L.A. Rotten (14 page)

We meet up, Duane and I, at a BBQ joint in Pacoima. He's already ordered a plate of beef ribs and is sucking on a Pepsi, waiting for them to arrive. I sit down at the table feeling reassured that since we are meeting at a restaurant, he probably isn't going to arrest me, but the first thing he says is, “I think I'm gonna have to take you back into custody.”

It isn't a dramatic pronouncement either, just a simple statement of fact.

“Why?” I say, with more surprise than I want.

“I think you know why. I've spoken with…” He pauses, allowing the waitress to deposit his food in front of him and then take up his emptied cup for a refill. “…Detective Stack. He filled me in on a few things. It just seems like the sensible option.”

“Did Detective Stack tell you I was at a baseball game that night?”

“Aww, don't twist my gut, Tommy. Between your landlady and Mr. Kelly, your proximity to dead bodies lately is uncanny—even for your line of work.”

“She OD'd, and, as for him, I was one hundred percent proven not to be there. You can't punish me based on that.”

The waitress brings back Duane's Pepsi and he intercepts it before she can set it on the table. “Detective Stack and I just happen to feel that if you went back inside, somehow, someway, these deaths would stop.” He takes a long sip.

“Officer Caruzzi—sir—don't send me back…Please?”

He puts up a hand with freshly sauced fingers. “Do me the courtesy of letting me eat my ribs in silence. You can hassle me in the car on the way in, but for now, I just want to eat my ribs.” I respectfully sit back in my chair, fingers interwoven, and stare glumly at the man as he attacks his ribs with a determined absence of grace. He gets halfway through the first one, notices me noticing him, and breaks. “You know I like you, Tom—I have since I met you. I could tell you weren't a punk-ass.”

“Thanks,” I admit, and meet his gaze, hopeful.

“Yeah, I've dealt with some punk-asses on this job, boy, I tell you—some real low-life motherfuckers. But you aren't one, I can tell. The way I got it figured, you made a few mistakes, you did your time and you were better for it. So I can't for the life of me figure out what you've gotten yourself into that I gotta take you back in. Good white kid like you? Shit, Tommy.”

“I don't fully understand what I'm involved with either, but it's bad.”

“You wanna know bad?” He laughs suddenly. “One time I do a house check on this new parolee. I walk in…house smells good—something good cooking in the oven. I scope the place out a little—standard Boyle Heights shithole. The guy's acting real cagey, and it's clear his wife is out of it. Gone. So then I notice there's a baby crib, but no baby. I say to the guy—I say, ‘Where's the baby?' ” Caruzzi delights in telling this story, probably more than a healthy person should. “And the guy's eyes glance over to the stove! Well, my policeman's intuition kicks in, and I go look inside to see what's smelling so good. It's the fucking kid, baking up like a meatloaf!” He doesn't care who hears this story or what they're eating when they do. “Low-life nigger couldn't get the baby to stop crying, and his old lady was hopped up on goofballs, so he threw the kid in the oven and turned it to 425.” Duane pauses to take a bite of his rib. “Fuckin' moolies…you don't see the Italians doing that shit.”

He's told me this story before but I don't tell him that. “I gotta believe that was a one-time thing…for any race.”

“You think the wetbacks are any better? The shit I've had to deal with from them, Jesus Almighty. Mexico's fucking lousy so they come over here, do they make it better? Shit no. They're just making another Mexico! I gotta believe it's payback for the Alamo.”

“This thing I'm involved in, sir, I can deal with it. I just need more time.”

“Time? You'd better explain these escalating dead bodies to me if you want more time.”

I exhale, fully expecting him to call me a liar or a lunatic, but I've got no other option. “There's this killer out there. He's been offing people in motel rooms, changing it up each time, making it look random.” I study Caruzzi's face as I tell him this. Disbelief is plastered on his mug, but I press on. “The police don't know anything about it. I figured him out by accident, now I'm on his radar. He killed my landlady to get the key to my apartment; he killed Hank Kelly because he took a liking to me. Now he thinks I'll join him.” The disbelief mutates slightly—my words sinking in—and forms into twisted frustration.

