were consumed in a hostile silence, Dexter regretting his initial impulse to offer a lift in the first place, and Vastarnyi regretting his decision to include the college punk on his moonlighting. But it would be only this once, so he reckoned he could put up with it.
They paid the shot and went out to the car, still in silence. Dexter climbed behind the wheel, took the green Dodge out into the traffic, and on Vastarnyi’s directions, drove to a nightclub on the edge of the area, parking the car in the lot beside it. Then, on foot, they headed for Stanford, Fifth, and Main. Apart from necessary instructions, Vastarnyi had not spoken, and Dexter was forced to break the deadlock.
“Are we going anywhere in particular?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Vastarnyi.
“It’s a secret, huh?” Dexter said solemnly, and got a glare of dislike.
“I’m gonna look up an old friend or two,” he was told, “see if they’ve got any words for me.”
“General info, or something in particular?”
“None of your business.”
“Okay, I can take a hint. You don’t have to be subtle about it.”
“Smart ass,” Vastarnyi sneered, and swerved abruptly into an alley, leaving Dexter momentarily behind. He caught up with a few long strides, and they picked their way through the evil-smelling, garbage strewn place to an open space where a building had burned down years before. The piles of debris were over-grown, and the site had been somewhat levelled over the years by indiscriminate dumping of garbage, junk, and useless scrap-metal. Vastarnyi walked round the edge of the area to the battered hulk of a long-wrecked car. He looked inside through glassless windows, then tapped on the rusted roof.
“Hey, Joey. It’s Vas. Come on out, huh?”
What Dexter had taken to be a pile of old sacks abandoned on the back seat moved and sat up, bringing with it an odour of ancient dirt and stale alcohol.
“Hi, Vash,” said a thin, reedy voice. “Whoosh’at?”
“Dexter,” he said, briefly. “He’s okay. C’mon out.”
“Kay, I’m coming.”
It took the old man a while to extricate himself from the car — his car, he proudly told Dexter in a voice slurred by lack of teeth as much as cheap wine. Then he peered as close to Dexter’s face as his five-foot four frame would let him.
“Sheen you before, ain’t I?”
“Yeah,” said Vastarnyi, before he could answer. “He advertises toothpaste and baby-powder in ‘Home and Beauty.’ Got anything for me, Joey?”
“Uh, yeah. That guy whoosh been doing the pads in Wesht Hollowood? Got a name, but nothing else.”
“Hey, that’s great!” Vastarnyi gave the old man a bearhug. “Spill it, Joey — you’ve earned yourself a bonus.”
“Name’s Chico Mendoza.”
“Chicano?”
“Guess so, but don’t know for sure.”
“How did you get the name?” Dexter asked quietly.
“Overheard Packy talking on the phone, then he moved away from the window and I didn’t get no more.”
“Packy?” Dexter queried, catching Vastarnyi’s eye.
“Packrat Paul Jakes. Small-time fence,” he supplied thoughtfully. “Thanks, Joe. You’ve done real well.” He took a bundle out of his jacket pocket and put into the man’s hands — food of some kind, Dexter guessed, by the faint smell of savoury spices — then tucked rolled dollar bills under the package. “Stay off the meths, y’hear?”
“Course, Vash,” he said dutifully, then gazed blearily at Dexter again. “Know you from some place,” he muttered, then brightened. “Jonno. You’re Jonno from the hostel on Main — you ain’t bin there for monthsh,” he added accusingly. Stunned, Vastarnyi stared at his companion, whose face reddened in the darkness.
“Yeah, well, sorry about that,” he said, lamely. “I’ve been kind of tied up of late.”
“Joey, we’ll be seeing you around,” Vastarnyi cut in. “Hostel, huh? C’mon, Pollyanna, move out!” reinforcing the order with a hard shove between his shoulder blades. Then, minutes later; “What’re you doing in a hostel? Dispensing sweetness and light and platitudes to the poor unfortunates?”
The goad bit deep, and Dexter stopped in his tracks, spun round, and slammed the smaller man back against the wall. “Sure I was!” he snarled. “Along with trying to keep some of them alive just a little while longer, so punks like you can use them as information sources!”
“Aw, gee, you’re all heart!” Vastarnyi sneered. “Get your hands off me or I’ll spread your nose all over your face!” Dexter let go of his shirt-front and stepped back one pace, and they glared at each other like a couple of hostile dogs; both unwilling to back down, but both reluctant to push it to outright conflict, knowing from experience that victory was impossible. They were saved by the advent of a hooker, hopefully propositioning the two young men in the alley’s mouth. She was not inclined to take ‘no’ for an answer — she was middle-aged and trade was not good — until Vastarnyi grabbed Dexter’s hand and told her coyly they were going steady.
Dexter wrenched his hand free, face scarlet. “Will you quit that!” he hissed. “What’re you going to do about this Packrat guy? And who is Mendoza?”
“You ain’t heard about the West Hollywood caper?”
“No. It’s way out of East L.A.’s district.”
“Ah, but then,” Vastarnyi smiled from the teeth out, “my district is anywhere I’m at, and I’m at wherever I choose to be.”
“Okay. So what’s with Mendoza and West Hollywood?”
“This guy’s been ripping off pads at night — picks on women who live on their own, rapes them and cleans the place out. A couple of them are still in hospital.”
“Oh,” said Dexter, grimly. “You want him, huh?”
“Yeah. C’mon, we’ll get back to the car and pay Packy a visit.”
But the small second-hand and pawn shop off Fourth street was deserted, and the frowsty woman who lived above it as the common-law wife to Mr. Jakes, did not know where he was. He’d be back tomorrow for sure, she told Vastarnyi, eyeing the expensive gold watch he was desperate to pawn. But she could take the watch for him. He declined hastily, a hunted expression on his face, and she smiled knowingly; the piece was obviously hot. Vastarnyi retreated with more speed than dignity, and bolted round the corner, his guilty air disappearing as he passed from the woman’s sight.
“No luck,” he said disgustedly, giving Dexter back his watch. “Out, won’t be back until tomorrow.”
“Tough luck,” said Dexter, thoughtfully replacing his watch. “Now where?”
“Back,” Vastarnyi grinned. “We’ve got a name, and someone else might know who it belongs to.”
* * * * * *
They headed once more for Stanford and Fifth, and Dexter found himself automatically checking his side of the street, knew Vastarnyi was checking the other; they’d learned the car-patrol technique at the Academy, but they had never been teamed together. This was the real thing, and Dexter felt relaxed, alert, and ready for anything, confident in himself, and in the man beside him. If there was a kind of rapport growing between them, neither was aware of it — would have scornfully denied even the possibility of its existence.
“Pull over,” Vastarnyi said suddenly, and Dexter obeyed immediately, braking the big car to a smooth halt at the mouth of an alley. “That junkie’s a pal of mine. Keep the engine running.”
“Sure.”
Vastarnyi got out, ambling across to where a young man crouched in the angle between wall and garbage bin, hunched over as if half-asleep. Dexter watched as Vastarnyi hunkered down and talked to a boy not much younger than himself; then after some ten minutes got up and came up back to the car. There was a new expression on his face, the hard, ruthless determination of a hunter.
“We got us a pusher,” he said as he shut the door. Dexter pulled away from the kerb.
“Where?”
Vastarnyi told him; an address four blocks away, and Dexter parked the car round the corner, within sight of but not obviously near the tenement block.
“What –?” he started, but his passenger had ducked out onto the sidewalk and disappeared into shadows. Dexter locked the car and followed, to witness a remarkable transformation. Dirt from the sidewalk was being used to shadow Vastarnyi’s jaw and eye-sockets and emphasise the hollows of his temples. He rubbed it into his hands, under the nails and cuticles, smeared it on his faded Levi’s and denim jacket. Then caught Dexter’s bemused expression, and gave him a jaunty grin.
“One of us has got to do the buying, and your’re dressed up too pretty.” Dexter grinned back.
“Always knew you had to have a reason to dress the way you do,” he said. “Okay, you’re calling the tune, so tell me what you want?”
“Freddy says there’s three of them, behind a safety-chained door, 318. As soon as they open that door all the way, you buy in and we take them. You got your gun?” An afterthought.
“Yes. And my I.D.”
“Fine. Follow me up, and don’t be too conspicuous, huh?” Dexter nodded, a frisson of anticipation running through him, willing to tag along where Vastarnyi led, and see what happened — the biggest thing he’d done in uniform on the street so far was a ‘drunk in a public place,’ and that with Haines looming over his shoulder to make sure he did it right by the book.
Vastarnyi shot a quick look up and down the street, then knuckled dust into his eyes and moved out of the alley, a hunched, shambling figure that moaned to itself under its breath; the addict in withdrawal, complete with glazed expression, red-rimmed and watering eyes and shuddering twitch. It was a performance that amazed Dexter and impressed him deeply. He had seen addicts — worked with them, and Vastarnyi had it all off, even, he realised, to the nasal drip. This guy knew exactly what he was doing and was no amateur. He wondered how many times Vastarnyi had pulled this trick, and made it work.
Keeping well behind him and out of sight for as much of the time as he could, Dexter followed him into the tenement block and up the stairs, then flattened against the wall, just round the corner from the third-floor apartment. Someone was there before them, a quick buy was made, then after a pause he heard, but could not see, Vastarnyi knock on the door. After a long moment the door opened with a brief rattle of chain.
“What you want?”
“I’m strung out,” came a slurred whine Dexter realised must be the Hungarian. There was a note of desperation in the voice that made his spine creep. “Listen, I — I lost my connection. Freddy said to come here.”
“Yeah? You got bread?”
“Sure I got bread, man! I ain’t asking for charity!”
“How much you got?”
A rustle of notes. Dexter chanced a look. The door was open about four inches on the chain, and Vastarnyi was leaning against it in a state of convulsive, spastic shuddering, fumbling with the dollar bills, trying to count them, and whimpering. You get an Oscar for this one, Dexter thought reverently — then the money dropped, scattering; both Vastarnyi and the man inside bent to pick it up, and Vastarnyi staged a convincing collapse that effectively jammed the door with the weight of his body, so that it couldn’t be closed.
“What the hell –?” said a voice from within. “Bernie, get that mother in here, for Christsake, before someone sees him!”
The chain was unfastened, the door swung back on its hinges, and two men reached down to drag the huddled Vastarnyi inside.
But suddenly there was a barked command. “Police! Freeze!” and the three occupants of the room were gaping at a tall blond man in a light suede jacket and tan slacks, standing with a Police Special levelled rock-steady at the foremost of them, and the ‘junkie’ in dirty denims was smiling like a wolverine from behind another .38.
* * * * * *
Dexter stood on the sidewalk, gun held on the three prisoners spread-eagled against the wall. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if one of them made a break for it — he had never fired a gun at anything other than a wood-and-paper target before. Vastarnyi came loping back from the telephone booth, a wide grin splitting the gypsy features.
“They’re on their way,” he said jauntily. “Gonna send a black-and-white to pick us up.”
It took a matter of minutes for a diverted patrol car to arrive, siren and roof-lights at full blast, and the two uniformed officers stared curiously at the group; three prisoners, a blond kid dressed like a fashion ad who didn’t look old enough to be out of high-school, let alone be carrying a gun, and a dark-haired kid not much older, in filthy denims and with a permanent grin.
“Police,” said Dexter, showing his I.D. “We’ve arrested these guys for drug offences.”
“Yeah, that’s what Control said,” one of the officers said dryly. “Okay, kid, we’ll ferry them back to Parker. You two sit tight, Narcotics should be here any time.”
“They’ve shifted their asses; looks like they’re here now,” his partner remarked as a sleek black Chevrolet pulled up with a squeal of brakes, and two tall men in dark suits got out.
“Lieutenant Hoyt,” said one, flashing his I.D. briefly. “Sergeant Lascaux. Who’ve you got?” bending to peer into the patrol car. “Well, well, well. Bernie, Milo, and Vin. The James boys, L.A. — style.” He straightened, gave the two youngsters on the sidewalk a bleak stare. “Who are you?”
“Probationary Patrolman Dexter, Probationary Patrolman Vastarnyi,” said Dexter.
“East L.A.,” added Vastarnyi. The detective’s eyes bulged slightly.
“Probationary –” he started, broke off, and turned to the uniformed men. “Okay, Paddy, shift them out of here, we’ll deal with them later. You’re Dexter? Okay, kid, where is it?”
“Room 318.”
“Show us.”
They led the way back up to the apartment, showed the table with its sachets of white powder, full cash-box; and the two men checked it over with the thoroughness of a fine tooth comb.
“Lascaux, radio in, get a forensic team up here, hang on for them. You kids got a car?”
“Yes –”
“Fine. You can play yellow-cabs as well as cops, and drive me in to Parker. We’re gonna have a talk. But first, you spread up against the wall.”
“Huh?” said Vastarnyi.
“Why?” said Dexter.
“Because, sunshine, I’m going to give you two the old shakedown.”
“Why?” Dexter repeated, his bemusement so obvious that Hoyt smiled like a shark.
“Because,” Vastarnyi spat with sudden viciousness, “he thinks it’s a set-up of some kind!”
“Set-up?” echoed Dexter, no wiser.
“Yeah,” said the Lieutenant. “Or maybe you kids pocketed one or two things. Maybe even planted some?”
Stunned, Dexter leaned against the wall and Hoyt searched him thoroughly, one eye on the brooding furious Vastarnyi. He found no evidence of drugs, and the notes in the billfold, while there were plenty of them, were reasonably clean and uncrumpled. None of them showed signs of coming from the pile of grubby, creased-up notes in the cash-box. The gun was a standard police issue .38 and had not been fired for some time.
Vastarnyi obligingly spread-eagled himself as Hoyt turned to him and seethed in silence during the search. Again no drugs, again a standard issue .38, but surprisingly, a razor-sharp bowie-knife sheathed at the small of the back. And odd notes and coins stuffed into every one of his pockets. Hoyt also found the key-ring with its unorthodox assortment, and chuckled.
“Lieutenant,” Dexter said quietly.
“Yeah, sunshine?” absently, investigating the jumbled contents of contents of Vastarnyi’s left-hand jacket pocket.
“Has it escaped your notice that the pushers appear to have kept an account of sachets sold and price paid? All you’ve got to do is some mathematics, and you’d find out if we’d taken — or planted — anything?”
“I’d noticed. Let’s go, huh?”
* * * * * *
At Parker Centre they were left kicking their heels for a while, both going over in their minds the whole affair, wondering what went wrong. Then Hoyt joined them again, a genial smile on his rugged face.
“Okay, kids, let’s have your story,” he said easily. “You want to start?” fixing Vastarnyi with a granite eye.
“Sure, why not?” He smiled back, just as mirthlessly. “We’re driving down Main when I saw a kid I knew — Freddy Wright — and he didn’t look so well, so Dex pulled over and I got out to rap with my old buddy. Am I boring you yet?” Dexter kicked him on the ankle.
“Not yet, kid,” Hoyt beamed at him. “I’ll let you know when you do, a little more forcibly than your pal just has.”
“That’s okay, then; I’d sure hate to be a bore. Freddy was kind of spaced out, and he’d forgotten I’m fuzz these days, so he told me who his connection was. So we went in.”
“Went in, huh?”
“Yeah, I made the buy, Dex covered.”
“You saw the buy?” to Dexter.
“Yes, sir. But I didn’t see the first one, just heard it.”
“First one. Freddy’s?”
“No,” remembered Vastarnyi. “A black guy — don’t know his last name, the guy on the door called him Hank. But I’d know him again. When he’d gone, I made my buy, and we cornered them.”
“You two are probationers?”
“Yes, sir,” from Dexter.
“Off-duty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah-huh.” He sat in silence for a long moment staring at their faces, one a bland, blond mask over stony-faced resentment, the other not bothering to hide anger, frustration, and bitter dislike. “So now give me the truth.”
“Sir? But –”
“Don’t play the choir-boy innocent, sunshine! Okay, as you’re playing it dumb, I’ll spell it out, just for the record. You and your friend here got your guns and shields from the Academy, and you’re looking to make some cash. So you drive around until you find some guys dealing in drugs. So you tell them, ‘Hey, listen, we’re cops, but we ain’t gonna lean heavy at all — if you give us some of the bread.’ But they don’t want to play that game, and you can’t shake them down, so you’ve got to run them in. Kind of like an example.” Vastarnyi bounced to his feet, face white with rage, spitting a furious stream of Hungarian. Dexter slammed him back into his seat with a stiff-armed thrust.
“Cool it, for God’ssake!” he snapped. “Shut up –”
“Naw, let him talk, might hear something interesting,” Hoyt drawled, leaning back at his ease.
“Don’t be crazy!” Dexter blared. “All you’re likely to hear is your pedigree and habits described in Hungarian! Vas, shut up! Will you keep quiet, you manic Bohunk, and let me get a word in edgeways!” He seemed to have some kind of effect on Vastarnyi’s rage, because he made a visible attempt to regain control, lowered his voice to barely a whisper.
“Okay, I’ll say it in English,” he said, biting the words out. “Seems to me you’re judging everyone by your own standards, Mister! We’re not on the take, and if you can’t see it any other way, I guess straight cops must be awful rare in your division! A guy called Lorenz gave us a lecture in Academy — said we’d be shovelling shit, but he sure as hell didn’t tell us we’d find it right through the Department as well as the streets!” He ended the last sentence up on his feet, leaning across the desk, shouting inches away from Hoyt’s grim face. Dexter hauled him back into his chair, held him there with a hand clamped hard on his shoulder.
“Sir, do you believe we’re on the take?” He spoke with quiet restraint and an ice-cold glitter in his eyes.
“It doesn’t matter what I think, sunshine, I’m only a Louey.”
“Then will you please tell us what we have to do to get those punks on trial for what is a solid, genuine, charge? Sir? Without having unjustified accusations thrown at us.”
“You’re quite a double act, aren’t you?” Hoyt’s smile was totally without amusement. “Sit tight, kids, I’ll get back to you again later. While you’re waiting, you can write out your reports.” And took papers from the desk-drawer, pushed them over to them, and left them to it.
* * * * * *
No more mention was made about unethical intentions, nor about Vastarnyi’s outburst, which was insubordination in anyone’s book, and the James brothers were duly booked and held for a court appearance.
But it was four-thirty in the morning before all the paperwork was done, and they had to be in court at eight. So they headed back to the East Los Angeles Station House, got some sleep, showered, shaved, breakfasted, put on their uniforms and presented a jointly immaculate appearance in court at the appointed time.
But the wheels of justice grind exceedingly slow, and it was after five-thirty in the afternoon by the time they left. Their case had been held up by one that had been carried over from the previous day, and once before the judge, the processing and arraignment of their prisoners took nearly seven hours. Both men were dog-tired, depressed, and fiercely resentful of the way they had been treated. At the same time there was a feeling of elation. They had made a narcotics arrest and made it stick. In spite of the System, it seemed.
They drove back to East Los Angeles, and changed back into street clothes in the locker-room. They found that word had spread about their joint arrest, and Dexter, who hitherto had been treated as a more-or-less normal individual who had a hell of a lot to learn but wasn’t a bad kid, now discovered he was given the same wall-eyed wary inspection usually reserved for the Vastarnyi alone; who, as everyone knew, was a nut. But the general attitude among their fellow officers was one of cynical amusement, most of them being somewhat older and disillusioned, and this attitude had the odd effect of creating between Vastarnyi and Dexter a united defense against what Vastarnyi already knew, and Dexter was fast realising, was The System. So that when Dexter growled. “C’mon, let’s get out of here,” the two left together, shoulder to shoulder, and headed for the Dodge.
Chapter Eight
“Well, we did it,” Dexter said, pulling up outside the hardware store on Palmetto.
“Yeah. Y’know, the way we went in, it worked pretty well.”
“How many times have you pulled that one off?”
“First time, that way. Needs two for that kind of tango.” He yawned and stretched weary muscles. “Christ, I’m tired. And hungry. You want to come in and help me raid Wei’s icebox?” A muted grumble from his stomach made up Dexter’s mind for him.
“Yes, okay. Thanks.”
He followed Vastarnyi into the busy store to a door to the right of the counter, and up two flights of stairs to a wide landing. It was dimly lit, sombre with painted walls of brown and olive green, and half-a-dozen doors led off it. Vastarnyi headed for the farthest one, flung it wide onto a large kitchen that in contrast blazed brightly in white and pale yellow.
“Hi, mezam,” Vastarnyi said. “I’m back. What’s for dinner? We’re starving!”
“Davie?” said Wei, faintly, turning from the stove, and gazed up at Dexter with an alarmed expression on her fine-boned face. She was a tiny, slender woman in her mid-thirties, with thick, sleek black hair pulled back from a face of ivory charm. Dexter smiled weakly at her, flushing to the roots of his hair. Trust the Vastarnyi to barrel in with an unexpected guest at mealtimes — and drop said guest in the horribly embarrassing position of putting the hostess in a flat spin trying to stretch a meal further than it had been intended to go. He started to say he couldn’t stay after all — had to do some last-minute shopping —
“Davie,” Wei said again, anxiously, “how did it go?”
“Not too bad,” he grinned. “We made it stick. Wei, this is Jonno Dexter. Dex, Hung Wei, my landlady and slave-driver. Mezam, my honey, we are still starving.”
“Huh,” she said, a sigh of relief. “Mr. Dexter, I’m pleased to meet you. Davie had said the most appalling things about you, and I’m delighted you’re here at last, because I knew all along that nine-tenths of it was sheer lies. Do you like stew?” Too bemused to pick up some of the points in her little speech, he nodded, and she smiled up at him, making him feel too tall, too clumsy, and as gauche as a red-necked school-boy. “Good. Go wash up, and it’ll be ready for you.”
Back out on the landing again, Dexter trailed Vastarnyi into a cramped bathroom and shared soap and wash-basin with him.
“Listen,” he said, “you can’t spring an extra person on a mealtime like that. There mightn’t –”
“Crap,” said Vastarnyi into the towel. “Wei always cooks extra for the evening meal. There’s always plenty to go round. You’ll see.” A vivid blue gaze fixed on Dexter. “The Hungs aren’t rich, but they’re not poor, either. You won’t be robbing starving kids by stuffing Wei’s stew.” Dexter flushed again, and the Hungarian laughed, flung the towel over his head, and astounded him with a bruising bear-hug. “Move your ass, Lemon Cheese, or I’ll eat your share as well,” and disappeared at a run.
Stew was a poor name to grace the meal Dexter found waiting for him at the large kitchen table. Steak Chasseur might be a more fitting label — with savoy fried rice as one side dish, with bamboo shoots and water chestnuts and crispy noodles. Wei piled a plate high and put it in front of him, and he discovered he had a choice between chopsticks and regular cutlery. Not having the nerve to experiment, he ate American style; Vastarnyi, though, seemed as familiar with chopsticks as he was with knife and fork, and he envied him that skill.
They awarded the meal the accolade of a silent eating, and conversation did not start up again until Wei cleared away the empty plates, put fresh fruit and coffee in front of them and quietly faded from the room.
“Vas,” said Dexter suddenly.
“Yeah?”
“Were we unlucky, or did you get that kind of hassle with your off-duty arrests?”
“Not so much, but the atmosphere was there, especially when I was dealing with Parker.” He leaned over, pouring the coffee, and pushed a cup over to Dexter. “Think I’m gonna change my M.O.”
“Huh? How do you mean?”
“Go for the guys on the A.P.B.’s instead of cruising around to see whose trail I can cut. Concentrate on the ones that come in from other Divisions, out of County, maybe. Pick them up, take them out, and deliver to the relevant doorstep — anonymously, if I have to. Can’t do much about the drug scene until I have a patch of my own, and a little more official backing.”
“And Chico Mendoza?”
“Yeah. He’s mine, too.”
“Greedy, aren’t you.”
“You bet your ass I am!” There was a hostile note in his voice that was a warning; trespassers will be physically discouraged, and he would have said more to elaborate the implication had not a mighty yawn ambushed him. Dexter chuckled, and was caught by one himself.
“To hell with it. I need an early night,” he said. “Where’s Mrs. Hung?”
“Upstairs with Yaun. I’ll tell her your thank-yous. She’s some cook.”
“Fantastic,” Dexter agreed reverently, and finished his coffee. “But I still say you shouldn’t produce unexpected guests at meal-times.”
“Crap,” Vastarnyi grinned. “The trouble with you is you’re too damned polite.” Dexter snorted, and swung a pulled punch at his stomach. The resulting school-yard scuffle took them out of the kitchen, across the landing and down the stairs to the store. There they put on the dignity of police officers in plain clothes and walked out to the sidewalk and the Dodge.
Sliding in under the steering wheel, Dexter slammed the door and wound the window down.
“Don’t forget to tell Mrs. –”
“Sure, sure. Hey, thanks for the lift, Jonno, and everything.”
“Anytime. No news on your bike?”
“Uh-uh. Moon’ll get a message to me as soon as she’s done.”
“I’ll give you a call Sunday, see if you need a lift Monday morning, if you like?” he offered. Vastarnyi hesitated, then shook his head.
“S’okay. Fat’ll drop me off in the van,” he said, voice neutral, distant.
“Okay,” Dexter started the engine, put the car into gear. “What do you call your bike?”
“Belladonna.”
“That’s it. What she needs isn’t a vet, it’s Christian Barnard and his whole team. Hang loose, Bohunk.” And the Dodge was away, leaving Vastarnyi standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets and a bemused expression on his face.
* * * * * *
Dexter put the car away in the garage, let himself into the house through the side-door, and yawned his way to his bedroom. It was barely nine-thirty, but he was so tired he had difficulty in keeping his eyes open and focused. He took a quick shower, dragged on pyjamas, and crawled into bed. But he found that sleep avoided him. The events of the past twenty-four hours were replaying themselves in his head for his contemplation. He thought them over and came to an inescapable conclusion. To be most effective, undercover work had to be done as a team effort, and on the showing of their first joint venture, they had the makings of a good team; but the problem was two-fold. First off, they couldn’t stand each other, and secondly, Vastarnyi was convinced he was a loner.
Then, just as sleep approached, Dexter discovered something else. That he joined the police force looking for a challenge, and he had found it, but not in the shape he expected. The challenge was there and he accepted it. He hated his guts, loathed him, but the challenge was David Vastarnyi.
Okay. So what was he going to do about it?
* * * * * *
Come Monday morning, however, he discovered that the camaraderie of Friday was gone, as if it had never been. He was greeted with an icy stare and snide remarks that immediately stung him on the raw, and he retaliated in kind. Haines and Baker stepped between them, preventing the verbal battle becoming a physical one, and herded the two furious probationers along to Roll-call. Neale was on duty, surprisingly, since it should have been Brendan’s trick, and he announced a massive sick list. Flu, or something, had struck, decimating their force over the weekend, and Dexter, to his chagrin, found himself off the beat and in R & I.
But R & I, he suddenly realised, could be most interesting, not to say useful, remembering Vastarnyi’s comment about A.P.B.’s. He could do some research of his own. There was shortlist of names in his head — Paul Packrat Jakes, Chico Mendoza, Ceseare Donato — he’d check them out, see if there was anything he could file away in a private collection. He fitted the black hornrims on the bridge of his nose, and with an intent seriousness, started in on the files.
On Mendoza, Dexter drew a blank. Packrat Jakes had a pretty thick file, all small, petty crimes and infringements. The detective squads obviously had plenty of suspicions about him, but nothing serious had ever been proved; nothing that could put him out of business. His front of the second-hand dealer had never been shaken, and no one seemed certain that he was a fence. Except Vastarnyi, that wasn’t on record.
Donato’s file was also extensive, and gave a lot more details than the A.P.B. Dexter had seen. Cesare Donato was big-time. He was a known hitman on the payroll of a Las Vegas based group of casinos, ostensibly as an insurance advisor, and the Vegas P.D. wanted him on suspicion of murder. The Luger was his weapon, and his skill with the handgun was exceptional. But he had another trick up his sleeve, a flick-blade knife which he favoured for close-quarter work, and with which he was deadly. Dexter felt a small cold knot grow in his stomach. With any luck, Vastarnyi would not catch up with Cesare Donato.
He put away the files, went back to his routine job, his interest unqueried by any of the others in the office, and worked steadily through the morning. There was a small nag at the back of his mind; there had been no indication in Donato’s file that the man was known to be, or suspected of being, in Los Angeles at the present time. So did Vastarnyi know that detectives and their informers didn’t? And how come he knew it and they didn’t? The first part of his question was answered just before noon. A phone call, the caller at first asking for Vastarnyi, then Dexter. He was put through to R & I., and Dexter was handed the phone.
“Hi, your earlship.” Slim’s voice came over before he could speak.
“Hi, Slim,” he smiled. “Vas is out on patrol.”
“Yeah, they told me. Listen, good buddy, I got some awful important words for him on Donato. Can you get them to him?”
“Yes, at lunchtime. What’s the problem?”
“He’s holed up in an empty tenement off the Strip. Trouble is, he’s about ready to skip out any time, heading for San Diego and the border, while they arrange to take the heat off him in Vegas. If Vas aims to take him out, it’ll have to be tonight.”
“I’ll tell him,” Dexter said quietly.
“Hey, Dex, make sure he don’t do nothing crazy, huh?” Slim said, his voice pleading. “That turkey is as dangerous as a cornered rattler, with some nasty knife tricks up his sleeve. Keep the brakes on real hard — Davie’s a mean, unpredictable bastard, but a lot of folks have gotten used to having him around.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Hell, I don’t know — you tell me — gotta go, the joint’s beginning to jump. You two take care — he’s one jumpy cat and someone might get hurt. Good luck, Dex.”
“Thanks. Hey, Slim, hold on a minute–” but the young Korean had already rung off.
* * * * * *
Vastarnyi was on his regular beat with Baker, which meant that he would probably be taking his lunch in the Wagonette Sandwich Parlour. So Dexter phoned through. No, there was no uniformed police in the place, the girl told him — yes, she knew who he meant, he came in most days, was kind of handsome, wasn’t he? Comes in with a blond officer who was also a dish — sure, if he comes in, she could get him to ring Dex at the Station-house. Red faced, Dexter thanked her and hung up.
But Vastarnyi did not phone back. He and Baker had been sent to assist other patrolmen at a traffic accident, which had tied up their lunch-break. And when they did get time off to eat it was not in their usual area. So Dexter changed out of uniform and kicked his heels in the locker-room until the Hungarian showed up. He got no more than a grunt in greeting, and was ignored while he stripped off his uniform and changed back to his street-clothes. Dexter followed him out of the locker-room and fell into step beside him.
“Slim phoned earlier on,” he said, and got a black glare.
“So what?” he demanded belligerently, halting abruptly on the top of the steps leading down to the parking lot.
“Gave me a message for you,” said Dexter, continuing down the steps towards his car.
“Yeah?” not moving.
“About Donato.”
“Shit,” said Vastarnyi, and came reluctantly down the steps. “Okay, spill it, and I’ll go and tear out that Korean blabber’s tongue by the roots.”
“Want a lift?”
“No! Just the message,” he snapped. “And it has to be urgent for Slim to phone here. Right?”
“Right,” said Dexter, climbing in and opening the passenger door. “So it makes sense to accept a lift to your door rather than hitching, walking, or waiting for a non-existent bus.” Vastarnyi swore bitterly at him, a stream of acid invective to two languages, and got in, slamming the door with unnecessary violence. Dexter winced in sympathy with his abused car and pulled out of the lot into the street.
“How did you get on Donato’s trail?” he asked.
“None of your business.”
“Did Slim tip you off, or someone else?”
“You ask too many questions, Dexter. Just tell me what Bigmouth had to say.”
“That Donato’s about to skip, heading for San Diego and Mexico, sometime tomorrow. He says if you want him it’ll have to be tonight.”
Vastarnyi spat a single word in Hungarian, his mood now completely one of black depression. “I wanted that creep,” he whispered. “Just a couple more days was all I needed –”
“Is this a private quarrel, or can anyone join in?” Dexter said lightly.
“Private!” Vastarnyi snapped. “You keep out. It’s none of your business! Did Slim give you an address?”
“Yes,” and repeated it. “He also said, and I quote, `You two take care, he’s one jumpy cat, and someone could get hurt.’ ” Vastarnyi was staring at him with an expression he couldn’t read. “We swung it pretty well on that drugs bust, why not try it again?”
“No way!” he flared. “It wouldn’t work!”
“It did last week.”
“That was last week.”
Dexter could recognise muleheaded stubbornness when it hit him in the teeth; Vastarnyi, after their successful team effort, just didn’t want to know, would not accept his help. Well, okay, if that’s the way he wanted it. He shrugged, and in a level, impersonal voice, passed on the rest of Slim’s information, and all that he had gleaned from Donato’s file. Then drew into the side of the street not far from the hardware store. Vastarnyi got out without speaking and started to walk down the sidewalk.
On impulse, Dexter said, “Vas. Be careful.”
For a long moment Vastarnyi looked at him.
Chapter Nine
By seven-fifteen in the evening, Dexter had had an early dinner and was doing a desultory tidy-up of the living room, listening to an album of classical jazz. His mind was not on it, however. He was re-hearing Slim’s warning on Donato, remembering the contents of the file on the hit-man-cum-knife artist, and his inner eye was seeing Vastarnyi walking in to take that hood. Alone. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that the crazy bohunk was about to commit suicide. Messily.
He picked up his car-keys, tossed them thoughtfully in one hand. Then, dropping them, he went into his bedroom and threw open his wardrobe door, and started rummaging through. Fifteen minutes later, he surveyed himself in the full-length mirror. The usual sartorial elegance that was second-nature to him was gone; he wore an ancient pair of cords, a dusty black and white plaid shirt, and a zip-front leather jacket so old that it was cracking along the crease lines. Dexter gave himself a nod of satisfaction and checked that the .38 was snug in its shoulder holster and inconspicuous.
By the time he reached the address Slim had given him, it was past eight, but he had a hunch that Vastarnyi wouldn’t be turning up until later. He parked the Dodge where he had a fair view of the street and the main entrance of the brownstone. It had once been boarded over, but it had been long since been opened to squatters and the suchlike.
This was his first stakeout, official or unofficial, but he knew the theory and reckoned he could handle it. The exhilaration he had known when he and Vastarnyi had gone in after the pushers was returning, tingling through his veins. He felt confident, clear-thinking, alert, and excited, yet relaxed at the same time. It felt marvelous.
The constant theatre of street life going on around him was one of the most fascinating things he had encountered and, again for the first time, he was viewing it in the anonymity of plain-clothes; everyone with a different way of walking, moving, gesturing; male, female, and in-between. He spotted a couple of mixed race girls obviously soliciting. Saw a junkie making a buy from his connection — and itched from frustration that he couldn’t do anything, because if he did the whole purpose of him being here blew up in his face.
In one way he was living a childhood fantasy of cloak-and-dagger, no longer the highly visible uniformed cop but a part of the scenery; no one gave him more than a passing glance, and he knew that this, above all, was what he wanted to do in the Police Force. Here, out on the street, was the war-zone, and he knew that for him, the best way to fight that war was undercover, out of uniform.
He glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty. He decided to have a quiet check around the block, see what was what, maybe get an edge on the crazy Bohunk.
It took him half-an-hour, and he’d seen several things he considered useful, to be filed away for future reference, then headed back to the car; and as he turned the corner, caught a glimpse of a dark-haired figure in Levi’s and ex-USAF bomber jacket vanishing up the steps of the brownstone. There was no mistaking the bouncing stride.
Well, maybe he had got everything neatly planned out, and maybe interference would screw the deal. Dexter had to wait, hard though it was, and see how things came down. If all was well, he’d quietly disappear, and Vastarnyi would never know he’d been there.
He leaned in the angle of the wall and doorsteps, slouched and silent. Nothing happened. Time passed. He wondered what the hell was going on — A shot ran out above his head. A single shot, then nothing. Dexter went up the stairs like a mountain goat.
* * * * * *
Vastarnyi had checked the other apartments on the third floor, and found them, as Slim had said, deserted though debris-filled. The place was condemned, due for demolition, and considered unfit for occupation. By the authorities, if not by others. But Donato was the biggest fish in this pond. Confidently he aimed a kick at the door, .38 in his hand, and as the cheap lock gave and the door swung back, he bounced in with a snarl of “Police! Freeze!”
Donato was sprawled on the bed, a greyish sheet covering his nakedness. A big man, Latin-featured, and taken totally by surprise. Vastarnyi smiled, the Colt levelled at him, and kicked the door shut.
“Okay, Cesare. On your feet. Don’t let your modesty faze you. I’m gonna be watching, but I won’t laugh.”
“You made a mistake,” said Donato. “Who the hell are you, kid? What do you want?”
“You, Cesare, as a present for the Vegas P.D.” Vastarnyi moved into the room, and suddenly his arms were entangled with other arms, slender and suntanned, and a nude girl flung her weight at him, throwing him off-balance so that his shot went wide. She must have been in the kitchenette when he entered, he realised, and had taken advantage of it. Donato moved fast, too. As the girl grabbed for the gun, his bare foot lashed out and caught Vastarnyi in the crotch, giving him something else to think about, and almost before he knew it, he was backed up against the wall, pain making his stomach heave, Donato was holding a knife to his throat, and the girl was standing with the .38 aimed rock-steady at his belly.
“Alright,” said Donato quietly, the blade of his knife resting lightly beside Vastarnyi’s jugular. “How many others are outside?” Vastarnyi wished there were others outside.
“Some,” he said, carefully. Donato signed to the girl.
“Lucia, take a look,” he ordered. She moved to the window, glanced out over fire-escape and back-alley, then checked the hall.
In any other situation, Vastarnyi would have found her interesting; her body was superb, belonging on a centrefold, her face could have made the glossies, and she moved with the controlled grace of a dancer. But the fact that she had his gun and her boyfriend was holding a switchblade at his throat rendered her completely sexless in his eyes.
“Quiet,” she said. “No one out there.”
“Hell, they ain’t gonna be waving banners,” Vastarnyi said.
“No,” Donato considered. “But on the other hand, there just might not be anyone out there to wave banners. But in case there is, you can come along with us — kind of like insurance — and this blade stays right here,” and it penetrated the skin far enough for him to feel the razor-sharp bite of it, and the thin trickle of blood that slid down to soak into his collar. “Until we’re clear. Any move from your buddies, and you’re dead meat, pig. I’ll make you bleed so much you’ll be kosher.” Then, without looking at her, he snapped; “Lucia, get dressed. Fast.”
She put on her clothes like a stripper in reverse, deliberately flaunting herself, and dressing consisted only of shrugging into a zip-up dress and stepping into flimsy sandals. She shook her hair back from her face and resumed her watch with the gun.
“Okay, Cesare, I’ve got him covered.”
“Good. Turn round, pig, and spread. C’mon. lean on the wall! You oughta know the drill — and don’t you try anything, because Lucia ain’t the squeamish type. She’ll put a hole in your spine if you so much as sneeze.” Vastarnyi obeyed, resting his hands lightly on the wall, body tensed for the right moment to reverse the situation. But Donato was a professional. “I said lean!” he snapped, hooking a foot round his captive’s ankle and pulling back sharply, at the same time shoving hard with his free hand in the small of Vastarnyi’s back. Stretched out against the wall, he was helpless, and knew it. Donato dressed quickly, eyes on the prisoner all the time.
* * * * * *
Dexter reached the apartment in time to hear Donato’s warning on Lucia’s accuracy come faintly through the warped door-panels, but there was no way he could get a view of the situation inside. If he barreled in regardless, he could precipitate something he couldn’t stop — so he cat-footed into the stairwell again and bounded up to the next floor, and there he got access to the rickety metal fire-escape. Within minutes he was outside Donato’s window and risking a look in. Vastarnyi was spread-eagled against the wall, a girl holding a gun on him, and Donato, easily recognisable from his I.D. photos, was buttoning a jacket. As Dexter watched, the man picked up his switchblade and walked past the girl to grab a handful of Vastarnyi’s hair, pulling his head back and resting the blade against his throat.
“I’ll ask you one more time, pig. How many are out there?” forcing him to turn away from the wall. And he was facing the window, looking into Dexter’s eyes. A grin transformed his expression of stubborn defiance.
“Shoot, Jonno!” he yelled.
The window shattered in a hail of imploding glass as Dexter’s feet hit it, and he was inside the room, .38 extended, rock-steady. Donato’s knife had left Vastarnyi’s neck at the moment of the shout, and Vastarnyi had wrenched himself free and dived at the girl, hitting her low and snatching the gun as he scrambled to his feet. But Donato had the same idea, and the resulting free-for-all was such that Dexter did not dare shoot for fear of hitting the wrong person. He should have taken the risk. Donato came up with the gun in one hand, dragging Lucia to her feet, an arm about her waist so that she was a shield for him. Vastarnyi had the knife, but Donato had the drop on both of them.
A mirthless smile on his face, he started backing towards the door, the .38 swinging between the two patrolmen. Then, as if they had rehearsed it, simultaneously they moved apart.
“Hold it!” Donato yelled, but there was already nearly the width of the room between the young men, and suddenly Vastarnyi dived for Donato’s legs and Dexter lunged in from his side to get the gun as Donato went down.
The struggle was short and vicious, and ended with Dexter astride Donato’s back, both of the man’s wrists wrenched back and up in the region of his shoulder blades.
“Neat work,” Vastarnyi commented, cuffing the semi-conscious girl and tossing a second pair of cuffs to Dexter. “You okay?”
“Yes — your neck’s bleeding.”
“Got a nick, I guess. Who’s gonna call Parker this time?”
“It’d better be me. At least we won’t get Hoyt of Narcotics.”
“Yeah, but what’s the betting he’s duplicated in every other squad?”
“Your disposition is getting soured,” Dexter smiled.
“And you’re the eternal optimist, huh?” Vastarnyi snapped back. “Go make the phone call, smartass, then we’ll find out who’s right.”
They moved down to the street, Dexter made the call and they waited with their prisoners in the dark lobby, where they could watch the street without being seen. When the black-and-white duly arrived, there were two vaguely familiar patrolmen in the front seats, whose faces slowly split into wry grins as the probationers herded their catch down to the sidewalk.
“Christ,” said one officer. “It is them again. Hey, Paddy, look who it is.”
“Yeah, and look who they’ve got,” Paddy snorted. “Having dented Narcotics sinuses, they’re gonna be climbing up the noses of Homicide. Must be awful quiet in East L.A. if they’ve got to hunt trouble off-duty on our patch. Maybe we should put in for a transfer. Evening, kids. You been playing cops again?”
“Yeah,” Vastarnyi snapped. “Who are you gonna drop on us this time?”
“Hoyt gave you a rough time, huh?” Paddy grinned knowingly. “Don’t sweat, son. We’ve just got orders to ferry your prisoners to Parker. Got your car around? You can follow us in.”
“Yes, okay,” said Dexter, and headed off towards the station wagon. Then stopped abruptly in the centre of the road.
“Vastarnyi.”
“Yeah?”
“Someone’s stripped the wheels off my car.”
The Dodge rested on its underside. During his absence it had been jacked up and all four wheels removed.
Vastarnyi stared, looked at Dexter’s outraged face and sat down on the kerb, feet in the gutter, and laughed himself breathless.
* * * * * *
They went through the usual rigmarole at Parker Centre, complicated by Dexter having to report the theft of his wheels and having to arrange for his car to be picked up before the locals had the chance to strip it to a skeleton. They were fortunate in as much as they did not meet up with Hoyt, or anyone like him, but neither were they offered either friendliness, congratulations, cooperation, or trust. Consequently when, at long past midnight, they were finally allowed to leave, tempers were on a short fuse.
“It’s crazy!” Dexter growled morosely. “How the hell did they do it so fast? I wasn’t out of sight of that car for more than –”
“Serves you right for parking there,” Vastarnyi snickered. “Might as well have tied it up in pretty paper and stuck bows on it. This is the Strip, college-boy, not Bel-Air.”
“Where the hell else could I have parked? I was trying to stake out that place!”
“Yeah?” Vastarnyi rounded on him, belligerence in every inch of his powerful, stocky frame. “How come? I told you to keep out, so how come you bought in? Figured I needed Pollyanna-ing, huh?”
“If I hadn’t bought in, you’d have been lying in the alley with your throat cut!” Dexter yelled back.
“I don’t think so!”
“Oh no! I guess you’d got it all figured out to happen that way — even to Donato’s knife at your neck!”
“I could have handled it! Listen, Polly, I grew up in an area like this! I could use a blade when you were still having your meat cut up by Momma!”
“Sure, sure! And how about the girl? Juicy Lucy? She had a gun on you — your gun, if I remember –”
“Okay, so I wasn’t expecting Donato to be keeping company, but I could have handled it!”
“Sure! Superman Vastarnyi! Why don’t you admit it, you manic Bohunk! That one turned sour on you!”
“It did not! And if it had, who asked you to poke your nose in?”
“No one! But I owed it to you, for the Survival Course. I saved your skin, and now we’re quits, thank God, because if you think I’m going to spend the rest of my life in debt to a pint-sized, homicidal, maladjusted, schizophrenic hunk of ghetto-trash, you’re damn-well mistaken!” Vastarnyi gave a wordless yell of fury and swung a low left to Dexter’s short-ribs that jolted him in his tracks. Dexter aimed for the jut of that stubborn jaw, snapping his head back and sending him reeling — he bounced straight back, fists flying.
“Brawling on Parker Centre’s front doorstep isn’t recommended,” Paddy said, grabbing Vastarnyi by the belt and hauling him back as his partner stepped in front of Dexter. “What’s up, fellahs? Arguing who gets his name down as arresting officer? You both do, so what’s the problem?”
Vastarnyi and Dexter, halted in mid-battle, pulled themselves together, muttered what might pass for explanation and/or apology, and went their separate ways.
* * * * * *
Dexter was lucky to get a cab at that hour, which meant he was not too late in getting back to the house. But once there, he found he couldn’t settle. He stripped off the ancient clothes, consigned them to the bottom of the wardrobe, and took a shower, examining the bruises Vastarnyi had inflicted in their brief conflict. One thing for sure, he reflected, the ghetto punk certainly packed a good punch — when he wasn’t using his feet. And maybe he would have been able to handle that situation alone. But he had owed him, and now they were quits.
He wandered into the kitchen for a glass of milk, and suddenly laughed aloud. Seen in retrospect the whole affair was pretty farcical, not least his own part in it. Even the stolen wheels, which had sparked off his own bad temper, and thus, indirectly, the fight. They had needed that fight, he acknowledged wryly, to let off some of the accumulated tensions; they couldn’t kick the System in the teeth, but they could sure dent each other. He chuckled and picked up the telephone directory. There were no Vastarnyis listed, but there was a Hung Fat’s Hardware Store. Phone in hand, first few buttons punched out, he hesitated. If Vastarnyi had no phone of his own, he might wake up the Hungs at — he glanced at his watch — one-thirteen in the morning. That was not on, so he put the handset down, and padded back into the kitchen with his empty glass. Then froze in amazement as a deep-throated roar boomed in his drive, a hail of stones rattled against the front of his house, followed by a deafening silence that was abruptly shattered by his doorbell.
“What the hell?” Bewildered, he strode to the door, and yanked it open, visions of a drive crowded with Hell’s Angels in his mind.
“Hi, Jonno,” said Vastarnyi, leaning easily against the jamb. “Wanna go downtown for a drink?”
“A drink? It’s past one o’clock, for Godssake!” Then looked beyond him along the swathe of light from the open door. Their shadows stretched long, but clearly visible was the gleaming orange Harley Davidson, and the long, curving skid-scar on the gravel. “OhmyGod! Look what you’ve done to my drive!”
“Slim’s place don’t close till two-thirty,” Vastarnyi ignored his horror. “Gonna come?”
“There’s stones all over the veranda,” Dexter mourned. ” — I can’t come. I haven’t got a car yet.”
“Bella can carry two — picked her up from Moon’s before I came over. How about it?” They looked at each other, and both grinned.
“Okay,” said Dexter. “Come in while I dress.”
“Yeah. A bathrobe can be kind of draughty on a hog,” Vastarnyi said gravely.
* * * * * *
Dexter had seen the Hungarian’s method of riding, but experiencing it from the pillion was another matter.
“I know why you call her Belladonna,” he said shakily, dismounting outside the T-Bar and walking thankfully inside.
“Yeah. It means Lovely Lady,” Vastarnyi explained fondly, giving the headlamp a pat.
“And belladonna is a deadly poison. You and her together make a pretty lethal combination!”
“Yeah. Don’t we just,” he agreed smugly. “Hey, Slim, how about some service over here?”
