He slid across the seat to the passenger's side and got out that door. When he looked down at the thick red muck oozing between the fingers that were clamped over the worse wound, he felt dizzy, and he looked quickly away. He only had to take three steps to reach the phone, but each of them seemed like a mile.
He could not remember his telephone credit card number, which had been as familiar to him as his birthdate, so he called collect to Napa Valley.
The operator rang it six times.
"Hello?"
"I have a collect call for anyone from Bruno Frye. Will you accept the charges?"
"Go ahead, operator."
There was a soft click as she went off the line.
"I'm hurt real bad. I think ... I'm dying," Frye told the man in Napa County.
"Oh, Jesus, no. No!"
"I'll have to ... call an ambulance," Frye said. "And they ... everyone will know the truth."
They spoke for a minute, both of them frightened and confused.
Suddenly, Frye felt something loosen inside him. Like a spring popping. And a bag of water bursting. He screamed in pain.
The man in Napa County cried out in sympathy, as if he felt the same pain.
"Got to ... get an ambulance," Frye said.
He hung up.
Blood had run all the way down his pants to his shoes, and now it was dribbling onto the pavement.
He lifted the receiver off the hook and put it down on the metal shelf beside the phone box. He picked up a dime from the same shelf, on which he had put his pocket change, but his fingers weren't working properly; he dropped it and looked down stupidly as it rolled across the macadam. Found another dime. Held this one as tightly as he could. He lifted the dime as if it were a lead disc as big as an automobile tire, finally put it in the proper slot. He tried to dial 0. He didn't even have enough energy to perform that small chore. His muscle-packed arms, his big shoulders, his gigantic chest, his powerful back, his hard rippled belly, and his massive thighs all failed him. He couldn't make the call, and he couldn't even stand up any longer. He fell, rolled over once, and lay face-down on the macadam.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't see. He was blind.
It was a very black darkness.
He was scared.
He tried to tell himself that he would come back from the dead as Katherine had done. I'll come back and get her, he thought. I'll come back. But he really didn't believe it.
As he lay there getting increasingly light-headed, he had a surprisingly lucid moment when he wondered if he had been all wrong about Katherine coming back from the dead. Had it been his imagination? Had he just been killing women who resembled her? Innocent women? Was he mad?
A new explosion of pain blew those thoughts away and forced him to consider the smothering darkness in which he lay.
He felt things moving on him.
Things crawling on him.
Things crawling on his arms and legs.
Things crawling on his face.
He tried to scream. Couldn't.
He heard the whispers.
No!
His bowels loosened.
The whispers swelled into a raging sibilant chorus and, like a great dark river, swept him away.
***
Thursday morning, Tony Clemenza and Frank Howard located Jilly Jenkins, an old friend of Bobby "Angel" Valdez. Jilly had seen the baby-faced rapist and killer in July, but not since. At that time, Bobby had just quit a job at Vee Vee Gee Laundry on Olympic Boulevard. That was all Jilly knew.
Vee Vee Gee was a large one-story stucco building dating from the early fifties, when an entire Los Angeles school of benighted architects first thought of crossing ersatz Spanish texture and form with utilitarian factory design. Tony had never been able to understand how even the most insensitive architect could see beauty in such a grotesque crossbreed. The orange-red tile roof was studded with dozens of firebrick chimneys and corrugated metal vents; steam rose from about half of those outlets. The windows were framed with heavy timbers, dark and rustic, as if this were the casa of some great and rich terrateniente; but the ugly factory-window glass was webbed with wire. There were loading docks where the verandas should have been. The walls were straight, the corners sharp, the overall shape boxlike--quite the opposite of the graceful arches and rounded edges of genuine Spanish construction. The place was like an aging whore wearing more refined clothes than was her custom, trying desperately to pass for a lady.
"Why did they do it?" Tony asked as he got out of the unmarked police sedan and closed the door.
"Do what?" Frank asked.
"Why did they put up so many of these offensive places? What was the point of it?"
Frank blinked. "What's so offensive?"
"It doesn't bother you?"
"It's a laundry. Don't we need laundries?"
"Is anybody in your family an architect?"
"Architect? No," Frank said. "Why'd you ask?"
"I just wondered."
"You know, sometimes you don't make a whole hell of a lot of sense."
"So I've been told," Tony said.
In the business office at the front of the building, when they asked to see the owner, Vincent Garamalkis, they were given worse than a cool reception. The secretary was downright hostile. The Vee Vee Gee Laundry had paid four fines in four years for employing undocumented aliens. The secretary was certain that Tony and Frank were agents with the Immigration and Naturalization Service. She thawed a bit when she saw their LAPD identification, but she was still not cooperative until Tony convinced her that they hadn't even a smidgen of interest in the nationalities of the people working at Vee Vee Gee. At last, reluctantly, she admitted that Mr. Garamalkis was on the premises. She was about to take them to him when the phone rang, so she gave them hasty directions and asked them to find him on their own.
The enormous main room of the laundry smelled of soap and bleach and steam. It was a damp place, hot and noisy. Industrial washing machines thumped, buzzed, sloshed. Huge driers whirred and rumbled monotonously. The clacking and hissing of automatic folders put Tony's teeth on edge. Most of the workers unloading the laundry carts, and the husky men feeding the machines, and the women tagging linens at a double row of long tables were speaking to one another in loud and rapid Spanish. As Tony and Frank walked from one end of the room to the other, some of the noise abated, for the workers stopped talking and eyed them suspiciously.
Vincent Garamalkis was at a battered desk at the end of the big room. The desk was on a three-foot-high platform that made it possible for the boss to watch over his employees. Garamalkis got up and walked to the edge of the platform when he saw them coming. He was a short stocky man, balding, with hard features and a pair of gentle hazel eyes that didn't match the rest of his face. He stood with his hands on his hips, as if he were defying them to step onto his level.
"Police," Frank said, flashing ID.
"Yeah," Garamalkis said.
"Not Immigration," Tony assured him.
"Why should I be worried about Immigration?" Garamalkis asked defensively.
"Your secretary was," Frank said.
Garamalkis scowled down at them. "I'm clean. I hire nobody but U.S. citizens or documented aliens."
"Oh, sure," Frank said sarcastically. "And bears don't shit in the woods any more."
"Look," Tony said, "we really don't care about where your workers come from."
"So what do you want?"
"We'd like to ask a few questions."
"About what?"
"This man," Frank said, passing up the three mug shots of Bobby Valdez.
Garamalkis glanced at them. "What about him?"
"You know him?" Frank asked.
"Why?"
"We'd like to find him."
"What for?"
"He's a fugitive."
"What'd he do?"
"Listen," Frank said, fed up with the stocky man's sullen responses, "I can make this hard or easy for you. We can do it here or downtown. And if you want to play Mr. Hardass, we can bring the Immigration and Naturalization Service into it. We don't really give a good goddamned whether or not you hire a bunch of Mexes, but if we can't get cooperation from you, we'll see that you get busted every which way but loose. You got me? You hear it?"