The Delta Star (17 page)

Chapter N
ine
FRUITCAKE AND CAVIAR

Mario
V
illalobos didn’t bother to alter his appearance. This wasn’t an undercover operation, and in any case he was the last person anyone would choose for an undercover assignment. He stood before the mirror and realized that in just eight days he’d be forty-two years old. Middle age wasn’t that bad. No worse than herpes or tuberculosis. His mind occasionally tried to persuade him that he was thirty-two. His body, already sagging and out of shape, felt every one of the forty-two years. The face he saw in the mirror frightened him a bit. The hair was almost totally gray and he was losing plenty of it. The eyes were beginning to pouch, the mouth had deep lines on either side, and he could feel a pinch of loose insensitive flesh between his chin and Adam’s apple. He looked down at the sink. He counted seventeen hairs lying there dead.

What he was experiencing, of course, made him want to cry for the many failures in his life. Especially for the two marriages and the two sons who were strangers. One son only ignored him, but the other actually despised him. His son Alec was the kind of boy who despised many things, mostly himself. He was a rather unattractive kid, puny and anemic, who in adolescence became addicted to drugs and had to be committed to a hospital at the insistence of Mario Villalobos over the objections of his wife. It was the final and most destructive blow to their bad marriage.

The detective learned one thing during the two months his son was in that hospital. First of all, he learned that a cop didn’t earn enough money to pay for the hospitalization of an emotionally disturbed child. Secondly, he learned that his son despised and hated himself so much that he needed to despise and hate someone else in order to function.

Mario Villalobos, the symbol of authority for young Alec, the one who committed him to the hospital over the objections of the boy’s mother, was the natural object of the boy’s hatred. And Mario Villalobos also learned that being the natural object of his son’s hatred was the most unnatural experience of his own lifetime.

He took upon himself a terrible responsibility after the divorce. Insofar as possible he continued to make the decisions, all of which his son hated. Insofar as possible he monitored the boy for surreptitious drug use which his son hated even more. Insofar as possible he insisted that his ex-wife continue the boy in psychotherapy, and this the boy hated most of all.

Mario Villalobos believed that by being hated he was committing the greatest act of love possible.

The detective breathed a weary sigh and decided that the man in the mirror looked ten years older than his chronological age. He didn’t bother to change his suit or take off the necktie. The man in the mirror would be recognized as a cop no matter how he dressed, and in any case he wasn’t trying to fool anyone. There was one great advantage to working homicide: people involved in minor vices or even major vices, people who functioned in a subculture, were generally unafraid of homicide investigators, since premeditated murder was usually not in their repertoire.

An ironic thing happened that night. He looked so much like a cop that the people in the gay bars did not think he could be a cop. A young hustler sat next to him within his first five minutes in Hercules’ Heaven and asked him if he was looking for a date.

“I’m looking for someone named Dagwood,” the detective said.

“Won’t Blondie do?” the young man winked. “Or how about Daisy?”

“Not tonight,” Mario Villalobos said. “Do you know Dagwood?”

“I know Elwood,” the hustler said. “We can do a double if you like. You and me and Elwood?”

By ten-thirty he had drunk at least one drink in each of five gay bars. This one was called The Peanut. At least it had entertainment. A pretty good trio banged out some cool jazz and a male vocalist sang “I Only Have Eyes for You,” which the detective enjoyed. By his estimate he had seen eighteen slender blond men, about five feet three inches in height, between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, who were potential “Dagwoods.”

He had tried it every way possible. From “Hi, Dagwood,” to “I’m scouting this location for a movie and could use some extras. Can I have your name?”

Just as he was about to leave The Peanut, the drummer played a roll and a spotlight illuminated the tiny dance floor where two gay couples were slow dancing. The couples cleared the floor and the piano player announced Miss Connie Cream-puffs.

Connie Creampuffs wore ballet slippers and a pink tutu. Connie Creampuffs also wore a pink punk wig, a Wonder Woman headband, a padded pink bra, and a pink ribbon that dangled from under the tutu. Connie Creampuf
f
s was a man, which was to be expected. But what was unexpected was that Connie Creampuffs, who stood only five-feet five-inches tall, weighed at least four hundred pounds.

“You want another?” the butch bartender said to Mario Villalobos, who watched Connie Creampuffs doing a burlesque bump while the crowd hooted and whistled.

“I can’t leave now,” the detective said, paying for another double shot of vodka. This was a show.

Connie Creampuffs had a Kewpie red mouth and eyelashes that extended past his nose. His belly, legs and back were particularly hairy. He moved with surprising grace and Mario Villalobos had to revise his guess. He believed that Connie Creampuffs weighed at least 425 pounds.