The next hour or so was convivial — instinctively Dexter found himself steering away from police work and moonlighting, subjects he knew would slam up the barriers and strain both their tempers, and they spent time cheerfully castigating each other’s pet football teams, and arguing sport in general. But at the fore front of Dexter’s mind was the image of a working partnership. Tonight, perched on bar-stools insulting various star players, it seemed a possibility. Tomorrow morning, he knew he would be the enemy again, unable to stop himself from responding in kind to the Vastarnyi’s aggression, and the formation of that partnership as unattainable as any Grail. But he’d keep on working at it.
* * * * * *
The following days were difficult. The news of the Donato collar filtered through the grapevine, and their colleagues ribbed them unmercifully about their joint off-duty activities. They were looked upon as mixtures of glory-hunters and weirdos, and Dexter did not find it easy to take, knowing that what everyone else assumed was the result of regular teamwork was in fact one of two isolated incidents.
There had to be a turning point in their embryo-relationship, though neither recognised it as such, and it came two weeks later. Vastarnyi was still moonlighting, with all the no trespassing signs up, and Dexter, disillusioned and frustrated by the petty bribery and cynical indifference among the police officers themselves — a bribe is a bribe, be it two dollars or two hundred, a free beer or a four course meal, in the Dexter code-book — did some moonlighting of his own.
His first success was a narcotics dealer, a pill-peddler who specialised in school-kid clients, and he got him by acting on information supplied by contacts from his community workdays. He made the collar more by luck, taking risks that wouldn’t be necessary if there had been two of them on the job.
He was in court the next day for the processing and arraignment procedure, and found himself sitting opposite a tanned gypsy-face split by a wide grin.
“Guess it’s contagious,” was all the Vastarnyi said, but his appreciation and approval was genuine and unexpected.
Dexter flushed slightly. “So give me the name of your pet shrink,” he countered.
“Can’t. They’ve just certified him. See you around, Jonno.”
Three nights later Dexter got a phone call. It was eight o’clock and in the middle of his favourite T.V. program, and Vastarnyi’s voice answered his snapped query. Belladonna was indisposed. Could Dex pick him up? There was this guy over in Long Beach he wanted to find. Did Dex remember that APB on that guy who had molested two little kids in McArthur Park? Dexter did, and picked Vastarnyi up outside the hardware store.
The following week it was a pimp who had half-killed one of his ladies, then a couple of broke sailors ripping off liquor stores in San Pedro, and so on. But on-duty, their mutual hostility was becoming something of a minor legend in the East L.A. Station.
Chapter Ten
Dexter looked around, but there was no sign of either Baker or Haines emerging from the Bergiere Bistro. He looked at his watch. They’d been in there only ten minutes, and there was another twenty or so to go yet, of the pattern of the previous weeks were anything to judge by. Vastarnyi heaved a sigh and pushed his cap to the back of his head, hooked his thumbs in his belt and leaned against the wall.
“Y’know, we’re suckers,” he said disgustedly. “We should be in there, swilling Pierre’s rotgut coffee and watered-down beer, free, gratis, and for nothing, instead of hanging around out here like a couple of yo-yos.”
“I’m not freeloading,” Dexter snapped. Vastarnyi sneered and spat into the gutter.
“You don’t know the meaning of the word, college-boy.” His smile was all teeth and no amusement. “And what they’re doing isn’t freeloading, it’s being bought,” Dexter shifted uncomfortably, “so’s he’ll get a little extra police protection, a blind eye turned when necessary, and it’s a fact of life. So what the hell am I kicking at it for?” he wondered, disgusted by his own stupidity.
“Then go and drink the lousy stuff,” Dexter said, icily calm. “Or phone in and report them.”
“What’s to report? They all do it,” Vastarnyi snarled, and kicked at an empty beer-can. It skittered across the sidewalk with a satisfying clatter, so he looked around for another one. “We must be the only fuzz in L.A. who don’t play the game. Sometimes I feel like I got two heads, the way they look at me in the locker-room.”
“You know what Haines said to me last week?” Dexter remembered a grievance. “He said ‘Never mind, son, you’re awful young yet, but you’ll grow out of it soon enough, and join the rest of us.’ And he’s a veteran, a respected police officer!” Vastarnyi stared critically at his companion’s face. In spite of the cap set at the correct angle on the thick blond hair and the immaculate uniform, he looked nearer sixteen than late-twenty-two, with all his idealism showing.
“Yeah, shame, ain’t it,” he drawled, and Dexter flushed. “But like I said, it’s a fact of life. There ain’t nothing we can do about it; you either run with the herd or cut your own trail. Even if it makes you all kinds of fool. I still think I’m a sucker, but I’ll be damned if I’m going in there for anything.”
“But something ought to be done about it!” Dexter exploded. “How in God’s name can a police officer uphold the law impartially when he’s taking petty bribes on a regular basis? The hypocrisy is bad enough, but how can an ordinary citizen put any trust in–”
“My God, Dexter, you sure can talk some shit sometimes,” Vastarnyi groaned. “Come out of the pulpit, Billy Graham, and look at life the way it is.”
“Shit is it, to have some kind of standards, a code of honour to live by?” he yelled, furious and scarlet-faced.
“Sure it is, when it gets in the way of your eyesight, and louses up your brain-functions. C’mon, Dexter, you’ve spent all your life in Cloud-Cuckoo-Land, but out here it’s the real thing. Or haven’t you realized that yet?” Dexter drew a breath for a biting retort, but it was forestalled by a shout across the street.
“Officer! Hey, you, Officer!”
A burly dark-haired man headed towards them, dodging traffic, and pushing before him a slim, auburn-maned youth. The boy’s arm was twisted up behind his back in a harsh grip, but his expression was of pained and wary amusement rather than fear. Amusement that became startlement as the two patrolmen turned round.
“Officers, I want this punk arrested!” the man yelled, giving the boy a final shove that cannoned him into Dexter.
“Why?” demanded Vastarnyi. “What did he do? Lift your billfold?”
“He propositioned me, the filthy little bastard!”
“I did not!” the boy protested, wide grey eyes gazing from one uniform to the other. Vastarnyi looked at him and grinned.
“No? Don’t you go for the macho type?” Dexter dug him in his ribs; once again Vastarnyi was leaping to conclusions, prejudging a situation before the facts were found. True, the boy was remarkably good-looking, not to say beautiful; but there was nothing effeminate about him, and the man was not to blame for the face he is born with. It was probably a simple case of misunderstanding.
“Your name, sir?” he said crisply, taking out his notebook and looking questioningly at the thickset man.
“Johnson. Henry James Johnson. There should be horsewhips for creeps like this! That’ll –”
“Hey, every fruit in the city’d be queuing,” Vastarnyi interrupted, chuckling. “What’s your name, honey-chile?”
“Dimitri. Dimitri Iskandro’s,” he said helpfully. “That’s I-S-K-”
“Never mind its name, arrest it!” Johnson roared.
“Are you making a formal complaint, sir?” Dexter asked politely.
“You bet your ass I am, and I’ve been trying to make one for the last five minutes!” Then he peered closer at the young patrolman. “Dear God! You’re as pretty as he is!” Scarlet, Dexter groped for his horn-rims and put them on, and Vastarnyi gave a howl of delighted laughter, which drew attention to himself. “And you ain’t much better! What in hell’s name have we got in the Police Force these days?”
“I did not proposition him,” Dimitri announced loudly into Vastarnyi’s mirth and Dexter’s speechless silence. “He’s lying.”
“Why, you little –” But Vastarnyi, still laughing weakly, managed a stiff-armed block to Johnson’s charge-down that rocked the bigger man back a step or two.
“Take it easy, bud,” he grinned. “Patrolman Dexter has got his notebook all ready, just give him your full statement, then we’ll go down to the Station and you can sign it. The Courts’ll take it from there, they’ll let you know when to attend for the hearing and trial.”
“Hearing?” Johnson repeated, no longer enthusiastic. “Trial?”
“Sure thing. Wouldn’t be surprised if you make the L.A. Times — Honey-chile here is kinda photogenic, and they’ve been doing some leaders on homosexuality lately, with this gang around that’s been queer-bashing in McArthur.” The man stared at him in growing discomfort.
“Well, I — uh–”
“About your statement, Mr. Johnson,” said Dexter, settling the hornrims, “Where did the incident take place?”
“Yeah, uh, look, fellahs, can’t you take him in and book him? I mean, I got a wife and a position to think of. Okay, so he propositioned me–”
“I didn’t!”
“– but that kind of crud sort of sticks, even to the innocent.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, we can’t do that,” Dexter said regretfully. “We did not witness the incident, and Mr. Iskandros denies that it occurred, so unless you make a formal complaint and statement, there is nothing we can do.”
“Goddammit, what the hell do I pay blasted taxes for?” the man raved, clenching his hands into large fists and swaying forward onto the balls of his feet. For a moment it seemed that he would hit out indiscriminately, but he spun on his heel and strode away, snarling imprecations under his breath.
Dexter stared at the two names on the page, wrote a few more lines, and neatly printed ‘no further action’ beneath them. Then put away the hornrims, and frowned on the boy. He was about to tell him to go about his business, and be more careful what he said to strangers who spoke to him, but Vastarnyi spoke first.
“Don’t remember seeing you around here before, Honey-chile. Have you extended your beat or started a new one?”
“Hey, come on–” Dexter started indignantly.
“I don’t have a beat. Usually,” Dimitri said. “And I didn’t proposition him.”
“No?” Vastarnyi grinned. The boy smiled back, a kind of shyness showing momentarily in his eyes.
“No. He got kind of friendly, but when he realised I cost money, he turned sour.” Dexter stared at him, disbelieving and slightly dazed. The Hungarian chuckled.
“Yeah, I’ll bet he did. Whose stable you work out of?”
“I’m free-lance. Why? Interested?” hopefully, and not caring that it showed.
“Nope. I’m straight hetero. If you’re not a street corner pick-up, how come you’re trolling around now?”
The slim shoulders lifted in a graceful shrug. “A guy has to eat,” he said lightly. “I’m between associations right now. Normally I’m more particular, but –” he broke off and shrugged again, his smile self-mocking and rueful. Dexter, who had judged his age to be middle teens, upped it to the twenties, and was further from the mark.
“Honey-chile, do you go to McArthur much?” Vastarnyi asked casually. A flicker of fear crossed the boy’s fine face.
“Are you crazy?” he snorted.
“Probably,” he said at the same time as Dexter’s fervent “Yes.”
“Got any ideas on who’s doing the queer-bashing?”
“No, and I don’t aim on going to McArthur to find out.”
“On the other hand,” Vastarnyi said smoothly, “you could ask around your gay friends. They won’t talk to pigs, but they’d not hold back for you, would they, Dimitri?”
“No-o,” cautiously. He was maybe an inch shorter than the dark-haired officer, but somehow he made it seem more, and his expression as he gazed up at the tanned hawk-featured face mirrored Dexter’s bemusement, though not for the same reasons.
“Course they wouldn’t. So someone may have heard something, seen something that would help us stop this. Did you know Jackie Bryce died this morning?”
“I — no–” stunned, the boy went white under his tan. “I know — knew — him. He was a real gentle guy — he wouldn’t hurt anyone–”
“Well, the fuzz want to stop it before anyone else gets hurt or killed. So will you help us?”
“I don’t think –” Dimitri started, then hesitated, and looked up at Dexter.
“Some of your friends might have theories that could help,” he said earnestly, having finally cottoned on to Vastarnyi’s angle. “Anything, the smallest scrap of information, could make a lot of difference.”
There was a pause, and the boy took a deep breath.
“The L.A.P.D. can go lose itself,” Dimitri said abruptly. “But if you want info, I’ll get it for you.” He was gazing at Vastarnyi again.
“But we are –” Dexter started, and collected a kick on the ankle.
“Okay, Honey-chile,” the Hungarian cut in. “Informants get paid. Here’s twenty in advance,” holding out the notes. Dimitri took them slowly, then gave them back.
“No,” he said. “You can maybe pay if and when I deliver the goods.”
“Take it as a loan, then,” Dexter urged. “Then you won’t have to –”
“No.” Dimitri shook his head, and his smile was deliberate seduction. “I don’t take money from either of you unless I earn it. One way of another. And even then, maybe not,” and with another smile and a casual salute, walked away without looking back.
“The little bastard,” Vastarnyi chuckled. “Could be we’ve struck luck, buddy.”
“How did you know?” Dexter demanded. “How did you know he was homosexual?”
“God, you’re dumb!” he sighed. “The way he looked at us, dummy.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t know about you, but I only get that kind of look from foxy ladies with sex on their minds. Didn’t you notice it, Dex?” he went on, his grin widening, “When Big-Mouth shoved him against you, Honey-chile could hardly keep his hands to himself.” Abruptly scarlet again, Dexter snarled an embarrassed reply, and it wasn’t until that evening, cooking his T.V. dinner in somewhat lonely isolation, that it occurred to him that Vastarnyi had deliberately used the attraction the boy seemed to feel for him to get the promise of information.
He already knew the Hungarian could be hard and unscrupulous, but somehow this seemed particularly unfair and distasteful. And why had he done it? Just to get unofficial information for his damned moonlighting.
Dexter scowled into his coffee-cup. That, he knew, was not fair on his part. Vastarnyi’s moonlighting was not self-indulgence, and the only times that he, Dexter, complained about it was when he was not invited along; which was most of the time. But that wasn’t the point, he told himself savagely.
What Vastarnyi had done was more than unjust, it was downright despicable. The boy couldn’t help what he was, but there was no need to exploit it — God knows, he was probably exploited enough as it was. If Vastarnyi wanted informers he could go out and pick as many as he wanted, but Dimitri Iskandros would not be one of them. Tomorrow he’d corner Vastarnyi in the locker-room and tell him —
The deep bellow of a motorcycle cut into his thoughts, and he looked up, waiting for the inevitable with a thunderous frown. Seconds later a rain of gravel spattered the walls and windows along the front of the house as the big machine was skidded into a dirt-track turn, then silence.
Heaving an exasperated sigh, Dexter reached for a broom, walked the length of the hall to the front door and opened it before Vastarnyi had time to hit the bell.
“Sweep it off,” he snapped, pushing the broom into his arms.
“Huh? Sweep what?”
“That,” pointing to the scatter of small stones and dust along the veranda. “One day you’ll break a window doing that, and I will break your crazy neck!” and he stalked back into the house. Vastarnyi glanced at the littered veranda, then at the broom in his hands, shrugged, and tossed in onto the drive.
“Hey, what’s got up your nose?” he demanded, following Dexter into the kitchen.
“You!” he snarled. “The way you ride that suicide-machine, and the way you used that kid!”
“Hell, Dex, I gotta turn Bella round, haven’t I? And your driveway is kinda cramped. What kid?”
“Cramped?” Dexter yelped. “Damn it, if I can turn my Dodge in it you can do the same without ploughing furrows and scattering gravel over half of Santa Monica!”
“I don’t turn your Dodge in it. You won’t let me drive your Dodge, remember?”
“Not my — oh, hell, what’s the use.”
“What kid?” Vastarnyi repeated patiently.
“Iskandros,” he snapped the name out. “You can –”
“Who? Oh the fruit. Hey, you’ve heard from him already?” hopefully.
“No, I have not, and neither will you! That’s no deal, Vas.”
“Have you flipped? What the hell are you talking about?”
“He would never have agreed to provide information if you hadn’t persuaded him! You said yourself the way he looked at you — and then you damn-near seduced him yourself! After telling him you’re straight! That’s a filthy trick to pull!”
Vastarnyi chuckled, completely untouched by the scorn and anger.
“All’s fair in love and war, Jonno,” he said. “I’ll pull the dirty tricks, and you can have all the scruples and ethics for both of us. That’s team-work, buddy.”
“Then I don’t want to know!”
“Hey, smarten-up. You shovel shit and it splashes around some. There ain’t no way you can leap clear of it in this job. Have you forgotten what that guy told us in Academy? We’re shoveling shit against the tide, and you can’t stay lily-white doing that. Not even you. So you’ll just have to grin and pretend it’s Attar of Roses. Or get out.” The last three words had a sudden bite to them and made Dexter flinch inside.
“You could have found another way,” he said coldly.
“Ain’t none,” came the crisp reply. “Not for Honey-chile. Like you said, he’d never have co-operated. Look at it this way — we could be making a good citizen out of him.”
“You could, not me. Leave me out of it.”
“Okay, but Dimitri won’t. Unless I miss my guess, he don’t know which one of us he fancies most. Hey listen,” he cut in on Dexter’s outraged snort. “I’ve had word Eva wants to see me.”
“Eva?” Side-tracked, Dexter searched his memory for the face that fit the name, and old down-and-out Vastarnyi had introduced him to a month ago, and who had immediately adopted him as ‘her Jonno’ as if she had known him since he was in diapers. “Oh, yes. What does she want?”
“That’s what I aim to find out, dummy. Are you coming? — If I promise not to seduce any more fruits tonight?” he added with a grin.
“I’ll get my jacket,” Dexter growled. These invitations were rare enough not to passed up, regardless of any sense of grievance he may have, however justified. He was painfully aware that he was making a grade A hypocrite out of himself, but he had no intention of giving up on his somewhat nebulous ambition of a plain-clothes team, in spite of Vastarnyi’s predilection for going it alone. Come to think of it, a few moments ago was the first time that the crazy Hungarian had openly admitted the existence of any kind of a partnership.
With the suspicion of a grin struggling against the frown, Dexter got the Dodge out of the garage, and leaned across to open the passenger door. He was not blind to the fact that one of the major reasons he was asked along on the moonlighting was Vastarnyi’s occasional need for a wheelman, when his beloved Harley Davidson was not suitable or was on the sick-list.
* * * * * *
What he did not know was that at all the other time Vastarnyi worked totally alone, and that a good percentage of the times when he did invite Dexter along was when he wanted someone reliable at his back. On such occasions a sick motorcycle was a convenient excuse, as he had no more intention of telling him so than denying the flesh and entering a Buddhist monastery. Moreover, Dexter did not know that Vastarnyi had decided he wasn’t a bad guy in spite of the handicaps of birth, up-bringing and education, and certain infantile ideals which had to be got rid of as soon as possible before they caused trouble.
While Dexter’s personal crusade of the last few months centered on making the lunatic Hungarian a civilised human being who could function as half of a team and so stay alive a while longer, Vastarnyi had taken it on himself to open Dexter’s firmly closed eyes to the realities of life in the streets and back-alleys of Los Angeles, that being the blond dummy’s chosen place of operation and him not having the sense to get out.
He did not like him much, but Jonno Dexter was okay; and boy, did he have a lot to learn. This business over Dimitri was a case in point. Good informants were hard to find, and Dimitri, working in the twilight zone of prostitutes and unattached to a stable, could prove useful. If he were not a freelance, he could not have considered him. Pimps often exact painful revenge — sometimes permanent — on any of their ladies or boys who talked too freely to cops. On the other hand, clients tended to talk pretty freely, and odd bits of news floated among the prostitutes of both sexes that was normally unavailable to more regular sources of information.
He’d been looking for an in in that area for months now, and Dimitri was a gift from the Gods; and if he needed persuading, he’d persuade. The boy knew the score. If he wanted to live in hope that was up to him. And it was no use Dexter agonizing over the situation. Dimitri was one of those plying his trade through choice as well as possible force of circumstances.
That was the main trouble with Dexter. He tended to harrow over the facts of real life. Well, he’d have to quit that, grow a tougher shell, or real life would break him.
Vastarnyi slid into the seat, slammed the door, and reached for the seat belt. Tonight would be another chapter in Dexter’s re-education, showing him the city in a way that was impossible with them both in uniform. Okay, it was moonlighting, trespassing, call it any way it showed; but if the Department was going to keep him writing traffic tickets and walking the streets as part of a convoy with an old guy so set in his ways he’d worn grooves in the pavement, then he, Vastarnyi, would mark time his own way until he could do it legitimately. Preferably alone, and if he had to have a partner, he’d make sure he had a say in who it was — someone like Pete Vickers — who knew where it was at and didn’t have to be bear-led.
“Eve’ll be at the Hi-Line Bar, just off the Strip,” he said.
“I know. What’s wrong with the bike?”
“Nothing.” Surprised. “Weather forecast said rain.”
“I see. And you don’t like getting wet.”
“You better believe it,” he snorted. “My leathers are still kind of damp from last night.”
“Think I’ll start a taxi-cab service. For moonlighters,” Dexter grumbled.
“Wouldn’t get much custom,” Vastarnyi grinned. “There ain’t too many of us around.”
“Thank God.”
The Hi-Line was not a prepossessing establishment but was crowded with a motley collection of customers. Vastarnyi elbowed his way to the bar, got two beers and a vodka with lime, and made for the rear door through the kitchen, Dexter following on his heels.
Out in the back alley, they turned sharp right to the row of garbage bins, and the shapeless bundle of rags heaped beside them.
“Hi,” said Vastarnyi, crouching down on his heel and holding out the vodka. “How’re things, Evita?”
“Okay,” the old woman uncurled like an armadillo, one grey-black hand groping for the glass. She took a sip and sat up, peering at their faces with watering eyes. “You brought Jonno along,” she observed. “That’s good. He’s a good boy, is Jonno.”
“Sure he is. Momma’s white-haired pet,” Vastarnyi grinned. “I take him out walkies every now and then.”
“Ignore him, he’s bohunking again,” Dexter chuckled, and gave the malodourous bundle a hug. “Are you keeping all right?”
“Sure I am. Nothing wrong with me.” She took another sip. “Saw someone last night,” she announced. “And I said to myself my Davie and my Jonno’d like to see him.”
“Who was that, mezam?” Vastarnyi said gently. He gave one of the beers to Dexter and hunched closer.
“A real mean dude. You’ll have to be careful, you hear?”
“Sure, I’m always careful.” But she took no notice and turned to Dexter.
“You’ll see he takes care, huh?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Who was it, Eva?”
“Hank Levin,” Her voice dropped to a croak. “Caught a glimpse of him as he went into the Ceilito Lindo, followed him when he came out, just to be sure. He called a cab, told it to go to the Paris Heights Hotel on Grand.”
“He didn’t spot you, did he, girl?” Vastarnyi said anxiously.
“Course not!” her crackle of laughter becoming a coughing spasm that racked her thin body, leaving her breathless and wheezing. She drained what was left of the vodka and lime, and Dexter handed over his beer. “Who’s gonna take any notice of me?” she gasped when she could speak. “Except Davie and Jonno. Hank, he wouldn’t know me now,” she added. “You take real good care, you hear?”
“Sure thing.” Vastarnyi tucked notes into one of her pockets. “You buy food with that, honey,” he ordered. “Solid food, not liquid.”
“Okay.” She grinned, gap-toothed, and tottered to her feet, leaning on Dexter’s arm. “See you around, boys.”
“Yeah. We’ll let you know how we make out with Levin.” She patted his cheek, collected hugs from both of them and shuffled away up the alley, disappearing in the gloom almost immediately.
“Hank Levin,” said Dexter thoughtfully. “Have you got anything on him?”
“Think so. I’ll check through when I get home and bring it in in the morning.”
“Of course, she could have made a mistake?” he ventured.
“Not Eva,” Vastarnyi snorted. “She never forgets a face, and she remembers him from way back. He’s probably on her List.”
“What’s this List of hers?” Dexter probed and got the same answer he’d had for too long now.
“God knows. But she’s got one, and it’s for a good reason. C’mon. let’s get those glasses inside before they think we’ve heisted them.”
“And then go somewhere where there’s decent beer.”
“Okay by me. You’re the wheelman.”
“You want to check out any more contacts?” Dexter suggested. Vastarnyi caught the poorly hidden hopefulness, and grinned.
“Okay. Someone else may have seen Levin around; we’ll call in at the Ceilito Lindo on the off-chance, then try Jives at the Karma House.”
Chapter Eleven
Mr. Levin was elusive. Dexter was directed to a selection of bars and strip-joints in the seedier section of Downtown L.A., meeting several of Vastarnyi’s informants he’d not come across before — Jives being one of them.
He was a black man in his late twenties, standing an inch under seven feet tall in his bare feet, an incredibly thin individual who, according to Vastarnyi, was a wow on the basketball court. This boggled Dexter, as Jives reminded him of a giant stick-insect, his movements being slow and deliberate, his bony, heavy-jawed face solemn, expressionless, a mask for a sense of humour that bordered on the ridiculous. He played guitar in a place that called itself a nightclub and was step up from being a strip-joint, and he was a mine of information on the unlikeliest subjects, ranging from straightforward tip-offs, criminology as a science, right through to archaeology, classical ballet, and opera. And sport. He was, he told Dexter gravely, working for his Doctorate in Applied Psychology at Pasadena U., and in between times playing on their basketball team; and his post at the Karma House was helping to pay his way through University.
But he had no words to pass on about Hank Levin.
“I’ll keep my ears open,” he said, “but I ain’t heard nothing on him for two, three years now. Didn’t he drop out across the border in Mexico?”
“That’s what I heard,” Vastarnyi agreed. “Might be interesting to find out why he’s come back. He’s wanted for Murder One in Wyoming, and for a couple of Armed Robberies in L.A.”
“– that we know about,” Dexter amended.
“Exactly.” Jives gazed mournfully into his beer. “Seems I remember old whispers from way, way back about him being involved in some dirty action.”
“Used to be a pimp,” Vastarnyi said. “Twenty, thirty years ago.”
“Yeah, that’s right. But he was kind of mean to his ladies. They sure didn’t work for him because they loved him.” He caught a signal from the dais. “Gotta go now, they need my music, man. Keep in touch, huh?”
“Yeah,” said Vastarnyi, and led the way out.
“Hey,” said Dexter, as they got into the Dodge. “How many of your contacts are regular police-informants?”
“None of them,” Vastarnyi said shortly. “Some I know from when I was a kid — like Jives and Eva — some I’ve picked out myself. Like Honey-chile,” he added, and shot a keen glance at Dexter’s profile, watched the frown come, the mouth thinning, and chuckled. “That really gets up your nose, don’t it?”
“Yes, damn it!”
“Don’t sweat. We may never hear from him again.”
* * * * * *
But Vastarnyi was wrong. Two days later, after a couple of incidents in the Atlantic Avenue County Park the previous day, the body of a known homosexual was found hidden in the bushes in Belvedere Park, both places slap in the middle of the East Los Angeles area. The following day, when Baker and Haines were taking their usual coffee-break mid-morning in the Bergere Bistro, leaving the two probationers propping up the wall just down the block, a jaunty, red-haired figure crossed the road and stopped in front of them.
“Hi,” said Dimitri. His smile was cocky and self-confident, but there was a darkness of fear in the grey eyes.
“Hi,” said Vastarnyi, and waited. Dexter said nothing, merely gazed stonily into the middle distance.
“Is he mad about something?” Dimitri wondered.
“Yeah,” Vastarnyi grinned, and continued to wait, staring down the younger man’s gaze until it turned from invitation to defiance, then to confusion.
“Harry Rowe was killed last night,” Dimitri blurted out, eyes fixed on the pavement at his feet, his colour high. It wasn’t what he had intended to say, and he cast around frantically for the thread of his original speech. “I — uh — heard something you might be interested in.”
“Yeah?” Vastarnyi sounded bored.
“That gang. They’ve moved out of McArthur into Atlantic.”
“So what else is new?”
“Okay!” Dimitri flared in sudden anger, effectively startling Dexter out of his detachment. “So find an up-to-date squealer!” and turned on his heel.
Vastarnyi let him take two strides, then, “Hey,” he said.
The boy stopped, and turned. Vastarnyi smiled, reeling him in with that smile like an angler bringing a fish to the gaff, and in spite of his rage Dimitri found himself responding. “I’m sorry. Guess I’m kinda up-tight.” The apology was so unexpected it took both Dexter and Dimitri by surprise and was totally disarming. Also deliberate, Dexter realised, anger growing in him. What the hell did he think he was playing at? And thank God the kid had enough pride in him to kick at the cavalier treatment.
“I’m sorry.” Vastarnyi repeated, and slowly Dimitri’s expression of white-faced fury dissolved into an answering smile, and he shrugged.
“Uh, that’s okay,” he said lamely. “Have you got descriptions of the gang? Names?”
“No names, and only vague descriptions,” Vastarnyi said. “No positive I.D.’s at all.”
“Then I may have something for you–”
“Baker and Haines,” said Dexter quietly.
“Beat it,” Vastarnyi hissed. “Karma House, eight-thirty.”
“Okay,” the jaunty grin was back. “It’s a date.” And he merged with a group of shoppers and was gone.
“I want to talk to you,” Dexter snapped.
“It’s a free country,” Vastarnyi said cheerfully. “Go ahead.”
“Not here! Unless you want the whole street to know what kind of a –”
“You two feuding again?” Baker demanded. “Damned if I’ve ever come across a more argumentative pair of punks! You’re always sniping!”
“You expect different?” Haines grunted. “Come on, let’s break it up before World War Three breaks out.”
Dexter had to contain his resentment until their lunchbreak, when their two watchdogs retired into an alcove of the Hawaiian Grill, leaving the rookies to take their own meal in the Wagonette Sandwich Parlour further down the block. He backed Vastarnyi into a corner, figuratively and literally, and glared down at him, taking the full advantage of his extra four inches of height.
“You’re a louse, you know that?” he said, voice held quiet because of the other diners within earshot, but the anger came vibrating through the words clearly enough.
“Now what have I done?” Vastarnyi groaned, gazing up at him beseeching. “What’s climbing your back this time, huh?”
“As if you didn’t know,” Dexter spat, the scathing acid of the tones bringing an answering glitter to Vastarnyi’s eyes. “Why did you do it? What were you trying to prove? Or do I have to guess?”
“You’d be way off the beam! Sit down, blast you, and I’ll explain. Just once. So pin back your ears, smartass! An informant is a pretty valuable tool. He is also a weapon, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t trust my life to a tool or weapon I don’t know inside out.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Dexter started scornfully.
“How? Listen, college-boy. A man gives me info — I go in on his word, and instead of two guys with knives there are six with guns. Bang I’m dead. Because he has either given me wrong words or deliberately sold me out. Either way I end up in a metal drawer in the morgue. Dimitri is a new kid. No one knows anything for or against him — yeah, I’ve asked around — so I test him out. How much pride has he got, self-respect, courage? What’s his price-range? What’ll he baulk at? How much loyalty has he got? What axes has he got to grind? And so on. Any more questions, college-boy?”
“Yes. So what did you learn?”
“You want it straight on the chin or prettied up?”
“Straight!” Dexter snapped.
“Right now he thinks he’s in love with me, and he’ll give me whatever I want. But that won’t last. He’s also got some fire behind those pretty eyes, and more guts than you give him credit for. He’s come up from the back streets, same as I did, and he knows the score. He knows the risks that squealers run if they’re found out, and he knows how vulnerable free-lancers can be as well — though not as much, maybe, as the stabled merchandise. Anything else?”
“Yes. He’s giving to you. What do you give back, or is it all take?”
Vastarnyi showed his teeth. “Protection,” he said coldly. “Security, if you like. That’s one of the cardinal rules in this game, Jonno Three. You are as loyal to your informers as they are to you. If he sells me out, I’ll put him down. If he goes in over his head, I’ll jump in and haul him out. Simple as that. Or have you got anything else to say?”
“Nothing that I haven’t said already, a few days back.”
“Then bite on this. Dimitri’s not coming to us with information because we turn him on or he needs the money. Some of his friends have been beaten up, and two of them are dead. So apart from the revenge factor, there’s an element of self-protection as well. He’s not obviously gay, so he’s probably safe, but he won’t feel safe until this gang’s been collared. He won’t go to the police with this info because a) he doesn’t trust the police, and b) most people’s attitude to fruits — including that of the majority of police officers — is not exactly inducement to cooperate. So he picks on us, because we’re near his age, we didn’t sneer or mock, and, a long way third, he likes the macho types. That’s it. Please yourself whether you come along tonight. Subject closed. D’you want beef, or ham on rye?”
Dexter gritted his teeth, took a deep breath. “Beef,” he growled.
* * * * * *
He was still simmering quietly when he picked up Vastarnyi outside Hung Fat’s Hardware Store, and the drive to the Karma House passed in stony silence — on Dexter’s part. Vastarnyi hummed, whistled, sang odd snatches of songs in Hungarian half under his breath, but made no attempt to start a conversation. Dexter glared at the aggressive profile, curbing an urge to give that aquiline nose another angle. The crazy Hungarian had to learn somehow that you can’t use people the way he did — the human race was there for his personal exploitation — but how could he get that through Vastarnyi’s mule-stubborn head? There was a lot that had to be said, but for once he did not know where to begin, and all he could manage as they left the Dodge and entered the bead-curtained doorway of the Karma House was:
“I hope he rapes you!” in a sotto voce hiss that brought a crack of laughter from Vastarnyi, and was completely inadequate for what he felt.
“What makes you think you’re safe?” Vastarnyi chuckled. “There he is.” And swerved through the crowd towards the slim figure at the bar. “Hi, Jives,” he yelled as he passed the rostrum with the three-piece combo in their yellow robes. “Evening, Honey-chile.”
“Hi,” said Dimitri. “Is he still mad at something?”
“Yeah, but I think he may be mellowing.”
“Like hell!” Dexter snapped. “You know my feelings on the subject.”
“And you know mine,” Vastarnyi bit back. “Evening, Pat. Three beers. You got a table free?”
“Uh, yeah,” the bar man pointed with his chin. “Over there, next to the fire-exit. Just don’t block it up, okay?”
* * * * * *
The table was in a corner and reasonably secluded, featuring a bench seat along the wall and a few chairs in front. Vastarnyi removed the chairs and herded his companions to the bench.
“Spill it, kid,” he said briskly. “What do you know?”
Dimitri gave him a slightly pained look. “You haven’t got a witness for Harry Rowe’s murder.” It was statement of fact, not a query, and won the undivided attention of both police-officers.
“That’s right, we don’t,” Dexter confirmed quietly.
“Well, there is one.” Vastarnyi smothered a whoop of delight and gave the startled Dimitri a spontaneous bear-hug. “But,” the boy went on when he got his breath back, “he won’t go to the police.”
“But he has to!” Dexter exploded. “If he can identify –”
“He can, but he won’t.”
“Why not, for God’s sake?”
“Because,” said Dimitri.
“You’ll have to spell it out, Honey-chile.” Vastarnyi spoke into the growing silence. “College-boy is kinda naïve about life as it is lived.”
“He got mugged a year or so back — the police just laughed at him, said he asked for it. They treated him pretty bad — nothing physical, you understand, but lots of atmosphere. You get the picture?”
“Yes.”
“I told him not all pigs are pigs, but he’s had it.”
“So? I’m sure you came up with something,” Vastarnyi put in.
“Yeah. I’m inventive.” Dimitri chuckled. “And my friend is artistic. You see, he was roughed up in Atlantic a few nights ago, but he got away with only some bad bruising. The same guys that leaned on him wasted Harry, and he saw that, too. Says they just kicked him to death.” He unbuttoned the brown denim jacket and brought out a rolled-up sheaf of papers. “Toby — that’s not his real name, but it’ll do for now — didn’t see more than four faces clearly, but he’s sketched them out, with descriptions and what names he picked up on the side. There were ten altogether, all about the same age, early twenties.”
Vastarnyi unrolled the sketches. Toby was no Leonardo de Vinci, but his subjects weren’t the Mona Lisa, either. If accurate, though, they were more than adequate for identification purposes. They all showed clean-cut faces, short, neat hairstyles, conservative clothing. Two sketches had names attached. Carl and Rick.
“All-American W.A.S.P. heroes…” Vastarnyi mused. “Hey, how good is this guy at likenesses? Can we trust these?”
“He’s good.” Dimitri fished out another sheet of paper, unfolded it, and handed it over. “Figured you’d ask that, so I got him to do this. Took him three minutes by my watch.” ‘This’ was a pencil sketch of himself, instantly recognisable. “Okay, so he knows my face pretty well, but the twice he saw those guys is more than enough to fix the memory.”
“Dimitri,” Dexter said quietly, “Do you have any objection to us handing these over to Homicide?”
“Huh? No way!” Vastarnyi cut in. “This is our baby!”
“Do what you want,” Dimitri said at the same time.
“See sense, Vas,” Dexter said. “Moonlighting for individuals is one thing. A gang of ten is another. You’re neither immortal nor indestructible.”
“You weren’t thinking of tackling them alone, just the two of you, were you?” Dimitri was aghast. “That’s crazy! You give them to Homicide — CIA, FBI, anyone you like,” he finished, picking up the sheets and pushing them into Dexter’s hands. “But don’t you let him play Lone Ranger with those turkeys.”
“We’ll sort that out later,” Vastarnyi said with ominous calm. “Anyone want another beer?” He collected the empty glasses and headed for the bar. Dexter, studying the sketches, felt himself being studied in turn. He glanced up, frowning, and met Dimitri’s gaze.
“I don’t know names other than Dexter,” he said, pointedly. “Formal introduction I don’t expect, but ‘hey you’ is impolite.”
Dexter smiled in spite of himself.
“Jon Dexter,” he supplied. “Dave Vastarnyi.”
“Which college? Harvard?”
“Yes.” Surprised. “How did–”
“Guessed,” he grinned. “What are you mad about? Fruits?”
“No!” Dexter denied. “Exploitation!”
“So who’s being exploited? Me? You? Him?” Dimitri sounded amazed and amused, watching the blond man with his head on one side and a knowing smile growing on his face. “Yeah, I got it. What you don’t like is him and me.”
Stunned, Dexter stared at him. “He’s straight,” he said through gritted teeth. “So am I. And he is using you!”
“Sure he is,” Dimitri said soothingly. “It’s okay, I know the score. You don’t have to get mad.”
“Is he still breathing fire?” Vastarnyi demanded, returning with the beers. “You can buy the next round, buddy, maybe that’ll cool you down. Hey, Dimitri, you heard of a guy called Hank Levin?”
“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Should I have?”
“No, not really. Just on the off-chance. How about Chico Mendoza?”
The boy shook his head.
“Dimitri.” Dexter spread out the sketches on the table. “Have you ever seen any of these guys?”
“No, I haven’t, but I reckon I’d know them if I did.”
“If we collared them, would Toby come along to an I.D. line-up?” Vastarnyi asked.
“No way.”
“Couldn’t he be persuaded?”
Dimitri smiled slowly. “You might be able to — I couldn’t,” he said. “I’m not his type.”
“Has Toby got copies of these?” Dexter brought the conversation back to practicalities.
“No. Why?”
“We’ll get a load Xeroxed off and give them back to you. Pass them around your crowd, and tell them to keep their eyes open. Any info to you or Toby,” Dexter said crisply. “And stay out of parks.”
“Yeah, okay,” Dimitri agreed. “Wasn’t planning on spending time in any park. Don’t like the climate.”
“Then don’t troll for a while,” Vastarnyi held out an envelope. The unsealed edge showed green dollar bills.
“Don’t have to, now,” Dimitri pocketed it without bothering with a count. “That’s not my scene, anyhow. Like I said, I’m kind of choosy. I don’t go much for one-night stands — more the middle-to-long-term associations.”
“Yeah?” Vastarnyi grinned.
“Yeah,” said Dimitri. He was watching Dexter’s face out of the corner of his eye, gaining a wry amusement from the changing expressions. “I kind of see myself as the courtesan type rather than the common hooker.” And won an expression of outraged disbelief that got a bonus of a snort of laughter from Vastarnyi.
“For God’s sake, what kind of a life is that?” Dexter said hotly. “Why don’t you play it straight, find yourself a nice girl and settle –”
“Have tried it straight,” Dimitri interrupted. “Several times. Hell, there’s nothing wrong with girls. I love the way they move, the way their hair flows, the way they smell — they’re beautiful. But they just don’t turn me on. Their bodies,” he explained, with a wide-eyed candour that should have warned Dexter to beware of further outrage, “are kind of soft. I prefer muscles in my bed,” eyeing with wistful hunger the expanse of hard brown chest that showed through Dexter’s open-necked shirt.
Vastarnyi howled delightedly. “Oh God, you asked for that!” he crowed, and sprawled, laughing, over the table. “You set yourself up for that one!”
Dexter, scarlet-faced, leaned across Dimitri, grabbed a handful of Vastarnyi’s shirt and hauled him nearer. “One of these days,” he promised, “I’m going the take you apart and forget to put you back together, you uncivilised, unprincipled, bone-headed, tunnel-visioned homicidal maniac!”
“Hey,” said Dimitri. “He really loves you.” That was the last straw for the goaded Dexter. With a wordless snarl he dropped Vastarnyi, surged to his feet, and shouldered his way through the crowd to the bar in what was suspiciously like a football-player’s charge. “Did I say the wrong thing?”
“Poor Jonno,” Vastarnyi gasped, clutching his aching ribs. “You shouldn’t have sprung his muscles on him, Honey chile. He has enough trouble living his face down, without you adding his body to it.”
“What’s wrong with his face?” Dimitri demanded. “It’s fantastic! They don’t come much better!”
“Yeah. That’s what’s wrong with it. He don’t like his face. Keep on telling him I’ll rearrange it for him — like walk over it a few times — but I guess he’s gonna save up his pennies for plastic surgery.”
“Huh!” said Dimitri. “Hey, where can I get messages to you in a hurry without phoning the station?”
“Hung Fat’s Hardware Store, off Palmetto and Seaton, downtown.” He wrote the number on the back of an envelope, and scribbled Dexter’s name and address beneath. “If I’m not at Hung’s, you can leave a message safely. The name’s Vas. That’s Dex’s place — if you call him, keep it strictly business, he’s kind of sensitive.”
“Mmmm,” said Dimitri, purring.
“So watch it,” Vastarnyi chuckled. “Needle him too much, and he’s liable to blow his top and get real physical. And I don’t think you’re that much of a masochist.”
“Okay,” he capitulated. “I’ll behave.” He shot the Hungarian a glance under his lashes. “I won’t poach,” he added provocatively.
“You’re calling the shots wrong again, Honey-chile,” Vastarnyi said, his smile widening into a grin. “You found yourself an association yet?”
“Think maybe I have.” Dimitri paused as Dexter returned with a round of beers. “He’s a pro-footballer. Not much in the way of brain, but the body’s fantastic.”
“Have you got a one-track-mind?” Dexter inquired grimly.
“Yes,” said Dimitri happily.
“Sit down, buddy,” Vastarnyi said. “You’re safe. Honey-chile is promised to another. Hey, Dimitri, I’d like to talk to Toby. Any chance?”
“No way if he knows you’re fuzz,” he replied, abruptly serious. “And if you’re going to question him on details, he’ll soon guess you’re no boyfriend. Tell me what you want to know and I’ll dig it out of him.”
“I want a detailed written statement of everything he can remember about both incidents. Everything, no matter how trivial or unconnected it may seem.”
“Okay.” He drained his glass, picked up the sketch of himself, screwed it into a ball and dropped it into the ashtray. “See you around.” He squeezed past Vastarnyi knees, grinned and walked away.
There was a silence some five minutes long while the two officers consigned the sketches to memory, and pondered on what action was to be taken regarding them, Dexter having the additional problem of how to convince Vastarnyi Homicide had to be given this information. It took him most of the evening, and even then he would have failed but for an unexpected ally. Jives had drifted over after a while, pulled up a chair and sat astride it, listening to Dexter’s earnest lecture, and glancing from the sketches to Vastarnyi’s aggressively stubborn jawline.
“Who’re these cats?” he asked when the blond man paused for breath.
“Four of the fruit-picking gang,” Vastarnyi said.
“Four out of how many?”
“Ten,” supplied Dexter.
“Uh-huh.” Jives grinned wisely. “Guess little Davie’s coup-counting again.” Incredibly a slow flush crept up Vastarnyi’s face, but before the astounded Dexter could comment on it, the tall black man turned to him and continued in a conversational tone — “Man, did he give us hassle when he was a kid.”
“He did?” Dexter said, bemused.
“Yeah, did he ever. See, I had this street-gang — hell, in our area you had to be part of a pack or you were in trouble — and Davie used to tag along. He was quite a bit younger than the rest of the guys, but he was a fighter, so we didn’t kick him out. Got so he was kinda like a mascot. Trouble was, Hung Fat leaned on us –”
“Hung Fat leaned?” Dexter had to challenge that. “Hey, c’mon –”
“You’ve met him, huh? Listen that guy maybe kinda small and skinny, may look mild as milk, but don’t you tangle with him or he’ll dismember you. He knows some tricks make Karate look like a Viennese Waltz. Yeah, he leaned. Said if anything happened to Davie, we’d think the whole of the Tong had moved in on Palmetto. So when we got into rumbles we had to keep Davie out. You ever tried to keep him out of trouble? Can’t be done. What that little hellion used to do was go in with a knife and bring out souvenirs. He stood about that high, was six, seven years younger than the rest of us, and he could put down those other guys like they was amateurs. See, Hung had taught him a lot, and what he used to do was count coup — make for the leader man of the opposition, and cut off a lapel, a button, scarf-end, then take off like he was jet-propelled. God, they hated him. They’d sooner be beaten up by us than counted by that little punk any day in the week. We sure had our work cut out riding herd on him. Of course,” he went on, firmly wedged in a groove of reminiscence designed, as Dexter belatedly realised, to bring the Hungarian right down off his high horse. “It wasn’t just vendettas we had to guard him against. There were the Mancinis — his Mom’s people — and the pimps.”
“Pimps?” a faint echo.
“Yeah. That red-haired kid was Dimitri Iskandros? He’s quite something, but you should have seen Davie when he was nine, ten, eleven or so. See, the trouble was, Davie was a loner — he’d only want to join the gang when we were going someplace he wanted to go, or if he guessed there was a rumble in the air. He didn’t tag along just for the sake of being in a gang. So we needed eyes in the backs of our heads. The holes we had to pull him out of — you’d never believe it. And you know what? He ain’t changed worth a damn.”
“Have you about done, big-mouth?” Vastarnyi snarled evilly.
“Done?” Jives sounded surprised. “Yeah, I guess. What’s got up your sinuses? Okay, don’t tell me — I know when I ain’t wanted.” He unfolded himself from the chair and stalked away, indignation in every jerky stride. But Dexter had caught the tail-end of the wink directed at him, and sat silent, waiting.
“Don’t know anyone in Homicide,” Vastarnyi growled eventually.
“I’ve heard some of the guys talking about their lieutenant — Goldberg. They swear by him.”
“The Vulture.” It was a grunt. “I ain’t gonna visit anyone in Homicide. You want them to have this, you hand it over.”
“And you’ll stay off moonlighting in the parks?” Dexter pressed the advantage.
“Okay!” Vastarnyi yelled, suddenly furious. “Okay! I’ll concentrate on friend Levin — or maybe you think I can’t handle that either? Listen, when I need a nursemaid to change my diapers, maybe I’ll call you up!” And he was gone, disappearing into the crowd that opened up to let him through and closed behind him.
Jives reappeared, silently, and sat down in the chair he’d not long left.
“Every now and then,” he said mildly, ” you gotta watch out for San Andreas. You were kinda lucky you didn’t have to duck. He tends to hit out.”
“Yes, I know.”
“If you still lucky, it’ll have blown over by the morning. If not — have you come up against the Vastarnyi version of ‘the end of the world is nigh and I hate the human race’ yet?”
“Uh, no -?”
“Could be you will, pretty soon.” Jives smiled. “It’s quite something, believe me. Won’t last too long, though. Best way to handle it is to ride easy, play it cool, then slide in the funnies once in a while. See you around, Dex.”
“Yeah, thanks. G’night, Jives.”
Slowly, Dexter made his way to the car. It was empty, and there was no sign of the Hungarian, so he climbed in and drove back to Santa Monica.
Chapter Twelve
Dexter arrived at East Los Angeles Station House much earlier than usual, changed into his uniform, and took the elevator to the Fourth Floor and Homicide. The squad room was almost deserted — a couple of harassed-looking detectives were filling out forms, and the battered door with the lieutenant’s name on it was partially open, giving Dexter clear evidence that the untidy office was not inhabited.
“Looking for someone?” a detective asked, glancing up from his desk.
“The lieutenant. Is he about?”
“Be back in five, ten minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll try later.”
He was heading back down the corridor when a door opened behind him and a barked command stopped him in his tracks.
“Dexter. Hold it.” He turned to face the curiosity of Captain Hoffman. “What’s your business with Homicide, Dexter?”
“I — uh — wanted to see Lieutenant Goldberg, sir.”
“Oh? What about?” Eyeing the wedge of papers being slid behind the young officer’s back.
“I might have some information he could be interested in,” Dexter said lamely, “Sir.”
“In there.” Hoffman stabbed his chewed cigar in the direction of his own office, followed him in, and sat at the large desk. He studied the probationer standing smartly at parade-rest in front of him, uniform immaculate, face expressionless, and he fixed a brown stare on the guarded eyes.