“Christ, why didn't you call the cops about this?”

“The Hank Kelly connection—I've got a big scar next to my heart because of cops. If most cops had their way, I'd be dead and buried in an unmarked grave somewhere out near Joshua Tree. No, I can't even imagine a scenario in which I'd ever call the police—for anything.”

“I don't want to hear that shit—I'm a cop.”

“And yet, I told you.” I lean in, using my body language to convey a sense of closeness and nervous despair. Him being a cop, he knows I'm not lying about the policemen's code of ethics. Fuck with one cop and you fuck with all the brothers in blue. I've got that going for me at least. My best bet is that he's got some sense of humanity that runs deeper than the badge.

“Would you be telling me any of this if I wasn't going to take you in?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I feel like it's my problem.”

He shakes his head in disagreement. “Innocent people are dead because you didn't
feel
like calling the police—I should take you in just for that.”

“You can do whatever you like with me, but let me stop him first. I'm asking you…”

“Nah, Tom, uh-uh. Not possible. I gotta take you in. We'll let Officer Stack deal with it.”

I glance around quickly and lower my voice to convey that this is now a conversation within the conversation. “You know what
Detective
Stack
said about you? He said you shouldn't be allowed near a badge. He said that you got demoted because of the racial stuff.” I'm embellishing a little but I'm sure I'm not too far off.

This gets Caruzzi's blood moving. “That mutt-blooded son of a bitch.” He snarls and pounds the table. “Even a half spic like him oughta know better than to bad-mouth me to one of my boys. Fucking unprofessional is what that is.”

I nod quickly, selling full agreement, mirroring his disgust and subtly mimicking his body movements to disarm his subconscious. Learning body language and how to use nonverbal cues is an important tactic in both sales and surviving prison. Caruzzi is seething, and so, outwardly, I am too. Hammering a crack into his precious cop honor code is the right move, but I have other avenues to work as well. “Also…about that stuff…that organization you're always telling me about? I'm finally ready to listen.”

This catches Caruzzi off guard and his eyes narrow. I maybe played the race hand too early, because the disbelief sails back in. “Ah, don't shine me about that now. You can't pull that shit just to keep you out of the can.”

“I'm not,” I insist, dead earnest exuding from me as hard as I can sell it, working him like a kite in a delicate breeze. I've started it; I have to see it through. “The reality is these are good white people this guy is killing—
innocent
white people. You think he's gonna stop because I'm back in the can? He's avoided the police this long; you think they'll get him before he strikes again? He likes me. Because of Holly Kelly…I killed a cop's kid. Accident or whatever, it makes him feel like he can trust me. I'm in a uniquely fucked situation here.” My fingers gesture in tandem with my mouth, creating images, reeling him in. “I can get close to him—I can maybe stop this thing before any more
good people
get hurt.”

This strikes a nerve with Caruzzi; uncertainty and something else—curiosity, perhaps—are playing out on his hard features, but it requires a little more pushing. “What happens if you're wrong and he puts a bullet in your brain?” he asks, rubbing his fingers absentmindedly, further spreading barbecue sauce around on them.

“Then everyone is right back where we were before this thing started. You said it yourself, though—you gotta think outside the box if you wanna survive Los Angeles. For a little leniency now, you maybe help me help myself.
And
I bring a good brain to your club.”

“Fuck, Tommy, I don't know…you got proof this guy even exists?”

I have been dreading this question but I can't let even a hint of uncertainty show. I have to sell A. Guy's strengths over my weaknesses. “I had letters he left me but he took them back right before the police searched my place. I told you, this guy is a game player.”

“Why do I feel like I'm the one getting played here?” Caruzzi asks, and yet, he's not completely dismissive.

“Wait—I do have some of the contents of the letters—I entered them into my work computer…also, I can print out some of the crime scene photos—show you how I got on his trail.”

“That's it?”

“When I have more, you'll be the first to know.”

“I don't like it.”

“Me neither. I'd rather just be left alone, cleaning up crime scenes. If I could unfind this asshole, believe me, I would.”

