The Golem of Hollywood (8 page)

T
he owners of 187 were a pair of ex-cops who knew what cops wanted: strong booze, loud music, and a kitchen that stayed open until four-thirty a.m. to accommodate guys coming off the mid-p.m. shift, at two forty-five. For maximum grit, they'd rented a subdivided warehouse, sandwiched between a sandblasting company and an auto body shop on Blackwelder Street, an industrial zone south of the 10.

The door was unmarked, the handle a welded tire iron. He hauled it open and bass thundered out, rattling chain-link and razor wire.

The nearest residences were two blocks east, across Fairfax, which might or might not put them beyond the sonic blast zone.

Good luck getting anyone to serve a noise complaint.

The floor thronged with law enforcement and those who loved and lusted for them. Female cops seldom bothered, making 187 a popular choice for civilian women slightly past expiration date.

Jacob paused near the entrance, scanning for Mai.

She'd stand out in this crowd.

Plenty of cleavage. Plenty of tramp stamps rising above low-riding waistbands as the bearers bent to aim for the corner pocket, to whisper, to lick an earlobe.

No Mai.

It was tough for him to imagine her here. She must've felt like raw rib eye. Tougher still to imagine her finding him, chatting him up.

Taking him home? That was impossible to imagine.

Another dead end. Time to go.

But the PA was blasting Sublime, and he felt too keyed up to sleep.

He fought his way to the bar, three-deep with boozers and flirters. An hour before closing, desperation reigned, couplings forming and imploding like some frantic game of human Tetris.

Behind the bar, Victor was already pouring him a double bourbon. Loyalty born of bad habits. Jacob pictured his own funeral: a tearful crowd of bartenders and convenience store clerks.

Victor set his drink down and turned to collect another order.

“Yo,” Jacob yelled, waving him back. “You remember a girl was in here couple nights ago?”

Victor gave him a look like
they made you
a detective?

“She left with me,” Jacob said.

Victor laughed. “You're not narrowing it down none.”

“She came with a friend. Hot as hell, if that helps.”

“We don't allow that kind,” Victor said. He tapped the rim of Jacob's glass. “Four more, I bet you find someone who looks just like her.”

He hustled off to confront demands.

Jacob sloshed the bourbon, watching it cling to the side of the glass, feeling no desire whatever to have a drink.

But high-functioning alcoholism demanded dedication.

He tipped the liquor back, tossed a twenty on the bar, turned to go, ran smack into a pillowy chest.

His usual midweek prize, soft around the edges, hard in the face; bleached, un-picky, and deep into her cups.

She pouted. “You spilled my drink.”

He sighed and signaled to Victor.

—

H
E
WALKED
HER
TO
HER
CAR
, pointed out his own, and told her to follow, adding, “Drive carefully.”

She snickered. “Who's gonna pull me over?”

In his kitchen, he stood with his pants around his ankles, a drawer handle poking his bare ass, a bottle of Beam in hand to swig from whenever his enthusiasm waned.

She paused from going down on him to shoot him a stern look. “Don't pass out on me.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“No whiskey dick, either. Hang on, I need to pee.”

Her knees cracked as she stood up and left the room.

Jesus Christ,
he thought.

He heard the stream. Loud. She'd left the bathroom door ajar.

“Very classy,” she yelled.

“Can you get a condom, please? Bottom drawer left.”

The toilet flushed, the sink ran, and she reappeared, sans jeans, shirt open, flapping the condom like a sugar packet.

“You have roaches,” she said.

Though he knew it wasn't fair, he couldn't help but compare her to Mai.

Maybe she was what he needed to help him forget.

Uncomplicated.

He sat down on a kitchen chair, rolled the condom on, gave his thigh a slap.

“At your service,” he said.

She stumbled over and positioned herself over him, her breasts swinging in his face. She was about to lower herself when she paused and kicked at something on the floor.

“Uch. You need Raid.” She kicked again, let out an annoyed yelp. “Fuck.”

“What.”

“Fucking thing bit me.”

“What?”

“Whatever,” she said, plopping down on his lap.

She gasped.

Another satisfied customer.

He took hold of the flesh at her hips and started to swivel her back and forth atop him and then he realized that she was gasping still, and it didn't sound like she was having any fun.

He looked up and saw her eyes rolled back into her head, her head lolling, chin to chest, drooling.

This was a first for him. He'd been known to pass out mid-act but he'd never been the other party. Feeling slighted, he gave her a shake. “Hey.”

She slumped forward against him, her body seizing violently.

He swore and tried to hold her up and she pitched backward off his lap onto the linoleum, bashing her head against the fridge door and landing with her legs spread.

He dropped to his knees, ready to do CPR.

She was blinking up at him, white with terror. “What's happening.”

“You tell me,” he said.

