"Well, if you insist. Would you mind carrying this bag for me?"
The policeman looked at her for a moment and gave a grudging smile. "Sure."
Carol handed him the bag and kneed him in the balls at the same time. He fell backward. There was the sound of police equipment hitting the sidewalk.
Running down the street, she pulled out the check and shoved it in her mouth. "God help me! Please don't let me go back!" She turned the corner, feet flying. The sound of running came from behind her. Suddenly a black arm clamped around her neck. Her feet stopped and flew forward. Ronnie and his towel!
Her tailbone slammed against the sidewalk. She scratched violently at the arm around her neck. The policeman's sweaty cheek touched her ear. "Spit it out, Mabel," he grunted. She tried to swallow, and a funny sound came out. The vice around her neck tightened. "Okay, bitch, you asked for it. Nighty night," said the policeman. Blackness.
Carr's eyes itched from using the binoculars. Someone once told him it was caused by the light refraction of the windshield glass. Kelly's hulk filled the back seat.
"Here comes Scarlett O'Puke," Kelly said, taking a toothpick out of his mouth. A henna-haired middle-aged woman entered her apartment.
By now each resident of the avocado apartment house had been christened by Kelly. One old man was "Mr. Spitter"; the scraggly young couple on the first floor were "John and Martha Incest"; a spindly, modish bachelor who lived next door to Diamond was "Ensign Tubesteak."
"Not one of these people goes to work. Have you noticed that?" Kelly said.
"Would you hire any of them if you were an employer?"
"Fuck no," Kelly said.
"See."
Kelly changed the subject. "I think Red is planning a caper," he said.
"What makes you say that?" Carr said.
"He's too cautious. The only place he's been in two days was a Laundromat. He's laying low. He's building up to something. Rounders never stay in their pad unless it's for a reason." Kelly used the toothpick again.
"Don't forget," Carr said, "Waxman told us Diamond was into the sharks. Maybe he hasn't made his payment and he's worried. Besides, we don't know where he went when we lost him yesterday. "
"Maybe. But I say he's getting ready for a job; thinking, planning, using his noodle. Crooks always like public places."
"Maybe so." Carr exhaled. He looked in the rearview mirror.
A sedan pulled in behind them and parked. Delgado got out and came over and leaned in the passenger window.
"The duty agent just got a call from Wilshire Division. They grabbed a paper hanger in a bank. A broad. She's singing for a deal. Says her ex-con boyfriend has a sawed-off. Here's my keys. I'll fill in here with Kelly while you go talk with her."
TWENTY-TWO
The squad room was a jumble of desks and phones. Uniformed policemen and detectives in short-sleeved white shirts used the telephones. People, mostly black, were handcuffed to benches along the walls. The voices were profane.
Carr lit a cigarette and listened to a policeman whose skin and hair were the color of his uniform. The cop's shoes and badge were soldier-shined.
"She tried to scarf the check but I choked her and dug it out of her mouth," said the policeman. He handed Carr a clear plastic envelope containing a gnawed check. "The bank manager had just got a call from a friend at another branch who was stung by the same kind of check, same M.O. The broad-her name's Carol Lomax, by the way-just had a little bad luck. Her records package says she's on parole from Corona. Got out three months ago…She's talking about a dude with a sawed-off shotgun. Since it's a federal beef, I thought I'd give you guys a call."
Carr handed back the check. "Did she give you her boyfriend's name?"
"She said his name is…" The policeman took a notebook out of his shirt pocket. "Boyce…Ronnie Boyce."
Carr's muscles tensed. "Ronnie?"
"Why? You know the asshole?"
"Yes," Carr said.
The policeman pointed to a door with a photograph of a black-robed judge on a background of girlie-magazine crotch shots. Police art. "She's in that interview room if you want to talk with her." He turned back to writing his report.
Carr wanted to run into the room. Instead, he took a couple of deep breaths. He walked slowly to the door and opened it casually.
Carol was at the table, her head resting on her arms. The room had a table, chairs, and fiberboard walls. The ashtray on the table was overflowing, though there was a wastebasket in the corner. Next to the ashtray were a few wadded-up pieces of Kleenex with red stains. She looked up at Carr.
"You a Fed?"
Carr showed his gold badge.
Carol looked at the badge, picked up a Kleenex ball, dabbed it under her upper lip, and looked at it. Her white blouse was filthy.
"What's the matter?" Carr said.
"That cop choked me out and stuck his hand in my mouth. My gums are bleeding. First of all, before I say anything I want to know what you can do for me." She dabbed again.
"I can't make you any promises."
"I know you can't promise me that I'll get off or anything. I'm on parole. They got the check. I know I'm going back." Her lower lip trembled. She stared at the ashtray. "If I could have gotten rid of the check, they wouldn't have anything on me." The Kleenex ball touched each eye, then the nose. She cleared her throat. "What I want is a letter to the parole board saying I cooperated with the Feds. I want the letter to be in my parole file."
Carr sat down and laid his hands flat on the table. "That can be arranged," he said, "depending on what you can turn."
"How about a sawed-off shotgun?" she said, "That's a federal beef, isn't it?"
"Sure is. Where is the shotgun?"
Carol rubbed the back of her neck. "In a locker at the downtown bus depot. That's where he keeps it. This guy I know. Ronnie Boyce. He just got out of Terminal Island."
"What does Ronnie use it for?" Carr said. He drummed his fingers on the table.
Carol looked at Carr's shoulder as she spoke. "I have no idea. I don't know anything about what he does with it, and I don't want to know. I just know he has it." She crushed the Kleenex.
"Have you seen it?"
"Uh, no.
"Then how do you know he has it?"
"I mean, I've seen it, but what he does with it is his own business."
Carr picked up the brimming ashtray, walked to the wastebasket, and emptied it.
"How do you know it's in the locker?" he said, before turning around.
"He's told me that's where he keeps it, and besides, I've seen the locker key in the motel room."
Carr sat down again.
"What's the number on the locker key?"
"I don't remember." Carol picked at her face. "I don't want him to know I handed him up. He's goofy."
Carr folded his hands. "If you want to do yourself any good, Carol, you'll have to tell me where he is."
"I hope you aren't going to rush over there, break down the door, and tell him I snitched him off." Carol's front teeth were bloody pink.
Carr closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.
Carol rested her ears on her fists. "The Sea Horse Motel in Santa Monica. It's on Lincoln Boulevard. Room eleven." Her eyes searched Carr. "Now that I've told you, are you still going to write the letter? Or were you just bullshitting?"
"I'll take the letter to your parole agent myself." He took out a notebook. "What's his name?" He wrote it down and put the notebook and pencil away.
"Is there any way you could get me into a federal prison so I could do my time there? They have a lot more vocational rehab stuff."
"I don't think so," he said.
"The only reason I got caught was because of my skirt. I should of changed it," Carol said. She put her head back down. He left the police station in a hurry, headed for Santa Monica.