“Dexter,” he said flatly, “You disappoint me. I thought you knew the book, even if every now and then you choose to ignore it. Any information you receive for other squads goes through the proper channels. For example to Brendan or Neale, then to me, then to Goldberg. Since you’re here, we’ll omit our lieutenants just this once. What have you got?”
“Descriptions and sketches of four of the Belvedere Park gang,” Dexter said reluctantly, and Hoffman’s eyebrows climbed.
“You don’t say… Hand ’em over.” There was a silence while he glanced through the sheets, then: “How in God’s name did you get hold of these?”
“Friend of a contact’s contact,” Dexter said.
“Oh yeah? You and that goulash-brained immigrant still moonlighting? Don’t answer that, I don’t want to know. But I want these contacts’ names.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t tell you that.”
“Goddamn it, you will! Goldberg’ll want to talk to the guy who did these drawings.”
“That’s not possible, sir. I don’t know his correct name, and I have been informed that he’ll have no direct contact with the police under any circumstances. Sir.”
“Huh. Okay, leave this with me. I’ll see it gets to the right people. And Dexter–”
“Sir?”
“Unofficially and off the record, you’re not doing your career prospects any good by going around with Vastarnyi. That kid is Trouble with a capital T, and you’re being dragged into it. So do something about it.”
“Yes, sir. I intend to, sir.”
“See you do. Okay, you can go.”
* * * * * *
Angry and edgy, Dexter returned to the locker-room. There was no sign of Vastarnyi, but his patchwork denim jacket was hung on the half-open door of his locker, so at least he had arrived. Dexter folded the jacket, put it away on the shelf and shut the door, not thinking of what he was doing, but replaying the short interview with Hoffman and wishing it had not happened. He had the feeling he had bombed out, that he should never have handed over Dimitri’s loot to the Captain, but somehow should have got it straight to Goldberg. However, it was too late now. At least he’d had the sense to keep names out of it.
“Hey, it’s roll-call anytime now, Jonno.” A girl’s voice broke in on his thoughts. “You’ll be late.”
He made it on the second, and took his place beside Haines. Vastarnyi was next to Baker, his face a brooding mask, and he ignored Dexter after one glance of smouldering resentment that startled him with its intensity. But Dexter was given no chance to do anything about it — Roll-call commenced.
* * * * * *
Vastarnyi’s mood had not mellowed by the time the inevitable code-seven at the Bistro came round. The two young officers took up their usual positions, and did not talk. Dexter had not told Vastarnyi yet that it was Hoffman who had Toby’s sketches, not Goldberg, and was trying to construct a speech in his head that would convey the information without triggering off an explosion of cosmic proportions. Vastarnyi was locked into a thundercloud of despondency, unenlightened by the fact that he was hot on the trail of Hank Levin. That was a sneaky trick Jives and Dexter had pulled, backing him into a corner like that. Jives sure fought dirty sometimes. He became aware of the wary gaze of a pair of grey eyes, and he scowled ferociously. Dimitri stepped back a pace.
“Nice day?” he offered tentatively. Vastarnyi growled, and Dexter grunted, “It’s contagious. Now they’re both mad at something.” Dimitri sighed. “Shall I cancel today an’ bring forward tomorrow?”
“Hi,” said Vastarnyi, making a visible effort.
“Hi,” said Dimitri brightly. “‘Got that statement you wanted.”
“Don’t want it. Give it to Mary Poppins. That’s his baby now,” Vastarnyi snarled. Dimitri edged round him and stood beside Dexter.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he said. “Toby still won’t talk to the police?”
“No chance. Got it! You won, an’ Homicide’s taking’ it!” Dimitri smiled suddenly.
“Something like that.”
“Gee, he’s a sore loser. But I’ll celebrate. Vas, are you still after Levin?”
“Yeah.”
“Heard of a girl called Nita Alvarez?”
“No. Why?” Grudging interest.
“He’s lookin’ for her, an’ she’s scared.” He fished a scrap of paper from his pocket, held it out. “Here’s her address. Told her you were fuzz, but you’re okay. Tell her I sent you, or she’ll shoot first an’ ask questions after.”
“Who is she? What is she?”
“Hooker an’ part-time stripper. Or used to be. Got cut up pretty bad ’bout six years back, don’t know who by or why, but now she washes dishes in the Aloha an’ takes whatever men she can find who aren’t fussy about faces. Don’t know her connection with Levin, but there has to be one. Listen, that guy is one mean-dude — ”
“I know. Thanks, Dimitri.” He reached for his wallet, but the boy shook his head.
“That’s on the house,” he said. “S’long.”
“He seems to make a habit of abrupt departures,” Dexter observed, watching Dimitri go out of sight.
“Yeah. Has to in his business, I guess,” Vastarnyi said, gazing thoughtfully at the address.
“How does she tie in with Levin?”
“God knows. I found out where he’s staying, under another name, and that he’s here on business. Could be she is the business. I don’t know.” The circumspection in his voice made Dexter stare.
“Hey, I thought you’d be enthusiastic about new info,” he exclaimed. “You were pleased enough with the Belvedere details — so what’s gone sour?”
“Nothing,” Vastarnyi said. “The fruit-picking is one thing, this is another, and I don’t take this at its face value. He could be settin’ me up.”
“You think so?” Dexter gazed at him soberly.
“It’s a possibility,” he said lightly, tucked the address into his pants-pocket, and resumed his propping-up of the wall. The subject was obviously closed.
“I don’t see it. The only thing held set you up for is a seduction.
“Hey, you’re gettin’ wise,” Vastarnyi grinned.
“Yes, and I’ve got news for you.”
“Oh? What?”
“You’ve forgotten to be mad at me.” Vastarnyi gave a snort and kicked him hard on the ankle.
“Don’t place bets on it,” he said, but he was laughing.
“You’re going to see this Nita?” Rubbing the injury.
“I might.” Then again he shrugged. “Think maybe I’ll see what I can find out about her first. D’you reckon it’s gonna rain?” Underlining the fact that he considered the subject closed. Dexter sighed. He had the feeling that Vastarnyi would not be requiring a wheelman for quite a while.
* * * * * *
Before he changed back into street-clothes at the end of the day, Dexter took Toby’s statement along to Captain Hoffman. He read it through, folded it away into his breast-pocket, then leaned back in his chair.
“Good work, Dexter,” he said approvingly.
“It’s not my work, sir,” he disclaimed. “Vastarnyi passed it on to me from his contact.”
“Yeah?” Hoffman thought about that, then “What you mean is, he was going after those guys off-duty, and you talked him into letting the official detectives handle it. Right?”
“Not really, sir. Vastarnyi has something else on his mind. Sir.”
“That maniac doesn’t have a mind. Just a collection of instincts, all of them predatory.” Hoffman growled. “Out.”
* * * * * *
David Vastarnyi was by nature impulsive, prone to take the occasional poorly-calculated risk, but paradoxically his approach to his chosen work was usually coolly assessed and business-like, and his reaction of the morning to Dimitri’s information on Nita Alvarez was not solely camouflage for Dexter’s benefit. He had already found out where the young Greek lived — a small basement apartment on the fringe of East L.A., so 8:30 that evening found him leaning against the railings at the top of the steps that lead down to Dimitri’s empty home. He saw the boy before he himself was noticed, and watched the fine-boned face intently as Dimitri recognised him. But all he saw was surprise, pleasure, and hopefulness, in that order, and he grinned wryly.
“Hi,” said Dimitri, and hesitated.
“Evening,” Vastarnyi responded. “The visit is business, not social,” he continued, almost gently.
“What else?” Dimitri sighed. “The guys I tend to go for are so macho they just have to be straight. Still, you can come in for coffee, I guess?”
“Sorry, no time. I was figuring on calling on Nita tonight. How about you coming along and making the introductions? Then maybe she won’t be so nervous.”
Dimitri considered this, head on one side. “You don’t trust me,” he said finally, voice quiet, level, making a statement of fact. But there was a thread of pain as an undertone.
“No, I don’t. I don’t trust anyone, except myself.” An equally level statement.
“Not even Dex?” the boy wondered.
“Nope. Well? Are you coming?”
“Sure, you bet.”
The smile came, suddenly. “Boy, have you got a lot to learn.”
“Not from you, Grandpop.”
Vastarnyi smiled back, from the teeth out. “You ride pillion on Belladonna, Honey-chile, an’ don’t bother to snuggle up too close or you’ll find yourself bouncing’ on your tail down the middle of the street.”
Dimitri laughed and followed him to the motorcycle, his eyes bright as a kid with a new toy.
“That’s some cycle,” he said reverently.
“Yeah,” said Vastarnyi, “Climb aboard.”
Dimitri obeyed with alacrity, settled himself and took a firm hold around Vastarnyi’s waist, and the powerful machine took off with a deep-throated roar.
“Hey,” Dimitri yelled above the engine’s bellow. They were heading south along the Long Beach Freeway, the speedometer needle steady on fifty-five.
“What?”
“What’re the fuzz doin’ about that gang?”
“Dunno. Dex took charge of that one. You’ll have to ask him if he has handed it over. Us lowly patrolmen won’t get so much as a sniff at it.”
There was a brief silence while Dimitri digested that, then, “Hey!”
“Will you quit yelping in my ear like that?” Vastarnyi complained.
“Sorry,” he chuckled, and edged closer. “Levin’s still lookin’ for Nita.”
“Yeah? That her real name?”
“Don’t know. Maybe not. Didn’t ask.”
“Huh,” said Vastarnyi, and Dimitri lapsed into silence again. It was not easy to conduct a conversation on the back of a motorcycle, so he tightened his hold around Vastarnyi’s waist, leaned his head on the denim-clad shoulder, and closed his eyes against the sting of the wind. “Hey,” he said.
“What now?”
“This is fun.”
“Behave.”
“Yes, Vas,” he said meekly. “Y’know, I have these terrific fantasy-daydreams sometimes –”
“Censored,” Vastarnyi told him, “Save ’em up to shock Dex with.”
“I think you’re mean to him.”
“He’ll survive.”
“He’s cute.”
“It’s a rough world, ain’t it. Where is Nita’s place?”
“Next turn right off the freeway, fourth intersection left, two blocks down on the left-hand side. As if you didn’t know. What’s the top-speed of this machine?”
“Ton and up some. But I’m not demonstrating her performance on the freeway, dummy. If cycles turn you on, get your football player to buy one.”
“He’s got a Thunderbird.”
“Yeah? They’re not bad. Me, I wouldn’t mind an import-job. Like a Mercedes or a Jag. How’d you get to know Nita?”
“I work in the Aloha sometimes.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Sing. I’m a one-man Simon and Garfunkel.” Dimitri chuckled. “But only when Bob’s stoned, or his wife’s beaten him up and left him with a paint-job. I sing pretty good,” he added cheerfully.
“I’ll bet.”
“Yeah. It’s real funny, you know. I’m up there on the stage, singing’ my heart out, watching all the girls fancying me like crazy, and there’s me checking over their boyfriends, Sometimes I laugh like — hey, you just drove past –”
“I know, I’m parking around the block.”
“It’s okay, Vas. There’s no set-up.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But how do you know friend Levin hasn’t caught up with her and has the place staked out?”
“Oh. Yeah. I didn’t think,” he said contritely. “Sorry…”
Chapter Thirteen
Dexter jerked awake, the Welkin clamouring through his dreams becoming the ear-splitting reality of the bedside phone. He groped for it, cursing dazedly, and focused blearily on the alarm-clock. Seventeen minutes after six.
“Yeah,” he grunted into the mouthpiece.
“Dex?” A vaguely familiar but unplaceable voice said in his ear.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Dimitri. Listen, I’ve got some news you ought to have, about Levin.”
“Levin? He’s Vas’ pigeon.” Waking up abruptly.
“Not anymore, he isn’t. He got picked up by an F.B.I. team from Wyoming early this morning. I’ve left a message for Vas with that Chinese guy — he can tell him, I’m chicken and I don’t care who knows it. Thing is, he’s gonna be kind of mad, so I thought forewarned is forearmed.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Dexter started.
“S’okay. Give him a kiss from me,” and the line went dead.
Dexter glared at the handset, then slammed it down. Vastarnyi must have given the kid his phone number, damn him — if that was right about Levin and the F.B.I., the Vastarnyi explosion could hit the megaton level.
A rueful smile twisted his mouth to one side, and he crawled out of bed. He still hadn’t told Vastarnyi about the misdirection of Toby’s info — and somehow he felt that he was going to hedge a lot today, if the Hungarian started asking questions. It was good of Dimitri to think of warning him, especially as he did not know of Dexter’s dereliction of self-imposed duty. Come to think of it, why had he bothered?
Dexter scrubbed his fingers through his hair, feeling as if his brains were still asleep, and headed for the bathroom, shedding blue pyjamas en route, and wondering if the explosion downtown would be heard in Santa Monica. But a small part of his mind felt relief. He had done some research of his own on Levin, since Vastarnyi had not seen fit to share his knowledge, and what he had discovered did not make pleasant reading.
Levin had a record of violence and sadism covering many years and quite a few states. He appeared to have the kind of clever, sick mentality that could keep him one step ahead of the Law most of the time, and Dexter had the unsettling feeling that if Vastarnyi had tackled this man, he might have found out the hard way that he had bitten off more than he could chew. Maybe the two of them could have pulled it off, but not one on his own. But that team seemed as far away as ever right now, and, when the situation was studied dispassionately, was never likely to be formed. The Vastarnyi, by choice and instinct, was a loner; it was useless to go on attempting to change him.
Dexter contemplated that for a while as he shaved, recognising that it was a defeat and accepting it as such. Okay. So he’d lost out. So now he would concentrate on cutting his own lone trail. But it hurt, and he could not duck away from the fact that the pain did not come merely from injured pride. He’d miss the crazy-headed barbarian’s occasional descent into his off-duty routine, and the arbitrary summons to wheel-duty. He’d miss, too, the abrupt introductions to the other side of Los Angeles, so revealing, so necessary for a probationer with detective ambitions. But he could find his own way around — he didn’t need Vastarnyi’s guided tours.
Resentful and angry, as much with himself as with the Hungarian, Dexter stepped into the shower and turned on the cold tap full blast.
* * * * * *
Thanks to Dimitri’s warning, he was not unprepared for the mood of smouldering black anger that was the talking point in the locker room. Within four minutes of entering the building, it was clear that Vastarnyi had declared verbal warfare on all personnel he encountered, irrespective of rank, and bets were being laid on the outcome of the inevitable confrontation with Brendan. But just before Roll-call, a police-woman called the Hungarian to the phone. He was gone only a few minutes, and the change in him on his return was ludicrous in the completeness of the reversal. He bounced into the almost deserted locker-room, a wide grin on the tanned face, and an effervescent glow radiating from him as effectively as his previous black resentment.
“Hey!” he whooped. “It’s fantastic! Hihetetlen! I can’t believe it!”
“What,” Dexter began, startled, and triggered a rush of pure Hungarian that left him no wiser. “Whoa! Slow down! Translate, for God’s sake!”
“His horse came in at 100-1?” Nolan suggested, adjusting the angle of his cap in the mirror. “His girl isn’t pushing the paternity suit? Or maybe Brendan’s been dropped in the shit?” he finished, making for the door. “Either way it’s cost me five bucks.” Vastarnyi ignored him.
“God, it’s incredible! Hihetetlen! I’ve waited for months — years.” He broke off with a wordless yell of delight, and pounced on Dexter, who found himself bear-hugged, kissed on both cheeks, and given an incoherent and incomprehensible explanation in a mixture that was more Hungarian and less English.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that!” Dexter complained, freeing himself and stepping back, red-faced. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the Vastarnyi’s Eastern European exuberance demonstrated, nor was it the first time he’d been on the receiving end, and it just wasn’t American to do things like that. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Prometheus!” Vastarnyi shouted, and it took a few seconds for Dexter to register that it was a Greek name, not a Hungarian expletive.
“Prometheus,” he repeated.
“Unbound!” said Vastarnyi. “By Aeschylus. At the Greek Theatre. Two tickets, I’ve been on their lists ever since the thing was first billed — they had a cancellation, I was right at the top!” Dexter fended off another bear-hug.
“You’re putting me on,” he said suspiciously. Greek Drama did not deem to fit somehow with a second-generation backstreet immigrant.
“Uh-uh. I’ve been hooked on that guy since UCLA — been waiting for years for a chance to see it –”
“So,” said Dexter enviously, “have I. I’m on their standby-list as well.”
“Yeah? No kidding?”
“Straight up. Strewth! We’re going to be late for Roll-call — when do you go? Tonight? Tell me about it, huh?”
“No way!” Vastarnyi was loping off down the corridor. “I’ll come by at seven, we can go in your Dodge,” and dived into his seat beside Baker before Dexter could convince himself he’d heard right. Neither did he get the chance to say anything at the usual coffee- and lunch-breaks, Baker and Vastarnyi being assigned, along with many others, to crowd control at a Human Rights demo. Consequentially, at five before seven that evening, Dexter combed his hair back, straightened an already straight tie, and waited without knowing whether or not he was going to be stood up. Given Vastarnyi’s crazy sense of humour and addiction to practical jokes, at seven o’clock dead he would get a phone call wanting to know had Cinderella turned into a pumpkin yet? But, just before seven, the familiar roar, followed by the familiar rattle of stones, heralded the arrival of the Vastarnyi.
* * * * * *
The play was all that the reviews said it was and more, and Dexter came away from the theatre feeling somewhat dazed and out of touch with the twentieth century. Vastarnyi, who had sat silent throughout the performance, locked into a state of absorption that bordered on trance, remained silent, even when a red light caught out the unwary Dexter and he had to slam on all the brakes.
“That was close,” Dexter said. “Hey, d’you want to stop off to eat somewhere?” He had to repeat it twice before he got a response.
“Tessek?”
“English, dummy! Do you want to stop off and eat?”
“Sure, why not? Hey, that was some play, Jonno!”
“Yes,” reverently. “Any place in particular?”
“You’re the driver. Did Prometheus in UCLA — got kind of hooked on the Greek dramatists, but that guy Aeschylus can just about blow my mind.”
“Yes?” Dexter shot a glance at the silhouetted profile as the car stopped for another red light. “You took Drama at University?”
“Made a little light relief from the other classes. Besides, I can get high on words.” He met Dexter’s gaze, his own eyes blazing with ebullient laughter. “They’re worse than Tokay with me.” He laughed and stretched muscles that had been held immobile for a long time.
“What else did you take?” Dexter ventured.
“Economics an’ Social Science,” he said without hesitation. “They got kind of heavy.”
“Yes,” Dexter agreed. “I know. I took them as well.”
“Yeah? What else?”
“Besides the Architecture? Oh, Modern Languages. But not Hungarian. ”
“Hey, no sweat, I’ll teach you that.” Vastarnyi chuckled, “Maybe Dimitri can teach us Greek, if he can speak it himself…”
“I think I can survive without Greek.” The Dodge pulled away on the green light. “Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex?”
“You bet your ass,” Vastarnyi bounced upright in the seat. “I got this ambition — a fantasy — I’m gonna go to Delphi, an’ see the Prometheus done in that little theatre near the temple — or Antigone, or Seven Against Thebes, or the Bacchae. Yeah, especially The Bacchae. Hey, where are we going?”
“Beverley Glen.”
“Huh? What’s out there, for God’s sake? There’s a pizza-place over on — ”
“I’m not in the mood for junk-food. There’s a place out there called the Cigany Tabor. Heard of it?”
Vastarnyi gazed at him, wide-eyed. “Cigany Tabor,” he said after a pause. “Yeah. They charge you fifty bucks for crossing’ the threshold. Uh, Jonno, I’m pretty near cleaned out — ”
“I pick up the tab on this one.”
“No way –”
“It’s on me. I owe you.”
“What for? Nothing –”
“For the ticket, and I’ve got a confession to make.”
“Ego te absolvo.” Vastarnyi grinned and crossed him.
“You haven’t heard it yet.”
“Okay, so hit me.”
“Later.”
“I see. It’s kind of heavy, huh?”
“Kind of. Are you into Shakespeare at all, or is it just the Greek Classics?”
Which was so effective a side-track that he lost his original intention himself for over an hour. The meal was nearly over, they were deep into an argument on Shakespeare and Marlowe and who wrote whom, Dexter beckoned the wine-waiter, ordered a brandy for himself, Tokay for Vastarnyi, and returned to the fray with a half-hearted attack that cost him the debate.
The waiter brought the drinks, eyeing Vastarnyi warily. He was not of European descent, and in all his years of working in the Cigany Tabor, he had never met a Hungarian-speaking client — at least not one who insisted on speaking that language to him. His tiny repertoire had been quite adequate, up until now, when Vastarnyi had discovered the extent of the waiter’s meagre vocabulary in minutes, and proceeded to strike panic into the man’s heart by speaking nothing but Hungarian to him. That was when Dexter had kicked him under the table and drawn his attention to the menu.
They sat in companionable silence for a while, half-listening to the muted music of gypsy violins, and then Dexter cleared his throat, put down his brandy, and fixed Vastarnyi with a grim, almost defiant stare.
“I don’t know if Goldberg got Toby’s sketches or not. I was ambushed by Hoffman, and he took charge of them.”
“Oh,” said Vastarnyi blankly. Then shrugged. “Ah, what the hell.” He grinned. “If we don’t hear nothing, we’ll set Dimitri onto Toby an’ get him to run off some more. No sweat. Ego te absolvo,” he said again, dipping finger-tips in Tokay and blessing him. “For penance, my son, three Academy oaths and six Bronx cheers kneeling at Brendan’s feet. Did you see that movie of ‘A Man for All Seasons’? I saw it five times. Damn near know it by heart. And ‘The Lion in Winter.”
“Hepburn, wasn’t it?”
“And O’Toole.”
“How about ‘Becket’? Did you see that?”
“Did I! Every time there’s a re-run, I’m there. We did that one in UCLA, too. I was Henry.”
“Figures.” Dexter grinned.
“It’s a great play, I had a ball. Almost as much fun as Iago in Othello. Hey, did you do any acting?”
“No. I think I prefer to read the book than be the people, if you know what I mean. But I know what you mean about getting high on words — music, too. There are some pieces that can stand my hair on end.”
“Yeah,” said Vastarnyi. “Beethoven’s Ninth.”
“How did you know that?” he demanded, colour rising, and got a wide white grin in reply.
“Guessed,” he said. “It does things to me, too. Aren’t you going to ask me how I got on with Nita Alvarez last night?”
“I didn’t know you were going to see her last night,” Dexter said, somewhat stiffly, abruptly remembering his decision of that morning.
“Oh yeah. Well, I did. D’you want to hear it, huh?”
He sounded almost eager, and Dexter’s first impulse to say ‘not particularly’ was flattened by another, stronger, one.
“Sure,” he said. “But not here. Tell it in the car. I’ll pick up the check and we’ll head out.”
“‘Kay,” Vastarnyi smiled. “Egeszsegere.” And drained his glass.
“What’s that again?”
The Vastarnyi smile was totally disarming.
“To your health, Dex,” he chuckled. “What else?”
* * * * * *
In the event, Nita Alvarez was not mentioned during the drive back to Santa Monica. The time was taken up with music-talk, ranging from classical through jazz to hard rock, and a small part of Dexter’s mind acknowledged, with amazed delight, the many shared points of interest, in music and literature. At the same time, he was marveling at the complexity of the character that was the man sitting beside him. David Vastarnyi, half-Hungarian, half-Italian, from the backstreets of Downtown L.A., had more facets than a cut jewel, Dexter was discovering. He wanted to find out what made this man tick, what had forced and set the enigmatic personality — but it would have to be some other time.
Dexter opened the front door and led the way into the living- room. “Take a look through the albums,” he suggested. “I’ll make coffee.”
“‘Kay.” And minutes later Dvorak’s “New World’ echoed through into the kitchen. “Quite a selection, Dexter,” Vastarnyi observed, leaning head and shoulders through the hatchway.
“It’s pretty comprehensive,” Dexter admitted with a certain amount of complacency. “What have you got?”
“Zilch. Don’t have a record-deck.”
“You haven’t?” Dexter was surprised, “Uh — cassettes? Tapes?”
“Nope. Got me a radio, a little Japanese job, that’s all. Keep on meaning to get one with a built-in cassette-player/recorder, but I never seem to get round to it. You know how it is — there’s never the bread available at the right time.”
“Yes,” said Dexter, “I know.” But he didn’t. “Hey, how about getting around to Nita Alvarez?”
“Sure. Well, we got there round about — ”
“We?” he interrupted.
“Picked up Dimitri. If she’s as nervous as he said, he could make the introductions; besides, I figured she’d maybe talk easier if he was around, apart from the safety factor.”
“Safety factor?”
“Yeah,” said Vastarnyi grimly. “If I was being sent in on a set-up, he was walking in first.” Dexter turned abruptly and met the suddenly cold gaze.
“I thought,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “that we agreed he wouldn’t set you up, feeling the way he does about you?”
“You agreed, I didn’t. How long does unrequited love last, before a guy has to hit out at the one who won’t respond?” Which Dexter discovered was unanswerable. “As it happened, there was no set-up, this time, and Nita did find it easier to talk to a cop with Dimitri holding her hand an’ talking to her like a Dutch Uncle.”
“What did she have to say?”
“Plenty. Levin had carved her up pretty bad — left her for dead. When he found out by accident that she was still alive, he came back to finish the job. She was a witness to a murder done here in L.A., and could put him on Death Row all on her little lonesome if she ever got into the dock. But now the Feds have got him, so there’s no need for her to come forward.”
“Who did he kill here?”
Vastarnyi was silent for a while, and then, “Eva’s daughter,” he said quietly. “He was her father.”
Dexter stared at him appalled. “He killed his own daughter?”
“Yeah. Didn’t know who she was. Evita was one of his ladies when he was a pimp. She fell for him pretty hard — you know how some women are, no matter how bad the man, the love of a loyal woman will change him, and all that crap. Well, it hasn’t yet, and it never will.”
“Have you told her?” Dexter asked softly.
“Yeah. Tracked her down before I came over this evening. She cried. That guy should be put down like a rabid dog. Nita was a lovely lady, once. And so was Eva. You haven’t heard her sing, have you?”
“Eva? No.”
“Like Mahalia Jackson an’ Ella Fitzgerald rolled into one. Only she’s got to be awful drunk to let it out. The way she sings the blues, Jonno, can cut your heart right out.” He took the coffee Dexter put silently in front of him and gave a lopsided-smile. “Dimitri sends his love, by the way.”
“How long have you known Eva?” Dexter asked hastily. Vastarnyi chuckled and ducked back into the living-room to sit cross-legged beside the stereo deck amid a circle-spread of albums.
“Since I was a kid, real young. She looked after me, sometimes, when Dad was workin’ and I was sick or something and Hung Fat couldn’t cart me around. She taught me to speak American. Taught me to read, too. I must have known her daughter, I guess, but I don’t remember her.”
“But isn’t Hung Fat your landlord?”
“Sure. But when I was a kid, he rented the room I’ve got now, an’ Dad’n’me lived up on the third floor. Hung did odd jobs downtown an’ around, ended up buyin’ the lease on the place. He’s got relations in all the rooms now, an’ runs the Hardware Store.”
“He took you around with him?”
“Yeah. Strapped to his back in one of them Chinese papoose carrier-things.” Vastarnyi looked up, laughing. “Until I got too big. Then he used to tie me to table-legs an’ railings until I figured how to untie the knots, then I had to help out with the odd jobs. They were good days,” he said, his voice gentle with memory.
“Eva taught you English?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t speak it too good until I was about four. Just Hungarian and Cantonese.”
“What happened to your mother?” Dexter asked cautiously.
“She died when I was about a year an’ a half,” Vastarnyi said. “She was Italian.”
“Yes. I guessed from what Jives said.” And wondered if it had been a mistake to say that. But it wasn’t.
“That’s why the Mancinis tried to snatch me a few times. But they got kind of discouraged after a while.”
“Do you see much of them?”
“No, not a lot. I go down to San Diego once a year — blood is blood, after all — but I don’t stay long. My Grandpop hates my guts, the women gush like fountains and either treat me like a Walt Disney waif or try to marry me off to every female cousin they can round up.”
“How come he hates you?”
“He tried to snatch me off the street when I was a kid, so I kicked him in the balls. Hell, I didn’t know who he was — a guy grabs you an’ starts to hustle you into a car, you put up a fight. Don’t think he’ll forgive me for that.”
“But if you didn’t know?”
“Wouldn’t have made any difference if I did. I’d still have kicked him a good ‘un.” Vastarnyi snorted. “And he knows it.”
“You’re awful uncivilised Vas,” Dexter mourned.
“Yeah. Ain’t it a shame.” He chuckled. “Hey, pass over Carmina Burana, will you?”
* * * * * *
It was going on three o’clock in the morning before the Harley-Davidson roared off into the darkness, and Dexter put the car away in the garage. He returned to the house and yawned his way to the bathroom, aware that he was feeling more relaxed and healthily tired than he had for months. The evening of talk, exchange of ideas, points of view — apart from the play itself — had unwound tensions he had not been conscious of until they were gone. It was rare for him to find a mind on the same wavelength as his own — and to find that mind inside the wild head of the Hungarian was in itself a revelation.
Then it dawned on him that he had learned more about Vastarnyi and his background during the last few hours than he had in all the preceding months. The barriers had come down, albeit briefly, and though they would be firmly back in place when they next met, it was a crack in the defences — he was winning. It did not occur to him to wonder about the vulnerability behind the barriers, that maybe they were necessary, not to say essential. The evening had confirmed and strengthened his originally reluctant and occasional liking of the mercurial Vastarnyi, and he was determined that this first piece of socialising would not be the last.
Chapter Fourteen
Inevitably, Vastarnyi overslept, and was awakened by Mei-Lan’s insistent finger prodding at his shoulder.
“You forgot to set your alarm, Vas,” the child said solemnly. “You’re gonna be awful late.”
“Jo Isten!” he groaned, “M’goy, mezam.” Mei-Lan chuckled at the mixture of Hungarian and Cantonese.
“Lee says he’s awful hungry, an’ he’s gonna eat your breakfast anytime now,” she announced.
“You tell Lee that if he wants to grow to be eleven, he’ll keep his claws outta my food,” he growled. “Or I’ll eat him. With chopsticks an’ noodles.”
Mei-Lan laughed delightedly, and disappeared, her high voice echoing along the corridor as she spread word of his dire threat.
Vastarnyi slid out of bed, hauled on his Levi’s, and scooped up his towel and shaving kit, heading for the bathroom bleary-eyed. He didn’t exactly have a hangover, he reflected, but his head seemed to have doubled its weight, and it took a concentrated effort of will to keep his eyelids open.
A shower and a shave later, he was in a somewhat improved condition, ravenously hungry, and knowing that if he was going to make Roll-call on time there was no time for food. Wei protested as he put his plate in front of Liang and tousled the boy’s hair, but he just grinned, hugged her, grabbed a handful of cookies from the never-empty jar, and took off at a run.
Hung Fat was loading the delivery-van when he bounced past, and straddled the motorcycle, jamming the crash-hat on wildly untidy hair.
“How was the play?” Hung Fat yelled-above the noise of the engine.
“Fantastic,” Vastarnyi shouted back. “Had a real ball. See you later.”
“Take care,” Hung Fat said quietly, inaudibly, as the Harley accelerated down the street.
“He went without breakfast again,” Mei grumbled from the doorway. “It isn’t right.” And she glared at her husband’s back as if it was his fault.
“He’ll survive. He’ll get something mid-morning, I expect, or from the police canteen.”
“Hershey bars!” Wei scoffed and retreated up the stairs to her kitchen to chase Liang and Mei-Lan off to school.
By taking advantage of every red light, Vastarnyi managed to swallow most of the cookies, and dull the edge of his appetite. The last one he crammed into his mouth as he leaped up the station-steps and raced for the locker-room, stripping off his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt as he ran.
Breathless and disheveled, but in full uniform, Vastarnyi made Roll-call just as Brendan cleared his throat to begin the day’s notices, received a venomous scowl from the Irishman but no comment, Vastarnyi gave him a sunny smile in response, and then noticed Hoffman standing by the windows, the lean, hunched figure of Lieutenant Goldberg beside him. He caught Dexter’s eye and raised an eyebrow, got an infinitesimal shrug in reply, and gave a faint sigh of regret.
Brendan cleared his throat again.
“Before we get onto the routine, Lieutenant Goldberg is going to look you over,” he said, his voice harshly belligerent, the tone informing everyone that he didn’t know what was going on and resented it bitterly.
Goldberg walked along the rows of desks, studying each man’s face in turn. Some he passed by with barely a pause, but others, the younger men, he stared at closely. A buzz of conjecture started up, quickly stifled by Brendan’s barked command, and Goldberg hovered beside Guy Jardin, a good-looking dark-haired man of French extraction.
“Stand up, officer,” Goldberg said, and Jardin rose to his feet. “Take off your cap.” The lieutenant walked around him, inspecting him from all angles. “Hmm, right height,” he mused. “Face’ll fit, too, I guess. Okay, what’s your name?”
“Jardin, sir.”
“Go stand over there. He’ll do for one, sir,” this over his shoulder to the captain, “but I need a few more yet.” And continued his prowl. Hoffman, face expressionless, followed in his wake and said nothing. Then Goldberg stopped dead, in front of Dexter. “Hey,” he said, with something that might almost have been a smile on anyone else twisting his thin mouth. “Take your cap off — my God, he’s perfect for it. On your feet, officer.” Dexter obeyed, unfolding his long legs and standing to attention. Goldberg groaned. “Too tall! What are you, six-two, six-three, damn it?”
“Probationary Patrolman Dexter has only been out of the Academy a few months, Hymie,” Hoffman said.
“Dexter, huh?” and he was raked from head to foot by a pair of razor-keen hazel eyes. “Ah-huh. Sit down.” Red-faced, and not knowing why, Dexter sat down. Goldberg passed on down the line, paused beside Vastarnyi and checked him over. And found that instead of the obligatory eyes-front wooden mask, he was being studied in his turn. “Take off your cap,” he ordered. Vastarnyi took it off, and the uncombed tangle flopped forward over his forehead. “Stand up.” He stood up. “Uh-huh. You’re Vastarnyi, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmm. Is he too tall, d’you think, sir?”
“He’s the same height as Jardin. But Hymie, this one’s a rookie too, and he’s temperamentally unsuited for — ”
“Beggars can’t be choosers. I’ve only got one in my squad that’ll do, I’ve had to borrow Merrick from Vice and Harlow from Traffic. These two’ll barely bring us up to reasonable strength — I could do with five more. Okay, you two, change back into your street-clothes and report to Homicide on the double. Thanks, Captain — Brendan..”
Some five minutes later the two officers presented themselves in the Homicide squad room, Jardin in tan slacks and black rollneck sweater under a dark-brown sports-coat and Vastarnyi in faded Levi’s, blue-and -white cheesecloth shirt, and a patchwork denim jacket. The room seemed to be crowded with plainclothes police and several uniformed officers, including Captain Hoffman, Lieutenant Neale, and Lieutenant Carson from Traffic. The two newcomers were ordered over to a group of three standing in a somewhat isolated huddle by the water-cooler.
“Hey, Bob, what gives?” Jardin asked. Harlow shrugged.
“Some kind of set-up, I guess,” he said, irritated. “But no one seemed to be inclined to tell us,” shooting a glare at Jensen, the Homicide sergeant. He glared back, a fair-haired man in his late twenties. He stood barely five-eight, but his chest and shoulders were heavy with muscle.
“I’ve told you already. Goldberg’ll spill it and when he wants to,” he snapped wearily.
“Take it easy, Bob,” Merrick said quietly, He was the tallest of the five, nearly six foot, but his fluff of red hair and round features had a baby-faced innocence that had fooled a lot of pimps and hookers.
“But — ” Harlow began.
“Okay, you guys,” Goldberg’s voice broke in on him. “Let’s get the beauty contest lined up. C’mon, form a line, for God’s sake, Where’s Mel gone? Mel, will you come out of that office, or do I book you?” he bellowed. Slowly, Mel Anders left the office and came towards them. He was somewhere in his-early forties, his hair bleached an improbably bright gold and elegantly waved — there was a petulant pout on his mouth.
The lips were too pink, Vastarnyi noticed, and their colour matched the pink and cream shirt worn loose over beige flares — and his intuition made a sudden leap into space. He gave a stifled whoop of delight, eyes blazing blue and a wide grin on his face.
“Belvedere!” he laughed and got a scowl from Goldberg.
“Shut up, smartass, or you’ll be out on your tushy,” he growled. “Check ’em over, Mel, but they’ll have to do anyhow. They’re all we got.” Anders sniffed and tossed his head.
“That one’s too macho,” he said, pointing a tinted fingernail at Vastarnyi and fluttering his eyelashes coyly. “He’s kind of cute, but he couldn’t pass for fem. He could, though,” pausing in front of Jardin, who immediately turned fiery red and glowered resentfully.
“Hey,” said Vastarnyi reverently. “You blush near as bad as Dexter.” And was sworn at in an undertone.
“Shut up!” Goldberg barked. “He’ll have to stay in, Mel, we’re stretched with five, and four’d be impossible.”
“I’m not complaining,” Anders simpered. “It’s your party. But he won’t fit for what you want.” Slowly he moved on down the line, made guardedly approving noises at the expressionless Merrick, and thought about the resentful features of Harlow. “I guess they’ll do well enough to fool those bastards, anyhow.”
“Right. Quiet down, fellahs.” Goldberg raised his voice, and silence fell. “This is the set-up. Our little band of pretty fuzz is going into Atlantis, and they are going to prance up and down making like queers on the troll for customers, in the hope that we can net one or more of the Belvedere gang. Those of you who aren’t familiar with the faces of the suspects, memorise those sketches on the wall. You’ll be given copies, but don’t flash them around. Given fine weather, we’ll be going in tonight — if not, tomorrow night or as soon as it clears.” He fixed his eyes on the line-up of five. “I’d prefer to send you in in pairs,” he said quietly. “But I can’t spread you that thin. Jen, you’ll go in alone, take Atlantic Boulevard and Hastings quarter. Harlow, you and Merrick stick together, take Hastings and Amalia. Jardin, your record says you know Karate.”
“Yes, sir. First Dan, Black Belt.”
“Good. You’re on your own, Amalia and Sixth. Vastarnyi,” and here he paused. “Am I gonna need a ball and chain for your smartass, or will you toe the line?”
Vastarnyi melted into a mimicry of Anders’ languid stance, eyes luminous beneath long black lashes. “Bondage isn’t my scene, sweetheart,” he lilted, “But you can get your whip out if you want.”
Jensen swallowed a crow of delight: it wasn’t often their lieutenant was at a loss for words, and it was a sight relished by every Homicide man in the room. But the phenomenon didn’t last long.
“Well, well, well, quite a chameleon, aren’t we?” Goldberg said mildly. “You better be careful, my flower, or you might end up making a profit on the evening.” Vastarnyi yelped and held up his hands, conceding verbal-victory, and the detective’s lips lifted in a mirthless smile. “Stand to attention,” he snapped, venom in his voice. “This is no three-ring circus! And Atlantic won’t be one, either. Sixth and Atlantic, Vastarnyi. Right, you’re all off-duty. Go home and get some rest, report back here at 5:30 for the briefing, suitably dressed. That’s all.” And that was all. If David Vastarnyi had hoped for some acknowledgement of the information he and Dexter had supplied, he would have been disappointed. It was just as well therefore, that he had expected nothing and was gratified at being allowed in at all.
* * * * * *
Dexter, propping up the wall in lonely isolation, was jolted out of his reverie by a familiar voice.
“Hi, cheesecake!” Vastarnyi whooped jauntily, bouncing across the sidewalk and dealing him an exuberant bearhug that rocked him off balance on release. Dexter righted his cap and eyed him sourly.
“Happy birthday?” he suggested, and Vastarnyi grinned.
“Pretty near,” he said. “D’you know what that little performance was about this morning?”
“No. You’re not on suspension, I take it?”
“Hell, no. Special duties,” Vastarnyi announced, with an important swagger of his shoulders.
“Yes? You get to clean the Commissioner’s car?”
“Better than that — I’m a decoy.”
“A what?” Dexter exclaimed.
“Decoy, tethered goat, stalking-horses or whatever. Along with Jardin an’ a few others.”
“Who’s a tethered goat?” Dimitri demanded, appearing, it seemed, out of nowhere. “Vas, where’s your uniform? You’ve been suspended?”
“For God’s sake, why does everyone automatically think that?” he groaned, “I got home for some late breakfast, an’ Wei throws a fit, Hung Fat comes charging up, wanting to know what have I done this time, and now, viragam, you’re making like the Greek chorus as well.”
“He’s not on suspension.” Dexter took pity on Dimitri’s obvious bemusement. “Special duties. Which he was about to tell me,” he added pointedly.
“Can I know too, or should I go away for a few minutes?” the boy asked hopefully.
“Ain’t no secret.” Vastarnyi chuckled. “Five of us are going into Atlantis tonight as bait for the fruit-pickers. Poor old Dex didn’t make the team — he’s awful pretty, but too goddamn tall!”
They stared at him, studying him critically, and unanimously shook their heads.
“You’re supposed to act gay?” Dimitri demanded in unbelieving tones, “Hey, c’mon, how’re you going to pull that one? Never in a million years could you swing it.”
Vastarnyi grinned at them, and Dexter, who knew of his gift for and interest in the Dramatic Arts, should have been prepared. The transformation was not the one that Goldberg had seen — that had been a caricature of one man. This was something more subtle, almost a reversal of his own masculinity, a reversion to the androgynous attraction he had possessed as a child. He neither spoke nor noticeably moved, but suddenly they lost sight of the stubborn set of jaw and mouth, saw only that his lips were smiling and sensuous, noticed the length of his eyelashes and the fineness of the bone structure beneath the tanned skin. Lost sight of, as well, the compact power of his body, which left only grace and an air of childlike vulnerability. For a few seconds, he was beautiful.
“Huh,” said Dimitri, with a pout, disgruntled and disturbed. “That may turn Dex on, but it doesn’t do a thing for me. It’ll sure as hell bring that gang down on you, though,” he added. “And they play kind of rough.”
“So,” said Vastarnyi, reverting to himself with the abruptness of a switch being triggered, “do I. Think I’ll go over to Atlantic and have a prowl around my patch. Want to come?” he asked Dimitri.
Dexter was barely aware of the conversation going on beside him; he was still mentally reeling from the impact of Vastarnyi’s startling and mercifully brief transmutation, slack-jawed and pale with horror as he realised belatedly what Dimitri had said, and, for a flicker of a second how right he was — dear God, for a moment back there he had actually felt an involuntary response, a fleeting leap in his blood —
“Sure I’ll come. In daylight,” Dimitri agreed. “Hey, Dex looks like he’s been struck by lightning.”
“Belladonna’s round the block. I’ll be there in a minute,” Vastarnyi said, and, when Dimitri was out of earshot: “Dex, I got a problem.”
“Then see a vet!” Dexter snapped, suddenly illogically furious and hating him. “Maybe he’ll recommend euthanasia!”
“Hey, Jonno, what’s roughing up your sinuses?” he demanded. “Hang loose, what have I done now? All I’m gonna do is get a good idea of the area an’ find out from out from Honey-chile where the favourite fruit-picking places are. He’s not being ‘exploited,’ for God’s sake!”
Crimson-faced, Dexter snarled something under his breath. Then, “Okay. What’s your problem?” he growled.
“Janie. We had a date tonight — I’ve had to cancel, but she can’t make it tomorrow night unless I can arrange a double-date. Her cousin’s flying in from Dallas in the morning, for a week’s vacation with her.”
“So?”
“So would you like to come bowling tomorrow night with Sharon and Janie and me? Or have you already got a date fixed up?”
“Uh, no,” Dexter said cautiously. “What’s she like?”
“A dog,” Vastarnyi grinned. “No, seriously five-four, brunette, 38-24-36, Janie says, and was Miss Sun Valley at the County Fair when she was seventeen. Interested?”
Still Dexter hesitated. He had rarely gone on dates, casual or otherwise, since Carol had left. In fact, only when he could no longer swamp sheer physical need with hard work. He knew that it was not an entirely natural way of life, that virtual celibacy was no good for him, but he always seemed to come away from such encounters with only a transient satisfaction, feeling either emotionally bruised or morbidly guilty, so he tried to avoid them as much as he could. But a double-date should be innocuous enough, and he would not be committed to anything.
“Well, okay,” he said, almost reluctantly, refusing to meet Vastarnyi’s increasingly puzzled gaze.
“Come over to Hung Fat’s at eight, we’ll go over to Janie’s on Bella. Janie’s got a car.”
“Why don’t we pick them up in the Dodge?”
“Janie gets sick unless she’s driving,” Vastarnyi explained seriously. “Takes about three minutes to hit once the car’s going. She doesn’t mind Bella, but it’s kind of hard to fit four on her in any comfort. See you tomorrow.” He turned to go, then paused, “Uh, Jonno, what’re you doing tonight?” he asked hesitantly.
“I’m going to volunteer for extra duties in the Atlantic area,” he said, and got a wide grin.
“See you around, buddy.” And Vastarnyi disappeared round the corner of the block, hands in pockets, whistling jauntily.
* * * * * *
Dexter met no problems when he requested permission from Lieutenant Neale to be part of the uniformed back-up force. Nor was he the only volunteer. Jardin’s partner had done the same.
By eight o’clock dusk was beginning to deepen shadows, in one of which Dexter was crouched, wedged between two trees, uniform hidden under a dark raincoat, blond hair covered by a green ski-cap. He was aware of, without actually seeing, the rest of the back-up in this quadrant, and hoped that Vastarnyi was too. He had seen him only once so far, a willowy figure in dark-blue flares and an open-necked lilac shirt, back into the near-caricature of Mel Anders. Dexter shifted position slightly, easing stiff muscles, and became rigid as stealthy movement sounded behind him, He turned as silently as he could, gun half-drawn, and met Dimitri’s wide, anxious gaze.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he hissed angrily.
“Thought I’d come along and watch the fun,” Dimitri said, his pale face giving the lie to the cocky tone of voice. He was dressed entirely in black, and was all but invisible in the growing dark. “Seen Vas yet?”
“Once. He’s around somewhere. Has he got any crazy schemes in his head?”
“Not so far as I know.” Dimitri crouched beside him. “He wouldn’t, would he? Not with ten guys involved?”
Dexter snorted. “Look, you’d better keep your head down,” he advised. “Vas’ll be okay — there are enough of us around to haul him out if they do pick on him.”
“Oh, they will,” Dimitri whispered. Something in the way he said it froze Dexter’s blood.
“What do you mean?” he kept his voice icy calm.
“He saw one of the gang this morning. It was the one Toby reckoned was called Carl.”
“And?” Knowing what he was going to hear and dreading it.
“He walked right up to him and propositioned him,” Dimitri said with wondering awe. “Arranged to meet him over there by that seat at nine o’clock.”
“OhmyGod,” Dexter moaned, glancing at his watch. it was ten before nine, and as he looked up, Vastarnyi appeared, sauntering along the tree-lined walk. Simultaneously, Goldberg came into sight, hands deep in the pockets of his old brown trench-coat, shoulders characteristically hunched, head thrust forward, and the large, curving beak of a nose all underlining his nickname of the Vulture. He paused briefly by the young man, and though Dexter could not hear what was said, the picture presented to observers was that of a classic propositioning, Vastarnyi standing very close to the taller man, gazing through long lashes with an inviting smile. After a brief conversation Goldberg stepped back, shaking his head, and Vastarnyi turned away with a careless lift of one shoulder. The Lieutenant continued on his way, and was soon out of sights. But a few moments later Dexter’s CB radio whispered into life.
“All units in the vicinity of Quadrant 4, stand by for expected contact. 2100 hours.” And Dexter breathed a sigh of relief as he acknowledged the call.
“What was that about?” Dimitri hissed, breaking off his muted grumble at the Vastarnyi performance.
“He’s told Goldberg about the set-up,” Dexter said. “Quiet.”
They lapsed into silence, and just as Dimitri was getting to the fidgety stage of nervous tension, another figure appeared on the scene, a tall fair-haired young man in his early twenties, wearing a dark suit, shirt, and tie, walking briskly. He headed straight for Vastarnyi, and they spoke for a few minutes. From a distance the Hungarian’s act was convincing — from close range it must have been equally so, and the newcomer took his arm in a way that looked merely overly-friendly to the watchers among the trees, but the fingers bit painfully into Vastarnyi’s upper arms.