It was when Mario Villalobos was starting to decide that the “entertainment” at The House of Misery was pretty tame that Connie Creampuffs showed the howling crowd where the pink ribbon went. He dropped the tutu and everyone went mad. There were flaps and folds and rolls of flesh, but there was one particular mass of white hairy belly flesh that hung like a loincloth over the pubis of Connie Creampuffs. Each time the drummer would clash the cymbals, sweating Connie Creampuffs would grab that particular fold of flesh with two hands and show them the pink ribbon obviously tied to his genitals. Genitals that might never be seen by Connie Creampuffs without a mirror and could not be seen by anyone else, so deep within the tucks of flesh were they hidden.

In order to flash the crowd, this stripper didn’t lift a dress, a skirt, or a spangle. This stripper had to lift his belly. With two hands, the way one would raise a lead-lined loincloth.

***

Things were pretty dull at The House of Misery that night what with the absence of Rumpled Ronald, who was home nursing his cracked ribs. And especially without the presence of the town crier in blue.

“Where the hell’s The Bad Czech?” Cecil Higgins was getting worried.

“Maybe he did decide to firebomb the TV station,” Dilford said, putting down his third double. “You think he’s getting even loonier than usual these days, Cecil?”

“Well, he does sort a make me wanna bring bail money every time we hit the bricks in the morning,” Cecil Higgins admitted.

“Why do you wanna work with the maniac?” Leery asked Cecil Higgins, leering at the pile of dollar bills that Dilford had in front of him.

“I might regret it someday,” Cecil Higgins said. “When I’m sittin in a prison cell needin all the astro turf in Houston to wipe my ass with. But ya know what? He never does bore me. Ain’t nothin worse than bein bored.”

“There’s worse things,” Dolly said.

“Everybody looks as cheerful as Bjorn Borg, for chrissake,” Dilford said. “What’s wrong with everybody?”

“The Czech isn’t here,” Jane Wayne said. “Mario isn’t here. Ronald’s hurt. And Sunney Kee, well, they say some neurological damage, maybe.”

“I could get more belly laughs from the Ayatollah Khomeini,” Dilford said miserably.

There were two Rampart cops sitting at the end of the bar in the place usually occupied by Hans and Ludwig during later hours.

“Hey, Leech,” Dilford said to the younger one.
“
Is it true you’re the one that sent out the APB teletype about the Japanese tourist group that got robbed?”

“Yeah,” the young cop said. “And Too-Tired Loomis threatened me with two days’ suspension just cause it said, ‘Victims unable to describe suspect, but got three hundred pictures of him.’ Something about cultural stereotypes, Loomis said.”

“Two days. That ain’t bad for a lightweight joke,” Cecil Higgins said. “That’s a low bail schedule.”

“Where the hell is the Czech?” Jane Wayne wanted to know. “If he doesn’t come soon, you can put my drink in a boozer bag, Leery, and I’ll take it with me.”

***

Meanwhile, Mario Villalobos could think of only two gay bars he hadn’t tried. Tomorrow he was going to call the Hollywood watch commander to ask if any of the night watch knew of a pansy named Dagwood. He tossed down the vodka and decided he’d had enough to drink.

“Hi, Dagmar,” the bartender said to the little man with a bleached blond perm who was perched on the first stool at the bar. “Didn’t see you come in. What’ll you have?”

Dagmar Duffy’s heart began to beat faster when he saw the masculine gray-haired guy in the suit shooting him a smile of recognition as wide as Connie Creampuff’s tutu.

Dagmar Duffy returned the smile and could hardly believe his good fortune. This guy liked him. This guy couldn’t take his eyes off him. This guy came over to him as soon as Dagmar said to the bartender, “I’ll have a scorpion, Waldo. And mix me up lots of ice cubes in your jolly blender!”

The man in the suit sat beside Dagmar Duffy, who batted his lashes and wondered if he should play hard to get.

“I’ve been looking for you all night, Dagmar,” Mario Villalobos said. “Actually, I thought I was looking for Dagwood.”

“Pardon me?” Dagmar Duffy said, wondering if the guy in the suit had a nice ass.

“I’d know your voice anywhere, Dagmar,” the man in the suit said.

“I don’t understand,” Dagmar Duffy cried happily, shaking his golden perm. “But I don’t care if I don’t understand!” This was his night. Dagmar Duffy was so happy he could have laughed.

Five minutes later, Dagmar Duffy was so miserable he could have cried. He was walking down the sidewalk with Mario Villalobos and shaking like the ice cubes in Waldo’s jolly blender.

“You got the wrong person!” Dagmar Duffy cried.

“I’d know your voice anywhere,” Mario Villalobos said.

“Oh Lord! Are you arresting me? I haven’t done nothing!”

“We’re just gonna talk, Dagmar,” Mario Villalobos said.

