When I get there, it's a scene.
Two of the young moms are there, freaking out; one of them's brushing off her blouse and screaming, “Oh God, gross!” and the other's wheeling her stroller backward fast. Then they both race away toward North America.
I see why right away.
Shit. All over the ground near the fence that blocks off the gorilla exhibit.
Five gorillas are out, four sitting around and scratching and sleeping and one standing the way they do, bent over with his hands almost reaching the ground. A girl. The males have humongous heads and a silver stripe down their backs.
She starts walking around, stops to check out the other gorillas, scratches, walks some more. Then she bends and picks up a giant piece of shit.
And throws it.
It misses my head, and lands on the ground right next to me, exploding into nasty-smelling dust. Some of it gets on my shoes. I try to kick it loose and another chunk flies by me. And another.
“You idiot!” I hear myself scream. No one's around.
The gorilla folds her arms across her chest and just looks at me and I swear she's smiling, like this is some terrific gorilla joke.
Then she points at me. Then she picks up another hunk.
I get out of there. The whole world has gotten crazy.
I buy a lemonade from a vending machine and walk around drinking, hoping all the shit dust comes off, because I'm really tired of gross things.
Maybe I'll visit the reptile house; it's cool and shaded and seeing another two-headed king snake would be cool.
On the way in, I meet those same two grandparent tourists coming out and they smile again, still looking confused. I cruise by the boas and the anaconda, adders and lizards, rattlesnakes, vipers, and cobras. Spend some time looking at an albino python, huge and fat, with pink-white scales and weird red eyes.
Will its ugly pale face get into my dreams tonight?
That wouldn't be bad if I could get it to eat PLYR 1.
I stand there thinking of myself as the Snakemaster, communicating with reptiles through mental power. Calling the albino python to wrap itself around PLYR 1, crushing him, squeezing him like a juice orange.
Knowing what's happening to him. That's worse than just dying. Knowing.
A little while later, near the edge of the zoo, next to a playground that I guess they keep for little kids who get bored with the animals, is a vegetable patch with a rope around it.
Corn and beans and tomatoes and peppers. The sign says it's for the animals, so they'll have fresh food. I've seen chimps eating corn, so gorillas probably do, too, and that gets me thinking.
I also love corn, steamed sweet, but we never had it at home. Once, when I was in sixth grade, the school threw a Thanksgiving brunch out in the play yard- turkey and corn and sweet potatoes with marshmallows for anyone who paid. Everything piled high on long tables, moms in aprons spooning it out. I went into town to have a look, even though I had no money to buy anything. I hung around till the end, found a couple of loose quarters and played some ski-bowl, but lunch was out of the question- five dollars.
But one of the PTA ladies saw me looking at the corn and gave me a whole ear, daisy-yellow and shiny with butter, along with a turkey leg big enough for a family. I took it under a tree and ate, and that was the best Thanksgiving I ever had.
Now I move closer to the vegetable patch and look around.
Clear.
Quickly, I hop over the rope, go straight to the corn, break off three ears, and stuff them in my pockets. They stick out, so I tuck them under my T-shirt, hop back over like nothing happened, and walk slowly till I find a bathroom.
I go into one of the stalls, close the door, sit on the toilet lid, and take out one of the corns, peeling off the leaves and that hairy stuff and wondering what it'll taste like raw.
It's pretty good. Hard, crunchy, not nearly as delicious as steamed corn with butter, but it does have a sweet corn taste. I eat two ears quickly, the third more slowly, chewing hard and getting every bit down while reading the cuss-word graffiti all over the walls. When I'm finished, I lick all the corn taste from the cobs, toss them into the corner of the stall, take a leak, and use the bathroom sink to wash my face and hands. Then I roll up my jeans and wash the sides of my legs, too.
My stomach hurts, but differently.
Too full. I pigged out.
Your lunch is now mine, gorilla.
Revenge is as sweet as corn!
17
Walking back to the squad room, Stu said, “He only beat her once. What a guy.”
“Going over us, to Schoelkopf,” said Petra. “Manipulative.” Being collegial, then telling herself to hell with it. Say what was really on her mind.
She stopped and leaned against a locker. “Why'd you bring up the book?”
Stu leaned, too. “It was something tangible, and I didn't want one of his lectures on wishful thinking versus evidence.”
“We got a lecture anyway.”
He shrugged.
She said, “He thinks the book's bull. You agree with him, don't you?”
He straightened and, with one hand, pinched the knot of his tie. “Do I think it's thunder and lightning? No, but the lab will run prints on the book, and if it's a homeless guy, there's a chance he's got a file somewhere so maybe we can locate him. If it turns out to be nothing, we're no worse off.”
She didn't answer.
He said, “What's the matter?”
“It threw me, your bringing it up like that.”
“Hey, even I can be full of surprises.” His eyes didn't yield. He walked away, not looking back to see if she'd followed.
Petra stood there, hands clenched. She recalled Kathy's curtness last night on the phone. If it was a marital thing, she couldn't expect him to let it ride. Okay, cool down, concentrate on the job. But she hated surprises.
Of the twenty-five other Hollywood detectives on the morning roster, six were at their desks, sorting mug shots, typing at newly donated and still-baffling computers, muttering into phones, reading murder books. All looked up as Petra and Stu entered, and shot sympathetic looks.
Any detective who loved mysteries going into the job had a quick change of heart. The Ramsey case was the worse kind of whodunit. The room smelled exactly like what it was: a windowless space seasoned by mostly male frustration.
A black D-II named Wilson Fournier said, “Knew you were gonna have fun when the boss came in early chewing gum but with no gum in his mouth.”
Petra smiled at him, and he resumed scanning gangbanger photos. Stu was at his desk facing hers, at the rear. She sat down and waited.
Stu said, “What do you want to do about looking for similars?”
“Not much.”
He hooked his thumbs under his suspender straps. His 9mm was nestled in a high shoulder holster. Petra was wearing hers the same way. It hurt her arm, and she removed it.
“The way I see it,” said Stu, “we've got two choices. Go over to Parker and pull microfiche all week, then we'd still have to get on the horn in order to check out Burbank and Atwater and Glendale or any county district. Or do it all telephonically with every homicide D we can find. Schoelkopf said two or three years; let's do two. We could get lucky and move through it within the week. Personally, I'd rather talk to real people than deal with the files downtown, but it's up to you.”
“The realer the better,” said Petra. “How do we prioritize? Do I call around first or try to reach this Darrell?”
“Let's devote mornings to the scut, do real work in the afternoon.” He glanced at his watch. “You check out Darrell, and I'll start nosing around the studios.”
Petra stared down the length of the room. “Speaking of real people, we can start with our colleagues here. It's a waste of time, but so's the rest of it.”