That must have been a signal, and a group of nine men burst into sight, running for the frozen pair by the bench seat. Vastarnyi displayed a beautifully ineffectual panic, struggling to free himself as the gang closed in around him — then Dexter heard a whoop of “Talpra Magyar!” and Goldberg’s crisp “Move in,” came over the radio as Vastarnyi’s panic became violently efficient self-defence.
Dexter dropped his raincoat and crossed the stretch of grass like a full-back making a charge-down.
“Police!” voices barked. “Everybody freeze!”
But the gang was already scattering. Dexter brought down one, saw Vastarnyi wrestling his original ‘pick-up’ to the ground, and the night was full of shouting, running figures. He snapped handcuffs on his captive and hustled him towards the growing huddle of prisoners — then from the corner of his eye saw trouble descending on the Vastarnyi.
A burly form broke away from a couple of uniformed officers, leaving one doubled over the other sprawling, and raced towards Vastarnyi, who was kneeling astride his prisoner, fastening cuffs to flailing wrists. He was not aware of his danger until a knee drove hard between his shoulder-blades.
The impact pitched him off, half-stunned and winded, and his attacker drew back his foot for a vicious kick into Vastarnyi’s stomach.
Dexter was the nearest officer, but too far away, he knew, to prevent the damaging blow from landing. He drew his gun, yelled “Freeze!” — and a slim black shape hurtled out of tree-shadows and took the man out in a flying tackle that succeeded only because the far-heavier man was off-balance.
The swinging foot grazed Vastarnyi’s ribs as he went over, and Dimitri, having gained an advantage, did not lose it. Dropping his full weight, knees first, on the man’s stomach, Dimitri chopped at his throat, bounced away from him, as his writhing, choking victim rolled over prepared to do some kicking of his own.
Dexter grabbed him round the waist, lifted him bodily and tossed him back towards the trees.
“Keep out of sight or you’ll got collared too!” he snapped, then bent to clip the cuffs on Dimitri’s victim, and crouched beside the dazed Vastarnyi.
“Okay?” he asked.
Vastarnyi groaned, coughed, and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Wasn’t me. Dimitri got to him first,” he grinned. “You owe him one, Vas.”
The Hungarian took the outstretched hand and was hauled to his feet.
“One what?” he queried, with a lopsided grin.
“You’d better decide that, or he will, for you.” Dexter smiled back. “Come on. Let’s get these turkeys with the rest of the herd.”
Leaving their prisoners with the others, they split up; Vastarnyi being collared by a grim-faced Goldberg, and Dexter returning to his hiding-place for his raincoat. Dimitri was waiting.
“Is Vas okay?” he said quickly, before Dexter could speak.
“He’s fine, just bruised.”
“That’s okay, then,” Dimitri said lamely. His face was white in the darkness, and Dexter felt a surge of sympathy his knees were feeling slightly weak as well. Although in the event the set-up had been almost an anti-climax, it could have turned very sour.
“Yes,” he said. “We’ve got all ten of them — and we should have enough on then to make it stick. You’d better beat it, Dimitri.” He dropped his arm briefly across the boy’s shoulders in a gesture of comfort — Dimitri looked as if he might be going to throw up at any moment. “Can you get out of here without being grabbed? The place is crawling with cops.”
“Sure I can,” Dimitri said, something of his old jauntiness coming back.
“Then do it, fast. Goodnight Dimitri, and thanks.” He smiled and gave him a slap on the back. “See you around.”
“Sure thing. G’night, Dex,” and he faded away into the shadows.
It wasn’t until he pulled into his driveway in Santa Monica in the early hours that it occurred to Dexter that he had somehow finally accepted Dimitri for what he was, and the part he had elected to play in their — well, Vastarnyi’s, at least — careers. He tried to puzzle out the whys and wherefores, but he was too tired — his brain wouldn’t function properly, and he had to be up and reporting for duty at his usual time in the morning, so he gave it up.
Chapter Fifteen
It took most of the day to get the ten prisoners through the preliminary court procedure, with all its attendant paperwork, and though Dexter was not involved, Vastarnyi was, being the only one of the decoy officers to be jumped.
Consequently, Dexter saw nothing of him all day, and could find out little about the way the hearing was progressing. By mid-afternoon it had seeped through the grapevine that the ten men had been committed for trial. Though the police had opposed bail, it had been granted, thanks to some legal chicanery and double-talk by the Defence lawyer. Dexter could imagine Vastarnyi’s reaction to that, and so, instead of eight o’clock, it was before seven-thirty that he parked outside the hardware store and went inside.
The old-fashioned bell tinkled above his head as the door opened and closed, and Dexter once more felt as if he was stepping back half a century; the store’s interior, with its board-floor, barrels of nails and assorted small items, stacked wall-shelves and piled counters belonged in another era, a different pace of life. A small lean Asian man in a brown denim coverall appeared from the back room, and a smile creased the thin, mask-like face.
“Vas figured you might be early,” he said. “Coffee’s waiting in the back.”
“Thanks, Hung Fat.” Dexter smiled and went on through the door.
Vastarnyi sat at the table, coffee-cup in one hand, a cookie in the other. “Hi,” he said, and waved the cookie at a full and steaming coffee cup in front of a chair set ready for him. “Figured you’d be here about now.”
“Huh,” said Dexter, colour rising, and sat down. “Okay, wise guy, what happened today, who are they, and why did they do it?”
“They’re members of a Neo-fascist outfit calling themselves Taskforce America, whose aim in life seems to be the removal of all things they consider to be Un-American. Like black, red, brown, and yellow minorities, homosexuals, Jews, Russians — you name it, they want to get rid of it. Kind of reminds you of someone, don’t it?”
“But –” Dexter began.
“Of course,” Vastarnyi continued, “most of the members are content to wait for the Revolution before they start spring-cleaning, but a bunch of the younger ones decided they’d had it with waiting. They picked the queer label out of a hat and started work in Griffith Park, MacArthur, then Belvedere and Atlantic. They weren’t fussy about how much injury they caused and didn’t weep any when their victims started dying. After all, they were only queers, and queers in their book aren’t even human, let alone American!” The scathing contempt in the Hungarian’s voice was, Dexter knew, as much for the system that let murderers out on bail as much for the murderers themselves.
“Can we make the charges stick?” he asked.
“Hell, two men died, they won’t change that. But Golberg reckons they might get off with a Murder Two.”
“Did he bawl you out?” Dexter struck off at a tangent, and Vastarnyi grinned.
“Did he ever!” he chuckled. “Told me to quit the moonlighting, as well,” he finished, more soberly.
“So?”
“So what? No way! And I told him so!” Vastarnyi snapped. “And you needn’t put in your five cents worth, either, Chicken Little! If I go moonlighting in my spare time, that’s my business and no one elses’, because no one else is involved, got that?”
“The pike who snaps at all who approach,” observed Hung Fat from the doorway, “will one day close his jaws on a barbed hook. Is there any coffee left?”
Dexter, who had been about to come back with a suitably cutting remark, remained silent, and Vastarnyi scowled aggressively. Hung Fat, having known him for most of his life, was completely impervious to the venom in the glare. He brought a battered tin to the table and opened it, releasing the odour of fresh-baked cookies. “Help yourself,” he invited, placing the tin in front of Dexter. “Vas has already had his share — and then some.”
“Thanks,” Dexter said stiffly.” And for the record, fruit-bait –”
“Janie and Sharon are going to have an interesting evening,” Hung Fat cut in, “with their dates wavering between mutual strangulation or disembowelment.”
“Ah, shuttup!” Vastarnyi tried a snarl, but he was beginning to laugh, and it was contagious.
“Where does Janie live?” Dexter moved the conversation onto safer ground.
“West Hollywood,” Vastarnyi glanced at his watch and stood up. “We’d better be heading out, soon as you’ve finished your coffee.”
Dexter could take a hint, so he drained his cup, helped himself to a handful of cookies, and followed Vastarnyi out to the cycle.
Having experienced the way the Hungarian took off on the mutated Harley Davidson, Dexter got a firm grip on the leather jacket, and rode the motorcycle’s initial surge of power like a horseman taking a fence. He heard a chuckle from the man in front and guessed the dirt-track start had been a deliberate test.
“You want to stop and try that again?” he said. “I’m still here.” Vastarnyi chuckled again.
“Guess you can stay,” he allowed magnanimously. “Anyhow, if I turn up without you, I’ll be in the doghouse with both of them.”
“Oh. gee, you’re all heart.”
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Hold on, Lemon, Bella’s gonna stretch her legs.”
The Santa Ana and Hollywood Freeways were well-patrolled, so the cycle’s speed did not go above fifty, Vastarnyi not being prepared to risk a stop by Highway patrol on his way to a date, but the way he wove the big machine in and out of the traffic more than made up for sheer speed in putting the wind up on his passenger. He loathed riding pillion himself but was not above playing on the natural reactions of another in the same situation.
Dexter was relieved when they left the freeway for the Santa Monica Boulevard until he realised that it made little difference to the Vastarnyi’s driving. Consequently, when they pulled up outside an apartment block in West Hollywood, Dexter was promising himself that never again would he ride behind an insane barbarian who seemed to see himself as a one-man-horde on two wheels instead of four equine legs. Never. He’d walk back to Palmetto and the Dodge after this date…
“Hey,” said Vastarnyi. “You want to comb your hair? You look like a demented dandelion.” His own hair was its usual wild tangle. “Can’t take some people anywhere,” he grumbled. “What kind of impression are you gonna make on a nice, well-brought-up girl, looking like you’ve been hauled through a haystack backwards, huh? Didn’t your momma teach you anything?”
“Shut up!” Dexter snarled, dragging his comb through his hair. “You’re supposed to wear helmets on cycles –”
“That’s no excuse. Besides, I’ve only got one, and we could hardly share it or should we pass it backwards and forwards like the Three Fate’s eyeball?”
“So why didn’t you wear it?”
“Forgot it.” He grinned. “Guess you’ll do.” He surveyed him critically, then took the comb from him and dragged it through the thick fine hair, combing it forward. “Damned if I know why you keep fightin’ against nature, Jonno. Haven’t you realised yet that if your thatch wants to go forward, it will, and nothing short of Elmer’s Glue is gonna get it to stay back off your forehead. That’s better. You look like a blond Beatle.”
Dexter snatched back his comb. “Dammit, will you leave my hair alone?”
“What are you complaining about? Sharon’ll love it. C’mon, haul ass, for God’s sake, or we’ll be late.”
Dexter’s indignation carried him through the lobby and up to the eighth floor before it cooled down and nerves took over. He hadn’t double-dated blind since high school — it was a crazy idea — he must have been out of his skull to agree — hadn’t done any bowling since Harvard, either — but it was too late to escape. Vastarnyi had knocked a brisk tattoo on the door, and a pretty girl with bright chestnut hair was smiling at them.
“Hey, you’re right on time, Dave,” she said. “For once. Come right on in, both of you.”
Behind her stood an attractive brunette, a fleeting look of apprehension on her face until she caught sight of Dexter.
* * * * * *
The double-date was an unqualified success. Sharon and Dexter won the bowling by a narrow margin, mainly by cheating fractionally more outrageously than Janie and the Vastarnyi. The atmosphere was one of happy idiocy, with the defeated pair plotting dire revenges in carrying whispers.
They stopped off at the T-Bar for a meal, went back to Janie’s apartment for coffee, and arranged another double-date for a few days time. Janie cornered Vastarnyi in the kitchen, and seemed reluctant to let him go — not that he was protesting, nor was it clear who had cornered who and Dexter wondered vaguely if Janie having a guest for the week was lousing up the Hungarian’s love-life. But only vaguely, as he had another problem on his mind, one which made him feel as ridiculously unsure as he had on his first date way back: should he shake Sharon’s hand or kiss her goodbye? It was stupid, and he knew it, and prayed that for once his colour would not rise and betray his embarrassment. In the event, the girl solved the problem for him by slipping into his arms and lifting her face for a kiss.
“It’s been a fantastic evening,” she said softly. “You want to kick that weirdo when you get him on his own.”
“I do?” Cautiously. “Why?”
“The way he described you, you came out like a cross between Dumbo and Donald Duck.” She chuckled. “Janis warned me he was crazy, but –” She broke off with a shrug, and since he had made no move to kiss her, she gently pulled his head down and planted a good one on his mouth. “Goodnight, Dumbo Duck,” Sharon whispered.
“Mmm,” said Dexter, and reciprocated with interest — she was a very comfortable armful, they’d had a lot of laughs this evening, and she was a genuinely nice person to know. He could get fond of a girl like that… Dexter released Sharon with a suddenness that startled her.
“Hey, look at the time,” he said with false brightness. “We’ve got to be on duty tomorrow — Vas! Hey, Vas, come on!”
“Jon?” Sharon ventured. “See you Friday?”
A haunted, hurting expression crossed his face briefly before it was hidden by a white, cheerful smile.
“Sure thing,” he said enthusiastically. ” — Vas?”
“Okay, I’m coming!” he grunted, emerging from the kitchen looking disheveled. “What?”
“The time,” Dexter said. “It’s getting late.”
“So you’re afraid of turning into a pumpkin? Or maybe a white rat or a lizard?” Vastarnyi demanded. “G’night, mezam,” he kissed Janie’s pout, and winked at Sharon. “‘What did you do to him?” he hissed in an undertone as he passed her, a wicked grin on his face that faded somewhat as her patent bewilderment registered. “See you Friday,” and bounded after the fast-disappearing Dexter.
The two girls looked at each other. “What was all that about?” Janie asked, puzzled and disappointed.
“I don’t know — he suddenly let me go like he’d burned his fingers.” A thoughtful glint grew in her eyes. “I reckon he’s married and suddenly developed a guilt complex.”
“No — Dave wouldn’t pull a dirty trick like that on you,” Janie protested.
“Well, how else do you explain it? He looked sort of wary. And hurt. Got it. I’ll bet any money there’s a girl at the bottom of it, and he’s still smarting.”
“I suppose. But Dave didn’t say anything about ex-steadies or anything like that. Anyhow, problems aside, how did you get on with the Lemon Cheesecake?”
“Marvelously, until four minutes ago,” Sharon laughed. “Janie, why does Dave call him that?”
“God knows! I’ve asked, but all he does is snarl like Wolfman and mutter in Hungarian!”
“Oh, well,” with a sigh, Sharon started to clear the coffee-cups. “It doesn’t matter. Unless I miss my guess, we won’t be seeing him again…”
* * * * * *
“Hey!” Vastarnyi did not catch up with Dexter until he got to the motorcycle, and immediately changed what he was going to say after the brief glimpse he had of the misery and pain on the blond man’s face before the mask was glued back in place.
“You needn’t think you’re gonna win the bowling replay,” he said instead, “Next time, you’ll be blasted out of the building — I’m gonna invent new ways of cheating that you haven’t thought of yet.”
There was a slight pause.
“That shouldn’t be hard, with your devious mind,” Dexter said, with an effort at normality. Vastarnyi laughed and swung his leg over the saddle.
“You better believe it,” he grinned. “Climb aboard, Jonno.”
Dexter was dreading an inquisition — could barely explain his reactions to himself let alone anyone else, but Vastarnyi did not refer to it at all. Instead, his conversation was of bowling, baseball, basketball, football — and Dexter, in his relief, happily shouted back answers. They became involved in an argument on the merits of local basketball teams, and it gravitated from the Harley Davidson to the back room of the hardware store. Vastarnyi’s pumping was skillfully done.
While Dexter was busily convincing himself that nothing out of the ordinary had been noticed, he was being fed remarks and questions that were innocent enough on the surface but were angling for responses that revealed far more than he knew. Until he caught himself talking about Carol, and froze into momentary silence before ‘remembering’ the time and retreating hastily to the car.
* * * * * *
So who, thought Vastarnyi in the darkness, gazing up at the invisible stair boards above his head, is Carol, and what had she done to louse up the love-life of a normal, healthy, red-blooded-all-American guy like Dex? There was no doubt in his mind that she had done something of the kind — natural-born ascetics are rare as hen’s teeth, and he knew that Jon Dexter wasn’t one of them, any more than he was himself — so what was his hang-up? Why did he run like a panicked mustang when Sharon snuggled up and he had the whole of the couch and the night to have fun?
He ran through all he knew about Dexter and discovered that he didn’t know very much on the personal background details. It wouldn’t be any good sneaking an illicit look at his file in East L.A., as it wouldn’t give information of that kind — then a picture of the small, neat, white stuccoed hacienda appeared abruptly in his mind. Single guys, even in the Dexter income bracket, rarely went in for houses. Usually it was plushy apartments. So was Carol a wife? He’d never mentioned being married, and that place in Santa Monica showed no signs of a woman being permanently in residence. Neither did he wear a wedding-band. Ex-wife? He’d check the records at the first opportunity. If he had dropped Jonno in it with that double-date, then he owed him reparation; but if he blundered in blindly, he could make things worse.
He had planned to leave early for work and find a chance to get at the personnel files in the lull before the watch changed — but a call from Janie delayed him long enough to cut the time too fine. He didn’t have much opportunity to talk to Dexter, either, until the two teams met up for the inevitable code-seven mid-morning, and then the tall blond man was not disposed to converse. He answered Vastarnyi’s cheerful remarks with monosyllables and would not say any more for some time. Then abruptly out into Vastarnyi’s sentence with a curt, “I can’t make the date Friday night.”
“Huh? Hey, c’mon, Dex — don’t tell me you’ve got to stay in and wash your hair?” He hadn’t meant to say that and felt slightly guilty as the colour rose in Dexter’s face.
“No, I just can’t make it, that’s all.”
“Sharon’s a nice girl.”
“Yes, I know, a real sweet kid, but I –”
” — can’t make the date,” Vastarnyi finished for him, “She’s gonna want to know why. She kinda fell for you, Janie said.”
“I’m going upstate for the weekend,” Dexter decided suddenly. “Leaving Friday, after work. I’m going up to Frisco.”
“Uh-huh,” said Vastarnyi, knowingly. “How about tonight? We could pick them up and take in a movie?”
“No. Count me out. I’ve got to pack.”
“Has Sharon got B.O.? A Social Disease?” Vastarnyi drawled.
“No! Quit pushing! I can’t make the date!”
“You don’t fancy her?”
“No — yes — I — will you quit it?”
“So why back out?”
“I’m not backing out! I’ve got to go to Frisco!”
“Sure you have — as of two minutes ago,” Vastarnyi snorted. “Give me one good reason and I’ll quit pushing — lie in my teeth for you if I have to, as well. So how about it?”
Cornered, and with no way out, Dexter cast around frantically for a lifeline, and found none.
“I don’t want to get involved!” he blurted desperately, aware how lame it sounded and waiting for the snort of derision and more probing. Surprisingly, neither came.
“Okay,” said Vastarnyi quietly. “Relax, pal. I’ll tell ’em it’s family business you’re goin’ on.”
There was a slightly strained silence, then, “My mother lives in Pacific Heights,” he volunteered.
Vastarnyi smiled at him and slapped him on the back. “There you are then,” he chuckled. “Are you going up, to make it true?”
“Yes, maybe I will. Haven’t seen them in months.”
“Great — I won’t have to perjure my pure soul. Hey, is your name down for that course on Criminal Investigation?” And he turned the conversation right away from personal matters.
Chapter Sixteen
“Packed yet?” Vastarnyi grinned, leaning on his locker door with an irritatingly lounging grace as Dexter neatly stowed away his uniform for the weekend.
“No,” the blond man admitted, colour rising slightly. “Can’t go. I forgot something I had arranged for tomorrow afternoon.”
“Another date?”
“No!” Dexter’s snap was tinged with annoyance and a touch of embarrassment. “I’m taking some kids to the beach for a friend. I can’t let them down.”
“No,” Vastarnyi considered. “Guess not. Well, don’t sweat, you won’t be meetin’ up with Sharon and Janie — they’re spending the day in Disneyland before she flies out.”
“Hope you have a good day.”
Vastarnyi gave a rueful grunt. “I’ve been included out. I’m in the doghouse.”
“Oh,” said Dexter. “Because I backed out of tonight?”
“Got it in one. Don’t fret, good buddy, Janie’ll be out of her sulks by next week. S’no skin of my nose, anyhow — it’s the wrong time of the month.”
“Oh,” Dexter said again. “What will you be doing tomorrow afternoon?” he asked casually.
“Dunno. Maybe take in a ballgame. Why?”
“Want to come along and give me a hand?” It was suggested in the same casual tone, as if it didn’t matter either way.
Vastarnyi gave a shrug. “Hell, I ain’t no good riding herd on a pack of kids…”
“There are only six, and you won’t have to ride herd on them.”
“Listen, anything above one is a pack, and you’ve always got to ride herd on ’em. Need eyes in the back of your head,” he snorted, with the assurance of one who knows. Dexter looked at him.
“Not with these. They’re paraplegics.”
“Huh?” Vastarnyi’s jaw actually sagged. Then — “Oh, God. Pollyanna strikes again.”
“Okay. Forget it.” Red-faced, and with his mouth a thin line of anger, Dexter slammed his locker shut and turned away, pushing past him to the door, castigating himself savagely for the impulse that had led him to make that tentative venture. He ought to have known how the Bohunk would have seen it, should have expected the gibes.
“Hey,” said Vastarnyi, doing an overdone stagger to the wall. “You aim to make me one as well? How come?”
“How come what?”
“How come you’re taking a crowd of Ironsides to the beach?”
“Because I help out a friend, and it’s part of their therapy,” he snapped, and the door crashed shut behind him. Vastarnyi opened it.
“Hey! I’m the one they call San Andreas!” he yelled down the corridor.
* * * * * *
At twelve-thirty the following day Dexter was halfway through a light lunch when a sudden roar and scatter of stones startled him into a coughing fit on a piece of unchewed apple inadvertently swallowed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, wrenching the door open. “Will you look at my drive?”
“Shouldn’t have a gravel drive,” Vastarnyi said indignantly. “That’s asking for trouble. Can’t help but mark it up some. Why don’t you have it concreted?”
“I’d have your head concreted, if it wasn’t already,” Dexter retorted sourly. “What do you want?”
“Me? Nothing. It’s what you want.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. Herding the kids. Do I get to ride point or drag?”
Dexter stared at him, fury, incredulity and finally exasperation mirrored on his features.
“You are insane! You know that?” he yelled, grabbed the smaller man by the collar and hauled him inside, almost frog-marching him to the kitchen. “Completely, totally, incurably insane!”
“Come now, let’s not get physical about this, Jonno,” Vastarnyi perched on a stool, tugged his clothing straight, and helped himself to a handful of cookies and an apple. “Got any spare coffee looking for a home?”
“Help yourself,” Dexter snarled. “Feel free.”
“Thanks.” He did. “Hey, what’s with these kids? How come they’re stuck in chairs?”
“Two spina bifida, two multiple sclerosis, one polio, one car smash.”
“Ah-huh.” Vastarnyi looked about him, as if he expected them to appear from cupboards. “So where are they?”
“Belle Vista Centre — it’s a hospital and rehabilitation centre in Pasadena. I pick them up from there.”
“Okay. When do we start?”
“Can you swim?”
“Sure I can.”
“Good. We start now.”
“How come,” said Vastarnyi again, filling pockets with cookies and fruit before following him to the side door and garage. “You got mixed up in this? Not that it’s any of my business, of course.”
“No, it isn’t. They were short on weekend drivers for the wagon, and Bernie twisted my arm.”
“Who’s Bernie?”
“A therapist at Vista. That’s who we pick up first.”
“Oh.” He bit into his purloined apple with a healthy crunch, and Dexter gave him a sour glance.
“Didn’t you have any lunch before you came over?”
“Sure I did. Sweet’n’sour pork, pimento rice, bamboo shoots an’ french-fries.”
“So why lift my week’s supply of cookies?”
“Gotta keep my strength up if I’m gonna ride herd on a pack of kids.” He gave him a winning smile. “Gee, you’re a grouch, Jonno Three.”
“Well, I reckon you’re feeding a tape-worm,” he snapped back. Vastarnyi gazed down, wide-eyed at his midriff, and patted it cautiously.
“Hey, d’you think so?”
“It wouldn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance with your idea of a diet,” Dexter reassured him grimly.
“You had me worried there.” He gave a gusty sigh of relief and a climbed into the Dodge as Dexter opened the garage doors. “Hey, Jonno, what’s the program with these kids? Is it just a beach-party or what?”
“Part fun-time, part therapy,” Dexter told him. “Hydrotherapy is an important part of their treatment — so’s relaxing in as near-normal a situation as possible. They’re all aged between nine and eleven, so it’s more playtime than anything else. A few hours away from the hospital routine — better than any medicine.”
“I’ll bet,” Vastarnyi agreed, loathing hospital himself. “You seem to know quite a bit about it. How long you been doing this?” Dexter didn’t answer, took the station-wagon out onto the road, and the Hungarian interpreted his silence correctly. “S’okay, Dex-buddy, I won’t Pollyanna you, honest. After all, if I’m buying in today, that makes me one, too, don’t it?”
A grin struggled through Dexter’s scowl. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been driving for Bernie regularly since I came home from Harvard. Used to drive during vacations before that. Why did you buy in today?”
“Curiosity.” Vastarnyi beamed. “What else?”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
“Sure. But not this cat. Not yet awhile, anyhow.”
* * * * * *
Dexter pulled up outside an apartment duplex on the fringes of Pasadena and got out.
“I’ll go give Bernie a hand,” he said. “You get the tail-gate open, okay?”
“Sure.” Vastarnyi obeyed, and was leaning there when Dexter emerged from the block with an armful of canvas holdalls and a pretty red-haired girl in her early twenties wearing shorts, a fluffy white sweater, and sandals. Neither she nor Dexter could fail to notice the appreciation in the Hungarian’s eyes, and Dexter said swiftly:
“I brought along a friend to give us a hand, Bernie. David Vastarnyi, Vas, this is Bernie O’Hara.”
“Hi, Bernie,” said Vastarnyi, a wide white grin on his face. “You’re kind of a surprise.”
“I am?” she shot a startled look at Dexter, who was unloading his burdens into the rear of the car. “Why? What has he been saying?”
“Nothing. Just that Bernie twists his arm — I’d got this picture of a hulking beetle-browed dude in my head y’know, all muscle and no brain? Don’t hit me, Dexter!”
“He’s insane, don’t take any notice of him,” Dexter advised, as all three piled into the front seat, Bernie in the middle.
“Insane, huh?” Bernie looked at him and laughed. “And you, of course, are not. Come off it, Jon Dexter. You’re forgetting, I’ve known you since we were both in diapers. You were crazy then, too.”
“Shhh!” said Vastarnyi desperately. “You’re ruining his image! Back at the Station-House most of ’em think he may be normal.”
“Not any more they don’t,” Dexter said gloomily. “Haven’t done for weeks.”
“Why? What happened?” The girl looked from one to another.
“Nothing much,” they said together, in perfect if unintentional unison, and Dexter flushed. “Never mind. It’s not important,” he muttered, and caught Vastarnyi’s grin. “Behave, Bohunk,” he snarled.
“Sho’thing, Massah. Don’t fret, Lemon Cheese, I’ll be good, I’ve been practising.”
“It doesn’t show.”
“It will. Scout’s honour.”
“You never were a scout!”
“Was too. Well, Cub Scout, anyhow.”
“Lemon Cheese?” Bernie queried aloud, and Vastarayi’s grin widened.
“That’s a long story, mezam. D’you want to tell it, J.D., or shall I?”
“Slander me and you’ll regret it.”
“The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” Vastarnyi swore, right hand raised. “See, I got this allergy. To Lemon Cheese. Brings me out in Hives. Well, Dex ‘n’ me were roomed together at the Academy, and we don’t get on too well, and on the last day he doctored my packed lunch with lemon cheese. Jesus, did I itch!” He gave a reminiscent squirm.
“You don’t get on?” Bernie echoed, puzzled. “You mean you didn’t get on?”
“He means we don’t get on,” Dexter said, and Vastarnyi chuckled.
“S’right. We hate each other’s guts,” he added. “Don’t we?”
“Yes,” said Dexter concisely.
“He reckons he’s gonna smear me one of these days,” Vastarnyi confided, happily. “Fat chance. He still hasn’t got it into that pointy blond head that I fight dirtier than he does. Quantity’s no good without quality.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Dexter instructed. “He hasn’t got either.”
“You’re both crazy,” Bernie said positively.
“It helps,” said Dexter, wryly, and swung the car neatly into the drive of the Belle Vista Centre.
* * * * * *
Rinsing salt and sand from his hair under the shower, Dexter surprised himself with a chuckle. It had been a good day — no, better than that, it had been great. It was a while since he’d enjoyed himself so thoroughly on the beach, and he had to admit that the reason had been the mercurial presence of the Vastarnyi. He’d got on remarkably well with the kids. Bernie had been completely captivated by him, and what could have been another chore had been turned into a romp. Dexter had found himself marked out for a series of jokes, ranging from being thoroughly dunked in the Pacific to falling into mysterious excavations in the sand which Vastarnyi informed him solemnly were Dex-traps. He had been aided and abetted in everything by the willing children, and everyone had had fun…
“Maniac Bohunk,” Dexter said aloud, cutting the spray and reaching for the towel. Unless he was much mistaken, Vas had had fun, too. And that brainwave he’d had about the wheelchairs had aroused Dexter’s envy and admiration — he’d never have thought of getting them painted up like a black-and-white, but young Ricky was completely sold on the idea.
Well, Bernie had promised to see if she could get permission, and he and Vas could probably get the paintjob done evenings and a weekend. Not that he could be sure of the Hungarian, though — he still couldn’t figure that maniac. Bosom-buddies one minute, mortal enemies the next — it was enough to send a guy schizo. If only there was a way to find out more about him, find out what made him tick — to get the scalpel out and peal back the layers to get at what lay beneath. So ask around. People like Slim — people who knew Vastarnyi from way back…
Dexter grinned at his own reflection in the mirror. That was it — that was the answer. He already knew that David Vastarnyi knew the street — now it was high time to find out what the street knew of David Vastarnyi.
* * * * * *
When he put his mind to it, Jon Dexter discovered that he had quite a few contacts on the street himself, people he had known and befriended during the days — not so long ago — when he had tried social work. And they remembered him, and were willing to help him. The odd snippets of information that had already come his way showed that.
It was nearing midnight, and in the space of a few hours he had already talked to a couple of junkies, a prostitute, and an old wino who all had their own viewpoint on the Hungarian. Opinions differed, dramatically, but Dexter expected that. The junkies had once tried to carve him up — one still limped, a souvenir of what the Vastarnyi had handed out in retribution.
“…carries a knife,” Dexter was told. “And don’t you tangle with him, man. He’s poison…”
Mad, bad, and dangerous to know, Dexter reflected. The little prostitute had had a different story to tell — for her, Dave could do no wrong. He’d helped her out of a jam when she’d been new to the game.
“…he fixed that creep good so’s he’d think twice before he’d bother me again,” she said. “Then he sat me down, talked to me like he was my brother. ‘Hooking’s no life for a lady,’ he said. ‘I can’t stop you — hell, wouldn’t try, if that’s what you’re wanting to do with your life. But if you need help, you know my name.’ And he gave me the address of a good doctor, too.”
Vastarnyi the knight-errant. Dexter filed that story, too. The derelict wasn’t much help — sure he knew Vas, he was always good for the odd buck, and if you gave him words he wanted to hear, he was real generous. Looked after his own, too. He’d kept quite a few of them alive, one way or another. But if Dexter really wanted to get the inside story on Dave Vastarnyi, he should go talk to Eva. Eva had known him since he was toddling — he was her blue-eyed boy. But better be careful what you ask, and why you’re asking, because if Eva takes against you, she puts you down in her Book…
Dexter didn’t get to find out anymore, as that was when the figure of the Albatross appeared on the scene. Dexter’s first impulse was for a swift getaway and hope that the Albatross hadn’t seen him — he was instantly ashamed of himself for his reaction.
“Hi,” he said, “How’re you doing?”
The Albatross looked up at him, rheumy-eyed.
“Could use a drink,” he croaked.
The Albatross was unique, for which God be thanked. His name, his age, his background, were sunk in oblivion in the alcohol stew that had replaced his brain — he lived hand-to-mouth, combing the filthy back-alleys, but the truly horrific thing about him was his need for other people. He was more than naturally gregarious — he was a parasite as loathsome as any leech, and like the Old Man of the Sea, once he’d got a grip he was hell to shake loose. Dexter had learned an invaluable lesson from the Albatross — he had learned that there are some people you cannot help, people who don’t want to be helped, who just take everything they can con you into giving…
It cost Dexter five bucks, but he was rid of the Albatross at last, and decided he’d call it a night. He wanted to go home and scrub — the Albatross always had that effect on him — and he’d achieved something of what he had set out to discover. It didn’t occur to him to wonder why he had omitted to question the Albatross on the subject of David Vastarnyi, though the Albatross’ information covered a wide range of individuals. That was a taint he instinctively shied clear of. Vas might well be associated with him — but Dexter preferred not to know.
He was in bed before guilt hit him. He shouldn’t have done what he had — he didn’t even know why he’d done it, and it wasn’t ethical to poke and pry into a man’s private life. He just hoped no one ever told Vastarnyi that Dexter had been asking questions — he could imagine the explosion, and, guilty or not, he didn’t want to be anywhere within range when the San Andreas blew.
Chapter Seventeen
Vastarnyi got his chance at the personnel files at the end of his shift, delaying his departure and enlisting the cooperation of W.P.O. Smith. She obligingly disappeared to spend five minutes in the ladies’ room while he deftly burgled the lock of the filing cabinet and pulled out the D-F drawer.
Carol was an ex-wife, and the Reno divorce had come after a year of marriage. Short and sweet, reflected Vastarnyi wryly. There were no children. Parents divorced as well, when Dexter was fourteen, mother remarried soon after, now living in San Francisco. Philip Dexter had won custody of his son, the only-child of the marriage, and the boy had been educated at a selection of private boarding schools, ending with Harvard.
“I don’t want to get involved!” An echo of that desperate plea drifted through his memory, giving him a repeat of the mental gut-kick he’d received the first time he’d heard it. He shoved the file back into place and slammed the drawer shut.
“I guess you don’t, you poor bastard,” he muttered. “And I don’t blame you, either.”
That was his code as well — don’t get involved. But on the other hand, a guy could have a good time with a pretty girl without getting emotionally involved, and if Jonno carried on much longer with his self-imposed celibacy, he’d end up in the funny farm. Sex, after all, was as necessary as food or drink, and to repress that particular human need was asking for trouble…
His own attitude to sex was ambivalent. It was a commodity to be bought or sold and used, when necessary, for other ends. It was a necessity — but it was also an expression of affection, tenderness, and love within a relationship or marriage. The latter he steered away from with the same fanaticism as Jon Dexter, but the other categories were fair game, and it occurred to him that he ought to widen Jonno’s vision somewhat. A tiny, new-born scruple whispered feebly that it was none of his business and he had no right to interfere, but it died from lack of nourishment.
In his book, Vastarnyi owed the college boy, and that would be as good a way as any to settle the debt. He had no idea — at the moment — how he was going to go about it, but he’d work on it, come up with something. Or someone. Like Margo Finlay? A grin started, and W.P.O. Smith walked into an embrace that was almost an indictable offence in itself.
“That’s on account,” he told her happily, releasing the breathless girl. “I’ll pick you up at eight, honey.” And disappeared at a run.
* * * * * *
He stopped at the nearest pay-phone, but Margo was not at her apartment, and a call to a mutual acquaintance elicited the information that she was out-of-state and would be for some days. Temporarily stymied, Vastarnyi continued home to the hardware store, and found a message had been left with Hung Fat.
“A Dimitri phoned,” Hung Fat said, as he helped himself to coffee and cookies in the back room.
“Yeah?”
“You were asking him about Chico Mandoza a while back?”
“Yeah, but he kinda faded from the scene. He’s pulled no more tricks — I figured he’s been caught or gone back to Chicano-land. What did Dimitri have to say?”
“Nothing.” Hung Fat smiled. “He just said he had words on him, and he’d meet you in the Karma House at nine. He also said he’d phoned Dex as well.”
A black scowl drew down the heavy brows. “He has, huh? What the hell did he do a fool thing like that for?” he snarled.
“Probably because he assumed you work together off-duty as well as on,” Hung Fat said mildly.
“Well, we don’t! Off-duty we may socialize once in a while, but we don’t moonlight. I work alone, and it’s about time he realised it. And you.” He glared at the older man. Hung Fat tucked his hands in his sleeves, slitted his eyes, and smiled inscrutably.
“He who would deny his shadow should not walk in strong sunlight,” he intoned, then became American again. “If you’re going out you’d better go and eat first. Wei’s got chicken and french-fries ready for you.”
“Great. But you can stuff your fake Confucianism, buddy!” He drained his coffee and departed with a handful of cookies. Hung Fat sighed and shook his head.
* * * * * *
Vastarnyi cancelled his date and reached the Karma House early, hoping to get a chance to inform Dimitri of a few choice and basic facts before Dexter turned up. But of Dimitri there was no sign, and the tall blond man was at the rostrum talking to Jives. Vas swore under his breath and waited around by the door, unseen by either Dexter or Jives, to pounce on Dimitri as he entered.
“Hold on,” he snapped, grabbing his elbow and pulling him round the corner of the bar out of the way of a casual glance from either Jives or Dexter.
“Hey,” said Dimitri, but it was only a token protest, he had no objections to being hustled into corners by Vastarnyi.
“Shuttup. Listen, and listen good,” he said grimly. “Once in a while, I may have worked with Dexter off-duty. But only when I need a wheelman. Most of the time I work solo. So don’t go calling him in unless I tell you. Got that?”
“Uh, yes,” said Dimitri, puzzled. “I heard what you said, but I don’t understand it. You’re a team.”
“No we’re not!” Vastarnyi hissed, furious. “And don’t you forget it!”
“Okay, if you say so.” But he was clearly sceptical. “What d’you want me to do about Mendoza?”
“What have you got on him?”
“That he’s back in town. I don’t know where he hangs out, but he’s not holed up in the barrios. His girlfriend — ex-girlfriend — is a hooker. She could well be prepared to drop him in it, if she knows anything. She’s pretty bitter.”
“What’s her name and where do I find her?”
“She’s no high-class lady. Her name’s Consuela and she works the back end of the Strip, between the Soul Palace and Emmett’s pizza stand.” He hesitated. “Are you taking Dex along?”
“No!”
“It’s gonna rain like the second Deluge any time,” Dimitri offered. “You’re gonna get awful wet, walking. Didn’t see your bike anywhere around.”
“She’s out back.” He went to the door and eased it open. Large heavy drops were spattering the sidewalk, and he began to swear in an undertone, a steady stream of vitriolic Hungarian. Turning abruptly, he pushed his way through the customers to Jives’ rostrum. The black man glanced at his face, then rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
“Oh, Lawdy lawdy lawdy,” he sighed. “Rakossy rides again. Hi there, Davie.”
“Stuff it, smartass,” Vastarnyi glared at Dexter, who glared back equally belligerently, and Dimitri repeated his information in the over-bright accents of one reciting a story to three-year-olds. But dried up completely when two pairs of angry blue eyes blazed down at him.
“Well?” demanded Dexter, who wanted Mendoza every bit as badly as the Hungarian but had no intention of showing it.
“Well what?” Vastarnyi growled, “I’m gonna see if I can find Consuela. What else?” There was a long pause. Then, grudgingly, as thunder rumbled dully far above their heads: “D’you want to come along?” And silently cursed himself. He’d sooner get wet. But it was too late.
“May as well, since I’m here,” Dexter said stiffly. “The car’s out front.” Vastarnyi grunted something that might have been thanks and/or farewell, and headed for the doors. Dexter turned back to Jives, pointedly in no hurry to follow.
“I’ll see if I can hunt out that book,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I’ve still got it. See you around. G’night, Dimitri,” and belatedly strolled towards the furious figure bouncing impatiently on the balls of its feet in the doorway. It was going to be one hell of an evening, he knew. In this mood, the Vastarnyi was barely human, let alone civilised — an undiluted wolverine, and belonged in the City Zoo.
* * * * * *
Life was unjust, Dexter decided, moodily hunched in the driver’s seat of the green Dodge. How the hell was a guy supposed to deal with a schizophrenic? He had made his own decision to drop the idea of a team — in the face of Vastarnyi’s hostility and frequent assertations that he was a loner, it seemed the sensible thing to do. So why was he sitting here in his car waiting for the Bohunk maniac to finish his conversation with the hooker? And if it came to that, why, loathing each other as they did, was it that there were no real personality clashes on the few occasions they had met up off-duty and not moonlighting? And how was it, on the equally rare occasions when they were moonlighting, that they worked together like a well-oiled piece of machinery?
He scowled out through the rain-drenched windscreen at the pair in the store doorway. Once again he had only been asked along to be a wheelman, a minor inconvenience to be put up with because Vastarnyi hated getting wet — or hated his blasted cycle getting wet. He needed his head read for agreeing to it. The invite had been unwillingly offered in the first place, that was obvious; Vastarnyi had clearly regretted it as soon as it was out, but, typically, had refused to back down. So here he was, sitting around like a damned chauffeur, waiting for the punk. Again.
Dexter shifted position and heaved a sigh. He could have been at home right now, watching that program on Egyptian archaeology, or listening to albums, but the passenger door opened abruptly, and Vastarnyi dived in, slamming it shut behind him.
“Pay-dirt.” He grinned, shaking rain from his hair like an over-grown dog. “She thinks she’s seen Mendoza in the Che Guevera off Fifth, earlier tonight. He might still be there.”
Dexter grunted and put the car into gear. Vastarnyi’s sour mood had disappeared in the light of a fresh trail — schizoid was the only word for him, Dexter thought irritably. Look at the Atlantic Park episode. One day he was, in so many words, asking Dexter to be there for the set-up, though there was no official reason why he should be, the next day all the warning signs were slammed up. Keep out. Trespassers will be physically discouraged. Don’t interfere. And so on. Why couldn’t he see they could have made a good team?
It was that damned pride, that was what it was. He was too stiff-necked arrogant to face up to the fact that he couldn’t always handle things on his own, that some situations demanded teamwork, because that would mean admitting that he, the 20th Century Rakossy of L.A., had to rely on someone else.
Well, this was it. The last taxi-trick he’d run. After tonight, Vastarnyi could find another fool with a car.
“Hey,” Vastarnyi said, prodding him hard in the ribs. “Will you pull over, for Chrissake? How many blocks do you aim to walk back?”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” And he swung the Dodge into a convenient space.
* * * * * *
Mendoza was not in the Che Guevera, had left nearly an hour before, they were told, but he frequented the place most nights. It took a while to get that much information, as Vas’ questioning methods, when he wasn’t in a hurry, were drawn out and devious, and guaranteed to raise not even the shadow of a suspicion. Care was needed, since the bar was patronized mainly by Mexican and South Americans of University age, and was known to be a centre for some left-wing action groups. Dexter’s blond Anglo-Saxon features were already getting some hostile stares, allayed somewhat by Vas’ description of his ‘cousin’s’ life of harassment in Northern Italy. But it was taking a chance, and Dexter was in the mood to find faults.
“Of course,” he grumbled, as they left the bar. “You didn’t think to check that I could speak Italian, did you? Apart from the fact that I’ve got as much chance of passing for Italian as I have of being Puerto Rican!”
“Picky, picky,” said Vastarnyi. “Didn’t have to check. You’d already told me you took Modern Languages. Which means French, German, Italian, and Spanish. Also the option on Russian, if I remember right. And sure you could pass. Don’t you know that the Northern Italians are mostly tall and fair? ‘Gaul is divided into three parts’ — Caesar said, and that’s Transalpine Gaul.”
“So who’s the smartass college boy now?” Dexter snarled, and Vas stopped in his tracks, gazing at him in amazement.
“Hey, what’s denting your sinuses?” he demanded.
“Nothing!” snapped Dexter. He was cold, wet, and hungry, and wanted to be home, half-asleep in front of his fire with a good book and a hot snack. He lengthened his stride and made for the car, head down against the wind-driven rain. Vastarnyi stared after him wonderingly, then a possible explanation presented itself. He’d have to get in touch with Margo Finlay, arrange some kind of accidental meeting —
“Hi there, Dave,” a familiar voice said behind him, and he froze, controlling the impulse to whirl and hit out.
“Lee,” he acknowledged, coldly. Others emerged from an alley, closing around him, hedging him in. Six of them.
“How’re you feeling, buddy?” Leroy Judson queried.
“Okay.”
“You didn’t shop us. That was awful smart of you, Davie-boy. Guess you’ve done some real hard thinking, huh? Why don’t we take a little walk and talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to say,” Vastarnyi said, resisting the crowding towards the alley’s back mouth. Over their shoulders he could see Dexter, well ahead, pausing by the car to look back. “It’s all been said, last time, and nothing’s changed. Back off, Lee.”
“Uh-huh, Dave.” Lee shook his head regretfully. “You’re the one that’s gonna be doing the backing off. Let’s take that walk. All quiet and peaceful.” And Vastarnyi felt the chill touch of a knife point at his back, pressing hard enough to break the skin through leather jacket and shirt.
“Gee, you’re brave,” he sneered, but obeyed instructions. All he needed was a little space between him and that knife, and he’d do more than defend himself — then, just as he entered the alley, he caught a glimpse of Dexter approaching at a near run, and a sudden, unreasoning fear took him by the throat.
Ignoring the knife, he lashed out with his heel, twisting away at the same time. Judson howled, taking the blow below his kneecap, and lunged forward. But the blade missed its target, and he sprawled his length in the mud.
Vastarnyi kicked again, sending the blade flying from his hand to be lost in the garbage, then he was cornered, backed against the wall, hedged in by more knives. Judson got to his feet, elbowed through the half-circle.
“Okay,” he hissed. “That’s the way you want it, that’s the way you’re gonna get it.” But Vastarnyi wasn’t looking at him, he was staring at the alley-mouth, and Judson chuckled. He wasn’t going to fall for that trick, it was the oldest in the book.
“Will you get out of here!” Vastarnyi screamed at the tall silhouette. “Beat it, for Christ’s –” A blow in the stomach doubled him over for the clubbed fists and boots, and knife-blades gleamed faintly in the dark.
* * * * * *
Dexter glanced back as he reached the car, expecting to find the Hungarian at his heels. But he wasn’t. He was disappearing into an alley, the centre of a group, and Dexter frowned, hesitating. Old friends of his? Then remembered what had been done to him the last time he’d met up with a gang of ‘old friends.’ He started back, got to the alley in time to hear the low-voiced threat and see the pale sheen of naked steel. At that moment Vastarnyi’s voice hit him, the raw edge of fear speaking more clearly than the words, which he barely heard.
Seven to one — to two — with knives, and Vastarnyi was about to be seriously wounded or killed. He knew he should run, get to the phone and put in a 10-13, but he could not move for a few seconds. He was scared — terrified and 90% of his brain was screaming at him in an echo of the Hungarian’s cry, but the other 10% pushed him forward, into the alley, reaching for the gun he had yet to use against human life.
“Police,” he snapped. “Hold it — get back and drop those knives.”
“No way,” Judson spat. “Back off, or I cut him open.”
The blade was at Vastarnyi’s stomach, and Dexter wavered. It was enough. Simultaneously two men jumped him, and he could not pull the trigger. Slipping in mud, he went down on one knee, heard a wordless yell of rage from Vastarnyi, and chopped hard at someone’s kidneys, hammering the other elbow into the nearest midriff, and struggled to his feet.
The narrow confines of a muddy, garbage-strewn black pit of an alley was not the best place for a pitched battle involving nine men, and the odds of seven to two were cancelled out to a certain extent by the seven getting in each other’s way.
Things were not going according to Judson’s plan — Vastarnyi, far from being cowed by odds or knives, appeared to have gone berserk, and bones were breaking under the impact of his unorthodox karate. He hadn’t expected someone else to buy in either, so he pulled back his troops in a scrambling, limping retreat.
But Vastarnyi was not inclined to let them go so easily — he sprinted after them. At the mouth of the alley, they scattered, and he stopped, breathing hard, the blind fury fading.
“Guess we showed them something, Dex-buddy,” he panted, and turned back into the alley. Then froze in his tracks. Dexter was buckling at the knees, hands clutching his stomach, blood glistening blackly in the gloom, and an expression on his face of shock, disbelief, and fear.
Vastarnyi lunged for him, catching him before he could reach the ground, his own features mirroring Dexter’s. Carefully he half-carried, half-supported the semi-conscious man to the alley’s entrance, where light from streetlamps lifted some of the darkness, and lowered him to the sidewalk.
Panic such as he had never known before exploded in his mind as he eased away Dexter’s hands and saw the great lash across his midriff, soaking him with blood from chest to thigh.
