Читать книгу Milk and Honey - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 8

Decker stood outside the Los Angeles County Jail. It was a lousy day to dig up bones—three o’clock and the sun was still blasting mercilessly. Sweat ran down his forehead, beaded above his mustache. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, then sat down on the lone cement bench stranded on an island of scorched lawn. Although large and looming, the gray prison building in front of him cast only a couple feet worth of shadow. No relief there. He took off his suit jacket, and rechecked his watch.

C’mon, you son of a bitch. Let’s get it over with.

He stood up. The bench was hot. Besides, he was too antsy to sit. A Khaki-clad sheriff’s deputy walked past him and nodded. Decker nodded back, pulled out a cigarette from his shirt pocket, and began to peel the paper, letting the tobacco shavings fall to the ground. Thirty-seven out of forty cigarettes he handled per day ended up skinned, but better that than smoking the suckers.

Finally, the glass doors opened and Abel Atwater came out into the afternoon swelter. His former quarterback body had become emaciated—insubstantial under a blousy shirt. The top was faded stripes of orange and green, the weave of the fabric loose and speckled with moth holes. His jeans were frayed at the knees, and on his right foot was a rubbed-out suede Hush Puppy. The left pants leg, Decker knew, housed a Teflon prosthesis. His eyes were more deepset than Decker had remembered, almost sunken. His nose was longer and thinner. Limping along with surprising grace, he twirled his cane, Charlie Chaplin style. The loose-fitting shirt, the rhinestone-studded walking stick, the white bandage around his head, and the dark beard gave him the look of an Arab emir about to hold court.

He saw Decker and broke into a wide smile.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, hobbling over, his arms spread out like two parentheses. “Yo, Doc. How goes it?”

Decker rebuffed the embrace and looked at him.

“We need to talk, Abel.” He rolled up his shirtsleeves.

“Hey, Doc, why the long face? C’mon, what they’re sayin’ is shit.” He got down on his knee—his good one—and imitated Al Jolson. “Don’t you know me? I’m yo’ baby.” He laughed. “You remember me. Ole Honest Abe Atwater with the ten-inch prick.”

“Your prick got you into big trouble, Abel.”

Abel rose. “Lighten up, Pete. You don’t think I really raped her, do you?”

“She was full of your semen.”

Abel drawled out, “I didn’t say I didn’t fuck her. I said I didn’t rape her.”

Decker grabbed Abel’s shirt and pulled the thin face close to his.

“She’s got a five-inch cut running down her cheek with twenty stitches in it, three broken ribs, and a collapsed lung from a stab wound.” He tightened his grip. “And your jism was inside of her. Now I’m going to ask you a question, Honest Abe, and I want the truth! Understand me well, I mean the truth! Did you rape her?”

“No.”

“Did you cut her?” Decker screamed.

“NO!”

“You’d better not be shucking me, buddy, because if you are, you’re gonna look back on our days crapped out in Da Nang as fond memories … catch my drift?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Pete. I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. I didn’t rape her!”

Decker let go of him and stared at the broken face.

“You’re in big trouble, buddy,” he said.

“I know,” Abel said weakly. “I know I am.”

“You can’t pretend that nothing happened, Abe.”

“I know.”

Decker placed his hand on Abe’s shoulder and led him over to the bench.

“Let’s sit down and talk about it.”

Abel dabbed his brow with a tissue. Despite the long, untrimmed beard and the unkempt dress, he smelled freshly scrubbed. He’d always been meticulous about his hygiene, Decker remembered. Used to groom himself like a cat. When the rest of the platoon was covered with caked-on scum, Old Honest Abe Atwater would be spitting into his palm, trying to wash off the grime.

“Thanks, big man,” Abel said. “Thanks for bailing me out.”

“S’all right.”

“I really mean it.”

“I know you do.”

Abel threw him a weak smile. Decker opened his arms, and they gave each other a bear hug.

“Good to see you, Doc.” Abel broke away. “Though I wish the circumstances were a tad better.”

“You have a lawyer?”

“I thought maybe you could help me out.”

“I haven’t practiced law in twelve years.”

“Do you know anyone?”

“Not offhand,” Decker said. “I do most of my work with district attorneys. Who’s your PD?”

“Some incompetent with a perpetual allergy. Nose is running all the time.” Abel pinched off a nostril and sniffed deeply with the other. “Know what I mean?”

“I’ll ask around,” Decker said. “We’ll dig up someone.”

“Appreciate it. Preferably someone without a habit.”

“That’s not so easy.”

“I know. I wasn’t being facetious.” Abel looked at the sky and squinted. “Hot one, ain’t it?”

Decker didn’t answer.

“Not interested in the weather, huh?” Abel said. “Well, how ’bout them Dodgers?”

“Abel, have you eaten anything today?” Decker asked.

“Some swill for breakfast. Amorphous goop that doubles for Elmer’s in a pinch.”

“Let’s get something to eat.”

“I’ll check my finances.” Abel took out his wallet. “Damn. Forgot my platinum card. We’ll have to forego Spago.”

Decker looked at his watch. “Let’s fill our bellies. It’s late and some of us have a long drive home.”

