“Yes, I’ve pulled the report and looked it over as you requested, but I’m not a detective.”
“I talked to your nighttime detective twenty minutes ago. The man’s an idiot.”
The Oracle didn’t argue with that one but said, “I will personally make sure that the detective commander knows about your call, and he will send someone to your office tomorrow.”
“The man Andrei who tried to drug my daughter knows she got in the wrong car. He probably knows the police were called. And how do we know that he’s not a friend of the Iranians? Maybe he can identify them. What if this was a filthy little plot involving Andrei and the Iranian pigs? I’m shocked that nobody has been to the Gulag to at least identify this Andrei.”
The Oracle said, “If he’s really the manager of the Gulag, he’s got a good job and he’s not going anywhere. He’ll be there tomorrow. And being an attorney, you must understand how impossible it would be to prove that she’d been given a drug last night.”
The lawyer said, “I want to know if the man has a history of this sort of thing. Sara is my only child, Sergeant. A security officer from our corporation is going to accompany me and my daughter to the Gulag this evening, and she’s going to point him out if he’s there, and we’re going to get his name and address. I intend to make the bastard’s life a misery with or without the help of detectives from Hollywood Station.”
“No, no, Mr. Butler,” the Oracle said. “Don’t go to the Gulag and stir things up. That’ll just end up a real mess for everyone. Tell you what, I’ll go there myself tonight and talk to the guy and get all the necessary information that the detectives can act on. How’s that?”
“You give me your personal guarantee, Sergeant?”
“You have it,” the Oracle said.
After he hung up, the Oracle called 6-X-76 to the station while he read through the report in its entirety. This was the kind of petty crap that wore him down more than anything, that made him feel old.
Whenever anybody asked him how old he was, the Oracle always answered, “I’m the same age as Robert Redford, Jack Nicholson, Jane Fonda, Warren Beatty, and Dustin Hoffman.”
He’d always figured that ageless images of Hollywood stars would somehow mitigate what the mirror was showing him: jagged furrows running down his cheeks and encircling his neck, a sagging jawline, deepening creases between his hazel eyes.
But the trick didn’t work anymore. Many of the young coppers would say, “Who’s Warren Beatty?” Or ask what movie Jane Fonda ever played in. Or say, “Jack Nicholson’s the dumpy old guy that goes to the Laker games, right?” He opened the desk drawer and swallowed a dose of antacid liquid from the bottle.
When 6-X-76 entered the watch commander’s office, the Oracle said, “This so-called kidnapping at Omar’s Lounge is a piece of shit, right?”
“A smelly one, Sarge,” Budgie said. “The woman insisted on a kidnapping report. She threatened lawsuits. She called a TV news crew, but I didn’t hear anything more, so I guess they also figured it was a piece of shit. Her old man’s some kind of politically connected lawyer, according to her.”
“He just called.”
“She’s an actress,” Fausto said, and at Hollywood Station that explained a lot.
The Oracle nodded and said, “Just to keep the peace I’ll run up to the Gulag later tonight and get Andrei’s name and address so that when her daddy calls, the detectives can pacify him. We don’t need any more personnel complaints around here.”
“What time you going?” Fausto asked.
“In a couple hours.”
“We’ll meet you there and take you to Marina’s.”
“What’s that?”
“New Mexican restaurant on Melrose.”
“I’m not rich enough for Melrose.”
“No, this is a little family joint. I’ll buy.”
“Is there a rehab for Tex-Mex addiction? I’ve got permanent heartburn.”
“Whatever you say.”
The Oracle hesitated and said, “Home-made tortillas? And salsa fresca?”
“I been hearing good things,” Fausto said.
“Okay, I’ll call and let you know when I’m at the Gulag,” the Oracle said.
“Catch you in five, Fausto,” Budgie said, obviously going to the bathroom.
When she was gone, the Oracle said, “I’m doing car assignments for the next deployment period. How do you feel about Budgie?”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“You didn’t want to work with a woman, but you did me a favor. I don’t wanna ask for a favor two months in a row if you still feel the same way.”
Fausto didn’t speak for a moment. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed as though it were a tough decision and then said, “Well, Merv, if you’re on the spot again and need me to help out…”
“We’re so shorthanded that figuring out deployment is awful hard these days,” the Oracle said. “It would make things easier for me.”
“She’s a good enough young copper,” Fausto said, “but I think she could benefit from having an old dog like me as a shepherd for a while longer.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, Fausto,” the Oracle said. “Thanks for helping me out.”
“Well, I better go collect her,” Fausto said. “These split tails take a long time to get unrigged just to take a pee. We oughtta come up with some kind of loincloth uniform for them.”
The Oracle saw Fausto go out the back door to the parking lot to wait, and he caught Budgie coming out of the bathroom.
“Budgie,” he said, “you got any objections to working another deployment period with the old walrus?”
“No, Sarge,” she said, smiling. “We have an understanding, Fausto and me. We’re actually a pretty good team.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Working with you has done wonders for him. He looks and acts ten years younger. Sometimes I think I’m a genius.”
“We all know that, Sarge,” Budgie said.
Farley arrived at the junkyard at the appointed time and parked fifty yards away with his lights out. If any shadow figure that even slightly resembled Cosmo Betrossian walked up to that fence, he was going to drive away, money or no money. But in ten minutes nothing moved. He had to get close to see if the gate was open and a paper bag was stuffed through the chain link, so he drove slowly toward the yard, lights still out. He heard dogs barking at another yard closer to his car. It reminded him of Odar, the oversize Doberman guard dog that was named for non-Armenians.
He was on the wrong side of the road now, but there was so little nighttime traffic on the junkyard road that it didn’t matter. Behind the fences were stripped and wrecked cars on both sides of the road as well as huge cranes. He saw small office buildings, or RVs serving as office buildings, and larger buildings where cars could be dismantled or reassembled. And all was dark except for security lights on some of the buildings and along some of the roadside fences.
When he was drifting close to Gregori’s car gate, lights out, he could see by moonlight that it was open. And he could see something white in the chain-link mesh. Apparently the bag containing the money was there.
He lowered his window, snatched the bag from the wire, and drove back up the road a safe distance, where he parked. He opened the bag and turned on the overhead light, and there it was-$150 in tens and twenties. He counted it twice. Then excitement began to replace his fear. He thought about the ice he’d be smoking tonight. That was all he could think about for a moment, but then he realized he had to deliver.
Farley drove back boldly now and wheeled into the junkyard with his lights on and his windows rolled up and the doors locked. Odar, tied to a long wire line that allowed him to run from the gate to the office, was barking and snarling, but there was nobody around the gate at all, nothing except an oil drum up against the fence. Farley felt so safe that he made a leisurely U-turn in the yard, blew his horn three times, lowered the window, and tossed the bag of key cards onto the asphalt and headed back to the gate.