“Holy Mary Mother of God — ” It was a prayer, a whisper of agony. “Jonno –”
Somehow training took over so that he was able to lift aside the torn cloth of Dexter’s shirt and note that no internal organs were visible in the wound, but that did little to relieve the horror, guilt, and sense of loss that threatened to choke all coherence out of him.
“S’okay, Jonno — take it easy –” Husky banalities to try and reassure himself as well as Dexter. ” — It’s gonna be okay, I’ll get you to hospital in no time — don’t try to move … It’s cut the muscles pretty badly, but it’s not too deep–”
He struggled out of his wet jacket, ripped off his shirt and rolled it into a pad, pressing it to the wound, tying it in place with the sleeves of the jacket.
“You’re gonna be okay–” but his voice faltered. “Ez az en hibam sajnalom –” he whispered. “I should never have dragged you along down here — it’s my fault — Dear God in heaven, it should have been me, not you!”
Long ago he had accepted the fact that he would bleed his life away in a back-alley sooner or later, but not Jon Dexter — “I — I’m sorry…”
His voice was so low that Dexter hardly heard him. He attempted to speak, to tell Vas that it wasn’t his fault, that he knew he’d be okay, but couldn’t get the words out. He was giddy, his skull felt as if it had been split open with an axe — sick, with white-hot pain in his gut, he was terrified of dying, and all he could see with any clarity was the anguished face bent over him.
Then even that began to fade. He tried to protest as the darkness closed in, heard himself moan, and reached out blindly to catch hold of an arm, a lifeline. He found a shoulder. The arms were wrapped around him, he was lifted against a naked rain-drenched chest as Vastarnyi struggled to his feet and carried him down the street towards the car.
The last thing Dexter could remember as he sank into oblivion was the erratic thunder of Vastarnyi’s heartbeat, and a desperate, broken plea to hold on.
* * * * * *
The Emergency Department of General Hospital were used to the somewhat bizarre, but Vastarnyi’s entrance with his burden caused more than a few raised eyebrows. With rapid efficiency, they took Dexter from him, placed him on a gurney, and wheeled him away into a room — he tried to follow, but a doctor forestalled him, steered him to the next room and sat him on the bed. Nurses appeared with towels, trays of instruments, and the doctor checked his pulse.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
“Got jumped in an alley,” Vastarnyi said numbly. “We’re police officers–” reaching for his I.D., then freezing. “It’s in my jacket — my I.D. –” A nurse carefully removed the forgotten .38 and the bowie-knife from the waistband of his Levi’s, placed them on the instrument trolley, beside a kidney dish of sutures. “Where is your jacket?”
“Jonno’s got it. Used it to tie my shirt on him. That’s not my blood.” He looked down at the nurse washing his blood-smeared torso. “It’s Jonno’s,” and started to shake.
“Some of it,” the Doctor agreed crisply, preparing a hypo. “But you’re going to need stitches as well, Officer –?”
“Vastarnyi,” he forced out his name. “Probationary Patrolman. Where’s Jonno? How is he?”
The doctor nodded at a nurse, who left the room, the needle slid into Vas’ arm and he flinched.
“Lie down, son. We’ll patch you up, and you’ll be out of here in an hour or so.”
“What about Jonno?” he insisted. The drug, whatever it was, relaxed the over-tensed muscles, pushed him to one side of the loneliness, the pain and guilt, and he found himself flat on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. The nurse returned, whispered to the doctor, who smiled and nodded.
“Jon Dexter?” he said. “He’s lost a fair amount of blood from that stomach-wound, but there are no internal injuries — it’s not as serious as it first looked, in fact, though it’s bone-deep over the ribs. He’s taken a hell of a wallop on the head — probably was either slammed against the wall or hit with a brick — and he’s suffering from concussion. But the X-rays are clear, and I don’t see why he shouldn’t leave in about 24 hours. Of course, he’ll be off work for a while –”
“Can I see him?”
“No. Not yet. In an hour, you can, before you leave. Now keep still, son, or I may drop a stitch.”
* * * * * *
A nurse brought back his shirt — it had been laundered and dried, and he put it on. But the leather jacket would need more specialist treatment, he was told, as she handed him a plastic-wrapped parcel. He accepted it automatically, not listening to her.
“I’ll see Jonno now,” he said.
“8C,” she informed him. “The house doctor is with him –” But he was already heading down the corridor.
Vastarnyi had been expecting to find a semi-conscious invalid, and though Dexter was flat on his back, face nearly as white as his pillow, he was far from semi-conscious.
“That’s crazy,” he was saying as Vastarnyi entered. “You said yourself I’m okay, so why stay here for another 24 hours?”
“Because, Mr. Dexter, you have got twenty sutures across your belly and an egg-sized lump on your head.” The doctor explained, more or less patiently. “The stomach-muscles are pretty powerful — an unwary movement, and you’d be back in here to have the sutures replaced.”
“Look, I live in a one-story house, with no stairs to climb, and I promise I won’t dig the garden, jump walls or lift weights.”
“No, I’m sorry — ah, Mr. Vastarnyi, will you please convince your partner that he has to stay here for a minimum of 24 hours?” And he left them alone, closing the door behind him.
Slowly, hesitantly, Vastarnyi came forward and stood by the bed, and Dexter, his strength drained by his show of spirit to the doctor, closed his eyes.
“I can’t stay here 24 hours,” he said, almost desperately. “I’ll go out of my skull.”
What he could not say, even to himself, was that death had come so close that every minute spent in the hospital reminded him of his mortality, and if he stayed too long he was afraid he would never find the courage to risk his life again.
“I’ll sign myself out. He can’t do anything about that.”
Vastarnyi was silent, and with an effort Dexter opened his eyes. What he saw on the unguarded face shocked him, jolted his memory back to the alley — not what he had suffered, but to Vastarnyi’s agony. It was still there, with the guilt and the fear, joined now by uncertainty.
“Hey –” he said, concern in his voice. “What –”
Vastarnyi stepped back, away from the gesture he had not made.
“He’s right. You ought to stay over. I’ll let Bernie know. She’ll keep an eye on you when you get out.” Retreating to the door.
“Hey!” An outraged snort, and Dexter tried to elbow himself up, but couldn’t even raise his head from the pillow. “Vastarnyi! Will you quit running, for God’s sake!” Without being clearly aware of what he was saying, speaking on impulse. “At least tell me what happened, and why! Who were those guys? You knew them?”
“Yes,” Vastarnyi muttered, not looking at him.
“Who were they?”
“Same guys who jumped me before.”
“They were? But why? Will you come back here? I’m not shouting the length of the room like a blasted longshoreman!” Unwillingly, Vastarnyi obeyed. “Well, what did they want?”
“Wanted to know if I’d changed my mind about not co-operating with them — turning a blind eye for a price.”
“I guess they got the message this time, huh?” Dexter smiled.
“Yeah — at a price –” he whispered. “But I’m gonna make sure it’s sunk in this time,” he added. He had spoken no louder, but suddenly there was an icy ruthlessness in the almost inaudible whisper.
“Well, leave it for a few weeks, and I’ll tag along. I’d kind of like to express my own disapproval,” he said above an incoherent protest.
“No — don’t be crazy — it’s my job, not yours! It was my fault you got wounded in the first place –”
“No — it wasn’t,” Dexter cut in. “It was mine. I had a gun on them and I didn’t use it. I didn’t carry it through. So don’t blame yourself — my own stupidity got me hurt, nothing else.”
“But–”
“And if I wasn’t moonlighting with you, I’d be moonlighting on my own, and the same thing could have happened, except there wouldn’t have been anyone around to get me to hospital.”
“But–”
“Shut up,” Dexter said weakly, closing his eyes again. “Got the keys to the Dodge?”
“Yes–”
“Good, Pick me up, huh? Soon’s they let me out?”
“Yeah, Sure. Jonno–”
“Time’s nearly up, officer,” the doctor said briskly, entering silently behind him. “Your Captain is here, wanting to see you both.” He checked Dexter’s pulse and frowned slightly. “I can give you a few minutes, Captain Hoffman, but that’s all.”
“That’s all I need,” Hoffman said grimly, and waited until the door closed behind him. Then– “Imagine my surprise, gentleman, when the phone beside my bed rings at some ungodly hour, and dulcet Irish tones inform me that County General have, as a matter of routine, been in touch with the Station House to let them know that neither of our probationers are seriously injured, but that one of them will be off-duty for at least two weeks as a result of an abdominal wound. So maybe one of you better explain to me what’s going on? What happened? Where did it happen? And why?”
He glanced at Dexter’s white, drawn face, and turned to Vastarnyi. He was equally pale, his eyes dark with something Hoffman could not put a name to, but at least he was on his feet.
“Well, Vastarnyi?”
“I got jumped in a back alley off the Strip. Dex bought in to help me out,” he said reluctantly.
“And what were the two of you doing off the Strip?”
“We’d left a bar and were heading back to Dex’s car.”
“Which bar?”
“Che Guevara.”
“What? Good God Almighty! That’s all I need to know! Moonlighting, huh?” He bent a furious, almost contemptuous glare on Vastarnyi. “Okay, Mister. I’m going to lay it on the line for you, I don’t give a damn what you do with your life — you’re no kind of policeman, and never will be, and the sooner you get out of the force, or get yourself wasted, the better I’ll be pleased. But when you involve others in your program of self-destruction, someone who’s got some potential once he’s got rid of his misplaced loyalty, you step over the line. Or do you just want to bring down with you as many people as you can? You’ve damn near killed Dexter — who’s next?”
“That’s unjust,” Dexter protested. “Captain — ”
Vastarnyi, face starkly white shoved past Hoffman and slammed out of the door.
“Damn it! That’s not necessary, and it’s not right!” Dexter yelled, struggling to get up.
As if by magic, the doctor appeared at his side, holding him down, his own face angry.
“Will you wait outside, Captain,” he requested coldly. Then– “Lie back, take it easy. You’ll tear the sutures. Nurse? Bring me that hypo–”
* * * * * *
Vastarnyi found Hung Fat waiting up for him when he got back to the hardware store. Hung took one look at the pale, shuttered face and made coffee, adding a shot of whisky to it. Vastarnyi sat at the table, shoulders bowed, mute, and Hung knew better than to ask what was wrong. He did not need to ask. He had already been told the gist of what had happened.
“Eva brought a parcel for you,” he said gently, putting a small but weighty object in front of him. It was wrapped in wet, muddied newsprint that fell apart as Vastarnyi uncovered it. “She said you’d know about it.” It was a gun. A Colt .38. Dexter’s gun. He came clumsily to his feet, knocking over his chair, and retreated to his tiny room, taking the weapon with him.
In the close darkness, Vastarnyi lay face-down on the narrow bed, every muscle locked to control the shuddering reaction of shock that ambushed him again. This was crazy, he told himself savagely, desperately. He hadn’t felt like this since Alexei — he chopped off that thought. Hell, he didn’t even like the fink — so why, for a while, had that gaping black void opened in his life again when he thought Dexter had bought it? Deep-rooted in blood and bone, he knew the answer. It wasn’t logical, he couldn’t rationalise it, but Dexter was the brother he had never had, as if the twin that had died at birth had been given another form — and he had nearly killed him. For the first time in nine years, David Vastarnyi cried, the painfully silent, hidden tears of his childhood.
Come the morning, still shaken, still unsure, he tried to explain something of what he felt to Hung Fat, to express in words the crippling guilt and the link he was now forced to acknowledge. He couldn’t do it in English — in the peculiar argot compounded of Hungarian and Cantonese, he struggled to explain himself, and Hung Fat listened with all the sympathy and understanding born of long years of knowing him, from infancy to manhood, and with his off-beat oriental philosophy found the right thing to day, the right thing to jolt this man, who was both son and brother, back onto an even keel.
“Let’s see if I’ve got this right,” he said quietly. “You feel Jon Dexter could have been a friend — more. Almost a brother. And yet you nearly got him killed. Right?” And got a mute, wretched nod. “Then tell me this, Davie. Who has more right than a brother to risk his brother’s life? Listen to me. You are both police officers, a choice of career you both made of your own free will. You both took the oath fully aware of the kind of dangers you would be facing, and you knew that risking life — your own and that of your colleagues — is part of the job. This is only the first time. It’ll happen again. It’ll keep on happening. It’s a hard price to pay. But if you turn your back on it because you don’t want to pay the price, then you disgrace not only yourself but the man you have acknowledged to be your friend, your brother, your teammate. You are part of a team, Davie. Stop kicking and accept the inevitable. Now for god’s sake get to work on time, or you’ll be on the carpet. Again.”
* * * * * *
He was not late, but he was very much on the carpet. A Brendan radiating satisfaction marched him into Hoffman’s office, where he was given an official reprimand and put on a week’s suspension. Silently, he handed over his gun and I.D., was dismissed, and was marched out again by the jubilant lieutenant.
From the looks he received, Vastarnyi knew that the story was all over the Station House, and that he was the pariah. That didn’t bother him. They couldn’t accuse him of anything he hadn’t already thrown at himself.
In the locker-room he changed back into street-clothes and headed out, a cold, grim determination on his features that stopped anyone making snide remarks in his hearing. He was going to have a few persuasive and punitive words with Lee Judson and his colleagues, and afterwards Hoffman could have his resignation and stuff it crosswise.
“Vastarnyi.” He stopped and turned, found himself facing Hymie Goldberg.
“How’s Dexter?”
“Last-night they said he’d be in for 24 hours, off-duty for a few weeks, Sir,” he answered, voice dangerously expressionless.
“Tough luck. But that kind of thing goes with the badge, and maybe it’ll do some good.”
“Meaning?” Vastarnyi snapped belligerently. The detective looked him up and down, eyebrows raised.
“Meaning,” he said disparagingly, “I’ve read the reports, yours and Dexter’s, and I guess by now that yellow-headed goy moron has realised that that gun of his isn’t worn to pretty-up the uniform or to impress his lady-friends off-duty. And I don’t recall reading that you used yours, either. You on suspension?”
Red-faced, Vastarnyi nodded. “A week,” he growled.
“That’s hard.” There was something very near sympathy in his voice, and Vastarnyi flinched away from it.
“Suits me,” he said truculently. “I’ve got some business to attend to.”
“Sure you have,” Goldberg said. “Just be careful about it, huh? I don’t want to have to haul you in on a Murder One.”
“You won’t.”
“Good.” He turned to go, then paused. “Uh, Vastarnyi–”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let them faze you into doing something hasty. Your partner won’t thank you if you leave the Force.”
He started automatically to deny the partnership, but broke off, defeated. “No. I guess he wouldn’t,” he muttered.
“Tell him to use that gun next time. S’long.”
Vastarnyi took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went out to the green Dodge. It was all very well Goldberg assuming that they were a team, but he had a sinking, empty feeling in his belly that the detective was behind the times. They had been a team, of sorts, but whether they still were was another matter entirely, and depended on Dexter.
He pulled in at the nearest payphone, got through to the hospital, and after an initial argument with the switchboard, since he was not related to the patient in question, was told that Dexter would not be released for another 36 hours.
Chapter Eighteen
In a stinking alley downtown, Vastarnyi found Eva waiting for him.
“How’s my Jonno?” she whispered, as he crouched beside her.
“Not so bad. He’ll be out of hospital day after tomorrow. Thanks for his gun, Evita. How did you got hold of it?”
“Saw you carry Jonno out of that alley. Oh, Davie, that nearly killed me! I thought he was dead.” She cried and groped for the half-empty bottle of wine.
“So did I,” he whispered.
“Then I went down the alley, to see what I could find about who did it. Found the gun. Knew it was Jonno’s, because there was a knife with Leo Judson’s name in it and he and his boys never carry guns, and no one had fired a shot, so it wasn’t yours, so I took it to Hung Fat, and I’ve put Leroy down in my book.”
“Yeah, well, you can cross him off, mezam, because I’m gonna teach him the error of his ways. Him and his gang of garbage rats. They still hang out in the old places?”
“Yes. Davie –”
“I’ll take care. As soon as he’s fit enough, I’ll tell Jonno to come and see you. Thanks again, Honey.” He gave her a warm hug, and kissed her. “I’ll let you know how I make out.”
He went back to the car, drove to another part of Downtown L.A., and started his hunt.
* * * * * *
Originally he had intended to see how Dexter was during the evening visiting hours, but was not able to make it, being involved in a conversation with a couple of Judson’s gang. By the following evening he had had words with all but Judson himself, who had gone to ground, and he didn’t find him until the early hours of the next morning.
Consequently, it was a limping, somewhat battered Vastarnyi who arrived at the hospital at nine-thirty to collect the patient. He was directed to the room and found a familiar doctor giving Dexter a final check over.
“What the blazes — ” the blond man gasped, staring at the livid bruise that discoloured left cheekbone and eye and immediately jumped to the correct conclusion. “I thought I said to wait until I could tag along!” he groused. “Don’t you think I had a say in it?”
“Yeah, well, it’s all been said — in American as well as Hungarian,” Vastarnyi snapped back. “I’ve brought you some clothes,” holding out an overnight bag. The doctor took it from him, and grabbed his left hand before he could pull it away, removed the bloodstained handkerchief, and inspected the raw, swollen knuckles.
“Huh.” He grunted, manipulating the hand carefully. “Nothing broken, but I’ll have it bandaged properly while your partner’s dressing.”
“Dumbfool Bohunk,” Dexter muttered. “Thinks he’s a one-man-horde, he does. Hey, how come you’re not in uniform?”
“Because I’m suspended. For a week,” he growled. “C’mon, Lemon, move your ass and let’s get out of here.”
“Suspended? What for, for Christ’s sake?”
“Allowing Police Property, namely you, to be damaged,” he snapped. “Hurry it up.”
“Not so fast,” the doctor said crisply. “Mr. Dexter, I’ll want you back in here in seven days time to have those stitches out and if any problems occur before then you come straight back.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“He will, Doc. I’m gonna get a nurse-friend to move in with him.”
“Huh? Who — Bernie?”
“Yup. She’ll help out.”
“Oh no, you’re not!”
“Okay. Dimitri. One or the other.”
“Dimitri,” Dexter repeated, horrified. “Vas, you wouldn’t pull a lousy trick like that. Would you?”
“Bet your ass I would, you cause any fuss. He don’t know you’re hurt yet, either, so –”
“I think I’d rather stay here.”
“No you wouldn’t. Got your pants on. You can’t walk out of here in a mini-dress open down the back.”
* * * * * *
In any event, Dexter did not walk out of the hospital — he was pushed out, in a wheelchair, by a nurse, and was driven sedately to Santa Monica in a very subdued silence on Vastarnyi’s part. For one of the few times in his life he could not think of anything to say, except the one thing he wanted to ask and could not.
Neither was Dexter inclined to be talkative. He was feeling much weaker than he thought he would, and despite Vastarnyi’s careful driving, he was far from comfortable. He was also trying to work out how he could persuade the Hungarian that he didn’t need Bernie O’Hara about the place to look after him. Or Dimitri. Especially Dimitri. He’d sooner have the disruptive vitality of Vastarnyi himself, if he had to have someone in the house for a few days. He shot a glance at the thoughtful, almost despondent profile, noticed a lump on his forehead under the tangle of dark hair.
“What have you done about those guys? Arrested them?”
“Nope,” said Vastarnyi. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and turned smoothly into the drive of Casa Nueva. “Had a little talk with them.”
“Yes?” Remembering the state of the side of his face he couldn’t see.
“Yeah. They kind of got the message this time.”
“Well, I hope you gave them some good ones from me,” he said, a grouch in his voice.
“Made a point of it. Which is the front door key?”
“That one. Vas, if — ”
“Sit tight. I’ll get the doors open and come back for you.”
“Damn it, I can make my own front door without — ” he started querulously, but it was all empty air, and he knew it. Unwary movement hurt like hell. So he sat, arms folded, and glowered through the windscreen until Vastarnyi opened the door.
“Relax your stomach and I’ll swing you round,” he said. “Don’t you try and do it.” Still glowering furiously, Dexter suffered the indignity of being manhandled out of his own car and into his own house. Vastarnyi lowered him onto the couch, stretched him out on the cushions, then looked around for the telephone.
“What’s Bernie’s number?”
“No, Vas.”
“Okay. Guess it’s Honey-chile’s birthday, and you’re in no state to fight him off.” He picked up the phone.
“For God’s sake!”
“Who do I call in then? Your Dad? Momma from Frisco?”
“No! I don’t need a nursemaid!”
“Yes you do. It’s gonna be a while before you can use those stomach muscles safely. You’re gonna need help getting in and out of chairs, beds, baths — ”
“Okay. So you help me.”
“Me?”
“Yes. It’ll give us time to do some talking.”
“Yeah?” Guardedly. “What about?”
“Mendoza, for one. I did some heavy thinking while I was stuck in that place.”
“You want that guy pretty badly.”
“Yes.”
There was silence for a while, Vastarnyi hovering uncertainly in the middle of the room, then: “It’s gonna be a while before you can go for him,” he said, tentatively.
“I know, and I don’t think we can afford to wait until I’m fit. How many more women will be raped and robbed in two weeks?”
“Can’t risk that,” Vastarnyi agreed. “What did your heavy thinking get you, apart from a headache?”
“A theory that might narrow the ground some. Did you get a look at the West Hollywood File?”
“Yeah, but only a quick one.”
“I had more time. Four apartment blocks, and two of them hit twice. Every one of his victims has been single, alone, and white. He’s a regular at the Che Guevara. So what is he trying to do apart from getting his kicks and some cash from a fence? Did you get his description from that girlfriend of his? Why not go visit the caretakers of those blocks, see if they’ve refused rooms to someone like him, and why.”
“Yeah. You could have something there,” Vastarnyi said thoughtfully.
“What else did you get from her?”
“Not much, apart from the Che Guevara. She didn’t know anything about the West Hollywood caper, bar what she’d read, and didn’t know where he’d lived since they’d busted — he’d shacked up with her until then. Fancies himself as quite a stud, she reckons.”
“That figures. Some girl’s wounded his pride, sexual as well as racial. Looks like that bar holds the best chance of picking him up.”
“Yeah. So tell me, smartass, how am I gonna do that and ride herd on you — got it! Old Wong’s visiting relatives in New York you can have his room. There’re no stairs, and Wei’ll have a ball feeding you up. Hung can do all the manhandling, and I can concentrate on Mendoza.”
“No! Dear God, Vastarnyi, you can’t dump a stranger on a full household like that!”
“Crap.”
“Look, I don’t need 24 hour surveillance! All I’ve got is a slash across my stomach, not a partial disembowelment!”
Which was the wrong thing to say. Both their minds flew back to that alley, and both whitened visibly as memories provided unwanted replays. Vastarnyi sat down abruptly.
“Listen — ” he started, painfully hesitant.
“Are you going to start blaming yourself again?”
“I was thinking I’d give Hoffman what he wants,” Vastarnyi said, not looking at him.
“Resign?” Horrified, Dexter stared at him. “You can’t do that!”
He wanted to say more, to tell him it would be conceding victory to the System, throwing away the chances of the team, but didn’t, because he didn’t want that last thrown back scornfully in his face — then saw the miserable uncertainty in Vastarnyi, and knew that against all the odds he had won. But with a weird kind of intuition, he realised that any move to openly state the existence of a team must come from himself, as, in the Vastarnyi’s peculiar code, he was the injured party, the one who had suffered most, and therefore only he could challenge, deny, or affirm.
He pushed his legs over the edge of the couch and sat up. “Well, I guess we could set up as P.I.s,” he said after a pause. “With my social connections and your information net, we’d make a pretty good combination. But personally, I think we should stay on the Force, or else Brendan will think he’s got the better of us. And as for Hoffman, damn him, what he said to you was–”
“You reckon we could make it as a team?” he interrupted, still sounding unsure. Dexter almost flinched. This was so unlike the mercurial, aggressively confident Vastarnyi he had grown used to that it was painful to see.
“Yes. Partner.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Shake on it–” Vastarnyi looked at him, at his outstretched hand, and slowly came over and took it. They shook hands, solemnly, then the Hungarian retreated quickly to the kitchen.
“D’you want coffee?” he called.
“Yeah. I could do with something to eat as well. God knows what time they gave me breakfast, but it was a hell of a while ago.”
“Okay.” Vastarnyi’s dark head appeared in the hatchway. “D’you want a snack or a proper meal?”
“Both. There’ll be something in the freezer.”
A few moments later, he came back with coffee and cookies for them both.
“I’ve put a T.V. dinner in the oven, and your freezer is kinda low on supplies. You gonna trust me with the Dodge to pick up provisions?”
“I guess so.” Dexter sighed. “Do I have a choice?” Then, quietly, “Hey, Vas, they told me at General you were pretty badly cut about?”
“Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “Not so’s you’d notice. Just needed patching and half a dozen stitches here’n’there.”
“Where?”
He pushed up his sleeves to show white-strips of adhesive on his forearms, hauled up his sweater to show two long strips of gauze and adhesive across his chest.
“You’re going to have trouble with those,” Dexter said, and chuckled, “You’re too damned hairy, Vas.”
“And you’re a sadist.” He grinned. “This stuff soaks off okay.” But the blond man’s expression had suddenly changed to one of stark horror.
“My gun!” He gasped. “I dropped it — Vas–”
“Don’t panic–”
“Are you crazy? I lost my gun! If–”
“I’ve got it.” He took it out of his waistband and dropped it in Dexter’s lap. “Eva found it after I’d carted you to hospital, and she brought it to Hung Fat. You’re to go and see her as soon as you’re fit.”
“I’ll do that. You’d better hang on to this until you get your own back.” Holding out the .38 — Vastarnyi shook his head.
“No. If I need one, I’ll get hold of one. There would always be the off-chance it might get into the wrong hands, and if it’s traced back to you, you’d be in the shit.” He finished his coffee, put cookies in his jacket-pocket, then moved the telephone to the coffee-table within easy reach of the couch. “I’ll be a couple of hours — I can get Dimitri, Jives, and a few others working on the Mendoza caper. Don’t you move till I get back.” And departed, the old jaunty swagger to his shoulders.
Dexter stayed where he was for half-an-hour, then carefully made it to the kitchen for the meal in the oven. It was packaged junk-food, he knew, but with it and two more cups of coffee under his belt, he felt considerably improved. Which was just as well, as, shortly after, he received an incoherent phone-call from Dimitri, who had got the brief facts from Hung Fat that Dexter had spent a while in hospital, and that he hadn’t seen Vastarnyi in 48 hours. Dexter reassured him as to their general health, convinced him that the Vastarnyi was not under arrest for mass-murder, and would be contacting him any time now, on another matter entirely.
* * * * * *
A week of convalescence, with the Hungarian in attendance some of the time, passed surprisingly quickly, Dexter discovered, since he had been set up as a kind of control centre, with Jives, Dimitri, Slim, and sundry other mysterious individuals phoning in odd scraps of information and progress reports on Mendoza. The one-off organisation Vastarnyi had built up worked with amazing efficiency — so much so that on the second day after Vas went back on duty, Dexter was able to correlate enough detail to present him with a simple pick-up and tailing job to Mendoza’s next strike. He collared the man just after he had broken into the apartment, before he could do more than frighten his potential victim into hysterics.
Leaving Mendoza crouched in a heap, right wrist cuffed to left ankle, Vastarnyi used the apartment’s phone to call through to the West Hollywood Station House. He was not going to be popular, he knew, but was not about to lose any sleep over it. After all, as he explained to the sour-faced lieutenant of detectives who made acid remarks on smartass probationers, he was one of a two-man team with only a few informers. They had squads of officers and a wide circle of snitches, so what was wrong with their system that they had found but little of what he, Vastarnyi, had uncovered? Which was unanswerable, and did nothing to endear him to the West Hollywood Division.
In the early hours of the morning he detoured briefly to Santa Monica to give Dexter an account of the evening’s activities before returning to his tiny room above the hardware store. Dexter, stitches out now, was healing up with healthy thoroughness, but had to face the prospect of a very dull week with the case closed, Vastarnyi on duty, and himself kicking his heels around an empty house, forbidden to go back to work himself for seven more days and then it would be light duties only for a while.
However, with Mendoza and concern for Dexter off his mind, Vastarnyi was able to pick up the threads of a few other projects he had had in the pipeline before Judson’s intercession, one of which involved a phone-call to a certain lady.
* * * * * *
Margo Finlay was the fashion editor for a woman’s glossy magazine, and lived in Malibu, in an expensive penthouse apartment that gave magnificent views over sea and coast. She was a lovely, willowy blonde in her late twenties, with all the poise and sophistication that wealth, social position, and an independent nature can give. Vastarnyi had met her a few years ago, when hitching his way from Las Vegas across to Los Angeles. She had stopped by him late one afternoon, some four miles out of Vegas, cheerfully informing him that he was welcome to a lift, but if he had rape or robbery in mind, she was a black belt in karate. He had humbly vowed the purity of his intentions, an engaging choir-boy smile on the handsome gypsy features, and had sat bolt-upright in the passenger seat with his hands folded primly in his lap and talked banalities for ten minutes, until Margo had burst into laughter and reached over to box the nearest ear.
“You’re a fraud,” she had told him. He chuckled, slouching down in the seat, stretching his legs comfortably.
“Sometimes,” he admitted, unabashed. “Did you know you’ve got a knock in the engine?”
“No, I didn’t. Where are you heading?”
“L.A. She’s not running as smooth as she should. Use a lot of gas?”
“Well–” she said doubtfully.
“If you’re aiming on pulling into a diner to eat, I’ll check her over for you,” Vastarnyi offered. “Kind of pay my way.”
“You know engines?”
“Cut my teeth on them,” he assured her.
“Okay.” She had taken up the offer casually enough, figuring he couldn’t do irreparable damage to her Mercedes in the half-hour or so she’d be spending in the diner, and some two hours later had duly pulled in for a meal.
Through the cafeteria window she had watched him at work under the hood of the white car, obviously perfectly happy and at home with engines. By the time she had finished her meal, he had closed the hood, wiped away smeared handprints from the paintwork, and disappeared into the men’s room to clean himself up. Margo paid her check, purchased a couple of king-sized hot-dogs and two cans of beer, had them wrapped, and went out to the car. He came towards her, rucksack over his shoulder.
“She should be okay.” He grinned. “The timing was out, and the plugs were kind of dirty. I’ve cleaned her up, tightened up a few things — she’ll run fine now, and be easier on the gas.”
“Thanks, Dave.”
“No sweat. Thanks for the lift. S’long, Margo.”
Head on one side, she studied him. He’d neither made himself offensive nor made a pass at her. His conversation was fascinating, bitingly humorous on a surprising range of subjects, his personality intriguing, not to say magnetic, and he combined a hard-muscled frame with-more-than-average good looks. All in all, she decided, he was an interesting male animal, and she collected such.
“Thought you were going to L.A.?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“I’m heading through to Malibu. Where in L.A. do I drop you off?” And she handed over the packaged food.
That was the start of a beautiful friendship, both of them having the same attitude to life and loving, as long as there were no strings attached. It couldn’t be called an affair, as neither of them felt any commitment to the other, just a deep affection, respect, and mutual attraction, and casually drifted in and out of each other’s lives and beds as the fancy took them.
So David Vastarnyi drifted back into Margo’s bed, and in the dark of the early hours said into her hair: “Hey, honey, I’ve got a problem.”
“You have? Believe me, it doesn’t show.”
“Have, too. Well, I haven’t, but a buddy of mine has, and I need your help.”
“Oh? Okay, I’m listening.”
“Well, he’s not a bad guy — got a few crazy ideas he’ll grow out of soon enough — but somewhere along the line he’s picked up a whole batch of hang-ups, and repressions, and it’s not good for him or his work.”
“He’s police, too?”
“Yeah.”
“By repressions, I take it you mean sexual?”
“Sure. Are there any other kind?”
“And you want me to straighten him out?” In tones of mild outrage.
“Well, I sure as hell can’t!” he chuckled. “Jonno’s already straight. Just needs to loosen up some, that’s all.” Vastarnyi elaborated, grinning to himself. “Or Dimitri would have sorted him out by now.” And Margo snorted indignantly.
“What the blazes do you take me for?” she demanded. “Haul him off to a psychiatrist, for God’s sake!”
“Doesn’t need a shrink, just a good woman. You see, he’s had a marriage go sour on him, and he’s got it into his pointy little head that if he makes love to a girl, he’ll get emotionally involved, and that means getting hurt again.”
“Tell him he’s wrong.”
“He won’t listen to me. Jonno’s one of those poor finks who’ve always got to find things out the hard way, by experience or in this case, the nicest way.” Snuggling closer and kissing her throat. “You don’t cling on to a guy. If you know what I mean.”
“I do, and you have got to be kidding! You expect me to seduce an unsuspecting and frozen-up boy in the hope it’ll get rid of his repressions?”
“Yeah. Got it in one.”
“You’re crazy. I ought to kick you out for even thinking it, let alone suggesting it! What does he look like?”
“Six-two, blond hair, blue eyes, and he’s got every female cop in the East L.A. Station House wetting her panties.”
“Handsome?”
“In spades.”
“So how come he needs me to loosen him up when there are so many ready to leap at the chance?”
“He needs quality, not quantity,” Vastarnyi said, and got a small fist punched into his stomach. “That’s a compliment!” he protested.
“A back-handed one,” she snorted. “Go on, tell me more.” So he gave a brief description of the double-date.
“Y’see, everything was fine until we got back to Janie’s place, and then — well, I guess Jonno decided he couldn’t follow through, and lit out like a scalded cat.”
“Yes, well, it’s an awful shame, but, Davie, he’s a big boy now, and it isn’t really any of your business.”
“Yes, it is,” he said stubbornly. “We work together, sometimes, and his private hang-ups could affect his concentration and reactions enough to cost one or both of us. Besides, I owe him.” Margo caught the defensive tone in his voice and sighed.
“I want to meet him,” she said. “Then I’ll decide whether or not I take him on.”
“You’ve got a deal,” Vastarnyi said happily, and kissed her again, hard on the mouth, and promptly forgot Dexter and his problems.
Chapter Nineteen
Although Dexter was back on duty by the next week, it was another fourteen days before he was passed fit for anything other than light duties, despite the fact that he had been moonlighting; though Vastarnyi had not permitted him to do more than drive from place to place and prop up the occasional bar, a restriction that had caused a few verbal explosions. But once he was back on active duty, Vastarnyi stopped riding herd, and phoned Margo Finlay again.
Consequently, a few nights later, driving back along Wilshire after meeting a contact on the fringes of MacArthur Park, Vastarnyi said suddenly: “I know that car. Pull over, Jonno, I’m gonna look up an old friend.” Dexter pulled over, parking as instructed behind a white Mercedes which Vastarnyi gave a loving pat when he left the Dodge. “She’s a sweet machine,” he told the puzzled Dexter.
“If you say so. But it doesn’t appear to be occupied,” he said.
“Gee, you’re dumb tonight. She’s in there, of course.”
‘In there’ was inside the Francois Villon, one of the more select restaurants along Wilshire, and Dexter trailed in Vastarnyi’s wake as he entered. A waiter appeared from nowhere to bar their way — faded Levi’s and Arran sweater not being welcome in the rarefied atmosphere of the Francois Villon, but a blonde girl turned and smiled, spoke to the man, and beckoned them to her table.
“Dave, you brigand,” she laughed, as he bent down and kissed her mouth. “Gerard won’t hold my table for me if he’s invaded by ruffians.”
“S’okay, Dex is respectable enough for both of us,” he said jauntily. “Margo, this is Jonno Dexter — we work together. Dex, this is Margo Finlay.”
“How do you do,” Dexter said politely, taking her offered hand.
“Just fine,” she chuckled. “Sit down, both of you. You’ll have a drink with me?”
“Sure,” said Vastarnyi, before Dexter could refuse.
“Okay for Dave, I know,” she smiled at Dexter. “What about you?”
“Uh — brandy, thank you–”
“You’re at East Los Angeles with Dave, Jon?” she asked, as the drinks were brought.
“Yes. We got posted there from the Academy.”
“Roomed together,” Vastarnyi cut in cheerfully. “It was a hell of a shock to find we’d been dumped in the same pig-pen — sorry — precinct.”
“I’ll bet.” She fixed Dexter with green-gold eyes that had an almost hypnotic quality and smiled slowly. “I’d heard the odd whisper that you’d joined the police, but no one seemed to know for sure, and your father never spoke of it, so I supposed it was one of those rumours that go around sometimes.”
He flushed, a stubborn jut to his jaw, his mouth thin, hostile line.
“Once in a while, Miss Finlay, rumours are not rumours,” he said, icily polite, and Margo knew she’d made a mistake. But she was not one to back down on errors.
“Yes, thank God. I’m sure you’d have made an excellent architect, but, speaking for myself, I’m rather glad you’re a policeman. Here’s to crime, Jon.” She raised her glass.
“Hey, d’you know Dex’s family?” Vastarnyi demanded, and she shook her head.
“Not exactly. I’ve met Mrs. Reiland a few times in fashion houses and the salons, and Dexter Senior once or twice at tennis afternoons, on the golf course, and in the homes of mutual acquaintances — but I can’t say I know them.” She had known Carol Dexter though, but thought it politic not to mention that. Dave’s brief sketch of the situation had taken on flesh and blood and all kinds of delicate ramifications. Skillfully she instigated a new line of conversation that effectively soothed ruffled hackles, and spent the next forty minutes happily exploring the two minds presented to her. Vastarnyi’s, she already knew, was a marvelously convoluted thing that still had many aspects to be fathomed, and Dexter was a good foil for him, remarkably similar in some ways.
Finally, the hovering waiter managed to catch her eye, and she kicked Vastarnyi under the table. He took the hint, and with easy grace made obeisance, once again kissing her mouth, one eye on the stiff-faced, outraged waiter.
“We gotta go and fight crime in Gotham City,” he grinned. “See you sometime, honey.”
“You’d better. Why don’t you and Jon come round one evening? I’m running out of people who’ll let me practise cordon bleu on them. I’m in most Fridays.”
“Might just do that,” Vastarnyi beamed, and gave her one of his spontaneous bearhugs. “G’night, sweetness.”
“Goodnight, Miss Finlay,” said Dexter.
“Margo,” she corrected, sternly, with a twinkle in her eye, and he smiled.
“Goodnight, Margo,” he repeated dutifully, and followed Vastarnyi’s bouncy stride back to the Dodge. “Who,” he asked, sliding into the driver’s seat, “is Margo Finlay?”
“Fashion editor for ‘Lady Fayre,’ one of them glossy monthlies,” Vastarnyi said, warm affection in his voice. “She’s a great guy. A real lovely lady.”
“Yes,” Dexter agreed appreciatively. “How did you get to know her?”
“Oh, I get around, y’know… I was hitching rides, and she took me into L.A. on her way through to Malibu.”
“Yeah? Where from?”
“Few miles outside Vegas. Hey, you nearly sideswiped that truck!”
“She’s — kind of different from Janie.”
“Who? Oh, yeah, you better believe it.”
“You’ve split with Janie?”
“Not exactly. Just haven’t seen her for a while. How about another double-date?”
“No, thanks.” Dexter’s tone was neutral.
“‘Kay. Hey, Margo isn’t a date. She’s not a girlfriend.”
“No?”
“Uh-uh. She’s — well — she’s Margo.”
Dexter laughed. “And that, of course, tells me everything.”
“Yeah.” Affronted. “Take the next left, willya?”
“Sure, any particular reason?”
“Little Tokyo. They’ve got a late-night delicatessen I gotta call at. Wei asked me to pick up some things on the way home from work, and I forgot.”
“I could do with some more coffee, come to think of it,” Dexter remembered. “I’ve nearly run out at home.”
“You could pick up something interesting for supper,” Vastarnyi suggested. “Ito specialises in Japanese, Chinese, and Korean stuff.”
“Well, Ito can go on specialising; I’ll stick to Basic American.”
“You’ve got no spirit of adventure,” the Hungarian sighed. “D’you know what I found here last month? Squid preserved in apricot and ginger — fantastic.”
“Yeuch!” said Dexter. “I don’t believe it.”
“S’true! Would I lie to you? He does curried frogs legs as well — had them for breakfast–”
“OhmyGod.” He grimaced. “Can’t you make do with cereal or ham and eggs like a normal human being?”
“Sure. But variety is the spice of life.”
The interior of Ito’s Emporium was spacious but packed with food of every description, from the commonplace to the exotic. Dexter found his coffee but was tempted by wafer-thin bitter-chocolate mints imported from Paris. Vastarnyi was collecting various items ranging from dried seaweeds, dehydrated shark’s fin, and assorted spices, to several prosaic jars of fruit preserve, and was digging into his hip-pocket for money, when the store was hit.
There were four men, all in ski-masks, all armed with sawn-off shotguns, and the first man over the threshold sprayed a warning scatter of shot around the ceiling — Dexter’s response was purely automatic. He dropped his small pile of groceries and snatched the .38 from his shoulder-holster.
“Police! Freeze!” he yelled, gun held rock-steady in the two-handed marksman’s grip, trained on the foremost of the shotgun artists from the shelter of a display stand, and all four sawn-off barrels swung his way.
Vastarnyi ducked silently in the opposite direction, and as a hail of lead pellets tore through the stand above Dexter, now flattened on the floor, he fired once, rolled fast into new cover, was splattered with broken glass as the contents of two of the shotguns blasted into the glass-fronted case above him, and fired again.
Then Dexter was giving him covering fire so that he could run for the solid counter, vault it, and from behind its shield prepare to give the blond man similar cover while he sought a safer vantage point. But there was silence — only one of the attackers was left on his feet, and he was standing with both hands high above his head. His three accomplices were sprawled, motionless and bleeding, on the littered floor.
Dexter rose to his feet, and then closed in on the survivor, searched and handcuffed him, while behind the counter the proprietor shakily reached for the phone. Dexter was feeling none too steady himself, but he gathered the fallen weapons into a bundle and laid them neatly on the counter-top, then leaned his weight on his hands and closed his eyes.
Something soft was laid across the back of his left hand, and he straightened, looking down at the tiny, plump Japanese woman and the silk handkerchief she had pressed gently to a deep cut along his hand. She was holding out another, touched her own cheek, then indicated his. Something wet was trickling down his face — he dabbed at it vaguely, flinched, and realised some of the broken glass must have penetrated his cheek. Holding the silk square over the lacerations, he joined Vastarnyi and the proprietor by the phone as the man hung up. One sleeve of the Hungarian’s jacket was torn and bloody.
“Vas. You’re hit.”
“Mostly glass,” said Vastarnyi. “Ito’s called the fuzz — Parker Centre again.” He looked up at Dexter. “Jonno, they’re never gonna believe this.”
“That we weren’t on the hunt? Too true, buddy.”
* * * * * *
Three patrol cars arrived on the scene in very short order, one of them containing a pair of familiar faces.
“Oh, boy,” said Paddy, pushing back his uniform cap and scratching at his thinning hair. “Are they gonna love you two back at Parker.”
“Yeah, well, all we wanted to do was buy groceries,” Vastarnyi explained.
“Oh, sure you were,” the officer grinned. “The other guys can take care of this, I’ll drive you two to General — looks like you need patching up some.”
They spent an uncomfortable half-hour at the hospital having slivers of glass and some lead shot extracted from their anatomies by the same nurses who had dealt with them before. This occasioned some astringent comment from the Night Sister, and two rather subdued probationers were handed back to the waiting patrolman and ferried straight to Parker Centre.
There was the usual business of reports, statements, paperwork, and arranging to be in court the next morning, all carried out in an atmosphere of mutual resentment and dislike, and it was nearing one o’clock by the time they were driven back to Little Tokyo to pick up the Dodge.
Dexter unlocked the car, slid under the wheel, and opened the passenger door. Vastarnyi climbed in, and for a few minutes they sat there unmoving, in total silence, one with a bandaged hand and a rectangle of tape on his left cheekbone, the other with a bandaged arm under a stained and ruined jacket sleeve.
Then Dexter said quietly: “I never killed anyone before.”
“Me neither,” said Vastarnyi. Silence fell again. “Jonno.”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s go tie one on?”
* * * * * *
The T-Bar was still jumping, packed with customers, but they wedged themselves into a corner-seat, and Slim duly arrived to take their order’s.
“Scotch in the jar, okay,” said the fat little Korean. “You guys want to eat?”
“No,” said Vastarnyi. “Just bring that bottle, and leave it.”
“Fast,” said Dexter. Slim glanced from one pair of bleak blue eyes to the other and didn’t stop to argue.
The level in the bottle had fallen considerably before the silence between them was broken again.
“That was kind of hairy,” Vastarnyi said, filling their two glasses again.
“Those shotguns looked like cannons,” Dexter agreed. “Don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life. Except in that alley.”
“Me too. But like he said, it goes with the badge.”
“Who?”
“Goldberg.”
“Oh.”
“He said I’ve gotta tell you to use your gun next time.”
“Well, I did.”
“Yeah.”
“Should have used it then, though. Would have saved an awful lot of sweat.” He shivered, and emptied his glass in one gulp.
“S’water under the bridge,” Vastarnyi said quietly.
“Yes — but until tonight I didn’t know if I could walk into another tight spot again — come to think of it, I still don’t know, because that one just happened.”
“Yeah, sort of snuck up from behind. Don’t know which is worse: that kind or when you know more or less what you’re gonna be facing.”
“And it all goes with the badge.” Dexter’s smile was one-sided and forced.
“Lucky, ain’t we?”
“We’ve been lucky, twice,” he pointed out solemnly. Vastarnyi nodded, filling up their glasses.
“We gotta stay lucky in this job.”
“Yes. That’s one of the things Carol said she wouldn’t take with me being a cop — not knowing when the phone would ring to tell her I’d bought it.”
“Carol?”
“M’wife.”
“Didn’t know you’re married.”
“M’not. Now.”
“Not?” Vastarnyi gazed at him with owlish sympathy.
“Not. Y’see, Carol figured I was making a mistake becoming a cop after being trained to be an architect. M’father had a place all set up for me in the business, and she didn’t want us to miss out on it.”
“So?”
“Gave me an ultimatum. Her or the Force. When I put my name down for the Academy, she walked out. Got a Reno divorce.”
“Tha’s awful tough,” said Vastarnyi. “Hey, Jonno, I’m sorry–”
“Doesn’t matter. S’water under the bridge.” But the pain in his voice said otherwise. “M’a free agent. No ties, S’better that way. No ties, no — no price tickets.” He paused, pushed his empty glass towards the bottle. “Know what I mean? You got family?”
“No. Not close family.” Vastarnyi poured them both another drink with the steady-handed care of the inebriated. “M’mother died when I was real young, ’bout a year or so, ‘n’ m’dad got wasted by a coupla hoods when I’d just turned twelve.” He didn’t see the sudden partial sobering of his drinking partner, the expression in Dexter’s eyes as he continued his absent-minded narrative. “We were going t’the ball-game, an’, a coupla goons took him out with shotguns. They make a hell of a mess.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dexter whispered.
“After the funeral Fat sent me off t’Sacramento: got some kin there. Didn’t want t’go, but–” He broke off and shrugged. “Helped m’uncle Alexei in his store. He was a lot like Dad — big guy, real good-looking — couple of years on, he got blown up with the store. Us Vastarnyis, we don’t pay protection to no one.”
Speechless with shock, Dexter stared at the drawn, somber face.
“You’re right ’bout price-tickets, Jonno, an’ they’re awful hard t’pay.”
There was no arguing with that, and Dexter could only wonder dazedly that some kind of miracle must have happened — to go through all that, and not be soured by the experience — he was scared, Dexter realised, remembering the desperate fight Vastarnyi had put up about the team, and the painful insecurity deep beneath the surface confidence — but not soured. He was cynical, sometimes bleak, but never bitter.
“Yes,” Dexter said solemnly. “I guess you do know about price-tickets.”
The level in the bottle neared the bottom, and Slim started closing up. They were the last customers.
“Hey, c’mon, you guys! Ain’t y’got a home t’go to?”
“Get stuffed, Slim,” Vastarnyi told him.
“Aw, be fair, Dave. It’s two-fifteen. We close at two.”
“You close when you got no more customers. That bottle’s empty.” He peered at it, accusingly. “Haveta have ‘nother.”
Slim hovered around, worry on his round, sweat-shining face, unable to think of a persuasive enough argument to shift them.
“I could call the fuzz,” he threatened at last.
Vastarnyi glared at him, affronted. “We are the fuzz!”
And Slim retreated, momentarily defeated.
“The way I see it,” Dexter addressed the Hungarian with sudden gravity. “If you get involved with people, there’s always a price-ticket, and sooner’r’later, the bill comes in.”
“S’right. S’only one way out. Don’t get involved. That way you don’t get hurt. Never — get — involved.” Punctuating his words with a hard prod in Dexter’s chest.
