The Black Marble by Joseph Wambaugh Page B

fifty-five, if there’s an age limit.”
    â€œYou just let me check on it for you, Mrs. De la Cruz,” Valnikov said, patting her hand.
    â€œI used to be an actress,” she said to Natalie. “I can play any Asian. Trouble is, not too many good parts for Chinese, Japanese anymore. Lost my SAG card even. No Japanese parts.”
    Valnikov was reminded of something when she said “Chinese.” There it was again. The sparkly flash bulbs. The picture almost formed. An Asian doctor. The morgue? He heard snatches of conversation. Chinese … Japanese … Japanese parts? Sony? Panasonic? Was her television on the blink?
    â€œIt’s time to go, Valnikov,” Natalie said, grabbing her partner’s arm, as Mrs. De la Cruz looked questioningly at the confused detective.
    â€œYou won’t forget to call me, Sergeant?”
    â€œNo ma’am, I won’t,” Valnikov said over his shoulder. “I think you’d make a super crossing guard.”
    â€œI’m getting hungry, what say we grab a bite,” Natalie said after they got back in the car. She realized she had almost two hundred minutes left in this endless first day.
    â€œFine with me,” Valnikov smiled. “Where would you like to go?”
    â€œWell, I’d like to go to Sergio’s Le Club, but I understand they’re having another Save Harry Whatzisface party there today,” she snorted. “Every guilt-ridden Hollywood liberal will be there. And that’s just about all of them. Or we could …”
    â€œWho’s Harry Whatzisface?”
    â€œThe guy who played in Deep Throat. Don’t you even read the entertainment section of the paper?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHollywood folks stomping for our civil liberties and the creative freedom of all artists? You know, so Linda Lovelace can go down on Harry and Harry can go down on Linda and Big Brother can stop repressing us and King Kong can bugger Godzilla? Don’t you read the paper?”
    â€œDeep Throat was the guy in the Watergate case, wasn’t he?” Valnikov answered.
    â€œValnikov, have you ever seen a porno movie?”
    â€œNo, I haven’t been to a movie in, oh … When was Nicholas and Alexandra out?”
    â€œSeveral years.”
    â€œI haven’t been to a movie in several years.”
    â€œWhat do you do with your time?”
    â€œI listen to music. Or I go to a basketball game.”
    â€œStart the car and let’s go eat, Valnikov.”
    â€œOh, yes, sorry.” He started the Plymouth, flicked on his turn signal, gave an arm signal, looked out the window craning his neck, then pulled into traffic at three miles per hour, while Natalie rolled her eyeballs. He turned on the blinker, made an arm signal, changed into the curb lane and stopped. “Did you decide where you want to eat?”
    â€œWell, since we probably can’t get an ‘A’ table at Chasen’s and my favorite maître d’ isn’t at the Rangoon Racquet Club anymore, and since we’re six days from payday and I’ve got about three goddamn dollars in my purse, what say we have a pizza?”
    But he was wandering again. The sparkling lights were shimmering. He was trudging across the great trackless Steppes. A wasteland. The picture was dappled, formless. He saw … a rabbit in the snow.
    â€œWould you say that again, please?” he mumbled.
    â€œPizza. Let’s get a pizza.” She couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Couldn’t wait to talk to Hipless Hooker. She was positive now that it wasn’t speed. And it wasn’t barbiturates. His pupils weren’t dilated or contracted. No, he was spaced out on some sophisticated drug she wasn’t familiar with. Some kind of dope that didn’t take his pupils up or down.
    Ten minutes later they were parked under a pepper tree near the observatory silently eating their pizzas. Still she watched him. He’d