“Oh Lord!” Dagmar Duffy cried. He wrapped his arms around his bare shoulders and goosebumps formed on his bare thighs.

Mario Villalobos looked at the olive drab tank top and khaki shorts and said, “You oughtta dress warmer when you go out at night.”

“I’m not cold!” Dagmar Duffy cried. “I’m scared! Where we going?”

“Anywhere we can talk,” Mario Villalobos said. “Would you feel okay talking in my office?”

“Oh Lord!” Dagmar Duffy ran his hands nervously through his perm, and plucked anxiously at the single amethyst stud he wore in his left ear. “Don’t take me to a police station!”

“If you don’t calm down you’re gonna start hyperventilating again,” Mario Villalobos said. “Now let’s hear what you know about Missy Moonbeam.”

“Can we get some ice cream?” Dagmar Duffy asked. “My stomach’s a mess.”

“I’ll be glad to buy you an ice cream, Dagmar,” the detective said. “But I hope that doesn’t mean we’re going steady.”

***

Things were getting tense at The House of Misery. Hans and Ludwig showed up drunk. Dilford was half blitzed and Dolly was bagged. Hans was making a move on Dolly, who was too drunk to be sickened by his singsong little double entendres which usually made her want to puke. Two groupies from Chinatown were getting jealous because Hans was making the move on Dolly. Hans and Dolly had already danced twice and were giggling all over the dance floor. And on top of everything else, Dilford was getting insanely jealous of Dolly and Hans.

“Look at my partner dancing with that K-9 weasel!” Dilford said to Cecil Higgins, who was staring into the bottom of his glass as usual. “Doing the twist. Huh! She’s twenty-three years old. What does she know about the twist?” Suddenly he yelled, “Dolly, you never even heard of Chubby Checker!”

But Hans just giggled and waved bye-bye at Dilford, and leered down at Dolly while they did the twist.

“I don’t really care if there’s a brawl,” Cecil Higgins said. “Long as they take off their guns. Any shootin starts and somebody’s gonna end up in San Quentin with a asshole roomy enough for two Christmas trees, a phone booth, and Shelley Winters.”

“That pervert!” Dilford said, and made a quick move as though to stalk over to the three-coffin-sized dance floor and cut in.

The move was too quick. Ludwig was standing at the bar with his big clumsy front feet wrapped around a beer bottle to the delight of the two drunken groupies. Ludwig was trained to be wary of any fast moves toward his partner. Ludwig growled at Dilford. Ludwig sounded like a lion. Dilford got very pale and went back to his barstool.

“Just like the whiny noodle-neck pervert,” a very jealous Dilford said of Hans. “Gotta have his big brother with him.”

“Dilford, I wouldn’t advise ya to push this,” Cecil Higgins said. “I jist bet if you so much as spit on Hans, Ludwig would eat you. There’d be nothin left but a shinbone, I bet.”

“Has to bring his big brother along when he steals someone’s girl, the skinny little pervert,” Dilford said.

That woke up Jane Wayne. “Have you lost your mind, Dilford?” she asked. “Dolly’s your partner, not your girl! Do you think you own her?”

“I heard that!” the mini-cop said, breaking off from the twisting K-9 cop while old Chubby Checker’s voice blared from the jukebox, encouraging everyone to do the twist. “How dare you tell me what to do when we’re off duty? How dare you tell me what to do when we’re on duty? I’m not on probation anymore, Dilford.”

“I don’t know why you even wanna dance with Hans,” Dilford said, and now he was sounding whiny. “He’s a pervert. He looks like he’s seen too many steam rooms. Don’t you agree, Cecil?”

“Leave me outa this,” Cecil Higgins muttered. “I don’t wanna get ate by Ludwig.”

“He’s so perverted he reeks of Mazola oil,” Dilford said.

But the skinny K-9 cop wouldn’t be provoked. He giggled drunkenly and kissed his groupies and said to Dilford, “Just do unto others as you would do unto yourself. If you were double-jointed.”

“He’d sleep with an Egyptian mummy,” Dilford said. Then, deciding to make the insults political, he added, “I bet he’s a Democrat!”

“At least I can say government,” Hans said. “That’s more than your Republican President can do. Guv-ment. He can’t even say the word.”

“You know, I’m sick of people like you thinking you own the female officers,” Dolly said to Dilford as she staggered backward.

“Better sit down, Dolly,” Cecil Higgins said to the mini-cop. “I don’t wanna see a little cop flop.”

“You know what it’s like being the first full-fledged female officers on patrol in this police department?” Dolly asked boozily.

“You tell em, Dolly,” Leery said. A good argument always made them drink more.

“You males are the worst gossips in the world,” she continued. “You’re expected to score with your female partners. I know you, Dilford. You don’t say yes you did, but you don’t say no you didn’t. You just smile when they ask you about me, and let them draw their own conclusions.”