“S’right,” he agreed, and lifted his glass in salute. “I’ll drink t’that. Vas? You’re not drinking.” Vastarnyi was sprawled across the table, head resting on his folded arms.
“Maybe,” suggested Slim, hopefully, “you better get him home?”
Dexter considered this.
“Yes,” he said. A large mug of strong black coffee appeared in front of him, and he blinked at it, wide-eyed, but drank it automatically. “C’mon, Vas. We’re heading out.”
“Mmm?”
He shook a shoulder.
“C’mon, buddy. We haveta go now.”
“Where?”
Dexter thought about that for a while. “Home,” he said brightly, after some prompting from Slim.
“Oh. Yeah.” Vas sat up, started to rise, then slumped back, an expression of complete amazement on his face. “Jonno. Someone’s heisted my legs!”
Dexter peered under the table.
“No, they’re still there,” he said. “I think you’re maybe kind of drunk, is all.”
“Oh…”
Between them Slim and Dexter hauled Vastarnyi to his feet, and lurched out into the night, making an erratic course for the Dodge. They bundled him into the passenger seat, strapped him in securely, then Slim groaned as Dexter slammed the door shut.
“You can’t drive,” he said. “You’re as stoned as he is!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dexter said coldly. “M’perfectly capable of driving my car.” And stumbled over the kerb on his way round to the other door.
“You can’t!” Slim grabbed wildly at his arm, trying to snatch the keys from him, and was fended off with a vigorous thrust that set him back on his tail.
“Quit that,” Dexter admonished sternly. “Or I’ll book you for obstructing a police officer in the performance of his duty.” Every word was enunciated with careful clarity and he climbed into the car. Slim muttered something that might have been a prayer, and dived into the bar as the Dodge pulled away, unable to watch its progress up the street.
He needn’t have worried. Being as drunk as he was, Dexter drove with meticulous, almost exaggerated care, causing no curiosity in the minds of the few police patrols they passed, and parked beside the delivery van and the motorcycle outside the hardware store.
“Where’s your door key?” he demanded, and Vastarnyi groped in the general direction of his hip-pocket, Dexter sighed, tipped him over, and removed the keys himself, then climbed out, opened Vastarnyi’s door, and unfastened the seatbelt.
“M’legless,” the Hungarian told him dolefully. “C’n see them, but they won’t do anything–”
In one smooth movement that couldn’t have been managed if they had both been sober, Dexter lifted him out of his seat and over his shoulder, and carted his limp, seemingly boneless burden across the sidewalk. He got the door open with only a little difficulty, groped for the light-switches, and homed in on the stairs to the upper floors. But once on the landing, he wavered uncertainly. Vastarnyi’s dead-weight was heavy, awkward, and though the landing light was on, all the doors looked the same. He couldn’t even remember which was the kitchen.
“Vas?” he whispered. “Which the hell is your room?”
“Dunno. S’all upside-down,” came the muffled snicker behind him, and Dexter carefully lowered him to the floor, where Vastarnyi gazed owlishly around him. “Can’t see it. Ain’t here. Gee, you’re awful drunk, Jonno. You’ve got the wrong place.”
“Haven’t,” he said indignantly.
“Well, that ain’t my door, and that ain’t my door, and that ain’t — Oh. Tha’s my door.”
“Huh?”
“This one. M’leaning on it. S’why I couldn’t see it,” he explained gravely.
“No, Vas. That’s the broom-closet or something. A cupboard under the stairs.”
“Yeah. S’my closet — uh — room.”
“No it isn’t, Vas.”
“T’is, too. Tha’s my own room.”
“But it can’t be. People don’t live in cupboards.”
“I do.”
Exasperated, Dexter heaved him away from the door and attempted to open it. After a few tries he realised it opened outwards, swung it wide, and in the wedge of light from the landing saw directly in front of him a tall stack of packing cases used as an open-fronted shelf-unit, a pillow on a narrow truckle-bed, also apparently on a series of wooden packing cases, and the ascending line of stair-treads. He found a light-switch and clicked it on, staring horrified at the cramped space.
“Tha’s my own room,” Vastarnyi repeated proudly.
“Tha’s instant claushtaphobria,” Dexter said, voice stern.
“Tha’s a helluva big word.” It was a drowsy mutter, and the Hungarian subsided full-length to the floor. “‘Night, Jonno…”
“‘Night, Vas.” Somehow he got the limp body into the tiny room and slid it down the bed without braining himself or Vastarnyi on the eccentric ceiling. Then he let himself out and drove sedately to Santa Monica.
In his own bedroom, Dexter stood, swaying, in the middle of the floor and gazed about him at the blue-and-white spaciousness.
“People don’t live in cupboards,” he said aloud, in aggrieved tones. “But my buddy lives in a cupboard.” He considered that for a while. “He can’t do that — I’ll have’t’get him out’v’th’cupboard — ” Then the process of thought became too much for him, and he collapsed across the bed in a loose, long-limbed, comfortable sprawl.
* * * * * *
Both Vastarnyi and Dexter were used, by now, to the long-drawn-out court proceedings, but someone must have taken pity on their wan and fragile appearance, because it only took three and a quarter hours instead of the more normal four or five. They walked into the wide expanse of the lobby, the words of praise from the judge still echoing in their ears. But it had given them no real ego-boost, still uncomfortably aware that three men had died. It made no difference that it had been a case of kill or be killed — besides, both were suffering from monumental hangovers.
“Guess we better phone East L.A., tell ’em we’re on our way back,” Vastarnyi said without enthusiasm.
“I suppose so,” Dexter agreed, and looked around vaguely for the pay-phones.
“Got any change? I’m right out.”
“You usually are!” he snorted. “You must owe me about — ”
“Excuse me,” said a voice. “Officers Dexter and Vastarnyi?” A trim brunette in the dark-blue uniform of a police-woman was looking at them inquiringly.
Vastarnyi perked up. “That’s us, but if you’re aiming on making a collar, we always fight dirty,” he said hopefully. “But we give in real easy in the end.”
“Captain Jonas would like to see you.” She nearly succeeded in smothering her smile. “Will you come this way?”
The two men glanced at each other, suddenly wary. In their dealings with the Homicide Squad of the Metropolitan Division, they had not met up with its Captain before, only the lieutenant, a dour, harassed individual named Parr, and had not been impressed. An interview with Homicide’s Captain was unwelcome, neither being in the mood to receive another bawling-out for their extra-curricular activities.
“Okay,” Vastarnyi said, his voice near a snarl, and jaw jutting belligerently. “Let’s go see the guy.” Startled the policewoman made no comment, but led the way to a small interview room.
“Captain Jonas, Homicide,” he introduced himself. He was a big man, lean and rangy, with grey-streaked dark hair, and a way of moving that suggested an athlete. “You’re the rookies who took out that 2-11 in Little Tokyo?”
“Yes, sir,” Dexter spoke for both of them, knowing that Vastarnyi’s volatile temper was on a hair-trigger. “It was just luck — we happened to be there at the time.”
“So I gather. But there have been other incidents that weren’t so — spontaneous?”
“So what?” Vastarnyi snapped, and gave an audible “Ooof!” as Dexter’s elbow drove hard into his ribs. Jonas ignored the byplay and picked up a file. OhmyGod, thought Dexter. Here it comes. The captain glanced briefly at them, then began to read aloud.
“A narcotics dealer and associates — Cesare Donato, hitman — Mendoza, rape and burglary — A.D.W.s — Armed Robberies — more dealers — receivers — muggers — How long have you two been on the Force? Six months?”
“Not quite, sir.”
“Don’t split hairs. Six in a matter of days. And in those six months you’ve chalked up quite a few collars between you — near every damned one off-duty. Now either you’re both exceptionally trouble-prone, or you’ve been hunting for it. Which?”
“What d’you th- oof!” Dexter had used the elbow again.
“Sir, I don’t see — ” he started.
“Okay, Captain,” Vastarnyi cut in. “So we’ve been moonlighting. There’s nothing in the rule-book says we can’t. Unless it comes under CUBO, and if we’re gonna be stuck with CUBO for making arrests, then there’s something awful cock-eyed about the police-force!”
“You’re Vastarnyi?” Incredibly there was the beginnings of a smile on Jonas’ face. “It figures. I just spoke to Lieutenant Brendan on the phone. He says you’re a homicidal maniac hiding behind a badge.”
Vastarnyi’s jaw dropped, and before he could explode into speech, the Captain had turned to Dexter.
“He hasn’t a high opinion of you, either, but it does seem as if he has a special place in his heart for your partner. In fact, I get the impression he’d like nothing more than to drop you both in the shit, so I’m taking what he says as a personal view only rather than an official report, and I’m reserving my judgement. What I want to hear from you is, has his opinion any basis in fact? Vastarnyi?”
Vastarnyi looked at him, aggressively belligerent, but a slow blush spread from uniform collar to hairline.
“Some of it, I guess,” he muttered finally, reluctantly. Jonas gave a fractional nod of approval.
“You’re not claiming it’s petty victimization, then.”
“No, sir — but I didn’t join the force to polish a chair with my backside or write out traffic offences in triplicate! And if the only way I’ve got to work out on the streets is kinda unorthodox — ”
“Unorthodox!” Jonas interrupted. “That’s what you call it, huh? Well, in your case it seems to work — you’re still in one piece.” He glanced at the gauze pad taped to Dexter’s cheekbone. “A souvenir from last night?”
“Broken glass, sir,” he answered. “And last night was completely accidental — we had to do some late shopping, and they just walked in on the place.”
“I’ve read the reports,” Jonas said shortly. “Two of those men you shot and killed instantly. The third died on his way to hospital. How do you feel about that? Feels good, huh?” Stunned into silence, they both stared at him. “Well? Does it, Vastarnyi?”
Dexter cleared his throat. “Sir — ”
“Be quiet, Dexter. Vastarnyi, I’m waiting for an answer.”
“No,” he said, voice low, almost inaudible. “No, it doesn’t feel good.”
“Describe it, then,” Jonas shot back, pressing home an advantage, and the younger man, frustration and defeat in his eyes, could only say: “It hurts, Sir.”
There was a long pause. Jonas sat back in his chair. “Yes,” he said finally. “It hurts. It twists your guts. You’d better make sure it always does.”
Another long silence stretched the nerves of the two patrolmen, until Dexter could stand it no longer and cleared his throat again.
“Sir?” he said tentatively, attempting to keep his nose above water in an interview that was way over his head. “Can I ask you why you wanted to see us?”
“You can ask, Dexter, and if you’re lucky, I might tell you part of why… One reason is I wanted to see the Bad Boys of East L.A., the pair who have got up the backs of my own squad and Narcotics, and so far up the nostrils of their own lieutenant that his sinuses are permanently impaired. But above all I wanted to see the team that took out Donato, and those four hoods last night.”
“Who says we’re a team?” Vastarnyi bristled, and Dexter stared at him in amazement.
“This record does, and the fact that you’re still alive.” Jonas hit straight back. “What the hell do you think teamwork is all about? Or haven’t you thought about it at all?” They were an unlikely pair for a partnership, he admitted to himself; not so much in temperament, as one of Vastarnyi’s brash impulsiveness was often best teamed with a quieter, more cautious-type like Dexter. It was the relative backgrounds that clashed. They seemed to have absolutely nothing in common, no hook to hang a friendship on, yet the friendship was clearly evident in the shoulder-to-shoulder defence against the threat of autocratic authority he represented. A fascinating puzzle.
“What’s to think about?” Vastarnyi flared. “He’s got the wheels, I got the contacts. We work okay together.”
“Working okay together is only a small part of it,” Jonas smiled. “What makes a good team, Dexter?”
Dexter gazed at him, bemused, and did not answer, and the captain chuckled, leaning lazily back in his chair. “Okay, I’ll tell you. A partner isn’t just a guy to keep you company, swap Playboy back numbers with on stake-outs, or someone you can trust to watch your back in a tight corner. A partner is an extension of your hands and brain — as you are an extension of him and you know precisely how he thinks and acts in any given situation… It’s kind of like a marriage, except that it’s deeper, because two lives depend on it.” He was silent for a while, a slight, thoughtful smile on his mouth. “I don’t know what it is that makes a good team,” he went on quietly. “But I was half of a good team once, and maybe it takes one to know one. You want some advice?”
“Sir?” Dexter jumped nervously at the suddenly barked sentence — Vastarnyi was still stunned mute.
“You don’t have to take it. Listen, go on doing what you’ve been doing. Be unorthodox. But hang loose. Stay cool. Don’t let the Brendans of the Force drive you out, and don’t do or say anything that will give them a legitimate excuse for giving you the boot out. Above all, stay alive. We need good men in Homicide — the survival rate is kinda low — a ready-made team would be a godsend, especially one with your crazy brand of luck. When the time comes, maybe — just maybe — I can pull a few strings, but this has to be off the record, completely unofficial. But if I’d had a hook when I was in your position — someone who wasn’t as hidebound as an elephant’s ass, maybe I wouldn’t have made the mistakes I did.”
Eyes bulging, Dexter gaped at him.
“You’re saying — ”
“Nothing, Dexter. I’m going to be watching you two, though, and I’m interested. Let’s leave it at that. You can go now.”
Chapter Twenty
“Vas.”
“Yeah?”
“Did I dream Captain Jonas?”
“If you did, buddy, so did I.” Almost reverently.
“Did he mean what I think he meant, or am I fooling myself?”
“That we’ve made our mark. That we’ve got an in. Yeah, I reckon that’s what he meant. Unofficially, of course.”
“Well, we’re still rookies. We might bomb out. He could get left with egg on his face.”
“Yeah. Guess he’s got to keep his options open. D’you know what? l got the impression he’d have liked to put us under a microscope for a couple of hours, to see what made us tick?”
“Yes,” Dexter agreed. Thinking back on that interview, most of the questions and statements fired at them seemed designed to trigger reactions out of them and keep them permanently off-balance. “He reminded me of Lorenz. Remember him?”
“Will I ever forget him?” Vastarnyi grinned.
They were finishing a meal in the T-bar, watching a frenetic Slim cope with the early evening rush for food. Behind the bar a pretty black girl served drinks with calm unflustered speed, a new and welcome addition to the décor that Vastarnyi had been eyeing with interest since they had entered nearly an hour ago. But at the moment, he gazed into space, a wide grin on his face, contemplating Captain Jonas and the possibilities he had hinted might be ahead.
Neither of them could quite believe they had heard right — had walked out of the interview mentally reeling — then Vastarnyi had shattered the solemnity of City Hall with a wild, full-throated Indian war-whoop, choked off by Dexter’s hand, so he gave him a rib-cracking bear-hug instead, but not before half the staff within earshot had got the impression that the Noble Red Man had moved in. The other half had seen the two young officers in uniform performing an impromptu wrestling match before staggering, breathless with laughter, down the wide corridors on their way out.
Back in East L.A., on duty with Brendan looming over them, their euphoria had not been dimmed, and if the Irishman had been hoping that Captain Jonas’ enquiries about Officers Vastarnyi and Dexter meant official reprimands, he was speedily disillusioned.
“Hey,” said Vastarnyi suddenly, eyes alight with inspiration. “We ought to celebrate Jonas.”
“Uh-uh. Not after last night. I’m going to sign the pledge.”
“Don’t have to get stoned to celebrate,” he objected. “We could go for a real spectacular collar.”
“Such as?”
“Uh — Billy Graham on a 3-11?”
“Be serious,” Dexter smiled.
“Hell. I can’t think in here, why don’t we head out to a Park? MacArthur?”
“Sure, why not? It’s a beautiful evening. Hey, Slim, how much do we owe you?”
Slim dived across, slapped the check in front of them, and shot off again.
“You’d think he’d burn off all those surplus calories, wouldn’t you?” Vastarnyi grinned.
“He’s an endomorph,” Dexter said wisely. “Or do I mean ectomorph?”
“Sounds more like an indictable offence. C’mon, Lemon, let’s go.”
* * * * * *
It was, as Dexter had said, a beautiful evening, with the slanting rays of the sun gilding highlights and long shadows under a clear sky. MacArthur Park had its full complement of mothers with children, people walking dogs, hookers, hustlers, dip-artists — kids on roller skates, kids playing football, baseball, volleyball, tag, cops’n’robbers, and queueing up at ice-cream and hot-dog stands.
“Life’s rich pattern — ” Vastarnyi was sprawled on a bench, legs stretched out in front of him, head back. “You realise I only got about three hours sleep last night?”
Dexter, in an identical position at his side, didn’t open his eyes.
“Alexander the Great said that sleep and sex reminded him of his mortality,” he said, drowsily.
“Yeah? Guess the poor devil lost out both ways, then — too much sex and you sleep a lot, afterwards. But he wasn’t a cop, or maybe he’d have had a few more things to remind him.”
“No, he wasn’t a cop. Maybe being the conqueror of the known world was an easier job.”
“Bet your ass on that. Did you see that movie? Richard Burton in a mini-skirt? He was a lot younger then.”
“He’d have to be,” Dexter agreed, thinking about it. “I did see a TV movie about Alexander. Had that Star Trek guy in it. Captain Kirk.”
“William Shatner,” Vastarnyi supplied. “Yeah. I liked the battle scenes.”
“You would. Alexander was quite a guy,” he added, an almost reverent awe in his voice. “Look at what he did virtually single-handed — ”
“Oh, sure,” Vastarnyi began to chuckle. “He was a boss-warrior, okay, but he’d sure have had the Public Morals Committee screaming their heads off.”
“Huh? How come? He was a brilliant strategist, and — ”
“Oh, sure,” the Hungarian said again. “But when he was saying his piece about sleep’n’sex, it wasn’t his three wives he was thinking of. I guess, viragam, you’ve conveniently forgotten about Hephaestion and Bagoas.”
“Huh,” muttered Dexter, scarlet of face. “Smart-alec immigrant.”
Vastarnyi laughed, leaned across and gave him one of his swift bearhugs, then bounced to his feet as Dexter fended him off, exasperated and embarrassed.
“Okay, All-American-College-Hero,” he chuckled. “Let’s go, huh?”
“Go?” Dexter squinted up at him. “Go?”
“Listen, Alexander the Great didn’t conquer the world sitting on his ass on a park bench, did he?”
“No, of course not, but — ”
“We’ve got the whole of the evening before us. Why don’t we get even further-up Brendan’s nose?”
“In MacArthur Park, for God’s sake? Who’re you going to collar, you nut? Litter louts? Kids who walk on the grass? The ducks?”
“Well, I could book you for Indecent Exposure, for starters. Your fly’s undone.”
It wasn’t, but the expression of total panic on Dexter’s face was exactly what Vastarnyi was aiming for, and it did get the blond man to his feet. Explosively so, and Vastarnyi backed off, admonishing him with a quote about the “courteous dignified, and impartial behaviour of a police-officer, both on and off duty -” Dexter pounced on him, grabbed a double fistful of denim jacket, and with the advantage of height and weight, lifted him clear of the ground, to glare at him virtually nose to nose.
“I’ll get you for that,” he promised wrathfully. “I’ll make you wish you’d never been born, Bohunk!”
Vastarnyi did not struggle, just hung from Dexter’s grasp like a large rag doll. He widened his eyes, fluttered his lashes, and in accents of breathless admiration that Dimitri would have been proud of, said: “Aw, gee, Alex-baby — ”
“One of these days,” Dexter yelled, dropping him fast. “I swear to God I’ll paste you to the wall!”
“Promises, promises,” he grinned, irrepressible. “You reckon we can’t find a good collar at — uh — seven o’clock on a fantastic evening in MacArthur Park. Right?”
Right.”
“Five bucks?”
“Okay — with a time limit — until eight. And nothing petty, Vas. It has to be a heavy one.”
* * * * * *
Privately, Dexter thought his money was pretty safe, and the casual prowl-pattern of the first half-hour confirmed that. He was glad he’d made the point about petty infringements, though, as there were enough of those.
“Dex?”
“Give up?”
“Like hell. I was just wondering if soliciting counted.”
“No,” said Dexter firmly. “I said heavy.”
“Pity. There’s a little sweetheart over there really giving me the come-on. D’you reckon Brendan will ever relent enough to give us a real break and put us on the pussy-posse?”
“Vastarnyi, when you’re not thinking of food, you’re thinking of sex. Remember Alexander the Great.”
“You remember him, you’re the one with his heart on his eyelashes. Listen, whether or not it counts, I’m gonna talk to that kitten.”
Dexter glanced at the girl — kitten was a good tag. Certainly she looked very young, with wide eyes and a turned-up nose, a mane of sun-streaked brown hair, wearing very short shorts and a well-filled halter-top. Dexter sighed, found a seat, and got engrossed in a magazine he had picked up, with the occasional glance at Vastarnyi. No doubt about it, the way that girl was playing up to him, she had to be a hooker, and not a day over fifteen, he guessed angrily. Well, she obviously thought she’d hooked a sucker. She linked her arm through Vastarnyi’s, and they started to walk away.
Dexter glared after them. Had the Bohunk picked her up, or was he aiming on making a collar? He swore, realising he’d have to go along. Oh well, good practise for tailing a suspect, and if the Vastarnyi had things in mind other than police work, he’d just have to disappear discreetly.
With the cooling evening, the park was becoming less populated. The girl was leading the way towards one of the exits — maybe, Dexter thought brightly, Vas was aiming on being taken to a drugs-dealer; then saw the girl was making a short-cut through a patch of shrubbery. Dexter, several hundred yards behind, lost sight of them and quickened his pace. Then came a strangled yell, something large and heavy crashed among the bushes — Dexter did the remaining hundred yards in ten seconds flat, and burst in on the scene to find a man on the ground, two others with their hands above their heads, and an outraged Vastarnyi standing with his .38 trained on them. The girl was nowhere in sight.
“They jumped me! Tried to rip me off!” he snorted as Dexter joined the tableau. “The kitten was a decoy!”
“You’re okay?” Dexter assisted in frisking the captives, and the man on the ground was hauled to his feet. Blood was dripping from a wound in his hand, and he was plainly not sure what had hit him.
“Okay?” Vastarnyi repeated indignantly. “I was mugged, goddammit!”
“He bit me,” the bleeding one announced. “That’s criminal assault! Police brutality — ”
“I hope you get rabies,” Dexter told him severely, and the Hungarian did a double-take.
“Rabies?” he yelled.
“Yeah. And shut up, Rin-Tin-Tin, or I’ll take you back to the Dog Pound.”
“Rin-Tin-Tin?”
“Well, you’re not pretty enough for Lassie.” Dexter gave him a bland, innocent smile. Vastarnyi growled menacingly.
“You owe me five bucks!”
“Yeah. I’ll use it to buy you a muzzle.”
* * * * * *
It took Vastarnyi several days to live down the Rin-Tin-Tin nickname, since chasing kittens and biting people were classed as canine pursuits in everyone’s book, and Dexter, who had started the whole thing, thoroughly enjoyed himself. Their attitude to their work had undergone a subtle change, too, now they knew someone cared, someone was taking an interest. The results were less confrontations with superiors, better cooperation, and an easier atmosphere all round. The One-Man-Horde seemed to have been tamed, though only Dexter knew why. God bless Captain Jonas, he thought.
Hoffman was pleased when they pulled in a cat-burglar one night on patrol, though inevitably it resurrected the Rin-Tin-Tin joke for a while, and Dexter found a new angle of it to exploit. Following a stint of night-duty, culminating in the arrest of the cat-burglar, Vastarnyi turned up for his trick in R.& I., looking somewhat heavy-eyed. He’d met up with Janie again, and staged a grand reunion, he confided to Dexter. Apparently he had come straight from her bed to the Station House, and whatever he’d been doing that night, it hadn’t involved sleeping. Dexter force-fed him black coffee and prayed that Brendan wouldn’t be too much in evidence that day.
All the thanks he got was a series of monosyllables, grunts, and growls. So come lunchtime he presented Vastarnyi with a pack of biscuits. Dog-biscuits. Bone-shaped. Placed gently in front of him. He had expected some kind of reaction, but not what he got. Eyes nearly closed, Vastamyi groped for one, mumbled a thanks, and started to chew. He was almost through the first when the stunned silence got through to him, and he looked at what he was eating. The movement of his jaws slowed, stopped. Then, spasmodically, started up again.
“Thanks, Dexter,” he said. And finishing that dog-biscuit, he began another, crunching it with strong teeth. Worse, he secreted the remainder about his Pockets for future reference.
They were still in evidence the following day, though much diminished in number, and the last one was consumed loudly and with obvious relish during their afternoon coffee-break.
“You’re impossible,” Dexter sighed. “Maybe it’s a symptom.”
“Huh?” Vastarnyi gazed blankly at him.
“Yeah,” he said soberly. “Like of hardpad. Or maybe distemper.”
“Can’t be. Had my shots last month,” Vas countered immediately. “Hey, Jonno, want to try some moonlighting tonight?”
“Sure, why not? What did you have in mind?”
“Nothing definite. Just a patrol-pattern. But I was wondering if it’d be worthwhile giving Downtown a miss for once and seeing what we can turn up on the classier streets.”
“Suits me. Pick you up at nine?”
“Sure.” Vastarnyi grinned cheerfully, and disappeared to make some phone-calls, he said, but it was in fact only one, and that to the offices of a glossy magazine.
* * * * * *
“Jo Isten!” Vastarnyi yelped, swivelling in the passenger seat, and staring back over his shoulder. “Lehetetlen!”
“Pardon?” said Dexter. Those occasional lapses into Hungarian took a lot of getting used to. He glanced in the rear-view mirror but could see nothing to justify the accents of amazement.
“Turn around, head back down the block!”
“Are you crazy? In this traffic?” He found a parking slot and whipped the Dodge into it under the nose of a Buick. “You want to go back down the block, you walk it.”
“C’mon, then.” Vastarnyi bounced out of the car, and waited impatiently for Dexter to join him.
“What’s the sweat? Who have you spotted?”
“Not who. What. That.”
It was a large notice, stuck to the window of a closed-up restaurant, announcing in vivid lettering: “Opening shortly. Villa Mancini, Italian cuisine at its best. Prop. — Giovanni Mancini.”
“So?” Then, remembering that Vastarnyi was half-Italian, and a Mancini at that — “Your mother’s family?”
“Could be. They’ve got restaurants all over San Diego, and I do have a cousin Gino. What’re they moving in on L.A. for?” He frowned, peering in through the smeared glass into the dark interior. It was empty, deserted, and the light from signs and streetlamps showed that redecorating work was being carried out.
“You’ll have to come back in the daytime to check it out,” Dexter said.
“Yeah.” Vastarnyi sounded thoughtful, and the blond man glanced at him suspiciously.
“What are you planning?”
“Who, me? Nothing.” He gave a wide, disarming smile. “C’mon, Citrom Sajt, let’s split.”
“What did you call me?” But for once he did not need a translation. Citrom was near enough citron to be lemon, and it took little imagination to guess that sajt was cheese. “I’m going to put one on you, one of these days,” he threatened.
Vastarnyi laughed and gave him a bearhug. “Sure you are, Jonno Three, but I thought you didn’t like hospital?”
“Will you quit that?”
“Hey, I’m starving. Let’s go somewhere and eat?”
“Okay, but no junk-food,” Dexter agreed cautiously.
“It’s kinda far to the T-Bar — don’t think I can hold out that long. Pity Gino ain’t open — oh, no junk food, you said. So that leaves — uh — the Golden Pagoda Take-Away, down the block, or Frankie Villon over on Wilshire.”
“Make it the Francois Villon,” said Dexter quickly.
“Uh-uh.” Vastarnyi shook his head. “We’re gonna be democratic about this, mon brave. We’ll flip a coin — heads or tails? Damn it! Okay, gendarme, allez-vite, Before I become a skeleton.”
Grinning with triumph, Dexter led the way back to the car. It wasn’t often he won a coin-toss when it was the Hungarian doing the tossing, but it did not occur to him that he had not seen which face of the coin had come up.
He led the way into the restaurant as well, mildly thankful that Vastarnyi was looking reasonably presentable in a silk-knit roll-neck sweater, nearly new safari-jacket, and slacks. He passed muster, just, and a waiter came forward to conduct them to a vacant table. They studied the menu, made their choice of food and wine, and before Vastarnyi could give an impromptu translation of the extensive menu, Dexter brought out a wad of folded sheets from his pocket.
“What’s that?” the Hungarian demanded.
“A few new APBs that came into R & I today,” he said, somewhat smugly. “Took off some Xeroxed copies, figured you might be interested.” And handed over half the bundle.
* * * * * *
Philip Dexter II had been bitterly disappointed and angry at his son’s choice of career, and being both proud and stubborn, as far as Jon was concerned, it was not going to be him who made the first move towards some kind of reconciliation. But that did not stop him keeping tabs on his progress. Philip Dexter knew a lot of influential people and was able to obtain copies of the Academy reports on his son, which underlined his ability and potential. Another check a short while ago into his probationary service confirmed the Academy’s prediction, but a further check a few months later painted a suddenly different picture. Probationary Patrolman Jonathan Dexter had come under the influence of a disruptive element and was jeopardising a promising career. He was becoming uncooperative, disrespectful, and was taking part in activities frowned upon by his superiors, in direct defiance of frequent warnings.
To say that Philip Dexter was furious would state only part of it, but he curbed his immediate impulse to reach for the phone and speak his mind to his only son. Instead, he contacted a firm of private detectives known for their discretion and diplomatic skill in handling jobs for wealthy clients. His instructions were simple. He wanted a report on Jonathan Dexter, his movements, activities, and contacts. And a precise identification and report on the ‘disruptive influence.’
It took a while for the agency to complete the reports, and they made surprising reading for Dexter Senior. The one on his son underlined what he had already been told and filled in details of the off-duty arrests. But the neatly typed sheets on one David Andras Vastarnyi made his blood boil. Once again Jonathan was throwing away a career — this time following in the wake of a second-generation immigrant out for kicks, who had no business being on the force in the first place. There were photographs with the reports, taken out on the street — some of his son, immaculate in uniform, and somewhat thinner in the face, he noticed; the others were of a dark-haired, aggressive featured young man whose main expression seemed to be a sullen scowl and only one shot showed another side. But laughing or frowning, it was the face of a trouble-maker, and Dexter Senior took an instant dislike to it. There was, however, nothing he would do about it. Jonathan had chosen his path — he could walk it every step of the way.
The grim resolve of no contact lasted until Dexter Senior walked into the Francois Villon one evening and saw his son at a table. He would have turned and walked out before he was seen had he not noticed that the thinning of features shown in the photographs was now a drawn, almost pinched look, with shadows around the eyes. Then the young man must have felt the intent stare, because he glanced up, and their gazes locked. Dexter Senior watched Jonathan’s face become cold, reserved, the mouth thinning to a stubborn line, not knowing it was a mirror image of his own expression. Automatically, Jon Dexter rose to his feet.
“Good evening, sir,” he said, voice all but toneless.
“Jonathan,” Dexter Senior acknowledged. The table was spread with Police Bulletins among the condiments and wine-glasses, and his eyes became bleak. Then he became aware that he was being studied in his turn, with impersonal thoroughness, and he turned his head to wither the presumption with a glance. But the face was familiar, had become so over the last seven days of studying reports and photographs, and he did not need his son’s cool introduction of “Sir, this is David Vastarnyi. We work together. Vas, this is my father.”
Vastarnyi lounged back in his chair, hands shoved in his pockets, a white, insolent grin on the gypsy features.
“Hi, Dexter,” he drawled, unimpressed by the icy hauteur of the older man.
“We’ve finished our meal. Will you join us for a drink, sir?” The offer was made with stiff politeness, and accepted with the same rigid formality. A waiter appeared at his signal, left the bottle of brandy on the table. Jon Dexter poured a glass for his father and himself — Vastarnyi refused, still smiling, his hand over the top of his empty glass. That stung Dexter Senior, though he could not work out why. He flicked the scattered bulletins with a fingernail.
“Putting in some overtime, Jonathan?” he asked acidly.
“Not exactly, sir.”
“S’right,” cut in the Disruptive Influence. “Cops don’t work nine-to-five, Dexter. It’s a 24 hour-a-day job. We don’t work overtime on 24 hours. Often.”
“You obviously have great enthusiasm for your job.” But the vitriol had no effect — he received an almost loving smile.
“Bet your ass we have, mister,” he beamed. “Jonno’s getting awful good at clues and things. Lost any ballpoints lately? Cufflinks? We’re gonna graduate to paperclips and tiepins any time now.”
“And traffic-tickets,” Jon Dexter added. A dull flush of colour stained Dexter Senior’s cheekbones.
“I would have thought you would have found better things to do with your time,” he said with quiet scorn. He had spoken to his son, but it was Vastarnyi who answered.
“Hey, c’mon, Dexter. Someone’s gotta do the job, or the world’ll be snowed under with lost ballpoints and cufflinks. And if no one gave out traffic-tickets, civilization would founder. Or do I mean flounder?” he asked himself. “No, that’s a fish…”
“Traffic-tickets may be your aim in life, Mr. –? But some people are capable of a wider scope.”
“Vastarnyi,” he purred, giving the name a sibilant lilt. “Our ultimate goal is litter louts.”
With difficulty Dexter Senior ignored him. “Jonathan. We have some things to talk out. Come to my office tomorrow afternoon and — ”
“I’m on duty tomorrow afternoon, sir,” he interrupted. “And I don’t think we have anything to talk out that we haven’t already said.”
“I think you’re wrong.” Dexter Senior gestured disdainfully at the bulletins. “These require explanation.”
“Not to you, they don’t. With respect, sir, you are a civilian, neither a member of the Force nor my superior officer. And as Vas said, our job doesn’t have a time-limit.”
“Remek, viragam,” came a soft-voiced interjection. “But — nem lehet vele beszelni.”
“I will thank you, Mr. Vastarnyi, to be silent,” Dexter Senior snapped.
“No, you haven’t got it quite right,” he said seriously. “The S has more of a sh-sound, and you roll the R.”
“Vas,” said Jon Dexter.
“My lips are sealed.”
“I’ll expect you tomorrow at three,” Dexter Senior said.
“I’m on duty tomorrow.”
“Then make arrangements to be off-duty.” Irritably.
“Yeah,” said Vastarnyi. “Get your secretary to see to it, Jonno.” Father and son ignored him.
“No, sir. I see no sense in repetition.”
“And you intend to continue with this?” The offending bulletins again.
“Yes.”
“I suppose eventually you will stop playing cops-and-robbers, and take an adult interest in your trained profession.”
“My trained profession is the Police Force,” Jon Dexter said, white to the lips with anger, “And I suppose eventually you will face reality and accept that fact.”
“I think,” Vastarnyi cut in again, “it’s a Mexican Stand-off.”
“You’re the one who’s avoiding reality, Jonathan. This ridiculous state of affairs will be talked out. Phone the office, and Yvonne will tell you when I’m free. Goodnight.”
He stalked out, and Vastarnyi reached over and removed the glass from Dexter’s hand as his knuckles whitened with tension.
“Sure. Make an appointment to see my own father — ” the blond man whispered. Then his anger and resentment exploded, and he slammed his fist down on the table with a hissed imprecation.
“That’s kind of heavy,” Vastarnyi said quietly. Dexter sat down abruptly, poured a full shot of brandy, and drank it straight back.
“Heavy?” he queried bitterly. “No, that’s S.O.P. He’s a despot, and he won’t accept that his Heir Apparent had got other plans for his own life!”
Another drink followed the first, and Vastarnyi began to get anxious. A Dexter smashed out of his skull did not figure in his plans for the evening. Neither did a Dexter uncertain of temper. So cancel, and to hell with it.
“Tell you what.” His voice was very quiet, almost gentle. “Why don’t we get out of here? There’s more life in the Karma House. How about it?”
“Oh, sure. Bright lights. Loud music. Dammit why won’t he let me go?!”
Vastarnyi smiled wryly and said something incomprehensible. Dexter glared at him. “What’s that? Not Hungarian?”
“No. It’s a Hung Fatism. Or one he heisted from Lao Tse or Confucius. As the weaver with but one thread is the man with but one son.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Let’s go see Jives, huh?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Dexter, not moving from the chair. He took another drink, filled Vastarnyi’s glass and his own, drank again. The Hungarian did not press him to leave. If Jonno wanted to sit and talk and drink himself under the table, then he, Vastarnyi, would sit and listen and carry him home. He had been startled by his own reaction to Dexter Senior — father and son were so alike in quite a few ways, but the dislike was instant and mutual. True, he’d started off loathing Jonno’s guts, but this was something completely different, and he felt almost ashamed of it. He had not expected to hate his partner’s father. Nor was initial response mellowed or altered by Dexter’s increasingly rambling monologue. He could understand, to a certain extent, the father — but was without sympathy for him. That was all for the son, and the scars he carried.
By the time Dexter had talked himself into a bitterly morose silence, and Vastarnyi had talked him out of his depression into helpless laughter with his version of his own family problems with what he referred to as the Mancini Mafia, it was nearing midnight, and the waiter had long-since pointedly placed the check in the centre of the table.
“So with Grandpop as the Godfather, the clan spread over San Diego, and now looks like they’re branchin’ out to hit L.A. with acid indigestion and ptomaine poisoning.” He grinned. “Wait til you meet Gino. He’s — ” he caught a look at his watch. “A nagyhatalmek!” he whispered.
“A what?” Dexter queried.
“Never mind. It’s Pumpkin-time, Cinderella.” Vastarnyi laid notes on top of the check, added a tip, and looked cautiously at Dexter. He had kept pace himself with the liquid consumption to a certain extent, and was far from being stoned. On the other hand — Dexter looked up and met his gaze, and a wide affectionate smile spread over his face.
“What are we celebrating?” he asked. “Jonas? Hey, I signed the pledge, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, well, you’ll have to go teetotal tomorrow.” He grinned back, and stood up, gathering the bulletins into a sheaf. Dexter took his share, folded them into his pocket, got to his feet, setting his chair meticulously to the table, and followed him out to the car.
Vastarnyi watched him covertly. He had discovered on the night of the 2-11 that the blond man had quite a capacity for alcohol — was still safely on his feet when he himself was legless and he did not appear to be smashed now, merely happy. Well, maybe all that brandy had unlocked some of those inhibitions.
“Hey, Jonno, can I drive, huh?” he asked hopefully.
“Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “You drive cars like you ride that bike of yours.”
“Ah, c’mon, Jonno. I’ll behave, honest. Tessek?”
“Well…” he wavered, unable to withstand for long the beseeching eyes and wheedling voice.
“Pretty-please?” Vastarnyi said, humbly, and he handed over the keys with a sigh.
“I need my head read,” he grumbled.
“Don’t sweat.” The Hungarian gave him a quick bear-hug and dived into the driver’s seat before he could change his mind. “Won’t dent the paintwork, I promise.”
“You better not or I’ll kick your bike,” he added, inspired.
“Hey, Jonno! That’s awful mean!”
“Yes,” said Dexter smugly. “You think you’re the only bastard in L.A.?” Vastarnyi laughed delightedly, reached over and gave him another bearhug, then put the car into gear and pulled out into traffic.
“And you’ll have to quit doing that,” Dexter said, his voice grave.
“What?”
“Hugging people. It’s not — American.”
“Don’t you believe it. Bein’ American covers a multitude of sins, and most of ’em are fun,” he chuckled.
“Yes, but — ”
“Anyhow. I’m not American, I’m Hungarian. And Italian. And we do it all the time. It beats hell out of shaking hands.”
“Yes, but where are we going?”
“Don’t know. Just driving. Don’t get the chance to drive your car too often, Jonno, I’m enjoying it. Why? Anywhere you feel like going?”
“Don’t know — as long as it isn’t those mountain roads you use as race-tracks.”
“Okay.”
They drove in companionable silence for a while, automatically keeping patrol-watch, but at the same time relaxed and enjoying the night-time panorama of city, coast-road, and sea. Then Dexter became aware that they had stopped, were parked outside an apartment block overlooking sea and shore.
“Where’s this?” he demanded.
“Malibu. Figured as we’re in this neck of the woods we’d drop in on Margo.”
“At nearly two in the morning?”
“It ain’t half-one yet.”
“But — ”
“Margo’s an owl-person,” Vastarnyi grinned. “C’mon, Jonno, move your ass. She’s got a great line in Viennese coffee. And Turkish. And wait ’til you see her pad — she’s got some etchings you would not believe.” Devilishly.
Dexter didn’t rise to the bait.
“But you can’t descend on people at this time of the night!” he protested, following the bouncy stride into a lobby redolent of expense. “She might have gone–”
“Friday nights she’s usually in, she said so.” Vastarnyi held a conversation with the security guard, shamelessly using his badge as passport and herded Dexter into the elevator, hitting the penthouse button and giving him an affectionate grin. “Margo wouldn’t have said it if she didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, but — ”
“We’re here. Out, my Lemon.” And he assaulted the bell of the penthouse suite. The door opened almost immediately.
“Only the Magyar plays the 1812 on my doorbell,” Margo sighed. “Hi, Jon. Come in, boys.”
She was wearing a black silk caftan embroidered with gold and green, her hair was loose about her shoulders.
“We didn’t mean to disturb — ” Dexter started desperately, and she smiled at him.
“Well, you have, and I’m very glad of it. I’ve been doing some layout designs and the damn things are giving me trouble. You’re a pair of marvelous excuses to take a supper-break. Will you join me?” Her smile was warm invitation aimed squarely at Dexter.
“Thank you,” he said simply. Vastarnyi had already wandered over to the stereo unit and was sorting through albums.
With the muted tones of James Last drifting from the speakers, he put his arms about both their shoulders and smiled at them happily. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I go and I fix us something special?”
“Okay,” Margo laughed and kissed his cheek. “Come and talk to me, Jon, but if you mention clothes, fashion designs, layouts or deadlines I will probably bite you, hard.”
“Is he safe in there? I mean — ”
“Don’t worry.” She led him towards the couch as Vastarnyi disappeared into the kitchen. “He knows better than to concoct anything too outrageous — he’s liable to get it tipped down his neck if he does. However did you meet that maniac, Jon?”
“In the Academy,” he smiled.
“That floored me, you know. When he told me he was joining the Force,” Margo said, suddenly serious. “It was completely unexpected, and yet if he hadn’t — well, God knows what trade he’d have taken up. Does he stand East L.A. Station House on its ear?”
“Sometimes,” Dexter admitted.
“And you help him do it?” she added shrewdly, and he flushed.
“No, I don’t! I seem to spend half my time smoothing things down — when we’re not arguing.”
“You two fight a lot?”
Dexter remembered Vastarnyi’s happy assurance to Bernie O’Hara. “Yes,” he chuckled. “We hate each other’s guts.”
“What else?” Margo laughed with him. “Would you like a drink? I don’t suppose Dave has even started to think about coffee out there. Scotch? Vodka? Brandy? Or what?”
“Brandy, thank you. I’ll see to it — what would you like?”
“The same.” She watched him at the small bar; this was a far cry from the rather formal grave young man she had met previously. The stiff good manners had become a delightful old-fashioned courtesy that she found very much to her taste combined with an almost clumsy charm. Margo mentally saluted the Francois Villon, and moved towards him, taking the glasses from his hands and replacing them on the bar. Even without the Vastarnyi-plot, she’d have made a play for this one.
“Will you dance with me, Jon?” she whispered, and swayed into his arms. Over his shoulder, she saw Vastarnyi blow her a kiss and duck into the kitchen again.
The album ended unnoticed by the couple standing in the middle of the room, locked in a close embrace, and Vastarnyi crept in to flip the record over. Margo buried her face in Dexter’s shoulder to hide a sudden choke of laughter — this situation bordered on farce.
“Help yourself to the Tokay, Dave,” she said. Dexter raised his head from her hair, but did not let her go, Vastarnyi noted. A very good sign.
“Thanks,” he grinned, and transported the two untouched brandy goblets to the coffee-table by the couch. Another five or ten minutes and he could probably absent himself — he’d have to leave the car for Dex, but he could probably pick up a cab — and, heisting the bottle of Tokay, he headed back to the kitchen.
Dexter was barely aware of him. His immediate world was filled with Margo’s perfume, Margo’s body pressed to his, and an overwhelming need to sleep. And the sleep was winning out over the other no less basic needs. He tried to fight it off, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle — maybe some more brandy would wake him up? The second album side ended, and Margo gently freed herself to lead him to the couch and their glasses — once more Vastarnyi sidled in, eyes brilliant with laughter, to change the record, and decided there might be a slight technical hitch. Dexter was developing a definite glassy stare, standing by the couch with an empty goblet in his hands. Vastarnyi winked at Margo and took him off to the bathroom, left him there, and came back to the couch.
“He’ll be right back,” he whispered, leaned down and kissed her. “I envy the lucky bastard. G’night, mezam. I’m gonna split and leave him in your capable hands.”
“You’re a rat,” Margo said softly, twining her arms around his neck and kissing him back. “But a cute rat. Aren’t you staying for supper?”
“What supper? Gooseberry pie sure ain’t on the menu. You be nice to my buddy.”
“Davie, I’m always nice to personable young men. Though heaven knows what Dexter II would think.”
“I won’t tell him if you won’t, and Jonno won’t, he’s a gentleman.” He looked at her in silence for a few moments then. He wanted to tell her he did not want Jon to be hurt but could not find the words to say it, so he kissed her instead and left, not knowing she had read it in his face anyway.
Vastarnyi had got as far as the elevator’s opened doors, was about to step inside, when the penthouse door jerked open.
“David,” Margo said, a mixture of annoyance and laughter in her voice. “Come back here this instant! This is no joke!”
“Huh?”
“Come here!” Puzzled, he obeyed, was taken by the elbow and marched into the dimly-lit bedroom — and there saw Jonathan Dexter III stretched out on the splendid fur spread, shoes, socks, jacket and shirt in a neatly-folded heap on the floor. He had his cheek pillowed on one hand, a small smile on his mouth, and he was fast asleep.
“This is my date?” Margo said sweetly, gesturing with one hand. “The young Adonis I’ve been waiting for you to deliver since ten o’clock? David, I don’t know how they do things on your side of the tracks, but in my kind of society, it’s considered impolite to leave a lady high and dry.”
“Ah-huh.” Vastarnyi could not think of anything else to say. Dexter looked deep enough in sleep to be undisturbed by several atom bombs. Margo regarded him.
“Indeed, David Andras Vastarnyi. The question is, however what are you going to do about it?”
“Uh — Well — ” he tried a grin, but it did not have its usual effect, Margo did not smile back. Hands on hips, she studied him, then advanced purposefully. “Well I guess we’ll just have to move him over?” he suggested, and gathered her into his arms.
* * * * * *
Dexter became hazily aware of the sounds first — breathless endearments, little whimpers of pleasure, all the erotic sounds of love-making. Which was distinctly odd, though why it should be he couldn’t for the life of him remember. Couldn’t remember that much at all like why he was here, and where here was, for starters. He got one eye open, and what he saw brought both eyes wide, fast. It took him a while to believe what he was seeing, then:
“What are you doing here?” he hissed in an astonished whisper. Vastarnyi turned his head towards him, an unwise laughter growing in him.
“What do you think I’m doing, dummy?” he countered, and the expression of dazed bemusement on Dexter’s face proved too much. Laughter at a crucial moment can precipitate events and did. Which exasperated Margo — twice in one night the Hungarian Maniac had left her high — instinctively she reached for Dexter and he discovered that he needed no persuasion. Vaguely aware of rather breathless laughter and encouragement from the Vastarnyi, he found his arms full of urgent womanhood, and he never did find out who removed the rest of his clothes.
Abruptly, without knowing how or why, he was involved in a reality that had never figured in his private fantasies — well, not quite in this combination, anyway. On occasion, he had entertained the idea of an orgy with two or three or maybe more of a private harem, but he had never shared a girl with another man. His graduation ‘party’ from Harvard did not count — that had been completely different. This was totally unique — unlike anything he had experienced before. He couldn’t think what it was like, having no cross-references for this situation — and then thinking became superfluous.
Margo discovered what her teeth nibbling gently at his earlobe could do to him and used it shamelessly until any last faint-hope inhibitions the brandy had left him were discarded like the unwanted clothes.
But clothes and inhibitions can be replaced, and in the early dawn Dexter awoke to sober realisation of where he was. One of his cardinal rules was, when a date ended in love-making, he did not stay the night. The familiar insidious guilt began to build up, and it received quite a jolt as his memory supplied clear details of the night. No — he’d been imagining most of it — what the hell was the Vastarnyi doing, figuring in his fantasies?
The body pressed against his side was warm and soft — Margo, a woman he had met only twice — and he had to face her in the cold light of day. Reluctantly he opened his eyes and got another jolt. It was Margo lying beside him, blonde hair spread on the pillow and one slender tanned arm flung across his chest. But the dark head next to hers belonged to Vastarnyi.