Decker swung the unmarked onto the Santa Monica Freeway west. When he hit the downtown interchange, the traffic coagulated. Vehicles burped noxious fumes into a smoggy sky. At least the air conditioner was working, sucking up stale hot air and turning it to stale cool air. They rode for a half hour in silence. When Decker exited on the Robertson off-ramp, Abel spoke up.

“Where are we going?”

“Does it matter?”

“Nope.”

Ten minutes later, Decker pulled up in front of the Pico Kosher Deli, turned off the motor, and got out. Abel followed.

“You like corned beef?” Decker asked, popping dimes into the meter.

“At the moment, I’ll take anything that’s edible.”

Decker placed a crocheted yarmulke atop his hair and secured it with a bobby pin.

“What’s with the beany cap?” Abel asked.

“I’ve become a little religious in my old age.”

“Religious I can understand,” Abel said. “But since when have you become Jewish?”

“It’s a long story. Best reserved for another time. Let’s go.”

The place was half full. Out of habit, Decker chose a back table that afforded privacy. Off to the left side was a refrigerator case loaded with smoked fish—metal trays piled high with lox, cod, and whitefish chubs. Decker looked at the plastic laminated menu.

“What’s good?” Abel asked.

“Everything,” Decker said. “One of the few haunts left that serves an honest meal.”

A waitress came over. She was very young, wide-hipped, with blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Abel winked at her.

“What’s the story, sugar?”

She smiled uncomfortably.

Decker said, “I’ll have a pastrami on rye with a large orange juice.”

“Make mine a salami and cheese on rye with a Bud. If you can’t find a Bud, I’ll take you.”

Decker rolled his eyes. “You can’t have cheese here, Abel. The place is kosher. They don’t mix meat and dairy products.”

Abel said to the girl, “Then just give me you, honey.”

“Give him a salami on rye and a Heineken,” Decker ordered.

The waitress nodded gratefully and left them. Abel bit his lower lip and drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

“Want to tell me about it?” Decker asked.

Abel rubbed his face with his hands. “She was a hooker, natch. She called herself Plum Pie. I don’t know her real name—”

“Myra Steele,” Decker interrupted. “She’s eighteen, which makes her an adult. Thank God for small favors, otherwise you’d be in the can for statutory rape even if you didn’t coerce her. She’s from Detroit, has three priors for soliciting—two when she was still a juvenile, the last one three months ago. She used to work for a pimp named Letwoine Monroe—he was the one who posted bail for her after her last arrest—but I found out he bit the dust a month ago in a drug deal that went sour. I don’t know who she’s peddling her ass for now.”

There was a brief silence.

Abel said, “Why didn’t my lawyer tell me all of this?”

“He probably didn’t know,” Decker said. “It’s all incidental to your case. I just like details.”

“Incidental? The bitch is a hooker with three priors—”

“For God’s sake. Lower your voice, Abe.” Decker sighed. “What she does to earn a buck is irrelevant. If you forced her to have intercourse, it’s rape.”

“I didn’t force her to do anything. It was a mutually agreed-upon business transaction. And I certainly didn’t beat or slice her.”

“Abe,” Decker said, “if you’ve got to go to hookers, you go to hookers. But why didn’t you wear a condom, for chrissakes? In case you haven’t heard, there are nasty viruses floating around. What, Nam wasn’t enough? You’ve got a death wish?”

“She didn’t have AIDS.”

“And how do you know that?”

“She’s got one of those cards from a laboratory certifying her clean.”

“Abel—”

“Yeah, cards can be forged,” Abel broke in. “I’m well aware of that, Doc. But we believe what we want to believe. And condoms don’t fit my fantasies.”

“You’re a first-class ass.”

“Tell me something we both don’t already know.”

“Where’d you find this babe?” Decker asked.

“Strutting up the boulevard. My nest isn’t too far from the garden spot.”

“Go on.”

“We made arrangements, and she took me up to her place. Jesus, what a sty! Place was redolent with foot odor and other rancid—”

“Get to the point, Abe.”

“Okay, okay. We fucked. She was good, and I wanted more. So I paid for another round.” His eyes narrowed as he concentrated on bringing back the memory. “I was feeling really virile. I hadn’t felt like that in a long time, Pete. This one … I don’t know … she was really good. I paid for a third time—”

“Where’d you get all this bread?”

“From good old red, white, and blue Uncle Sam. I’m part of the national debt, Pete. Sammy owes me forever for my leg.” He wiped his forehead with his napkin. “Also, I pick up spare change from odd jobs. My needs are simple, and sex is cheap.”

“All right. Go on.”

“By the end of the third time, I was pretty wasted.”

“Were you doping?”

“No. She was, but I wasn’t. By wasted, I meant tired. I asked her if I could crash out at her place, and she agreed.”

“For a fee.”

“It’s America,” Abel said. “Everything has a price.”

“Around what time was that?” Decker asked.

“About one, two in the morning. She told me she was through for the evening anyway. She’d made her quota, and her main man would be happy.”

The waitress brought the sandwiches.

“I’ll be right back,” Decker said.