“Want another double, Dolly?” Leery asked. He was leering for all he was worth.

Jane Wayne had had enough to drink to throw in with Dolly. “Yeah, Dilford, how would you like to be out on some assignment in full uniform and you can’t take a leak? It’s fine for you men. You just run in an alley for a few seconds. We need five minutes to take off our Sam Brownes and uniform pants. We just have to stand around tap dancing till we get a chancel”

It was obvious that Dilford, as drunk as he was, couldn’t handle the two-pronged attack of Dolly and Jane Wayne. “Well, you women aren’t always nice to us either,” he whined. “You know that other bionic bitch that works Hollywood? I heard she went to a Japanese restaurant with her partner and when the sushi chef asked if they wanted giant clam, her partner said, ‘No thanks, I got one.’ And she popped him across the chops! In full uniform! In front a people!”

“And our makeup,” Jane Wayne griped. ” ‘Don’t look like a hooker,’ they say.”

“Pin up our hair with a dumb barrette like my mother did in grade school!” Dolly said.

“Goddamnit, cops shouldn’t wear makeup, and have hair below the collars unless they’re sex perverts like Hans!” Dilford sneered. His face was getting red and he couldn’t take much more.

“Mahatma Gandhi liked daily enemas from his granddaughter,” Hans informed them, sharing a beer with Ludwig. “Nobody called him a pervert.”

“We can’t wear shorts or tank tops when we’re off duty and come in to pick up our checks,” Jane Wayne said. “But the male officers can wear anything they damn well please. We can’t be comfy like you.”

“No shorts up the wa
zoo,” Dolly said. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? Look at Jane. Cleavage for days and days. What’s she supposed to do, hide them in a bra all the time?”

“I saw Dolly putting on lip gloss and combing her hair when we had a man-with-a-gun radio call!” Dilford said to Leery. “Does that sound professional to you?”

“You know what the department psychiatrist said to me when I was trying to get on the police department?” Dolly asked Hans, who was all ears, cheek-to-cheek with one groupie and Ludwig. “He asked questions like, ‘Have you ever had sex before?’ I asked him ‘Before what?’ Do you think the men got asked questions like that?”

“He asked me if I ever wanted to have sex with my sister,” Dilford said to Leery, who replied, “Why don’t you buy a few drinks and let’s talk about it, Dilford.”

“You know what else he asked me?” Dolly said. ” ‘During sexual encounters do you like to throw oranges?’ “

“Do you, Dolly?” Hans screamed suddenly, scaring the crap out of both the groupie and Ludwig. “Do you?”

“Do you smoke after sex? I don’t know, I never looked,” Leery said, but no one laughed.

” ‘ Have you ever had sex with an animal?’ he asked me,” Jane Wayne said.

“Did you know The Bad Czech then?” Cecil Higgins wanted to know.

“I’ll bet he never asked you such things, Dilford,” Dolly said. “You don’t know what we women have had to endure to become cops. I really got mad when he said to me ‘Do you climax big or little?’ “

All of a sudden it got very tense and quiet down at Hans’ end of the bar. One groupie was dressed like a bazaar in Istanbul. She wore so many metal bracelets she couldn’t lift her drink with one hand. And now that she was blasted she began to side with the female cops. She shot a hostile look at Hans, whose eyes got big and round and scared. He feared the worst. And he got it.

“I happen to know somethin about climaxes,” the groupie announced. She turned her fat dumpling face to Hans and said, “I happen to know that some a the male cops act like their dogs.”

“Ludwig!” Hans cried out. “It’s time to go! Leery, I wanna pay my tab!”

Just getting revved up, the groupie said, “I happen to know that some male cops can’t keep it hard long enough to do a girl any good. They have a little P. E. trouble, if ya know what I mean.”

“What’s P. E. trouble?” Leery asked. It had been a long, long time for Leery.

Then she said it publicly: “Some guys gotta carry two jizz rags, one for their dog and one for …”

“You big-mouthed cunt!” Hans screamed.

“Whaddaya think, we’re married?” the groupie said huffily. “If we was, you’d have to sign a pre-ejaculation agreement. And don’t call me a cunt o
r I’ll let a rat crawl in my wa
zoo before you ever see it again!”

So they all knew. Jane Wayne looked sorry for Hans. Leery just leered as usual. Cecil Higgins thought, what the hell, jizzing too soon was better than not jizzing at all. But Dilford’s grin was two nightsticks wide.

“Well, no shit!” Dilford said. “Go ahead, Hans, steal somebody else’s girl. See how happy you can make her with your P. E. problem.”

“I’m your partner, scuzzbag!” Dolly yelled at Dilford. “I’m not your
girlfriend
!”