His fantasies hadn’t been fantasies. Bemused, he craned up on one elbow and stared at his companions. The Hungarian was curled along the curve of Margo’s body, his right arm lying across her and Dexter, linking all three in one embrace that was more protective than sensual.
Dexter’s first reaction was a kind of horror, then a guilty wonder as his memory provided an action replay of the initial scenes. He had not seduced Margo, he realised suddenly — she had seduced him, with a little help from another quarter. He had not taken advantage of her at all. So why should he feel guilty?
She was very lovely lying there like some Grecian nymph caught by the dark satyr that was the Hungarian — that had been an incredible night, wild eroticism and crazy hilarity a mixture as unique in his experience as this particular sexual combination. And how did Vastarnyi get in on it? Had he been deliberately set up for a troy? He had the horrible feeling that he had — after refusing double-dates, as well! — and outrage struggled manfully to reinforce the guilt. Frantically, he looked around for his clothes, but couldn’t see them and there was no way he could slide off the bed without disturbing either of the others.
Margo he couldn’t face — Vastarnyi he wanted to kill, slowly, and he had to get out, but couldn’t — he fell asleep desperately working out plans to extricate himself from one of the most impossible situations he’d ever been gotten into.
Dexter’s next awakening was entirely different. He drifted from a pleasurable dream to a reality equally so. Someone was gently kissing his mouth, and the perfume in his nostrils said Margo. He forgot about guilt, outrage, and justifiable homicide, and she gave a small ‘oof’ of pleased surprise as his arms tightened convulsively around her.
“So you’re an early-morning beast, are you?” she whispered against his ear. “My favourite kind …”
They had the bed to themselves, he discovered, and astounded himself by feeling vaguely disappointed. But Margo gave him no time to think about it.
“Dave said he’d see you Monday,” she said, and bit his ear.
* * * * * *
“Margo.”
She turned from the stove.
“Hi,” she smiled. Dexter did not smile back. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, fully dressed, jacket buttoned, an unhappy, almost haunted look in his eyes.
“I have to go now,” he said lamely.
“Sure,” she said. “But not until you’ve had lunch. I don’t send men out of my pad with empty stomachs.”
He was hovering on the brink of refusal, and she pulled a face at him. “Jon, sit down. It’s Saturday today, not Sunday. Tomorrow you can be conscience-stricken.” His colour rose, as much with anger as with embarrassment, and she sighed, took the pan off the heat, and approached him. “Listen,” she said gently, standing very close but not touching him. “You can stay, or go, stay away or come back when you want — I make my own rules. And the one and only one is that there are no rules. We’ve had fun — now you’ll have something to eat, and please yourself from then on.”
“Last night,” he said stubbornly, “was prearranged, wasn’t it? A set-up?”
“No, not entirely.”
“Why?” Ignoring her words, a suddenly cold, almost icy demand. Yes, Margo thought, there’s more of your father in you than I realised.
“Dave figured he owed you.”
“Huh?” He was temporarily nonplussed. “Owed me? How? What for?”
“For the double date that hurt you.” His anger became rigidly controlled fury, and Margo hung her head in mock contrition, looking up through her eyelashes. “He intended to leave — in fact he’d got as far as the elevator when I called him back.” Her finger traced a pattern on his lapel. “You see, you were kind of stoned, out to the wide, and I was lonely — and well, then you woke up, and one thing led to another — ” She broke off with a chuckle, a throaty, seductive sound. “So that part of it was uh — pure serendipity, and if you aim to blame anyone for it, blame me.”
“But — ” he started, temper fraying: Margo did not give him a chance to go on.
“Of course, the blind-date was all Dave’s idea — well, not a blind-date exactly — because of that double-date — ”
“I told him I didn’t want to get involved!” Dexter exploded. “So what the hell is he playing at?”
“Sure you don’t want to get involved, who does? Not me, for God’s sake. Jonathan lover, didn’t you hear me? I don’t have rules, so don’t you try and put your rules on me, or you’ll see more fireworks than the fourth of July. Who needs them, after all? Especially when they hurt you.”
Speechless, he stared down at her, and she pounced on the advantage before it disappeared.
“Ask yourself honestly, Jon, and answer honestly. Do you feel emotionally involved with me because we made love? Or do you feel we ought to have been in love, committed to each other, before we had that wild night? I want your honest, instinctive answer, not the one that’s been trained into you.”
“But–” he started again helplessly, and Margo kissed his mouth quickly.
“Come and have lunch,” she said, gently. “And then decide what you’re going to do.”
He tried to maintain a cool dignity throughout the meal, but was teased into laughter, and temporarily forgot his grievances. So when Margo suggested a drive along the coast he readily agreed, escorting her down to his car with happy courtesy. The afternoon and early evening were spent drifting along coastal and mountain roads, until Margo began to complain of hunger pangs, and they stopped at a seafood restaurant perched on a cliff-edge, and it was nearing midnight when Dexter drove back to the Malibu apartment.
He stopped at her door. “Goodnight, Margo,” he said.
“Goodnight, Jon,” she responded demurely, and lifted her face to be kissed. His hesitation was brief — then he took her in his arms and kissed her. But she did not let him go when the kiss ended, instead she slid her arms around his neck and pulling his head down, nibbled gently at his earlobe. He jumped like a startled colt, but his arms tightened round her.
“Will you come in for coffee?” she whispered in his ear.
“No — Margo, will you quit that — ”
“No.” She chuckled softly, and bit again. “I like what it does to you, lover. Coffee, Jon? Brandy? Anything else?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Belatedly realising the lights he was approaching were red, Dexter slammed on the brakes, and the Dodge rocked to a halt. He was going to be late — he’d be lucky if he made roll-call, and it was all Vastarnyi’s fault. He glowered furiously at the lights, still stubbornly red, and promised the distant Bohunk a slow and painful death. The maniac had set him up, all along the line — and what right had he to interfere in his private life in the first place?
Margo’s explanations over the weekend had seemed reasonable — logical, even, and he had been prepared to accept that the threesome had been a complete accident, but on a smog-smothered Monday morning, it was a different matter, and righteous indignation demanded a revenge. He was not prepared to admit that his sour mood was mostly based on a reluctance to leave Margo and her apartment to present himself for work.
Dexter was late sliding into Roll-Call as Lieutenant Brendan cleared his throat preparatory to beginning the day’s business. There was an expression of smug satisfaction on that officer’s face, but Dexter did not notice, being too busy glaring venomously at Vastarnyi’s profile, and mentally threatening him with grievous bodily harm. He got a seraphim smile in return, a jaunty mixture of pride and unrepentance that did nothing to lighten his mood. Then Brendan began to speak.
The bombshell did not fall until the very end, when, after a slight pause, the lieutenant read out the list of promotions and transfers, and the last name on the list was Dexter’s. In stupefied amazement the blond man heard his own name called out — transferred to Torrance P.D. with effect from 0900 hours Tuesday. Tomorrow. Automatically he looked at Vastarnyi, saw his own stunned disbelief, mirrored on the abruptly pale, strained face turned towards his. Then, simultaneously, both men looked at the grinning lieutenant, the concentrated icy venom in the twin stares withering his patent delight.
As soon as the assembled officers were dismissed to go about their set duties Dexter joined Vastarnyi at his desk, his ‘It has to be a mistake’ counter-pointing Vastarnyi’s ‘What the hell is goin’ on’ But they were given no time to say more. Brendan appeared, shoving his solid bulk between them.
“Vastarnyi, I want to talk to you. Dexter, move your ass outa here. You’re meant to be on patrol.”
Dexter obeyed silently, his last glance at the Hungarian saying “We’ll talk later, hang loose.” Then he headed, not for his waiting veteran, but for Hoffman’s office.
Vastarnyi glared at Brendan’s hated features, seeing a gloating pleasure on the man’s face.
“I just want you to know that I’ll be watching you from now on, Vastarnyi,” Brendan said. “You’re on your own, and without your blond pal riding herd on you, you’re on the short slide to discharge. Because he ain’t gonna be around to haul you back on your tail, and any time now you’re gonna step out of line. When you do, Bohunk, it’ll be my birthday because I’ll be waiting.”
Vastarnyi, lips set in a tight line, drew on the control he had learned from Dexter, and felt it begin to slip from him. Hands clenched into fists, fingernails gouging into the flesh of his palms, he struggled to hold on to it, because if Brendan said one more word he’d smear that oversized nose all over his dumb face and to hell with it — but Brendan gave a snort of disgust; it was plain to him that his needling wasn’t getting anywhere this time around. No sweat, there was always later. He gave the white-faced young man a triumphant, unpleasant smile and dismissed him.
Baker was as disgusted as Brendan by lunch time. The Bohunk had been as much use as a handful of wet macaroni all morning, his mind was obviously not on his work. Which was true. Vastarnyi was waiting for the lunch break and his meeting with Dexter. But at the back of his mind was a feeling of reluctance. It was possible that Dexter had put in for a transfer, that the ‘big surprise’ act had been a snow job. He thought he knew Dexter, was almost sure he wasn’t that sneaky, but maybe he was wrong, had been wrong about him all along. That’s what happens when you let someone in — should have stayed a loner who needs a team anyhow? He sure as hell didn’t.
But one look at Dexter’s face when he walked into the snack bar told him it was no snow job. Anger, frustration, and sheer misery showed on the usually masked blond features and he slumped into the seat opposite Vastarnyi with a weary sigh.
“Hoffman says he doesn’t know anything that goes on with transfers — which is crazy! He’s the captain, for Christ’s sake — says they come down from upstairs; well, mine did, and he can’t do anything about it.”
“Torrance is a peach area,” Vastarnyi offered tentatively, and got a furious glare.
“I don’t want it!” Dexter snapped forcibly. “I want to stay here! Anyhow, I’m fighting it, I’ve put in an appeal.”
“Any chance?”
“Hoffman didn’t seem to think so.” He descended into gloom again. “Hey, now I think about it, he said something kind of odd. Said that somebody somewhere was pulling strings. What in hell’s name does that mean?”
“Dunno. Quite a few guys would like to see us put down, but only Brendan wants us way out of his hair — and it’d be me he’d want out, not you. Doesn’t make sense, Jonno.”
Dexter ran his fingers distractedly through his hair.
“What’s going on?” he demanded unanswerably. Then, “Christ. Vas, what are we going to do?”
“Find out who’s doing the string-pulling and pull a few around his neck, real tight,” Vastarnyi growled.
“It’s a deliberate attempt to split the team.” Dexter wasn’t listening. “They — ”
“Forget it,” he said suddenly, coldly, jerking Dexter’s attention to himself. “They can’t do it. We’re still a team off-duty. Hell, we never were a team except off-duty, so they’ve gained nothing. It’s still me an’ thee. Against the world,” he added, with the wry, quirking smile that was so typical of him. Dexter gave a shrug, his depression lifted only slightly by the jaunty confidence of the Hungarian.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Sure I am!”
“Maybe, I said,” he insisted. “But it’s not easy fighting someone you can’t see! Who’s pulling strings, and why? If we can find that out, we’ll know what or who we’ve got to fight.”
“Yeah. Trouble is, inside the Department is one place I don’t have contacts.”
“Yet.” Dexter found he could smile. “Maybe it’s about time you started finding some.”
* * * * * *
There had only been one string pulled, to date, and the hand on the end of it belonged to Philip Dexter. He had called a friend in a high place on the Administration side of the Force after his first, brief, meeting with the Vastarnyi, and had discovered that officialdom was aware of the Hungarian’s activities, that I.A.D. were also watching him, but that so far he had done nothing serious enough to warrant an official, full-scale investigation and dismissal. So far. The friend was also cautiously aware that Jonathan Dexter, as one half of the unofficial team, was under scrutiny as well. Perhaps, suggested Dexter Senior, a transfer might go a long way towards solving the problem? Like Patrolman Dexter to Bel Air, or Palos Verdes Police Departments, or Torrance? It was only a suggestion, of course, but —
He put the phone down, a heavy frown on his face. Confident as he was that his son would very shortly find himself patrolling the beat in a civilised area, it would not end the basic problem itself. This Vastarnyi would have to go. There was little use in money and position if you could not use them and he had no intention of letting either go to waste. Unwanted people can be removed from their places without fuss, without cause for concern, and far more smoothly than any assassin’s bullet, with a little bit of political leaning and cash expenditure.
But Philip Dexter was not a man who acted in haste. He was coldly deliberate, and when he moved it was only after careful study of the enemy. Then he struck hard, with finality, and never had to strike at that target again.
So he contacted the detective agency, once more demanded their best operative, outlined the situation, and explained what he wanted David Vastarnyi out of the Force with a dishonourable discharge. So they were to compile a file more detailed than any the Internal Affairs Department might have on him, secure in the knowledge that Vastarnyi, by the very nature of his background, upbringing, and temperament, would skate extremely close to the legal line, and now and then would ignore it altogether. Jonathan Dexter, of course would not appear in the file at all.
* * * * * *
This last instruction caused some-problems for the agency, since the private detective assigned to the case unearthed several of Judson’s gang, whose collective injuries were evidence enough of extreme brutality by Vastarnyi, further investigation in other quarters got more of the story, and a visit to the hospital filled in a few more missing details. Jonathan Dexter had been knifed, and Vastarnyi’s attack at a later date on the men concerned had been more in the nature of retribution than violence to extract information. How much of that would Mr. Dexter want put in the file? So a letter was sent, enclosing all the details, requesting his further direction.
Philip Dexter’s initial rage was replaced by a chill of fear. He read the report through again, aware for the first time that his son could be throwing away more than an architect’s career by becoming a police officer. He could be throwing away his life. The clinical details of the stomach-wound and suturing did not hide the narrowness of the gap between what had been a deep slash and what could have been serious internal injuries. And it had happened, not on duty, but when he was moonlighting. And since he would not have been moonlighting if this Vastarnyi had not talked him into it, therefore this Vastarnyi had nearly killed him. How much longer did he have before he succeeded? The unofficial team was still in operation, off-duty hours and weekends — to gain himself some time, Dexter Senior made another suggestion to his friend in High Police Places, a suggestion that swiftly filtered through to East Los Angeles and put Vastarnyi on the graveyard-shift.
It worked. The moonlighting was stopped, both dual and solo — the latter on Jon Dexter’s insistence. It was too easy to be killed with no one to watch your back, so he had bullied, threatened, pleaded, and begged until he had obtained Vastarnyi’s word that he’d not go it alone. After all, as Dexter pointed out, they couldn’t keep him on the graveyard-shift indefinitely, and if it did show signs of being a semi-permanent arrangement, then he’d apply to take the same shift, in Torrance, and in the meantime continue the fight to get back to East L.A. They would both be trying to find out who was pulling strings — this shift business had to be part of the same pattern. Someone was very determined to split the team.
* * * * * *
The Detective-Agency had received a deadline they could not meet — one week more to find enough evidence to put Vastarnyi out of the Force. But there was only the Judson affair, which had already been vetoed. So Philip Dexter put his contingency plan into operation.
The envelope was addressed to Patrolman D.A. Vastarnyi, care of the East Los Angeles Precinct Station. It bore the legend ‘Dexter, Dexter & Shaw’ in the bottom left-hand corner. Vastarnyi took it into the locker-room, sat down on the bench and ripped the envelope open. The letter was typed on headed notepaper, thick and expensive, and after all the formalities had been read through, he discovered it was an invitation. No — a summons. ‘I have been asked by Mr. Philip Dexter to request your attendance at these offices at 1:00 pm’ — today’s date ‘in order to discuss matters that may be to your advantage. If this time is not convenient, please inform us, I remain, etc…’ The signature was unreadable but typed beneath was the name and appellation of Dexter Senior’s private secretary.
Meglepetes, Vastarnyi thought, frowning. Surprise. A Royal Command, no less. What the hell was coming down? The frown became the fiercely morose scowl that had been a permanent fixture for the last week. Okay, if the old guy wanted to see him, he could, warts and all. He stripped off his uniform and put on his street-clothes — faded and patched Levi’s, orange T-shirt with a belligerent Snoopy emblazoned in black on the chest, his patchwork denim jacket and dusty sneakers.
So, at just before one o’clock, he parked the Harley-Davidson between a Rolls Royce Camargue and a Daimler, and walked into the chrome, glass, and Scandinavian pine offices of Dexter, Dexter & Shaw, announced himself, and was directed smoothly and efficiently to Dexter Senior’s office.
The girl behind the secretary’s desk was young, fashion-glossy beautiful, and everything about her, as the office itself, spoke of expense. Vastarnyi sat down as she requested, wondering cynically how many secretaries Dexter Senior had gone through in the eight years since his divorce. The man had taste, that was evident.
“Mr. Dexter will see you now,” she broke in on his thoughts. He gave her a nod and a smile that made her feel somewhat uncomfortable and walked through the wide doors into the lion’s den.
Philip Dexter sat behind a massive mahogany desk, the top inlaid with leather, two telephones and an intercom at his elbow. There were no papers before him; the desk was cleared for action, Vastarnyi realised, interested. He studied the cold, grim, face, and almost smiled. He was, Vastarnyi decided, very much like Jonno in looks — well, how Jonno would look, thirty years on. The thick fair hair, blond fading into white at the temples, was cut much shorter than his son’s, almost a crew-cut, but its way of growth was the same. So too were the deep blue eyes and the patrician bone structure under the tanned skin. But the warmth was not there — there was no trace of Jon’s basic gentleness and compassion for the whole human race in that stony, impersonal gaze that studied him in his turn.
“Mr. Vastarnyi.” His presence was acknowledged. “Sit down, please. This won’t take long.”
“My dentist always says that,” Vastarnyi told him coolly. “I think it’s part of a speech he learnt off by heart, and trots out for each victim. Guess you must use the same writer.”
“Mr. Vastarnyi, I am going to come straight to the point.” Philip Dexter was not fazed by irrelevancies. “I am willing to give you five thousand dollars, and make a settlement of another two thousand annually, on the condition that you leave Los Angeles.”
Vastarnyi blinked at him, speechless. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t this. He was so patently knocked off-balance that Dexter Senior permitted himself a small, triumphant smile. “If you wish to remain on the Police Force, I am certain we can arrange a transfer up-state. You have family in Sacramento, I believe? Or you may wish to — ”
“Hold on.” Vastarnyi found his voice and cut in. “Am I hearing right? You want me out of L.A.? And you’re giving me five grand to go? Are you out of your skull?”
“Possibly I could raise the initial sum to seven thousand.” Dexter eyed him with distaste.
“I’m not trying to up the ante,” he snapped scornfully. “I just want to know why you’re trying to buy me off, is all.” The question and puzzlement were genuine. Dexter hesitated, then took a file from his desk-drawer.
“This is a record of your police career,” he said. “In less than a year you have gone out of your way to find trouble, using your badge as a license for the kind of activities that went out with the Gestapo, and I would think that it is only a matter of time before you get into something that you can’t handle. About your inevitable fate I don’t give a damn. But you will not take my son with you.”
“On ketkulacsos fattyu — ” Vastarnyi’s voice was soft, almost inaudible, but the blue eyes were blazing. “Valamit mondok, Philip Dexter. Az draja. If you weren’t Jon’s father — ” he stopped abruptly. Dexter was leaning back in the big leather-padded chair, fingers steepled looking as if he had expected nothing else. So Vastarnyi relaxed back in his chair in his turn, gave him a white wolverine smile, all teeth. “I don’t know why you’re trying to buy me off, Dexter,” he drawled. “After all, he hasn’t got me pregnant yet.” And that did succeed in stunning the older man for a moment, until his self-possession returned.
“Mr. Vastarnyi, I fail to see how being facetious — ”
“That’s just it, Dexter. You fail to see. Okay, I’ll lay it on the line for you, words of one syllable. You want the team busted, right?” A sudden revelation hit him, and his mirthless smile widened. “You ‘arranged’ Jonno into Torrance, and me onto the graveyard-shift, right? But you want me right out of his life — and you’re willing to pay to keep me out of it. How much? Five grand? Seven? That’s chicken-shit to you, but to a Bohunk immigrant — man, that’s real bread, a small fortune. Is that what you think? Well, I can’t be bought, Philip Dexter. Bigger men than you have tried it — I told them exactly what I’m telling you.” And he spat out a sentence in Hungarian that suggested where Dexter could put his five grand. And the seven.
“That is no kind of answer. I’ll give you 24 hours to think — ”
“Oh, sorry. I was getting away from the one-syllable words. No deal, Dexter. No way.” He got to his feet. “I could tell you why, but I’m not gonna waste my breath. A man who insults his son the way you just have has got no chance of understanding.”
And he walked out of the office without another word. There was a lithe, swaggering bounce to his stride, insolent bravado in the swing of his shoulders, that drew people’s eyes after him, the way they would watch something not quite tame behind flimsy bars in a circus. But it lasted him only as far as the street.
A little of the starch went out of him then — he stood indecisively on the sidewalk, frustration his overwhelming emotion. The fury in his blood had to find release somehow, and he knew that simply taking Bella up into the mountains for a couple of hours suicide-riding wouldn’t help this time.
This time he wanted to hit out at the human agency that had hurt him, and since that human agency was Jonno’s father and therefore untouchable, he would have to find a substitute. A scapegoat. And the best way to do that was go hunting, go looking for trouble, and, when he found it, exorcise the black demonic side of his nature with physical combat.
Except that wasn’t on the cards. He had given Jon his word that he would keep his nose clean, not go moonlighting alone. But he wouldn’t be moonlighting — just trouble-hunting, so, having split hairs, he pushed his promise to the back of his mind, straddled the bike, and took her out into the traffic.
He’d not eaten, he remembered; so he’d stop off and get lunch before heading home. And tonight he’d call Jonno. There had been no contact between them since Dexter had left for Torrance, not even a phone-call or a scrawled message left with Slim or Jives. Nothing. A decision was forming, taking shape — an echo of what he’d felt before and this time there was no strained blond face to readjust his thinking. Maybe Jon did want out — okay, he’d offer him a way, if he wanted it. Without a mention of, or conceding anything to Dexter Senior, he’d apply for a transfer up-state, maybe to Sacramento P.D. After that it was up to Jon. He had made the team, he alone could break it. It was as simple as that.
His eye was caught by the bright frontage of an Italian restaurant, and prompted the memory of the mysterious Villa Mancini. He still hadn’t checked out whether that Giovanni was his cousin Gino, or a Mancini of an entirely different clan. He hoped it was Gino. He’d always found it easy to climb up Gino’s nose, and the poor mutt rose to the bait like a trained trout every time — almost as much as Jonno did. He would have to get round to investigating that, in case he left the area.
He was still thinking about it when a vaguely familiar figure got into a car just ahead and the Vastarnyi mental filing system, subconsciously activated, produced the ID. Curtis. A pusher. Twice he had narrowly missed collaring him; it was a defeat that still rankled. Almost without conscious volition he eased back on the throttle, tucking Bella in on the Mustang’s tail, and stayed there.
Curtis, although with one eye ever alert for the approach of a black-and-white, a uniform, or an unmarked car that tailed too closely and could be the narc-squad, did not notice the anonymous young man on the powerful orange cycle who had followed him west out of the mid-city towards Torrance — or if he had noticed, hadn’t associated him with authority, which wasn’t surprising. More than a few had made the same mistake.
He parked the car, taking a paper sack of groceries from the passenger seat, and headed down the street. Vastarnyi left Belladonna and continued the tail. Curtis turned down a side-alley, and now just a few paces behind, Vastarnyi followed, ducking into a doorway when Curtis stopped to talk to a youth slouched against the wall. It was a buy. He watched the transaction with a fierce delight growing in him. This time he could take Curtis. This time, for sure.
The pusher slipped the money into a jacket pocket, went on his way; then, hearing a footstep behind him, turned quickly. The boy a few paces behind hesitated, then nervously backed up a step, wiping his nose on his jacket sleeve.
“You Curtis?” he whispered. “Jackie said you’d got some stuff –” Curtis eyed him; tousled dark hair, scruffy denims, the continuous palsy of the addict.
“Yeah. Whaddya want, kid?”
“Smack.” Apparently reassured, the boy edged closer. “I got the bread,” eagerly, groping in his hip pocket.
“Twenty bucks,” said Curtis, one hand inside the paper sack but instead of the money, a badge flashed in the boy’s hand, and a mirthless grin showed white teeth.
“This is a bust. Play it cool, turkey.”
Belatedly Curtis’ memory told him that this was the kid who had ridden behind him on a motorcycle — twenty to one he was on his own, with no back-up guy. Curtis dropped-the bag, a knife appearing magically in his hand as he lunged for Vastarnyi, who dodged — but slipped on garbage. Curtis felt the knife go home, heard the explosive gasp of pain, but the cop was still reaching for his gun. Panic-stricken he ripped the blade free and stabbed again, viciously, as his victim doubled forward, stabbed again.
* * * * * *
It is instant action for every police officer when a 10-13 is broadcast — it means ‘assist patrolman,’ a colleague is in trouble, and everything else goes by the board to get him help, because the trouble could be bad.
Dexter was already running for the corner of the street — it was only about three blocks down, and the intersection referred to couldn’t be more than a hundred yards further on. Lewis was following, pounding red-faced in his wake, but Dexter, younger, faster, easily outdistanced him. He skidded around the last corner, spotted a small crowd and sprinted for it. They were clustered around a phone-booth, and he elbowed his way through. The door was wedged open by a protruding foot — inside, half-sitting, half-lying in the cramped space, was, incredibly, Vastarnyi. He was unconscious — Dexter prayed he was only unconscious — and there seemed to be blood everywhere; smeared on the inside of the glass panels, a pool of it on the floor, prints on the receiver dangling from its cord. Dexter gulped.
“OhmyGod.” He eased himself into the booth, crouching to lift one wrist, feeling for a pulse. “Vas?” he said gently, hoping against hope for a response. There was none, but he found a weak pulse-beat. The crowd thinned out as Lewis moved them on.
“Dexter,” he said, peering in. “How is he?”
“Alive,” Dexter heard himself say, fingers still registering the thready, feeble beat.
“Is he a cop?” Lewis wondered aloud.
“Yes,” Dexter blazed. “Vastarnyi, East L.A. — ”
“Oh. Take it easy, the medics are on their way. Stay with him, son.”
Dexter didn’t intend doing otherwise. Crazy Magyar — this one turned sour on you, that’s for sure. And I wasn’t there. If I’d been there, maybe this wouldn’t have happened, whatever it was.
The denim jacket was rucked to one side, and the blood-sodden rents in the t-shirt beneath were clearly visible — deep wounds, pulsing steady flows of blood.
“Vas?” he said again. The eyelids fluttered, opened; blurred, out of focus, dulled with pain and loss of blood, blue eyes fixed on him.
“What took you so long?” came the whisper. The wail of sirens saved Dexter an answer, and the emergency-team took over, transferring Vastarnyi from booth to ambulance with smooth efficiency. Dexter climbed in before they shut the doors — Vas was going nowhere without him again.
“Call in, warn the blood-bank we’re gonna need a bucketful,” said a medic. “Any idea what type?”
“O Rh+,” Dexter said, holding Vastarnyi’s wrist while they taped an I.V. needle in place, starting a glucose-drip to combat shock and blood-loss. Vastarnyi was still marginally conscious, and scared as hell — he was beyond speech, but his eyes were speaking for him. I’m frightened. Hold on to me. Don’t let me die. Dexter folded both hands around the fingers that were gripping his hard enough to hurt.
“It’s okay, Davie,” he said gently, using the affectionate diminutive by instinct. “You’re going to be all right. Trust me.”
The blue eyes hazed over, closed. The paramedic checked his heartbeat, muttered something to his colleague, who started preparing a hypodermic. And Dexter held onto his partner’s hand, unable to help in any other way, the contact welded closer by the tacky coating of drying blood.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next twenty-four hours were the longest that Dexter thought he had spent in his life. After the medical team had wheeled their unconscious patient into the Emergency Room, he had pulled himself together enough to call East L.A. and report what had happened. Fortunately, he was put through to Lieutenant Neale, who was nothing like Brendan, and Neale understood when he said he had to wait. Neale himself would be around, he promised, to get Vastarnyi’s statement when he came to and yes, he’d get in touch with Torrance PD, explain to them, and Dexter could stay at the hospital until he turned up.
One of the doctors came to talk to him, explaining that of the five stab-wounds only two constituted much danger, having penetrated the chest-wall, but they had missed the heart and vital organs.
“He’s going to be okay?” The knot of tension in Dexter’s diaphragm started to unravel. The young black doctor smiled.
“Around here, officer, folks stab and shoot each other like other people curse. We get plenty of practice putting bodies back together, and our survival rate is pretty damn good. We may not be too hot on stomach-aches and sprained pinkies, but at cuts and holes, man, we are the greatest! We’re going to look after him, don’t you worry. So go home, have a quiet evening, and get some sleep. It’s going to be a while yet before he’s out of surgery and awake.”
He couldn’t take that advice, excellent though it was. He was not going to leave that hospital until Vastarnyi was awake and coherent, able to understand that he was going for a while but would be back.
Lieutenant Neale turned up at nine the next morning, to check with the doctors. Jennison of Torrance P.D. arrived at the same time, also to collect the trespasser’s statement, and to find out what the hell Patrolman Dexter was playing at. Neale gave his fellow lieutenant a brief rundown of the bare facts — that the two young officers had made themselves into an unofficial team for off-duty police-work; hence, in part, Dexter’s transfer.
“Hell, all kids play with fire,” said Jennison with remarkable forbearance, one eye on his new acquisition’s white face. “Who’s dealing with him? Dr. Lister? He’s a good man.”
The same young doctor who had seen Dexter the previous evening joined the trio of uniforms and cheerfully informed them he was pretty sure Vastarnyi was not about to die on them. He’d place money on it, he added, with a grin at Jennison, who nodded; it seemed to be an old joke between them, but Dexter saw nothing to amuse.
“Fine. Now we’ll see him, Doc.”
“Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Lieutenant. He’s barely conscious, and in no condition to make a statement yet. Give it another few hours; say midday.”
“Okay. Sure your money’s safe?”
“Safe as houses. He’s a tough cookie.”
“That Magyar Maniac has more lives than a damn alley-cat.” Dexter was inclined to agree; but that particular alley-cat was now minus one of the tally. “We’ll check back at noon, then, Doctor, and thanks.”
The lieutenants turned to leave, but Dexter hung back, catching Lister’s eye on him.
“You’ve got three minutes,” the young doctor said. “But he may not stay awake that long. In there.”
* * * * * *
The return of full consciousness had been an uphill climb, slow and with many set-backs, but now at last he could open his eyes, seeing the blurred white landscape above him become a hospital ceiling; sunlight in zebra stripes through the blinds; a white-capped nurse; and Dexter. Looking like death… From somewhere, Vastarnyi summoned up a smile for him.
“Hi, Jonno.”
“Vas? How’re you doing, buddy?” came the anxious query. Vastarnyi considered the matter. He felt detached, weak as a kitten, and vaguely disoriented… Then memory hit him, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. Dexter leaned forward quickly.
“Vas?”
He gave him a look of intense annoyance, and in tones to match said, with carrying clarity: “Oh, shit. That was a new T-shirt.”
* * * * * *
Dexter hadn’t taken time out to change, he had come straight off-duty to the hospital, and possibly the uniform was his passport. Strictly speaking, David Vastarnyi was not supposed to have visitors: but a police-officer is not a visitor. So no one stood in his way, and the little dark-haired nurse on duty in the room excused herself and left. Dexter pulled up the chair she had vacated and sat down.
“Hi, Vas,” he said, casually.
“Hi, Jonno.” And Vastarnyi gave him the shadow of a grin. “How did you bribe your way in? They threw Hoffman out. He was makin’ my pulse-rate hit the ton.”
“That was yesterday,” Dexter told him, unobtrusively checking him over. He looked better, the awful deathly pallor was lessened somewhat by a touch of colour, and his gaze was focused and alert. For the first time, Dexter found he could really believe that the crazy Bohunk was too mean to die.
“Was it?” A look of puzzlement. “Oh. You got the time, Jonno? They’ve heisted my watch.”
“It’s just after six. I figured I’d drop by and see you before I went home. How’re you feeling?”
“M ‘okay,” Vastarnyi said. “I keep tellin’ ’em that,” he went on, petulantly, “but they don’t listen. Always stickin’ needles in me. Shots to put me to sleep, shots to wake me up, and shots for God knows what else!”
Dexter grinned. Vastarnyi complaining meant Vastarnyi on the mend. He hated being immobilised at the best of times, and now, with tubes, drips, and various esoteric apparatus attached to his person, no wonder they were having to keep him doped to the back teeth. It was that or handcuff him to the bedrail.
“But the room-service is terrific,” he said, and got a snort of amusement from Vastarnyi. “Anyhow, I can’t stay long, buddy, so are you going to tell me what the hell happened? They’re going in tight little circles down at the Station House, and the hunt’s out for Boyd Curtis, but no one is telling me anything. By all accounts East L.A. is circling pretty good too, so –”
“– they’ll disappear right up their own asses,” Vastarnyi chuckled. “Yeah, okay, Jonno. It’s real simple. I got careless. Didn’t think before I went in.”
“So what else is new?”
“You want I should tell you, or are you gonna make smartass comments?” he flared. “Okay, I was huntin’ trouble. Tried to grab a pusher an’ he pulled a knife. Guess I was kind of mad. I forgot about my gun until it was too late.” Dexter flinched, remembering the fight in the alley. He’d been too mad to remember his gun then, too. “Saw the buy, moved in, got him to agree to sell to me, then flashed my badge. Trouble is, didn’t have my gun out, an’ he jumped me with the knife. Didn’t bargain for that. Could have nixed it, but I slipped and he came out on top.” His voice was becoming weaker.
“Yeah. Real simple,” Dexter agreed. “But why, Vas? Thought we agreed we weren’t soloing any more?”
“I know,” Vastarnyi closed his eyes. “Bocsass meg, Jonno.”
The contrition was genuine. Dexter said gently: “It’s okay, buddy. Doesn’t matter now. Who was it got up your nose this time, huh? Brendan again?” There was wry amusement in his voice. But he was wondering if he ought to go — Vastarnyi was looking suddenly, shockingly tired. “No, forget it. I’ll come back tomorrow.” He started to rise.
“Ne menjen el,” Vastarnyi muttered, and groped for his hand. Dexter didn’t need a translation, he sat down again and let him hold on. After a while he broke the silence with a repeat of his last question. “It was Brendan, wasn’t it? You shouldn’t let him get through to you, Vas, he isn’t worth it.”
For some minutes it seemed as if he wouldn’t get an answer. Vastarnyi was either asleep or on the way to it — but then the drug-slurred whisper came again.
“No — five thousand dollars, cash on the nail, ‘n’ another two thousand a year — that’s what you’re worth, Jon. Not thirty pieces of silver. Fizet, and I get out of your life an’ stay out. Five grand — upped it to seven…”
“Huh?” Dexter queried, bewildered. “Vas, you’re not making sense. Who’s been offering you five grand?”
“– told him to stuff it, crosswise. Wish I’d said it in English, he doesn’t understand Hungarian, your atya…”
“My…” Dexter could not place the unfamiliar word for a moment. Then, “–my father? Vas, my father offered you five thousand dollars?”
“Upped it to seven. S’all right, Jonno.” A drowsy, all-but inaudible reassurance. “I didn’t take it.”
“My father,” Dexter whispered, stunned and shaken. “He — Torrance? He hauled me out to Torrance as well? Got you put on graveyard?” A slow, ice-cold fury was building up inside him, and he did not notice that he got no reply. He stood up, gently freed his hand from Vastarnyi’s limp grasp, straightened the sheet, and moved quietly to the door.
He met Dr. Lister on the threshold, received a smile and a confident “He’s doing just fine — be goosing the nurses any day now…” from him and somehow managed a smile in response. But it took effort and got him a raised eyebrow from the doctor. Dexter did not pause for explanations. He headed for the main doors, one destination in his mind, one man he was going to see, come hell or high water.
* * * * * *
He had no doubt he would find his father in his office, even at this hour. Dexter Senior didn’t believe in keeping strictly set hours — if there was work to be done, he did it. The big silver Camargue was still outside, and Dexter parked beside it, entered the block, and took the elevator up to his father’s office. He walked past the startled secretary, ignoring her protests, and walked straight in on Dexter Senior. He was alone, but it would have made no difference if he had not been.
“You’ll excuse me, sir, for not making an appointment to see you,” he said coldly, staring with unconcealed loathing at the man behind the desk, “but I won’t take up much of your time. I just want to see what kind of man it is who can cause another’s death without getting blood on his hands and get away with it.”
Dexter Senior stared at his son, at the tall young stranger in the blue uniform, in genuine astonishment. “Cause another’s death?” he repeated. “Jonathan, who are you talking about? I don’t understand.”
“My partner,” Dexter said with icy control. “He’s in County right now, with multiple stab-wounds. And you put him there. Oh, indirectly, sure, but you did it, as surely as if you’d used the knife on him yourself. And d’you know what? You’re perfectly safe. There’s nothing the law can do to put you behind bars as an accessory to attempted murder.”
“Jonathan…”
“But the best bit is this: if they hadn’t had him hyped to the eyeballs so that he didn’t have any control over what he was saying, I’d never have known what kind of father I’ve got!” Well into his stride now, not giving a damn what he said, Dexter was not going to let his father get a word in until he’d said what he came to say. “He wouldn’t have told me what you tried to do. He believes in family, you see: he reckons a son should look up to his father with love and honour; that a father should be proud of his son. Besides which, he’s got something called loyalty, and integrity, and he wouldn’t want me to know what you offered because he wouldn’t want me to be ashamed of my father. And that is the man you tried to buy off like some cheap little gold-digger I’d got into trouble!”
He leaned both hands on the desk, blue eyes glacial with a scathing contempt, and meaning every measured word. “Now you listen, and you listen good. You interfere again in my life and career, and you can forget you ever had a son. In fact, maybe it would be better if you stopped fooling around with your secretaries, got yourself married, and sired another son or two for your dynasty of architects. Because this one is a police-officer, right up to the end.”
With that, he turned on his heel and left with neither another word or a backward glance. Philip Dexter sat there, staring at the closed door. He and Jonathan had had their differences before, but never had the boy spoken to him in quite those terms. He picked up the phone.
“Yvonne, get me County General,” he instructed. “Dr. Brabham. Tell him it’s Phil.” And minutes later: “Eric? Phil here. No, I’m fine — you? And Lucy? Great. Listen, I understand you’ve got a young police officer in your Intensive Care Unit. David Vastarnyi. Yes, I’ll hold.” A pause. “Yes. Yes, that’s right. No, no specific reason. He and Jonathan were in the Academy together. Uh-huh. I see. Thanks, Eric.”
He put the phone down, sat there frowning at his blotter, unaccountably disturbed. Then he pressed the intercom button. “Yvonne. I’ll be out for the next hour. You may as well finish up and go home. I’ll do all the signing when I get back.”
* * * * * *
Dexter Senior explained his interest to Eric Brabham in general, rather philanthropic terms. The boy had been an Academy classmate of Jonathan’s, and he himself had met him once or twice; he just wanted to reassure himself that all would be well with the boy.
“I understand he was knifed? Quite severely?” he queried, as the doctor escorted him along the hallway.
“Oh, we’ve dealt with worse,” he was told. “He’s under Lister — a good, up-and-coming youngster that, specialises in inflicted injuries, he claims. Flippant, but basically sound. Vastarnyi should pull through. He’s young and tough, though the amount of blood lost made it touch and go for a while.” They halted at the observation window, and Philip Dexter looked in at his son’s partner. He had expected the brash, insolent, and self-confident backstreets punk he had interviewed two days ago in his office: instead he saw an unconscious boy, shockingly pale against the white pillows, bandaging encasing his chest from armpit to navel, looking about twelve years old and painfully vulnerable. Something of his startlement must have showed.
“There’s no cause to worry, Phil,” Brabham said. “He’s over the worst, barring a relapse.” He was aiming to reassure and got a slightly chill smile from Dexter Senior.
“I’m sure. Thank you for your co-operation.”
He was on his way out, passing Reception, when he saw a familiar blond head and his stride faltered. The young man saw him at the same time, and halted, his expression one of wary hostility. It was Philip Dexter who spoke first.
“He’s under sedation. Brabham tells me there’s no immediate danger.” He looked at his son measuringly. “We’ve got to talk,” he said, voice quiet. Dexter looked at him.
“Very well, sir,” he said stiffly; acknowledging the right of the accused to state his case, Philip Dexter realised, with a chill down his spine.
“Is there somewhere near?” He put it as a suggestion, and Dexter, without bothering to pick a more salubrious place, took him to the nearest, a small snack-bar down the block, where he bought two coffees and sat opposite his father in one of the booths. “You said I was responsible for what happened,” Philip said. “I don’t understand how I can be, Jonathan. I want to know. Tell me.”
Dexter considered the grave face across the table. For the first time he was being addressed as an equal, a grown man with responsibilities and decisions of his own to make. His father had come halfway to meet him, he could do no less himself.
“From what I can gather,” he said finally, “Vas was tailing a drugs-pusher, witnessed a buy, went in to make the arrest. There’s always a risk at that time, but it’s a calculated risk, and when you’re part of a team it’s more than halved. Normally I’d have been there to watch his back, hedge the pusher in, hold him under my gun while Vas showed his badge. But I wasn’t there, and when Curtis jumped him with a knife, Vas didn’t have a chance because he didn’t have his gun out. God knows how he got to a phone to put in a 10-13, but he did it. Just. And Lewis and me, we got to him in time.” And he paused, remembering the vivid scene in that phone-booth.
Philip Dexter sat silent for a while. He had not known his son had been the first one to find him. Not without imagination, and having served his time in the Korean war, he had a good idea of what the tableau had been. He cleared his throat.
“Part of a team, you said. I’m sorry, maybe I’m being rather obtuse — but you two aren’t teamed together.”
“No, not officially. But off-duty we are a team, and a good one.”
He leaned forwards, staring unseeingly into the turgid depths of his coffee cup, and tried to put it into words. “You see, it’s not just having someone to back you up, an extra gun or pair of fists if things go sour; it’s like having another pair of hands, an extension of yourself.” It was what Jonas had said, and Jonas had been right. “It’s knowing exactly what your partner will do before he does it; when the situation is tough and liable to blow up in your face any time, and he’s not around to discuss it, but over the other side of the road, around the block, anywhere; but you know what he’ll do, react accordingly because he knows what you’ll do. It’s knowing there’s another brain to tackle a problem from a slightly different angle — you can bounce ideas off each other, come up with the best way. It’s having someone there when you’re tired and a bit slow off the mark, someone who’ll go the route with you, no questions asked.”
He looked up, and Philip Dexter saw a crusading light in the blue eyes. “Sir, I wanted the two of us, Vas and me, to be a team almost from the beginning. You think you’ve fought it? Well, you didn’t fight a quarter as hard as that maniac Bohunk. He didn’t want to know, he was a loner, he said, independent as hell. He used to allow me along as a wheelman. Then I guess it got through his stubborn head that it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Undercover workers don’t last long on their own, the death-rate is pretty staggering. But a team cuts those odds, gives both a fighting chance.”
“You’re not undercover, Jonathan. You’re uniformed patrol.”
“Not for long. We’re bucking for Detective Squad, undercover, plainclothes. That’s the way we want to work. Are working, off- duty.”
“This ‘moonlighting’ — surely it’s not necessary. You’ve proved your point to your superiors by now, haven’t you? Or is it glory hunting?”
“No!” he snapped. “Please try to understand. It’s what I — and Vas — joined the police for, and on-duty we can’t do it properly. We’ve prevented crimes, arrested killers before they could kill again, taken out pimps who corrupt school-kids running away from home, got those kids back home safely this time. If we’d decided to sit and wait the two, three years it’ll take to get us in the Plainclothes Squad, a few more people would have died, a few more kids got caught up in child-prostitution, a few more drug-addicts hooked…”
He broke off, a wry smile on his face at the bemusement on his father’s. “D’you know what Vas would say if he heard all that?” he said quietly, “He’d say, ‘Gee, you talk some shit sometimes, Dexter.’ Laughing his head off at me but agreeing with every word. I know why you tried to buy him off,” he went on, not giving any chance for a response. “You found out, somehow, about me getting knifed in that alley, downtown. But you’ve got only part of the story, and the angles all wrong. I’d have been dead if Vas hadn’t got me to the hospital; but what happened to me was my own dumb fault. I had a gun out and aimed, and I didn’t pull the trigger. And don’t say I wouldn’t have been in that alley but for him, because that’s not true either. We were both after the same man, a particularly unpleasant rapist, and I’d have been hunting him solo, and that would have been virtual suicide on my part. Vas knows a hell of a lot more about the backstreets downtown scene than I do. I’ve learned from him. I’m still learning.”
Philip listened impassively. Rarely had Jonathan ever talked to him so freely, so passionately about anything, and the intensity of the young man startled, almost frightened him. So he looked for a label to lessen it, put it into a perspective he could understand; well, if it was what it seemed, a mere schoolboyish enthusiasm, he’d no doubt grow out of it. If he lived long enough.
“Jonathan,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Don’t you think your loyalty is perhaps a little excessive?”
“No,” said Dexter. “Not when his life depends on me, and vice versa.”
Philip shrugged. “I don’t know that I can fully understand your reasons.”
“All I’m asking is that you try. But don’t interfere.” It was no more conclusive than a stale-mate — but it was also a truce, of a kind.
Chapter Twenty-Three
David Vastarnyi lay and stared at the dim ceiling. He had no idea of the time, save that the hospital was quiet, his room was dark but for the concealed strip-lighting above the bedhead, and so he reckoned it must be pretty late. He didn’t feel sleepy. In fact, for the first time since he had woken to find himself there, his mind was working clearly. If they knew he was awake, or restless, they’d be sticking needles in him again, and he didn’t want any more of that. Oh sure, they thought they were helping him, and in the beginning they had, but now he had something to do, and needed a clear head for it. There was some pain — no, more like discomfort — but he could handle that. He thought back to his abortive drugs collar, frowning. Should have known Curtis would be armed. Should have known he’d take a chance and use the weapon.
Lying on the ground, curled over the incredible pain, he had known — as he had in that other alley — that he’d die like this; bleeding to death in a narrow, garbage-strewn — hell, he didn’t want to die! Not here — he got to his knees, doubled over with agony, then unsteadily to his feet, feeling blood seeping through the fingers pressed convulsively to chest and stomach. Okay, so he was a goner, but he’d be damned if he’d die in some stinking alley, so he had somehow gotten to the sidewalk. Then, because he discovered that he didn’t want to die there either and that he was, still, a police officer, he had lurched, staggered, and finally crawled the two blocks and couple of hundred miles to the nearest phone-booth. (It was broad daylight, but if people were about they did not pause, nor speak, nor give any assistance to the young man leaving a trail of blood on the sidewalk.) He had made it to the booth, had managed to put in the 10-13 call, then the demands of his injured body had taken over, and existence slipped away.
He remembered hearing Dexter’s voice; opening his eyes and seeing his face, feeling ridiculously pleased and relieved. Everything was going to be all right now that Dex was there. Jonno wouldn’t let him die.
That he had not died, he now knew, had been entirely due to the expertise of the doctors and nursing staff of County General. But at the time it had felt good to know that Jonno was there with him.
In eight years of being a loner, of playing a solo hand, he had never depended on anyone-else. Self-reliance is the name of the game. Stay a loner. That way you stay intact. But do you? When the barriers come down, albeit briefly, when the shell cracks, aren’t you the more vulnerable for having no one there to shield you, no supporting shoulder to lean on if you need it? He had never before found someone he could trust, someone whose commitment would be as total as his own would be, when he gave it. If he gave it.
Hey, c’mon, he told himself, you’re backing off again, Why? You don’t want to have to think about the price-ticket, is that it? Well, whatever you do, it’s going to cost you. And if something doesn’t have a price, maybe it’s not worth having? And sometimes, whatever the price, it’s worth paying? Every day of your life, if you have to. The two massive prices he had paid so far in his life had been sprung on him with no prior warnings, but this one, if he took it on, could come due any time.
Jonathan Michael Dexter III. He lay and thought about that, too. The college boy. The do-gooder. The White Knight, trying to change the world — getting kicked in the teeth every time by a world that didn’t want to be changed so thanks for nothing, sucker. But he didn’t lie there moaning about it. He got up, dusted himself off, and carried on. Not complaining. Doing what he had to do, because it was what he had to do. Learning from his mistakes — sometimes — but never giving up.
A good man, Reliable. The right man to have at your back when the situation turned sour, to have at your shoulder against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. A good team-mate. A good partner.
