Yount. The house was essentially a three-room wooden cabin, but it had the best view in Topanga, all the way from the massive red outcrop of Big Rock to the little settlement of Topanga on the way to the ocean. And there were acres of clean stars above it at night.
Of course, to get to all of that, you had to climb the driveway. Once I made it to the top and muscled open the swollen wooden door, I looked on top of the computer, the first place I always looked because it was where I put everything. And there they were. Before I looked at them, I got a fire burning in the potbellied stove.
With the wood crackling, steam rising from the damp carpet, and rain throwing handfuls of tacks against the roof, I surveyed my options. There were remarkably few of them.
I didn’t have a client. I did have a grudge against Needle-nose. I’d liked Sally Oldfield. And I had some information. Whatever chain of events had culminated in the murder of Sally Oldfield had begun with the Church of the Eternal Moment.
The obvious thing to do was call the cops.
Generally, I’d prefer not to call the cops. If everybody called the cops, I wouldn’t be in business, and I’d hate to start a trend. But nobody was paying for my time now that the ersatz Ambrose Harker had faded back into whatever woodwork he’d crawled out of, and somebody had to do something about Sally.
So I went over to the computer, got the folded printout of my notes on the case, smoothed them open, and read over them. Then I did what I didn’t want to do. I called my pet cop.
Alvin Hammond, Sergeant, LAPD, didn’t know he was my pet cop. Sergeant Hammond weighed a conservative two hundred and thirty-five pounds, ten pounds of which were bass voice and twenty-five pounds of which were potential whisker, and he wasn’t given to terms of coy affection, however discreet. What Sergeant Hammond was given to was drinking lethal quantities of Scotch in cop bars, with the ultimate objective of being the last man in the room who could stand up. I’d begun risking life and liver in police bars downtown when I first became an investigator. It had occurred to me that I might need to know one cop better than you usually get to know the guy who’s writing you a speeding ticket. I’d remained relatively conscious longer than Al Hammond on two or three nights, and that was the extent of the bond between us.
“Records,” said a young voice on the other end of the phone. Al had been in Records for a year as punishment for neglecting to read some well-connected alleged perp’s rights to him, and he wanted to get out about as badly as most would-be transsexuals wanted to get to Denmark and the right doctor.
“Is Al Hammond around?” You didn’t call him Alvin, at least not if you wanted to remain an operative biped.
“Sergeant Hammond is indisposed.”
“What happened? They put a new stock of magazines in the John?”
“Is that supposed to be funny, sir?” Great. A prissy cop.
“A thousand apologies for my lapse in taste. I thought I was talking to the LAPD.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Inspector Grist. What’s yours, son?”
I could actually hear him sit up. “Um, Hinckley, sir. I mean, Inspector.”
“Um Hinckley? That’s an unusual name. What is it, Welsh?”
“Actually, sir, it’s English.”
“Well, Um Hinckley, why don’t you trot along and see if you can snap Sergeant Hammond out of his fleshy reverie and get him to the phone. Tout suite , okay?”
“Yessir.”
“And let’s have a little snap to it.”
“Yes, sir ” The phone clattered to the desk.
I flipped through my notes, put the phone down to get a pencil, and added Rhoda Gerwitz’s name and phone number. When I came back to the phone, Hammond was already there.
“There’s a patrol car on the way,” he said.
“I’m in no danger.”
“Yes, you are. It’s against the law to impersonate an officer. Poor Hinckley’s shitting bricks.”
“It’s probably the first bowel movement
Of course, to get to all of that, you had to climb the driveway. Once I made it to the top and muscled open the swollen wooden door, I looked on top of the computer, the first place I always looked because it was where I put everything. And there they were. Before I looked at them, I got a fire burning in the potbellied stove.
With the wood crackling, steam rising from the damp carpet, and rain throwing handfuls of tacks against the roof, I surveyed my options. There were remarkably few of them.
I didn’t have a client. I did have a grudge against Needle-nose. I’d liked Sally Oldfield. And I had some information. Whatever chain of events had culminated in the murder of Sally Oldfield had begun with the Church of the Eternal Moment.
The obvious thing to do was call the cops.
Generally, I’d prefer not to call the cops. If everybody called the cops, I wouldn’t be in business, and I’d hate to start a trend. But nobody was paying for my time now that the ersatz Ambrose Harker had faded back into whatever woodwork he’d crawled out of, and somebody had to do something about Sally.
So I went over to the computer, got the folded printout of my notes on the case, smoothed them open, and read over them. Then I did what I didn’t want to do. I called my pet cop.
Alvin Hammond, Sergeant, LAPD, didn’t know he was my pet cop. Sergeant Hammond weighed a conservative two hundred and thirty-five pounds, ten pounds of which were bass voice and twenty-five pounds of which were potential whisker, and he wasn’t given to terms of coy affection, however discreet. What Sergeant Hammond was given to was drinking lethal quantities of Scotch in cop bars, with the ultimate objective of being the last man in the room who could stand up. I’d begun risking life and liver in police bars downtown when I first became an investigator. It had occurred to me that I might need to know one cop better than you usually get to know the guy who’s writing you a speeding ticket. I’d remained relatively conscious longer than Al Hammond on two or three nights, and that was the extent of the bond between us.
“Records,” said a young voice on the other end of the phone. Al had been in Records for a year as punishment for neglecting to read some well-connected alleged perp’s rights to him, and he wanted to get out about as badly as most would-be transsexuals wanted to get to Denmark and the right doctor.
“Is Al Hammond around?” You didn’t call him Alvin, at least not if you wanted to remain an operative biped.
“Sergeant Hammond is indisposed.”
“What happened? They put a new stock of magazines in the John?”
“Is that supposed to be funny, sir?” Great. A prissy cop.
“A thousand apologies for my lapse in taste. I thought I was talking to the LAPD.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Inspector Grist. What’s yours, son?”
I could actually hear him sit up. “Um, Hinckley, sir. I mean, Inspector.”
“Um Hinckley? That’s an unusual name. What is it, Welsh?”
“Actually, sir, it’s English.”
“Well, Um Hinckley, why don’t you trot along and see if you can snap Sergeant Hammond out of his fleshy reverie and get him to the phone. Tout suite , okay?”
“Yessir.”
“And let’s have a little snap to it.”
“Yes, sir ” The phone clattered to the desk.
I flipped through my notes, put the phone down to get a pencil, and added Rhoda Gerwitz’s name and phone number. When I came back to the phone, Hammond was already there.
“There’s a patrol car on the way,” he said.
“I’m in no danger.”
“Yes, you are. It’s against the law to impersonate an officer. Poor Hinckley’s shitting bricks.”
“It’s probably the first bowel movement
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