He got up and walked back toward the restaurant’s kitchen, over to an industrial sink. Hanging over the lave was a two-handled brass stein and a roll of paper towels. Decker took the chalice off the hook, filled it with water, and poured it over his hands twice. Shaking off the excess water, he dried his hands and said the blessing for the ritual washing. He walked back to the table, mumbled another blessing over bread, then chomped on his pastrami on rye.

Abel stared at him. “You’re real serious about this.”

Decker chewed, swallowed, and gulped down half his orange juice. He said, “My woman is religious.”

“Your wife?”

“Not yet,” Decker said. “But I hope to change that very soon.”

“We’re talking about marriage number two, right? Or is it more?”

“Only two.”

“When did you divorce the first one? What was her name? Jean … no, Jan.”

“Yeah. Jan. I don’t want to talk about her.”

“Didn’t you two have a kid?”

“Still do. A daughter—”

“Cynthia.”

Decker nodded. “She’s going to be a freshman at Columbia this fall. The marriage was worth it for her.”

“So she’s what? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“About the same age we were when we met,” Abel said.

“Frightening,” Decker said.

“Damn frightening,” Abel said. “Did I ever tell you I got married?”

“No.”

“I did. About seven years ago.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. We’re still married, so far as I know. We don’t live together. No one can live with me.”

“Kids?”

“Not mine,” Abel said. “She’s got three from previous liaisons, none of them married her. I took pity—seventeen-year-old girl and three kids. Nice chicklet, cute, but stupid as shit. Just can’t say no. So I got her fixed up with an IUD. I send her a little cash, see her when I go back home for Christmas. She’s happy, I’m happy.”

“It’s great to be happy.” Decker raised his eyebrows. “Let’s get back to the rape.”

“Where was I?”

“You paid to sleep over at her house.”

Abel nodded. “That was the last thing I remember. Next thing I knew, I woke up—handcuffed. My skull is cracked open, and the bitch is screaming bloody murder …”

“She said you held a shiv across her throat while you raped her. Then you went nuts. She knocked you out by cracking a lamp over your head, then called the police.”

“I don’t even own a shiv.”

“You still get those blackouts?”

“Yeah. But not this time. I was sleeping, Doc. I heard someone screaming, woke up and saw blood.” He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “I thought I was having another routine nightmare. Man, I never stopped getting nightmares, you know. But this one seemed ordinary enough. So I said to myself, ‘Abe, go back to sleep. It’s just another nightmare.’ Only it was real. God, was it real.”

His eyes became pensive and moist. “I don’t know what happened, Pete. All I know is, when I went to sleep, the girl was whole.”

“Is it possible that you had a blackout, did something to her, and woke up without any memory of it?”

Abel swallowed hard.

“I swear to God I didn’t rape or beat her.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “I believe you.” He finished his sandwich and orange juice. “You didn’t beat her up. But someone did. The report said there was no break-in or forced entry, but Myra often slept with the windows open. She could have known the assailant—a john who got rough or her pimp—tried to cover for him, and you were a convenient scapegoat.”

“I don’t know how they can pinpoint my semen in her,” Abel said. “The broad was a hooker. She must have been swimming in a sea of cum.”

“She claims you were the only john who sodomized her last night. That’s how the lab made the positive ID.”

Abel looked down.

“I didn’t rape her,” he said tensely. “I paid for everything I took. And I didn’t get rough with the lady, Pete. Goddammit, you know me! I don’t do things like that. And it was never for lack of opportunity.”

Decker knew that was true. They’d both seen their share of grunts on the rampage. An M-16 strapped to your back, you never had to pay for it—just went into the hooches and took whatever you wanted. Women, girls, even boys, it didn’t matter. Screw them in front of Papa-san, it’s only a gook. Came back to the squad a double vet—fucked ’em and wasted ’em. Abel had never signed up for that club.

Decker, more than anyone, had known him as a gentle and compassionate human being. Always the one sneaking orphans onto the base, only to have them kicked out by some shitfaced captain who said it was against the rules. Honest Abe Atwater, putting on puppet shows with empty IV bottles wearing grease-pencil smiles. Stealing rations to feed the homeless left in the gutted villages ripped apart by cross fire. Always trying to make nice. His downfall: He lost his leg because of his heart. Everything they’d been warned against. A friendly that had been VC. A fluke Decker had found him. Even flukier that Abel had lived.

“You’ll get me out of this mess, won’t you, Doc?”

“I’ll do what I can. But it may take a while. You need a good lawyer who can buy you time.”

“I don’t have a hell of a lot of loot.” Abel shrugged. “Matter of fact, I’m busted.”

Decker frowned.

“Don’t worry about it, Pete. I’ll figure out something. And I intend to pay you back the bail money. Just as soon as I get my disability check.”

“Forget it,” Decker said. He glanced at the wall clock. “I’ve got to get home. But first I have to say grace after meals, so be quiet for about five minutes.”

Decker prayed, then rose and slipped Abel a twenty. “This should get you back home by taxi. I’ll call as soon as I have something to tell you.”

Abel looked at him, a hound-dog expression on his face. “I’m really sorry about this, Pete. Seems I only call you when I’m fucked.”

Decker said, “What else are friends for?”