Backed, metaphorically, into a corner, Vastarnyi faced his own conclusions. They were a team, him and Jonno, For better or for worse. They’d have plenty of both, that was for sure, and that damned price-ticket would be waiting to fall due — alright. However it came down.
He grinned into the darkness, closing his eyes. Okay. You win. Give. Uncle. Towel’s in. We’re a team. God, I’m tired.
He slept.
* * * * * *
“Hi, Vas.” Dexter appeared at visiting time, his arms full. “How goes it?”
“Hi, Jonno.” And Vastarnyi grinned at the nurse who was busily straightening his bed. “Hey, hang around, honey. Santa may’ve brought some goodies for you too. Whadja bring, buddy?” Obligingly, Dexter unloaded himself, and Vastarnyi pounced on the magazines. “Playboy? Oh, brother, willya look at that? June is busting out all over…”
“Quit it, Vas. You’re embarrassing the nurse.”
“That’s okay. She embarrasses me every morning,” he said absently, regarding the centrefold. “Bounces me around like I was three-foot-nothing and five years old. Y’know,” he went on, in tones of mild outrage, “when she gives me a blanket-bath, she handles my balls like they were cheap bric-a-brac to be dusted under!”
“What do you expect me to do with them?” she snapped, needled, and Dexter clapped one hand firmly over Vastarnyi’s mouth as he opened it to reply.
“Don’t answer that!” he commanded. “Vas, your Crown Jewels may be important to you, but you can’t expect preferential treatment from a nurse, of all people.”
“Yes,” she said coldly. “Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all,” and retreated in good order while her adversary was still gagged.
“That could scar my male ego,” Vastarnyi grumbled, on release. “Okay, she’s gone, so where’s the stuff I asked for? ”
“Didn’t get it. I told you, Vas, I’m not smuggling junk food in to you. At least, not until you’re off the I.V. and back on main drainage.”
“An’ you call yourself my buddy,” Vastarnyi groaned, “I’d sell my soul for a bite of chili-dog.”
“In a day or so, maybe. Patience, Bohunk.”
“I’m suffering, Jonno…” he rolled anguished eyes. “You don’t know where they stick their tubes an’ things. Take a look.”
“No, thanks,” Dexter declined. “I’ve just eaten.”
“God, you’re a sadist.”
“You better believe it. Any time now I may bring in Dimitri. As it is, I had a hell of a time convincing him you were going to infect L.A. for quite a while longer.”
“Huh,” said Vastarnyi. “Any news on Curtis?”
“Nope. Seems to have gone to ground.” Disgruntled.
“Yeah, well, what do you expect? Wasn’t gonna hang around after offin’ a cop, was he?”
“Guess not. Got two bits of news, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Lt. Goldberg’s been transferred to Homicide, Metropolitan Division.”
“No kiddin’? Hey, that’s our stamping-ground!”
“That’s right. He pinned me in a corner and told me that if he caught us moonlighting in his patch, he would flay us alive with a blunt steak-knife.”
“It’s getting heavy, huh? Y’know, I think I might miss that bastard — he pinned you in a corner? What was he doing in Torrance? Don’t they have any Homicide fuzz of their own?”
“Sure they do. That’s bit of news number two. I’m back at East L.A.”
“Hey, fantastic!” Vastarnyi struggled to sit upright, and Dexter knew he’d have collected a bearhug if he’d been within reach. “Welcome home, buddy!” The Hungarian’s grin was exuberant. “That’s what I call news! Your appeal stood up, huh?”
“I guess. I just applied for a transfer back to East L.A., and it came through smooth as silk.”
“Great.” Vastarnyi lay back on his pillows, his expression suddenly guarded. If Philip Dexter got to hear of the move back, he’d stymie it; but he couldn’t say anything to Jonno about his brief conversation with his father, couldn’t warn him. How in hell’s name could he do a thing like that to him? He took a sudden interest in the glossy pages spread over the bed. “Hey, I’ve seen her around, I’m sure I have.” Holding up a double-page spread. “Isn’t she the go-go dancer in the Aloha?”
“Don’t know. Ask Dimitri. There’s a pretty good article in the August issue — Behavioural Psychology. Body Language.”
“The language these bodies are speaking don’t need no translatin’, good buddy,” Vastarnyi said, leching happily at the Playgirl of the Month. “When do I get out of here? Have they told you?”
“That rather depends on you, Vas,” Dexter said carefully, “See, they’re giving you a choice. Either three more weeks in here, or one more week and a convalescence.”
“Hell, that’s no choice!”
“That’s what I thought. So I’m taking a couple of weeks, too. Thought I’d go see my mother up in ‘Frisco. Want to come along?”
Vastarnyi looked at him. Then, gently: “Hey, c’mon, Dexter. You can’t do that to your Mom, turning up on the doorstep with the Bohunk in tow. And kinda shop-soiled to boot.”
“I phoned, explained, and asked her,” Dexter said. “She said ‘any friend of mine,’ so are you coming? She’s got a cook that could give Egon Ronay lessons.”
Check and mate. There was no way he could refuse, even if he had wanted too.
“Well, since you’re twisting, my arm, thanks.” He gave a sudden, affectionate smile “Thanks, partner.”
* * * * * *
In the fitful sunlight of the late-autumn day, the glassed-in solarium porch was a pleasant place to be. Vastarnyi was slumped in one of the recliners, staring morosely at nothing, fully-dressed and with a windbreaker jacket dropped over the arm of the chair. Dexter came across.
“You ready, Vas? The bags are in the car, so we’re all set. Vas? What’s up?”
“You read today’s paper?” Vastarnyi asked in a monotone.
“Didn’t have time. I was packing.” Dexter pulled up a chair, concerned by his appearance. “Vas, is something wrong?”
The newspaper was tossed into his lap. “Jonas was hit yesterday,” Vastarnyi’s voice was savage. “He’s dead.”
Dexter gazed blankly at the paper until he found the small paragraph tucked away in the bottom right-hand corner. That, it seemed, was all the death of Captain of Detectives rated. He stared at it, stunned and off-balance.
“Jonas…” he whispered. “OhmyGod…” Automatically he folded the paper and dropped it back on the side-table. They sat in silence, mourning not so much the man they had met only once, but the simultaneous death of their own hopes.
“We had everything going for us, there, didn’t we? Just for a moment, we knew where we were heading, and that we didn’t have to fight all the System every step of the way,” Vastarnyi murmured. “For a change, somebody up there liked us. Now there’s nothing. The end of the road. We’ve had our feet kicked out from under us. The door’s been slammed in our face.”
Dexter pulled himself out of shock, and reached out to put a hand on Vastarnyi’s shoulder. A depression was the last thing he should get into.
“Listen,” he said quietly. “Okay, so the door’s been slammed in our faces. But at least we know there is a door. Someone else’ll open it, someday — Jonas can’t have been one on his own, Vas, there has to be others like him. Law of Averages. We keep going, buddy, until we find them or they find us.” He paused, looking for a response on the pale, brooding face, “At least we’re not alone now. There are two of us, even if there are a hell of a lot of them.”
Vastarnyi raised his head and looked at him, the quirking smile coming slowly into being.
Again, this time cold sober, and without the stress of circumstance, they found that sense of total empathy.
“Thee’n’me,” Vastarnyi said.
“Against the world. C’mon.” Dexter got to his feet, extended a hand. “The world’s out there waiting.”
* * * * * *
For the sixth time in fifteen minutes, Eleanor Reiland crossed the room to the wide picture window and gazed up the drive. It remained empty.
“Honey, he did say round about five-thirtyish,” her husband said quietly.
“I know,” she sighed. “Frank, all those letters from the Academy, and now he’s bringing that person home? What…”
“Take it easy. You know Jon.”
“Exactly, I do know Jon. So what on earth is going to land on our doorstep this time? And that’s another thing — what is this Vastar-thing person convalescing from? Frank, Jon loathes him, so why — ”
“He’s your son,” he said, unanswerably. “Guess he’s having another go at reforming the unreformable, is all, so quit fretting.” That was asking the impossible. Eleanor had done nothing else but fret since the phone call from Jon Dexter a week ago. A tentative request of could he bring someone home for a few weeks’ convalescence had received an immediate ‘of course,’ but her next words ‘ — is it anyone we know?’ had been answered by a short silence. Then ‘Uh, no, you don’t know him, it’s Vas — David Vastarnyi — Mom, I’ve got to go, I’ll be late — thanks, Mom — ‘ and the phone had been quickly put down.
“But he made Jon’s life a misery in Academy, the things he did.”
“So the boy doesn’t bear malice.” Frank was more interested in the misfortunes of his pet football team. “Probably met up with him after all this time and had a sudden rush of philanthropy to the brain. After all, he hasn’t mentioned him in his letters for months.”
“They were assigned to the same area.”
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean they’d be living in each other’s pocket,” he pointed out reasonably.
“I wish I’d said we couldn’t have him,” Eleanor murmured.
“It’s a little late for that. Hey, buck up, honey. It won’t be that bad.”
“Won’t it? He could be — oh! Jon’s here!” The green Dodge was rounding the wide sweep of drive from the hidden gates, and Eleanor turned to hurry from the lounge — Frank caught her hand as she passed him.
“Honey,” he said gently, “don’t let Jon see how worried you are, huh?”
“Of course not! I wouldn’t dream of it. You never know, this Magyar Maniac might be house-trained by now.” And she dropped a kiss in his receding hairline. “I’ll be good, I promise. Even if he isn’t.”
She took few moments to compose herself, to hide the anxiety she felt, and present a smiling, welcoming face, then opened the door. To be confronted by the sight of her son, to catch a fleeting glimpse of an old, familiar expression on his face, before all her attention was claimed by the dark-haired boy he was half-supporting, half-carrying, and whose sweat-sheened pallor and dazed eyes told her instantly that he was at the end of his resources. The smile of welcome vanished, to be replaced by one of genuine concern.
“Oh, you poor boy!” she gasped. “Frank, quickly…!” He was at Dexter’s side almost immediately, and together they carried the now unconscious man inside and stretched him out on the couch. The blackout was momentary, and he was already stirring as Eleanor eased a cushion under his head. “What happened?”
“It’s my fault,” Dexter said wretchedly. “I kept on saying do you want to stop, but he said no way, so I didn’t. Should have known he’d push himself too far, but I wanted to get him up here as soon as possible.”
“Is this a relapse?” Frank said. “What’s he recovering from, son?”
“Multiple stab-wounds.” Dexter was too distracted to think maybe he ought to tone it down a little. Eleanor gave a gasp of horror.
“Well, get him upstairs to his bed,” Frank cut in calmly. “He’ll be fine after a good rest. Honey, you go turn the sheets down. Can you carry him up, Jon? It’ll be kind of awkward with the two of us up those stairs.”
“I can carry him. He’s not all that heavy.”
Between them, Dexter and Frank got Vastarnyi stripped and into a pair of Jon’s pyjamas, both relieved to see that the gauze dressings taped to his upper body remained white, unstained by blood, and Eleanor tucked the covers over him with gentle care.
“Well, that’s that,” Frank stood back. “All he needs now is sleep. C’mon, son, let’s leave him to it.”
Dexter hesitated, started to shake his head.
“Go on,” ordered Eleanor. “I’ll sit with him in case he wakes up.”
Frank took Dexter’s arm and towed him from the room, and Eleanor moved the chair to the side of the bed and sat down. Her unwanted guest was lying quiet, the semi-faint having drifted into sleep. She checked his pulse — it was fast and faint. She sighed and sat back.
So this was the Bohunk, the unspeakable man who had been her son’s bete noir during his training and early probation. He didn’t look like a savage. Her mental image had been of a hulking, beetle-browed present-day Neanderthal; the reality was a youngster with finely-honed aquiline features, the basic bone structure brought out by the gauntness of recent suffering. A handsome boy, she thought, leaning forward to smooth the tangle of dark hair back from his damp forehead.
Older than Jon or younger? She studied the white face. Younger, she decided, by a year or so. And vulnerable. Eleanor sighed again, remembering the brief glimpse she’d had of her son’s face before her attention had locked on Vastarnyi. She’d seen that expression before, from his earliest years onwards, and her memory supplied the small five-year-old’s voice. ‘Can I keep it, Mom, if I mend it?’ Birds with broken wings, gophers, rabbits, stray dogs and cats, even the occasional insect. And always the answer had had to be a gentle, regretful negative. Then he had graduated to misfits, drop-outs, drug addicts and alcoholics; helping, healing, straightening out the confused and lost and putting them back on the right track, only to find them off-base again within months; weeks, sometimes.
Now here was David Vastarnyi, the maniac, the schizo, injured and in need. Had Jon seen that vulnerability? Probably, which was why the boy was here, not left to convalesce alone in some anonymous apartment. Jon was always taking pity on the sick and injured, and nine times out of ten ended up getting hurt himself. This one had better not bite the hand that succoured him, or she would personally — The boy stirred, moaned, and she broke off her mental threat. This was no brash belligerent barbarian, only an injured, feverish boy.
“It’s all right,” she said quietly, resting her hand on his forehead. “Try and sleep.” His temperature was certainly up. What had Jon said? Multiple stab-wounds? Eleanor shivered. How had that happened? Jon had a lot of questions to answer, and if she knew her Frank, he’d be asking quite a few of them downstairs in the den.
* * * * * *
“Want some backbone in your coffee?” Frank asked and poured in a slug of whiskey without waiting for an answer.
“Thanks.”
“The kid looked kind of rough,” he observed, and got a wince from Dexter.
“Yes. He lost a lot of blood.”
“What happened, son?”
“He was jumped by a pusher he was trying to arrest.” And wearily he explained the bare details of the incident. Were it not for the self-blame in his voice, Frank would have accepted it as a regrettable, but it-goes-with-the-badge happening.
“Hey, loosen up, Jon. What’re you kicking yourself for? It’s none of it your fault,” he said, concerned.
“I should have been there.”
“Oh.” Frank thought he understood. Not liking the guy, Jon had taken another patrol rather than work with the Bohunk, so he’d been on his own making the collar, with no back-up to save his skin, so now Jon was flaying himself. “Hell, you weren’t to know.”
“Yes I should. I did know, in a way. That’s why I made him give his word there’d be no solo moonlighting. But he got so wild over that stunt Father pulled, he just went hunting trouble.”
Abruptly, Frank realised there were a whole lot of ramifications here that he hadn’t suspected.
“Yeah? What’s Phil done now?”
“Nothing. Don’t tell Mom, for God’s sake.”
“If he hasn’t done anything, how the hell can I not tell her about it?” he demanded, reasonably. “I thought moonlighting was banned by law for cops.”
“That’s second after-hours jobs. We moonlight police work.”
Frank filed away that ‘we.’ “Off-duty arrests? Kind of unorthodox, huh? Okay, so how come you weren’t there? And what had Phil done to send him off the rails?”
“Because he’d used his pull in high places to get me transferred to Torrance, then tried to bribe Vas into leaving L.A. altogether.”
“Yeah?” said Frank, wonderingly.
“Five thousand dollars. Seven if he insisted. Vas told him where to stick it, went out and collared Curtis. Or tried to, too damned mad again to think of his gun until it was too late. Don’t tell Mom.”
“Don’t be crazy!” Frank snorted. “C’mon, son, sit down and tell it right from the beginning. How come you and him are working together in the first place, when all your letters said you hated his guts?”
“That was in Academy,” Dexter protested, “and I still hate his guts, sometimes. But we’re a good team, Frank.”
“So tell me about it.”
So he did, all of it; all that he had learned about Vastarnyi, all they had done together, with repeated pleas of ‘don’t tell Mom’ spaced throughout the somewhat disjointed account. Frank Reiland listened, fascinated and sympathetic, one small part of his mind castigating Philip Dexter. That man had never learned how to handle his son and he was now taking the consequences. But there was a hell of a lot of the father in the boy, leavened, thank God, by Eleanor’s contribution to his make-up. Neither man noticed a very thoughtful Eleanor re-pass the half-open door on her way back upstairs.
“And that’s it,” Dexter finished, lamely. “I’m back at East L.A., and I suppose we go on the way we did before, staying alive and hoping another Jonas’ll turn up.”
“That’s the name of the game, son,” Frank agreed. “Seems like you two have got a good thing going there. Batman and Robin, huh?” and gave him a wry, affectionate smile.
“No, I guess Laurel and Hardy may might be nearer the mark.” Dexter smiled back, a palpable effort on his part.
“In my book, Jon, that guy Jonas knew what he was talking about,” he said quietly. “Don’t let it go, son.”
“Not going to.” He put down the empty cup and stood up. “Thanks, Frank.”
“Anytime.”
“Think I’ll go see how he is,” he announced, and headed for the door. Frank followed.
* * * * * *
Dexter eased open the bedroom door and crept in, moving silently to the bedside.
“How is he?” he asked in a whisper.
“I’ve called Doctor Fletcher and asked him to call round in the morning,” Eleanor said. “Jon, whatever possessed you to drag him all this way? He wasn’t fit to leave the hospital, let alone travel.”
“They said it would be okay if we took it in easy stages,” he defended himself guiltily. “Besides, he’s not very keen on hospitals.” Frank entered quietly, catching Eleanor’s eye.
“So where else should he bring him?” he drawled. He was ignored.
“I’ll stay with him for a while, Mom,” Dexter volunteered, perching on the edge of the bed.
“Don’t be silly, Jonathan. You’re tired out after that drive.”
“I’m not. I can—”
Vastarnyi muttered something, his fingers plucking at the sheet, head turning restlessly on the pillow.
“Jon — Jonno — ez az en hibam — sajnalom — ” Before Eleanor could move or speak to comfort the distress in that faint whisper, Dexter had taken Vastarnyi’s hand.
“Take it easy, buddy. I’m here.”
“What’s he saying?” she asked anxiously, maternally attentive.
“He’s out of his head. Forgets his English sometimes.” But the words had taken him back to the darkness of that first alley, the torrential rain drenching the whole world, pouring down the Hungarian’s anguished face like tears. “Everything’s all right, Davie. Relax, take it easy.”
“… didn’t take it. Can’t tell a guy a thing like that… his own atya… five grand, for chrissake…”
“Take it easy.”
Questions burned on Eleanor’s tongue, but a sudden fierce glance and headshake from Frank kept her silent.
“Jonno?” It was barely audible. He wasn’t conscious, but Dexter knew he was aware of his presence, the grip of the fingers on his wrist told him that. “Damned if I’ll die in some stinking alley…”
“Not you, Davie. Hold on,” he said gently. “I’m right here.”
In the diffused light., Eleanor could see her son’s face in profile; gravely intent beneath the heavy blond forelock, expression unguardedly compassionate, tender, and it told her more than his words ever could.
“I’ll be right back,” she said vaguely, and left, her husband on her heels.
“How is the invalid?” he asked, refilling his favourite pipe as he followed her down the stairs.
“I’ve persuaded Tony Fletcher to come round tomorrow, first thing.”
“Uh-huh. Sit down, honey. You look beat.”
“Nonsense. Get me some coffee, Frank, I’m going back in a minute. You know, when Jon was a little boy, five or six, he was always bringing hurt animals home. He never really grew out of the habit, I suppose. It always used to be the same question: can I keep it if I mend it? I don’t know how Carol put up with it when he started on the down-and-outs from the hostels.”
“She didn’t put up with it for very long,” Frank said. Having never taken to Carol, he considered Jon well rid of her.
“Sparrows with broken wings,” Eleanor mused, only half listening, and Frank picked up his newspaper.
“And he’s still doing it,” he said with a grunt of amusement. “Though if I’m right about this latest acquisition, that young hellion is no sparrow. More like a sparrow-hawk. It’s okay, honey, Jon knows it. You can give him a falconer’s gauntlet for Christmas.” And he snapped open the paper with an air of finality that made Eleanor sigh and aim a mock cuff at his ear.
“Did he tell you anything? About what happened?”
“Yeah. The kid got unlucky, or damn careless, more like, trying to make a drugs-arrest on his own. The guy jumped him with a knife, and he couldn’t get to his gun in time. Don’t fret, it’s not likely to happen to Jon. He’s one half of a damn good team.”
“Is he?”
“Yes. Take my word on it.” And he buried his head in the pages with studied purposefulness. Slowly Eleanor poured herself more coffee. “Can I keep it if I mend it?” How many times had she wanted to say yes and had known, if she did, the heartbreak that would lie in wait. You take them in; lost, or sick, or injured — you mend the split flesh, the shattered bone, smooth the broken pinions, and sometimes for all you can do, they die. And even when they don’t it’s worse, then. Because you can’t cage a wild thing, even with love. You have to open your hands and let them free — and they’re gone, taking a part of your heart with them.
Jon had long since grown too tall for her sheltering. It was no longer her place to say ‘no’ — hadn’t been for years — he had made his choice the first time he’d gone to a downtown welfare shelter. And this time? Knowing him, he’d made the choice open-eyed and consenting.
Briskly, Eleanor returned to the guest-room. “Dinner will be ready any time. Go and wash up, dear.”
“I’ll eat it here.”
“You’ll do no such thing! Alicia would hand in her notice! Four-course meals are for set dining tables, not trays! And she’s prepared your favourite menu. Out.” Reluctantly, he obeyed, and she settled herself in the chair.
* * * * * *
Vastarnyi’s sleep was quiet, and Eleanor, after taking a light snack, had allowed Dexter to spell her for a few hours so that she could pump her husband out of his hearing. But Frank was not forthcoming, though she knew very well that he had been told far more. Her menfolk were protecting her again, and neither threats nor cajoling could win more from Frank or Dexter than the bare facts she had already been told. So she returned to her vigil, evicting her sleepy son with a promise to call him if there was any change for the worse, and in the dim, quiet room, wondered uneasily about Jon and his almost possessive attitude towards the sleeping man.
“Hi.” It was a tentative greeting, and she snapped back to the immediate, finding herself looking into very blue eyes.
“Hello.” She smiled. “How are you feeling?” She checked his pulse gently. Still fast.
“Okay, I guess. You’re not a nurse.”
“No. I’m Eleanor Reiland.”
“Jonno don’t look like you. On the outside,” he said, drowsily. “Didn’t think you were a nurse. Your perfume’s too nice. Hey, I’m sorry.”
“What for, for heaven’s sake?”
“Fading out on you like I did.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said severely. “Are you hungry?”
“No, thanks.”
“Do you want to see Jon? I can fetch him.”
“Uh-uh. I guess he’s lost enough sleep over me, lately.” His eyes were beginning to close again, and Eleanor patted the hand she still held.
“You sleep as well, David. You’ve got two weeks to get your strength back, so there’s no need to rush anything.”
He smiled up at her, an engaging, totally charming, and uncalculated smile. “Your son’s a heel, dropping me on your doorstep,” he murmured.
“He isn’t. Where else would he bring you?” Echoing Frank’s words. But he did not hear, he was asleep again, his hand resting quietly in hers, the long fingers curled lightly, holding on.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Feeling better?” Dexter asked quietly. Vastarnyi opened his eyes.
“Hey, I must have dozed off. Has the doc gone?”
“Couple of hours ago.” Dexter smiled. “Reckon you can handle something to eat?”
“I reckon maybe. What did he say?” Warily.
“Quite a bit,” he said ruefully. “Most of it to me for making that drive with only one or two breaks. He and Mom are in agreement all along the line. What you need is rest, quiet, good food, and later on, light exercise. And the next few days you stay in bed.”
“Hell, I’ve spent weeks in bed already!” he groaned disgustedly.
“No you haven’t.”
“Well, feels like it anyhow,” he grumbled.
“Quit complaining, or we’ll dump you in the nearest geriatric home. How do you fancy a ham-and-sweet corn omelette?”
“With chili-sauce?” Hopefully.
Dexter laughed. “‘Licia’s got some of her own brew that should be right up your street!” He did something to the night-table, and the room was bathed in sunlight as the drapes moved from the windows with a faint swish.
“Wow,” said Vastarnyi, craning up on his elbows to peer at the apparently sentient curtaining. “What’s all this?”
“You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.” Dexter grinned, sliding aside a panel to reveal a small bank of buttons. “T.V. Radio. Stereo. Tape-deck. Drapes and sun blinds. Light control. Intercom to the kitchen. You can spend hours playing with these, but if you start dismantling them to see how they work, what Curtis did to you will pale into insignificance beside what Frank will inflict on you.”
“Wow,” said Vastarnyi again, reverently, not listening to a word. “Who did all this?”
“Frank. He’s an electronic-gadget-freak. Well, he owns West Coast Electronics — built it up from scratch with his own patented designs.”
“Yeah? Who’s Frank?”
“Reiland. Mom’s husband.”
“Your Mom picked a winner.” He pushed a button at random, and a cassette deck slid from behind a wall-panel, presenting itself, along with a rack of cassettes, for his inspection. “Wow.”
Dexter leaned over and pushed another button, and a green light glowed until a woman’s voice said, “Yes?”
“The omelette will be fine, ‘Licia,” Dexter said, “With your own chili sauce, please.”
“Yes, Mr. Dexter.” The green light came on again briefly, until the button was released.
“Wow,” breathed Vastarnyi.
Eleanor brought up the tray, entering the room quietly to see two heads, the blond and the dark, close together over the tape rack. She felt almost an intruder until she realised there was an acrimonious argument going on over the merits of a Jazz group. Dexter glanced up and smiled.
“Here’s your breakfast. Though only a sybarite has breakfast at 12:30.”
“Just so long as I’m having a good time. Thanks, Mrs. Reiland.”
“Just make sure you eat it all,” she said. “And you can have more coffee if you want it. Jon dear, don’t stay too long and overtire him.”
“Of course not,” he said, irritated. She passed over the snap in her son’s voice but filed it away.
“Do you read much, David? Jon can bring books from downstairs, or fetch some from the City Library.”
“Uh, Howard the Duck?” Vastarnyi said, hopefully, and got a light cuff around the ear from Dexter. “Okay already! Batman? Captain America? The Hulk?”
“Quit it, Bohunk.” Dexter grinned. “Don’t listen to him, Mom, he’s putting you on. I’ve got a copy of Zenophon’s Anabasis in my room I’m not going to let him read.”
The reaction to this threat startled Eleanor. Vastarnyi sat bolt upright in bed, an expression of horror on his face.
“You haven’t! You wouldn’t! Dexter, you yellow-haired sadist!” he yelled, “You haven’t got Zenophon! You wouldn’t know what to do with Zenophon if he bit your a– ankle!”
“Zenophon’s Anabasis,” Dexter repeated, unflustered. “I won it my first year in High School. Don’t think I ever got around to reading it.”
Outrage joined the horror on the gypsy features. “That,” he howled, “is blasphemy! I knew it, I always knew it! You’re just one of those run-of-the-mill dumb blonds! You’re just a pretty face! Not a brain in your head!”
“Zenophon’s Anabasis,” he said again, grinning widely. As if this had all been too much for his weakened constitution, Vastarnyi collapsed back on his pillows, clutching feebly at the nearest part of Dexter’s anatomy, his arm.
“Okay! Uncle,” he groaned. “I take it all back. Jonno, I crawl, I kiss your feet. You’ll let me read it, huh? Pretty-please? With sugar frosting?”
“I’ll think about it,” he chuckled. “You slobber on my hand, and you’ll read nothing. I’ll disconnect all Frank’s gadgetry as well.” A whimper came from the prostrated Hungarian, and a pair of agonised blue eyes were rolled pleadingly up to Dexter’s face. “You can have it later on. Eat your breakfast, Vas.”
“Uh, yeah, okay. There’s –uh— rather a lot of it?” he added, almost under his breath.
“No dice,” Dexter said firmly, “Eat it, Vas. It’ll do you good.”
“I’m not all that hungry, Jonno,” he confessed. “The coffee’s all I want right now, honest.” Eleanor made a small sound of protest, and Dexter sighed.
“Come on, Vas,” he said gently, putting the tray on the night-table. “It’s okay, Mom, I’ll deal with this.”
And he did. With a mixture of bullying and coaxing, he persuaded the patient to put away most of the omelette, and Eleanor took away an almost cleared tray. But she left it in the kitchen and did not return, walking out instead to the glassed-in conservatory. When Frank came in search of his wife, he found her earnestly pinching the tips from the branches of the little solanum, regarding it with unmasked concern. A concern, Frank guessed accurately, that was quite unrelated to the health of her beloved house-plants.
“What’s the problem, honey?” he asked.
“It needs re-potting,” she said, abstractedly.
“Nonsense — the berries’ll be on it for weeks yet.” He put an arm around her, led her along the shelves. “What else? Has the cyclamen got club-root? The poinsettia come down with leaf-mould? Or has the saxifrage got fallen arches? What’s really bothering you?” He knew his wife’s habits, and when she was troubled, she came out here and fidgeted with the plants. When Jon had announced his intention of becoming a policeman, she had nearly ruined the hibiscus.
“Nothing,” she said shortly.
“It’s that kid upstairs,” he contradicted her, and saw from her expression that he had hit the mark. “Listen,” he soothed. “He’s okay. That kind are born to hang.” He gave a snort of amusement at his own idiom. “And Jon’ll either be hauling on the rope or swinging right alongside him.”
“Franklin,” said Eleanor, wounded at his facetiousness. “It isn’t funny. I’m worried about Jon.”
“Oh, come on now!” he cajoled. “It’s all right, there’s nothing to worry about. They take care of each other. That’s what it’s all about.”
“That’s what what is all about?” she repeated in a bleat of disbelief. “Franklin, what are you talking about?”
“They’re partners — a team.”
“No. Just because they happen to work in the same place. He’s just another of Jon’s lame ducks.”
“Uh-uh.” Frank shook his head, grinning. “He’s a whole lot more than that. Honey,” he went on, blithely ignoring the wide blue eyes fixed on his face. “You must have seen the change in Jon. He’s more confident, positive, demonstrative, even. Where’s Jon’s concerned, that can’t be anything but good. Especially after Carol.”
“That,” said Eleanor, “is a matter of opinion. They can’t be partners.” A statement of fact, in a cold determined voice. Frank gazed at her, startled.
“Why does that sound like something Phil could have said?”
“Yes,” she said. “So tell me why he tried to buy off Vastarnyi? Or shall I tell you? To keep him away from Jon! Phil could see what was happening, he could see it wasn’t healthy!”
“Oh-oh.” Frank sighed. “How much did you overhear?”
“Enough. Oh, Frank, I couldn’t believe it of Jon, but his attitude confirms it!”
“It does?” Wary but bewildered.
“He hovers round him, coaxes him; and Frank, David responds to it. Jon’s so protective — possessive — about him. It’s as if he’s jealous of anyone else taking an interest. I was excluded,” she finished, hurt. “I hardly know what to think.”
“Let’s call a spade a spade,” Frank chuckled, “What you think is that they’re queer for each other.”
“Franklin!” she wailed wretchedly. “I don’t want to think that! I don’t know what to think — oh, Franklin, do something!”
“Like what? You want I should throw the kid out on his ear, maybe?”
“Good grief, no!”
“Okay, so I’ll throw Jon out. I mean, we can’t have them conducting a relationship like that under our roof.”
“Franklin, will you please be serious!”
“Eleanor,” he said, struggling to control his laughter. “You be serious. You don’t really think that about Jon. Or Dave. You’re overtired, worried about that injured boy upstairs, and afraid that next time it could be Jon.” The blunt approach worked. “You’re not seeing things with your usual clarity. It’s nothing like that. I know, because Jon’s told me. He never had a brother. Neither did Dave. You could say that’s what they’ve got now. Does that ease your mind, or shall I order a few dozen more plants for you to mutilate?”
“Oh.” She was silent for a moment, and he knew he had won. Then, “Frank? Tell me all he told you about Davie?”
* * * * * *
From then on, any reticence Eleanor might have felt towards her guest was dispelled completely, as if it had never been. It was no longer ‘David’, but ‘Davie,’ and she spoiled him shamelessly, especially when she discovered that he did not have any of the reserve that Jon had, even as a child, and which had prevented anything that Philip Dexter considered mollycoddling. But when she came to think of it, Frank was right. Some of Jon’s reserve was beginning to disappear. He seemed to be more spontaneous than before.
However, for the next few days she had little time to spare for her son. Vastarnyi was given all her attention and basked in her growing affection. It was an affection that was returned in full measure. His formal ‘Mrs. Reiland’ became ‘Eleanor’ on her insistence, but by the end of the second day, during a Vastarnyi-wheedle that failed to get her consent for him to get up and come downstairs for a while, Eleanor had become Momma Dex. The nickname touched and pleased her, and it stuck. Dexter, too, was pleased that his mother had accepted Vastarnyi — in fact, it was obvious that she doted on him, and Dexter was ridiculously delighted to see it.
The next day, the invalid was allowed downstairs, ensconced on the rear patio to soak up the sun, and from then on the household revolved around him. But he was a reluctant pivot. Once up and mobile, he found it hard to get used to having Eleanor, Alicia — the daily-help-cum-fancy-cook and housekeeper — and occasionally Dexter, hovering at his elbow to fulfil any whim he might unguardedly express. Something was going to have to give.
Six days after his dramatic arrival, Vastarnyi took advantage of the temporary disappearance of both his female attendants at the same time and ambled down to the tennis court, where Frank was systematically destroying Dexter in a best-of-three sets. Vastarnyi sat down crosslegged under a tree looking relaxed, sun-tanned, and contented, and became the self-appointed referee.
“Advantage, Reiland,” he drawled happily. “Dis-advantage, Dexter.”
“Can it, Bohunk,” Dexter snarled, as Frank prepared to send another service sizzling down the court; it was the first time he had managed to threaten the older man’s serve, and an irreverent maniac on the sidelines was the last thing he needed. Frank served an ace, the ball raising a puff of dust in the narrow angle at the corner of the court, and Dexter ended up on his back in a desperate and vain attempt at a return.
“Game to Reiland,” Vastarnyi announced, grinning, as Dexter picked himself up and ruefully inspected the green grass-stain on the seat of his white tennis shorts. “Wimbledon Centre Court next year, buddy?”
“I said can it!” Dexter knew when he was being psyched, gritted his teeth and prepared to serve.
“Yeah — fault — Gee, sorry, am I putting you — double fault, love-fifteen — off?”
Frank swallowed his laughter. “You play tennis, Dave?” he asked.
“No,” said Dexter quickly, “Pat-ball’s about his limit.”
“Haven’t for a couple of years.” Vastarnyi ignored the gibe. “I’m no Arthur Ashe, but I gotta pretty good backhand smash. Teach it to you if you like, Jonno.” Dexter opened his mouth to tell him exactly what he could do with his backhand smash, but was forestalled by an agitated Eleanor, who had tracked her wandering charge from his sun-bed.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Davie! Good Lord, you’ve not been out of the hospital a week, and you’re thinking of tennis –? Jon, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, egging him on in his condition.”
“Huh?” said Dexter, bemused.
“Yeah,” said Vastarnyi, solemnly. “Should be ashamed. Are you ashamed, J.D.?” And he offered Eleanor his arm, escorting her back to the patio. Dexter snarled voicelessly, picked up the tennis-balls, and retreated to the baseline, where he managed to serve double-fault after double-fault to make a gift of game, set and match to Frank.
But the next day was Sunday, and Frank carried a reluctant Eleanor off to church. She managed to exasperate Dexter with a long catalogue of do’s and don’ts — mostly don’ts — all of them aimed at the invalid’s well-being, before the front door closed behind her elegant back, and he let out an explosive sigh of relief.
He met Vastarnyi’s rueful smile with a sympathetic grin, and was not surprised when he said: “Jonno, I love your Momma dearly, but I’m gonna smother in eiderdown before she’s finished with me. Can’t you convince her I’m not made of Dresden china?”
“Frank already tried. Didn’t get through. Still, we’ve got the morning to ourselves — they usually go on to a friend’s house for coffee after the service, and Frank won’t let her break that routine now that you’re not about to relapse on us again. So what do you want to do?”
A wide grin spread over Vastarnyi’s face.
“Betcha five bucks I can cream you in straight sets,” he challenged. Dexter looked at him.
“Pat-ball, okay. Tennis is out, though. Right out.”
“Scared I’d lick you, huh? Okay, Jonno,” he said humbly. “If you say so.”
Dexter shot him a suspicious glance, but was met by a wide-eyed, totally guileless gaze.
They were on their way to the court for the ‘pat-ball’ session, Dexter in white shorts and shirt, Vastarnyi in the amputated Levi’s that doubled as swim-shorts and a Snoopy t-shirt, when Alicia Reynolds arrived.
She studied them gravely for a moment. Then: “Mrs. Reiland is going to be extremely annoyed, Mr. Dexter.”
“You won’t tell on us, will you?” he pleaded, and Vastarnyi put on his most winning smile. “We’re only going to pat a ball over the net a few times, is all.” She thought about it.
“We-ell,” she said doubtfully. Dexter added his smile to the barrage. “If it is only pat-ball. Just don’t overdo it.”
“Great come and watch us, Alicia,” Dexter offered. “You can keep score.”
“I’ve got work to do,” she told him dismissively, and went into the house. Vastarnyi’s charming smile became a wicked grin.
“Toss you for first serve, Citrom Sajt!”
Dexter threw the balls at him.
Vastarnyi had not exaggerated his own skill — the back-hand smash was more than pretty fair, it was devastating. He slammed the balls down the court at what seemed like Mach 1 to the astounded Dexter, who was bounding about like a demented jackrabbit trying to return his shots. He had been expecting a quiet, non-competitive game of pat-ball geared solely to his partner’s physical condition, but the Vastarnyi had other ideas. So Dexter found himself being hammered into the grass, sweat running into his eyes, and those damned balls coming at him like guided missiles.
Not surprisingly, he lost the first set 6-3, because Vastarnyi was playing to win; moreover, he was going to win in style. Dexter fought back the second set, and won it, 6-4, on the only break of serve, and it was not easy. But the third set was breaking even, until he noticed how long it was taking Vastarnyi to walk back to the baseline, and that he was letting some shots past when a stretch would have reached them.
Vastarnyi was finding out the hard way, as usual, that he had over-estimated his strength and fitness. Those last two serves had wrenched the barely-healed muscles — he was sweating with sheer blind agony. It took effort now even to move, and the court was greying out of focus. He could have stopped at any time, called the game off as a draw — but he had to win. It wasn’t a question of wanting to — he had to win. He was no longer consciously playing, he was responding to circumstances like a pre-programmed automaton, and his breathing was becoming more laboured every minute, when Dexter, after several returns that hit just out, served a double-fault and said: “Okay, I owe you five bucks. My game is real off today.”
He was waiting for some come-back, having left himself wide-open with careful deliberation, but got none. Vastarnyi merely headed for the house, dropping the racquet on one of the patio chairs as he crossed the sunny, paved area. Dexter watched him out of sight, picked up the balls, let the net down, deciding to give him five minutes to get his breath back, then go up and see if he was okay.
It was as well he didn’t wait five minutes, because Vastarnyi had problems. The abused, over-strained muscles around ribs and diaphragm had gone into spasm, and he was fighting for breath, gasping like a landed fish. It was a frightening handful of minutes before Dexter’s emergency measures had effect.
Vastarnyi was stretched flat on his back, still sounding like an asthmatic with the croup, but with healthy colour slowly taking the place of the cyanotic grey beneath his tan, and Dexter got some codeine into him as a further aid to relaxation of muscle.
“Pat-ball!” he hissed, made furious by his scare. “Pat a ball over the net a few times!”
“Gee, you’re a sore loser.” Vastarnyi tried a feeble grin. “You’re only mad because I licked you. C’mon, J.D., I gave you fair warning.”
“You didn’t have to cripple yourself, for Christ’s sakes!”
“I know.” It was a sigh. Dexter knew that Vastarnyi’s opponent out on that court hadn’t been himself, it had been Vastarnyi. “Hey, give me a hand up. I’m gonna take a shower, then we’ll eat.”
“You should stay put,” Dexter objected.
“Horseapples,” said Vastarnyi, craning up on one elbow, and, with help, got to his feet. “D’you think ‘Licia noticed anything? I reckon she saw me come in.”
“We can find out — Mom’ll blow her top if she gets to know. We’ll have to bribe her.”
“Yeah. Jonno, my knees don’t feel too good.”
“OhmyGod! Vas, Mom’ll be home anytime!”
“Don’t panic. I can fake it. Let’s get downstairs, huh?”
“But –”
“It’ll be okay,” he insisted. “I’ll stretch out on the patio. We could have lunch there, an’ give my damn knees a chance to come round.”
It worked, just, for that day at least. Eleanor arrived home to find both of them dozing on recliners in the sun of the Indian Summer, lunch already laid out on the cedar barbeque table. But the following day was a different matter, for Vastarnyi’s overstrained muscles had stiffened up to such an extent that ‘faking it’ was out of the question. As Frank discovered, finding him sitting halfway down the stairs, able to move neither up nor down.
“What goes on?” he demanded of the pale-faced youngster. Vastarnyi gave him a weak grin.
“Hi, Frank,” he said.
“Where’s Jon?”
“Runnin’ a bath. I’m feeling kinda stiff this morning.”
“Yeah? So what did you do yesterday?”
“Well, we had — uh — a quiet game of pat-ball.”
“You don’t say,” Frank drawled, leaning there and looking down at him. “Pat-ball, huh?” He studied the strained features — sweat beaded forehead and upper lip, but his colour wasn’t high. “You got fever?”
“Don’t think so,” Vastarnyi checked his own pulse and shook his head. “I’m okay, ‘cept my muscles have gone on strike.”
“Okay,” Frank said briskly. “Come on, let’s get you out of Eleanor’s way, or she’ll go sky-high. Jon! Hey, Jon, leave the bath and come here.”
Moments later, he appeared, an innocent and defensive expression on his blond features. “Oh, hi, Frank,” he said brightly.
“Never mind the socializing. Get this lunatic through the kitchen and out to my car. I’ll stall your mother.”
“But –”
“Don’t stand there like a bemused sheep!” he snapped, exasperated. “Shift his ass outa here!” And departed.
“What the blazes–” Dexter started, bewildered.
“Frank’s got A Plan,” Vastarnyi said grinning. “C’mon, Lemon, shift my ass outa here!”
“I’ll kick it out, clear out of the state!” he snarled, and hauled the Hungarian to his feet, ignoring the yelps of pain. Frank’s plan was simple, and he mentally kicked himself for not having thought of it before. His Golf Club had a resident coach-cum-physiotherapist, and that gentleman’s expertise in muscle-manipulation was what Vastarnyi needed during the latter stages of his recuperation. Well, he certainly needed it now.
Eleanor had not been given an opportunity to put two and two together — he had cornered her in the library and given her a fast and enthusiastic account of the brainwave. He’d take the kid over now, before Jeff got too booked up for the day. They’d have breakfast there too. Jon was coming as well, in case Dave got difficult, and they’d see her later. By the time it occurred to her to be suspicious, they were halfway to the Golf Club.
For the rest of their vacation, Vastarnyi spent part of each day under the skilful hands of Jeff Argenti, while Dexter tried to beat Frank at golf and failed, and by the end of the second week was well on the way to attaining his usual fitness. Since he was so obviously benefiting from her husband’s brainwave, Eleanor forgot her suspicions and removed some of the metaphoric cotton-wool she had wrapped around her invalid but saw no reason to stop indulging her Davie.
As usual, Dexter, having enjoyed his vacation, was more than ready to get back to work, and he was full of new ideas — ideas he was trying out on Vastarnyi’s ears while finishing his packing. He was chattering happily away, folding shirts and sweaters neatly into the suitcase, when he realised that he was getting zero response from the Hungarian. Vas was standing by the side of the bed, forefinger prodding at the ranked buttons on the panel. The drapes executed a jerky pasadoble; the T.V. set appeared from its niche, returned; the cassette rack and player emerged slid silently back into place. But it wasn’t a game — it was a moody, desultory fidgeting, and it alerted Dexter’s early-warning system.
“Vas,” he said casually. “Something bothering you?”
“No,” said Vastarnyi. The sun blinds flipped shut, slanted open again.
“You know, we’re going to have to get a system worked out. We’ve both got contacts, we need to set up an information network, so that anything one set misses gets picked up by the other.” He was speaking his thoughts, enthusiastically presenting ideas — but the response, any response, was missing. “Vas. Something is bothering you.”
“No,” said Vastarnyi. But he stopped pushing buttons, stood there tense and miserable and silent. Dexter stood with a folded shirt in his hands and looked at him, with sympathy. It came to him, quite suddenly, what the trouble was.
“He’s not going to interfere, Vas. I saw to that.”
“What?” Bewilderment was etched into his face as he turned.
“My father,” Dexter said, laying the shirt in place. “I fixed that, Vas. I went and talked to him.”
“But I never told you about that,” Vas said, half-stammering the words. “I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t –” The rest was in Hungarian, incomprehensible to Dexter.
“I don’t know what it was they had you hyped with,” he said lightly, packing handkerchiefs into corners, “but I reckon the C.I.A. or someone should patent it. You didn’t know what you were saying, I guess. Anyhow, I asked a few questions, and you gave me the answers, and I went and talked to my father.” He paused, waiting again for some response, got none. “He won’t interfere again. We’ve got nothing to worry about on that score.”
To punctuate that statement he clipped the case shut — stood and looked at the back of his silent partner. Then he walked around the bed to stand beside him.
“Hey,” he said quietly, got what he wanted, the Hungarian’s attention, and put both hands on the tense shoulders. “It’s going to be all right,” he said. “And there’s nothing else that matters.”
It needed some kind of added emphasis. Vas wasn’t convinced.
“Yes, but–”
“Anyhow,” Dexter said firmly, “it’s not important.” And on a completely unexpected impulse, gave him a bearhug. It surprised him, but it winded the Vastarnyi in more ways than one — he stared at Dexter in comical astonishment for several seconds before he started to grin.
“No,” he said in delighted realisation. “I guess it’s not, at that.” He paused, thoughtful. Then, wickedly; “An’ that’s awful Un-American, Jonno.”
* * * * * *
They drove back to Los Angeles on the Sunday after a fond farewell from Eleanor, her embraces indiscriminately spread between both young men. Dexter, as always, was faintly embarrassed by his mother’s demonstrations of love, but not the Vastarnyi. He hugged back with enthusiasm, kissed her warmly, and winded Frank with a bearhug before climbing into the Dodge.
Los Angeles was made in good time, and Dexter delivered the Hungarian into the bosom of the Hung Fat family before going over to Santa Monica. Both men felt fit, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and were more than ready to report for duty the following morning. They had a lot of time to catch up on, regardless of the system’s approval or disapproval.
But the System opened the next round in the bout of guerrilla warfare. Before roll-call, Dexter and Vastarnyi were ordered to report to Captain Hoffman, and were escorted there by a jubilant Brendan. He had won; perhaps not the total victory he would have wished, but Brendan was not greedy. They were out of his hair.
Standing to attention before the Captain’s desk, with Brendan gloating beside them, they awaited the bombshell they knew was coming. But when it came, it was almost an anti-climax. They were being transferred from East Los Angeles, yes, but they were being sent to the same posting — Parker Centre, the headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department.
“You’re troublemakers,” Hoffman told them grimly. “So you’re going where they know how to deal with trouble-makers. I reckon it’s only fair to tell you that the I.A.D. have got your names on their list, so watch your step. That’s all. Get your things together and move out. You report there, to Captain Parr, at 13:00 hours.”
And that was that. They were out of the office before they had fully assimilated what had happened; were back in the locker-room packing up their few effects.
“That’s a filthy trick to pull!” Vastarnyi said suddenly, slamming the metal locker door so hard that it rang like a gong. “Okay, transfer us, kick us onto another dung-heap, but to sic I.A.D. on us? Troublemakers, huh?”
“That’s what the man said.” Dexter closed his own door with more decorum. “Still, as long as we don’t get caught doing anything Internal Affairs can use against us…” He paused, glanced at the white fury in Vastarnyi’s face, and smiled bitterly, dropping his free arm across the tensed shoulders. “If’ that’s the way they want it labelled, that’s the way they’re going to get it. Thee’n’me, buddy.”
“Against the world!” Vastarnyi finished, and the tension dissolved. He grinned, a jaunty, sidelong quirk of malicious humour. “Right on, partner. The way I see it,” he confided cockily, “this way we can give ’em twice as much sweat in half the time!”
Dexter laughed. “Vas, if we can’t, then we’re not trying!”
Shoulder to shoulder, they walked out into the morning.
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I wasn’t expecting to like this story as I only read S&H fan fiction. But I really, really got into this novel! I could see Starsky and Hutch in Vas and Dex. Their essence was brilliantly captured. I love the way they go from practically enemies to friends. I can’t wait to see where this series leads and what else these guys get up to. I don’t think they can keep out of trouble for long.