She stared down at her own genitals; at his; at his face.

She scrambled from the kitchen.

He followed her into the bathroom, watched her hop into her clothes.

“Are you sure you're all right? You hit your head.”

“I'm fine,” she said.

As she raised her foot to tug on her heel, he noticed a red welt on her left instep. “Are you allergic to something?”

She didn't answer.

Then she said, “It felt like you were stabbing me.”

He said, “I . . .”

He stopped. He didn't know whether to apologize, or . . . what. He felt he should make an effort to get her to stay, at least until she was good to drive. He started to say so and she waved him off, grabbing her purse and rushing out into the milky morning.

From the window he watched, unnerved, as she sped away.

He dressed and got down on hands and knees to hunt for roaches.

He couldn't find any, not there or in the bathroom.

All the same, he tied up the trash bag containing his old waffle and took it out to the thirty-three-gallon cans at the side of the building.

He walked to 7-Eleven, bought one can of bug spray and one box of roach motels.

Thinking that the bug bite theory didn't have much going for it.

Her eyes white. Her breath whistling.

It felt like you were stabbing me.

Maybe she had a condition. Dryness. After all, she'd gone with Extra Lubricated.

A funny thought popped into his head. The Hebrew word for penis:
zayin
.

Also the seventh letter of the Hebrew alphabet:
.

Also the word for weapon
.

The shape had it. A blade or an axe or a mace.

His was the dick of death.

A schlongsword.

Excockabur.

He started to laugh. He couldn't help himself.

He went around setting out the motels, spraying poison until the apartment was well and truly fogged. He threw open the windows and went to get cleaned up.

T
he sat phone was dinging as he stepped from the shower, a voicemail from his father, a text from Divya Das:
ring me
.

Today was Friday. He hadn't given Sam an answer about dinner tonight. “Hey, Abba.”

“Did you get my message?”

“I'm swamped. Can we reschedule?”

A brief pause. “Of course.”

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner,” Jacob said.

“You do what you need to do,” Sam said. “Have a good Shabbos.”

“You too.” Jacob disconnected the call and thumbed the directory for Divya Das.

“Good morning, Detective.”

“I got something for you,” he said. “You got something for me?”

“Indeed. Are you free to meet up?”

“Name it,” Jacob said.

She gave him an unfamiliar address in Culver City.

He told her he'd be there in fifteen minutes.

The white work van was parked across from his building. He had a faint recollection of it being there the night before. He was far from sure. He'd been drunk, focused primarily on getting his lady friend up the stairs without her pitching over the railing. If he was right, though,
the vehicle hadn't left the block in several days, shifting from space to space.

Somebody had a lot of curtains to put up.

He jogged over to peek through the windshield.

Tools, rods, boxes of fabric.

No hulking dude on a headset monitor.

He told himself to stop acting ridiculous.

En route to Culver City, the sat phone rang: his father again. Jacob let it go to voicemail.

The address Divya Das had given him turned out to be a pink stucco apartment complex fronting an unsavory stretch of Venice Boulevard. A homeless man slept on the grass beneath a hopeless sign touting one-, two-, and three-bedroom vacancies.

Jacob parked on a side street, cut the engine, and played the voicemail from his father.

Hi, Jacob. I don't know if you listened to my previous message, but please disregard it. I'll manage.

He hadn't listened to it. Now he had to.

Hi, Jacob. You've probably got your hands full, since I haven't heard from you. Not to worry. I have everything prepared, except for one thing: Nigel accidentally brought me two challahs
instead of three and I wanted to ask, if it's not too great an inconvenience, maybe you might have time to pick up another. I like poppy seed, but—

Jacob stopped the playback and dialed him.

“Jacob? Did you get my other message?”

“I got it. Can I ask you something, Abba?”

“Of course.”

“Was that an honest attempt to absolve me of picking up the challah, or was it intended to make me feel guilty?”

Sam chuckled. “You think too much.”

Jacob rubbed one gummy eye. “What time's dinner?”

—

D
IVYA
D
AS
HAD
APPROACHED
her generic white Sheetrock walls as a blank canvas, embarking on a charmingly random spree of color and texture. A neon orange throw revived a battered sofa; the dining table was a fifties-era TV set topped with glass. Laminated prints of gods and goddesses brightened the living room: elephant-headed Ganesha, Hanuman the monkey god.

He meant to tell her about the missing letters, but she began chatting with him, inviting him to sit at the breakfast bar and setting out a plate of cookies and a steaming mug.

“There we are,” she said. “Proper tea.”

He took a mouthful. It was scalding.

“Shit,” he gasped.

“I was about to say,” she said, “you might want to blow on it.”

“. . . thanks.”

“It's essential to use fresh, clean water and to bring it right up to the boil. Americans consistently neglect that step, with disastrous results.”

