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.A juicehead found her, lucky for her he was just a bum, not a pervefixing to get himself some sloppy seconds.The girl never reported itofficially, just told a friend, and the story made the rounds on the street.''Sixteen years old, tied and raped and she doesn't report it?' 'Like I said,no virgin.' Schwinn's hatchet jaw pulsed, and hisOkie squint aimed at the ceiling.Milo knew he was holding back something.'Is the source reliable?''Usually.''Who?'Schwinn's headshake was peevish.'Let's concentrate on the mainthing: we got a girl who fits our vic's stats.''Sixteen,' said Milo, bothered.Schwinn shrugged.'From what I've read - psychology articles -the human ropegets kinked up pretty early.' He leaned back and took another big bite ofburrito, wiped salsa verde from his mouth with the back of his hand, then gavethe hand a lick.'You think that's true, boy-o? Think maybe she didn't reportit 'cause she likedit?' Milo covered his anger with a shrug of his own.'So what's next?Talk to the father?'Schwinn righted his chair, swabbed his chin, this time with a paper napkin,stood abruptly, and walked out of the room, leaving Milo to follow.Partners.Outside, near the unmarked, Schwinn turned to him, smiling.'So tell me, how'dPage 31ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlyou sleep last night?'Schwinn recited the address on Edgemont, and Milo started up the car.'Hollywood, boy-o.A real-life Hollywood girl.'Over the course of the twenty-minute ride, he laid out a few more details forMilo: the girl's name was Janie Ingalls.A sophomore at Hollywood High, livingwith her father in a third-floor walk-up in a long-faded neighborhood, justnorth of Santa Monica Boulevard.Bowie Ingalls was a drunk who might or mightnot be home.Society was going to hell in a handbasket; even white folk wereliving like pigs.The building was a clumsy pink thing with undersized windows and lumpy stucco.Twelve units was Milo's guess: four flats to a floor, probably divided by anarrow central corridor.He parked, but Schwinn made no attempt to get out, so the two of them just satthere, the engine running.'Turn it off,' said Schwinn.Milo twisted the key and listened to street sounds.Distant traffic from SantaMonica, a few bird trills, someone unseen playing a power mower.The streetwas poorly kept, litter sludging the gutters.He said, 'Besides being ajuicehead, how's the father marginal?''One of those walking-around guys,' said Schwinn.'Name of Bowie Ingalls, doesa little of this, little of that.Rumor has it he ran slips for a niggerbookie downtown - how's that for a white man's career? A few years ago, he wasworking as a messenger at Paramount Studios, telling people he was in themovie biz.He plays the horses, has a chicken-shit sheet, mostly drunk anddisorderly, unpaid traffic tickets.Two years ago he got pulled in forreceiving stolen property but never got charged.Small-time, all around.'Details.Schwinn had found the time to pull Bowie Ingalls's record.'Guy like that, and he's raising a kid,' said Milo.'Yeah, it's a cruel world, isn't it? Janie's mother was a stripper and a hype,ran off with some hippie musician when the kid was a baby, overdosed inFrisco.''Sounds like you've learned a lot.''That what you think?' Schwinn's voice got flinty, and his eyes were hard,again.Figuring Milo was being sarcastic? Milo wasn't sure he hadn't meant tobe sarcastic.'I've got a lot to learn,' he said.'Wasting my time with those MP clowns.Meanwhile you're getting all this-''Don't lick my ass, son,' said Schwinn, and suddenly the hatchet face wasinches from Milo's and Milo could smell the Aqua Velva and the salsa verde.'Ididn't do dick, and I don't know dick.And you did way less than dick.''Hey, sorry if-''Fuck sorry, pal.You think this is some game? Like getting a master's degree,hand in your homework, and lick the teacher's ass and get your littlePage 32ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlass-licking grade? You think that's what this is about?'Talking way too fast for normal.What the hell had set him off? Milo keptsilent.Schwinn laughed bitterly, moved away, sat back so heavily against theseat that Milo's heavy body rocked.'Let metell you, boy-o, that other shit we've been shoveling since I let you ridewith me - niggers and pachucos offing each other and waiting around for us topick 'em up and if we don't, no one gives a shit -you think that's what the187 universe is all about?'Milo's face was hot from jawline to scalp.He kept his mouthshut.'This.' said Schwinn, pulling a letter-sized, baby blue envelope from aninside suit pocket and removing a stack of color photos.Twenty-four-hourphoto lab logo.The Instamatic shots he'd snapped at Beaudry.He fanned them out on his skinny lap, faceup, like fortune-teller's cards.Close-ups of the dead girl's bloody, scalped head.Intimate portraits of thelifeless face, splayed legs.'This,' he said, 'is why we get paid.The other stuff clerks couldhandle.'The first seven murders had gotten Milo to think of himself as a clerk with abadge.He didn't dare agree.Agreement seemed to infuriate the sonofa-'You thought you were gonna get some fun for yourself when you signed up to bea Big Bad Homicide Hero,' said Schwinn.'Right?' Talking even faster, butmanaging to snap off each word.'Or maybe you heard that bullshit aboutHomicide being for intellectuals and you've got that master's degree and youthought hey, that's me! So tell me, this look intellectual to you?' Tapping aphoto.'You think this can be figured out using brains?'Shaking his head and looking as if he'd tasted something putrid, Schwinnhooked a fingernail under a corner of a photo and flicked.Plink, plink.Milo said, 'Look, I'm just-''Do you have any idea how often something like this actually gets closed?Those clowns in the Academy probably told you Homicide has a seventy, eightypercent solve rate, right? Well, that's horseshit.That's the stupid stuff -which should be a hundred percent it's so stupid, so big fucking deal, eightypercent.Shit.' He turned and spit out the window.Shifted back to Milo.'Withthis' - plink, plink -'you're lucky to close four outta ten.Meaning most ofthe time you lose and the guy gets to do it again and he's saying "Fuck you"to you just like he is to her.'Schwinn freed his fingernail and began tapping the snapshot, blunt-edged indexfinger landing repetitively on the dead girl's crotch.Milo realized he was holding his breath, had been doing it since Schwinnlaunched the tirade.His skin remained saturated with heat, and he wiped hisface with one hand.Page 33ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlSchwinn smiled.'I'm pissing you off.Or maybe I'm scaring you.You do that -with the hand - when you're pissed off or scared.''What's the point, Pierce?''The point is you said I learned a lot, and I didn't learn dick.''I was just-''Don't just anything,' said Schwinn.'There's no room for just, there's noroom for bullshit.I don't need the brass sending me some.fly-by-nightmaster's deg-''Fuck that,' said Milo, letting out breath and rage.'I've been-''You've been watching me, checking me out, from the minute you started-''I've been hoping to learn something.''For what?' said Schwinn.'So you can add up the brownie points, then move onto an ass-warming job with the brass.Boy-o, I know what you're about-'Milo felt himself using his bulk.Moving closer to Schwinn, looming over theskinny man, his index finger pointing like a gun.'You don't know shi-'Schwinn didn't yield [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]