“Why do you care so much that this fuck gets caught?”

I'm back where I want to be
. “Maybe I'm tired of feeling like the bad guy?”

He continues to mull it over, but I've got nothing left with which to convince him. I feel optimistic—and yet, a gloss of cold sweat has slimed up on my forehead, betraying my fear of going back to prison. If he doesn't budge, I have to consider my chances. Admittedly, they aren't pretty.
Can I run? Will I?
Would he shoot me in the back?

Finally, he speaks: “When you get close to this guy, bring me in on it. You and I nail him together. Fuck Stack. Fuck him in his
bocca di fica
.” He says this with gusto and I don't need the translation to know it's bad. “And…” he adds authoritatively, “you become a regular at those meetings. A
good
regular.”

I nod. “Deal.” I don't smile or show elation; rather, it is an expression of contrite understanding, as if I am receiving penance from a Catholic priest.

“In the meantime, bring me everything you've got so far…pictures, letters, everything.”

Caruzzi picks up another rib as I stand to leave, my legs jellied from a sense of evaded terror. “Do me right on this one, Tommy. I don't want no more good people dying—including you. This is the Wild West; out here, us white people gotta stick together.” He gives me a serious, knowing wink, which I nod at. “And, Tommy,” he adds, “I'm not stupid, quit the fucking dope.”

I don't try to bullshit him. “Okay.”

My next stop is a bar up the block from my apartment. It's a Mexican-run place that blasts Banda music through the open front door. Most importantly, it has a payphone in the back. Turning my head to drown out the jukebox, I dial Tony Brahma's cell. Expectedly, after four rings, it goes to voicemail. “This is Tony Brahma!” his voice announces, good-natured and alive. “If you're calling me, then you don't know me, so don't bother leaving a message, motherfucker!”

After the beep, I say, “If you get this in the next three minutes, call me back at this number,” and hang up. My guess is A. Guy is screening his calls.

True enough, I don't even have to wait a minute before the payphone rings. “Dr. Tom—how proactive of you. Did you call to tell me you got a new number?”

“Don't call my cell phone—the police are eager to put a nightstick up my ass.”

“You're welcome, by the way,” he gushes, undeterred. “Did that just blow your fucking mind?”

“It blew something…what the fuck were you thinking?”

“When I apologize, I apologize in a big way. Just admit that you're a little bit happy. Please?”

“I'm fucking ecstatic. Except the cops think I called in a hit! They searched my apartment.”

“That was a necessary evil. But I took care of you there too, right? Cleaned up your messy little drug addiction, found my stash of correspondence in your bathroom, left some fag mags under your bed.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, cocksucker.”

“I couldn't resist,” he laughs, proud.

“So what happens now?”

“Glad you asked, Tom, I'm glad you asked. I want us to work together, to partner up. You and me, we could be like Lake and Ng two-point-oh. I'm Lake, of course.”

“I don't know who those people are.”

“You gotta learn your killers, man, if you wanna team up. Otherwise, what are we gonna talk about?”

“Lake and Ng. I'll check into them. Hey, not to press my apparent good fortune or anything, but why do you want to team up with me? What's in it for you?”

“You know what I discovered pretty early on, Tom?”

“What's that?”

“L.A. is a pretty lonely place.”

“I'll remember that.”

“Be sure that you do. Also, call me back later. I'm in the drive-thru at McDonald's. We're gonna do dangerous things together, brother. This is as things are meant to be. This is the natural balance of life, I feel it.”

I hear him begin to order as I place the phone back in its cradle. I can now tack “McNuggets” on to the list of things I know about him.
Partner up
. I can't quite believe the words he used. For some reason the ugly notion makes me grin. The two of us in tandem, gutting and gunning down Angelenos. A couple of outlaws, just painting the town red. I shake my head, disturbed by it all, but the grin steadfastly remains.

I pull my cell phone out and dial Ivy as I climb in my car to drive down the block to my apartment. The phones connect as I turn right out of the narrow parking lot and onto the street.