“You're right,” he said. “It tastes much better with a third-degree burn.”

“Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

“Some milk would be nice.”

She got it for him. “I'm sorry I don't have something more substantial to offer you.”

“Don't be. This is the most complete breakfast I've had in months.”

“I shall have to tell your mother.”

“You'll have to shout pretty loud,” he said. “She's dead.”

“Oh, my,” she said. “I'm so sincerely sorry.”

“You didn't know.”

“Well, I ought not to make assumptions.”

“Don't sweat it. Really.” To spare her further embarrassment, he pointed to the fridge door, magnets pinning snapshots. “You and yours?”

The centermost photo had Divya embracing an elderly woman in a red sari. “My
naniji
. This one”—a host of people arrayed on either side of an elaborately bedecked couple—“is from my brother's wedding.”

“When did you move to the U.S.?”

“Seven years ago,” she said. “For graduate school.”

“Columbia,” he said.

“Have you been checking up on me, Detective?”

“Just Google.”

“Then I'm sure you know everything you need to know.”

There were others photos, too, that she apparently did not think required explanation. They showed her in far-flung locales, engaged in mildly risky activities: strapped into a rock-climbing harness; in ski suit and goggles; among girlfriends woozily hoisting margarita glasses.

No kissy photo booth strip; no thick-haired man in surgeon's scrubs, clutched around the waist.

She said, “I hope I didn't bother you, calling on you early.”

“I was up.”

“I wanted to catch you before I had to leave for the day. I know it's unorthodox to meet here, but it's for the best. I've had to tread lightly. My immediate superior isn't very gung-ho about your severed head. Right now we've got several pathologists away at a convention, and the bodies are piling up.”

“What's that mean, not very gung-ho?”

“I believe his exact words were, ‘I haven't got time for curiosities.'”

“It's a homicide.”

“He tried to convince me it's a relic from a museum.”

“With fresh vomit?”

“I didn't say he was successful,” she said. “Or sensible. But I know better than to waste time arguing. He can be rather authoritarian, especially under stress.”

“So you called me here to apologize for not working my case?”

She smiled, causing a gold stud in her left nostril to twinkle. He hadn't noticed it before.

She said, “I'm afraid I've been a bit naughty.”

—

H
ER
APARTMENT
WAS
a two-bedroom. The door to the first was ajar, giving Jacob a glimpse of a bed piled with embroidered pillows.

The second had been set up as a mini pathology lab. Heavy-duty plastic sheeting protected the carpet. A dissection tray sat on a folding table; a desk hosted a microscope; there were bins labeled for scalpels and forceps and hammers, a biohazard container, an air purifier, and a two-thousand-count box of nitrile exam gloves.

Jacob looked at her.

She shrugged. “Beg, borrow, and steal. Nothing fancy, mostly surplus. I've been refining it since my student days. No mean feat getting it through customs, believe you me.”

“It's nice to meet someone as OCD as me,” he said.

“It helps to pass the time,” she said.

And explains in part why you're single.
Jacob liked her more and more.

In the closet, a wire rack displayed five vinyl bowling bags—the pink and green versions she'd had with her at the crime scene, and three others in orange, black, and red.

“Very
Sex and the City
,” he said.

She pointed to the green bag. “Emesis.” The black one. “Fingerprints.” Red. “Blood.” Pink. “Gobbety bits.”

“Orange?”

“For when I go dancing,” she said. “It's my favorite color. Tell me: how would you know anything about
Sex and the City
?”

“Ex-wife,” he said.

“Ah,” she said.

He wondered if he'd erred, because in the next breath she was back to
business. “I didn't want my boss looking over my shoulder, so I brought the material here—”

“Material?”

“The head. Vomit, too. They're in the freezer.”

“Remind me never to have ice cream here, either.”

“If I might continue, please. The vomit wasn't very useful. It was so laced with acid that it actually began corroding my glove. And I confess I still haven't been able to determine what sealed the neck. The skin isn't blistered or scorched in keeping with a blast of high heat. I suspect it's some form of tissue adhesive, such as hospitals use to aid in wound repair.”

“Someone with specialized knowledge,” Jacob said. “Access to medical supplies.”

“Possibly. Although you can order transglutaminase over the Internet. Chefs use it. They call it meat glue.”

“A mad doctor or a mad chef.”

“Or none of the above. That's not the interesting part, though. I took tissue from the head and snuck into the Coroner's lab to extract DNA and run it through CODIS. I wasn't expecting much, but I wanted to be thorough. It's your lucky day, Detective. You're familiar with the Night Creeper, I presume.”

Certainly he was.

“Well, you've got him. Or, rather, his head. Or, rather, I do. In my freezer.”

Jacob, dumbstruck, watched her give a shallow curtsy.

“Ta-da,” she
said.