Hinky (9)

“You fell out of the sky and I ain’t gonna let this ‘piphany go by without giving it an honest, working man’s attempt to allow the synergy to be.” It was Clive at his grandiloquent best. “This time, the mountain come to Mohammed and I am grateful, as you will come to see.”

They were eating steaks again but this time not at the Pantry. Clive chose the restaurant, which turned out to be the Pacific Dining Car on West Sixth.

“What exactly do you want?” Yates asked in a truculent manner calculated to convey that he was seduced by neither the single malt Scotch nor the filet mignon tender enough to render a knife unnecessary.

“That’s exactly the question you ain’t supposed to ask! First ‘cause I don’t want nuthin’. Never did, never will. Second ‘cause we ain’t never met. You got to get your legs around that.”

Yates could feel the ‘Clive effect’ welling up in him.

“You jus’ gonna live your life like I don’t exist. When you see me in a line-up or hear them speak my name, you jus’ say to yourself and anyone who’ll listen, ‘Non lo conosco.”

“What?”

“It’s how the Libyans used introduce their relatives to the occupying forces,” Clive explained while laughing at his inside joke. “Be the smart guy you are. Anticipate but don’t formulate. Think of me as the best friend you don’t have. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do jus’ as long as we never met, et cetera, et cetera.”

“Am I supposed to be some kind of an alibi for you?” Yates demanded more out of a need to impose his authority than because he wanted to know.

“Man, I got a woman whose always tellin’ me not to spoil a good thing by talkin’ too much,” Clive explained, “and hangin’ with you, I’m beginnin’ to see what she’s sayin'.”

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(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (8)

Yates found himself in a waiting mode and pretending not to know why. He told himself he was waiting to make Lieutenant, which he knew he never would. He told himself he was waiting for things to resolve with his ex-wife, which was a long-shot to beat all others. He even told himself he was waiting for the right woman to come along knowing full well that the concepts of ‘right’ and ‘woman’ weren’t traveling companions in his world.

Long an advocate of the pre-emptive strike, Yates was irritable at having to wait for anything. It therefore enraged him to have to admit that what he was really waiting for was a proposition from a delusional motor-mouth that, in all probability, would never materialize or amount to anything even of it did.

The whole scenario of Clive had jail time written all over it. Yates held on to the idea that he might still be implicated in some manner to the demise of Raymond Sloan. There was no reason for him to think this, but it was an idea he couldn’t dismiss. The man’s name kept returning to his thoughts like someone else’s favorite song. It irked him further that he should be so concerned over an act he hadn’t even committed when there were plenty of things in his past that could and should cause him to worry.

The wild card was Clive. He had an agenda, even if Yates couldn’t guess at what it was, and a complete lack of caution that was likely to bring him down along with everyone in his address book. It occurred to Yates that he should have shot Clive that night before going to dinner. It would have greatly simplified his life. To kill him now could complicate things, given the involvement of the attorney and God knows what kind of paperwork the two of them had generated.

Yates realized he’d been driving aimlessly through the streets of downtown L.A. without paying attention to the radio in his patrol car. It was the sound of the dispatcher repeating his call sign that brought him back to his senses.

“There’s a 415 at Sixth and Los Angeles. See the man.” Yates could hear the exasperation in her voice. It was Maggie and she was not his biggest fan to begin with so he didn’t ask her to explain why he had been personally summoned to the scene. Instead, Yates punched the accelerator and sped along Figueroa to Sixth going faster than a 415 required but needing to boil off some pent-up anger.

As he approached Sixth and Los Angeles Yates looked for signs of a public disturbance, but the area was dark. He was reaching for the microphone to confirm the location when he heard a sickening thud from the right front side of the patrol car. He’d hit a pedestrian. Nothing else could make that sound.

Yates slammed the patrol car to a halt and got out to see whom he’d run over. He walked to the lifeless body lying in the street. Homeless and drunk, the man hadn’t seen the police car anymore than Yates had seen him.

As Yates knelt for a closer look, the man sat up laughing and said, “Bet you thought you’d never see me again!”

It was, of course, Clive.

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(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (7)

Roscoe’s Chicken & Waffles had been a fixture on Gower in Hollywood for as long as Yates could remember, though the restaurant was a relative newcomer to Los Angeles compared to Philippe’s or Musso & Frank. Its odd juxtaposition of entrees was just the sort of offering that would attract the likes of Clive. When Yates entered the restaurant, the reaction of its mostly black clientele seemed to echo the sentiment of his ex-wife with regard to his uniform.

Yates saw Clive sitting in the corner with his back to the room. He waved off the hostess and made his way to the table.

“You want to step outside?” It was less a question than a command.

The man looked up with an indifference that quickly shifted to panic when he saw Yates’ uniform. Yates was pleased to see the panic but disappointed to see that it wasn’t Clive he was addressing.

“Perhaps, Sergeant, I might have a word with you first.” A black man in an elegant double-breasted suit seated nearby was addressing Yates. “You can speak with the gentleman after we’ve finished, if you like.”

As Yates took a seat at the second man’s table, the first made for the exit without looking back.

“Who the Hell are you?” Yates asked him.

“As far as I can tell, I’m the best thing that ever happened to you. You’d have to argue long and well to convince me otherwise.”

“That has a familiar ring to it.”

“Be that as it may, I am here to inform you of a few things that may be entirely unfamiliar.”

“Such as?”

“You have certain rights, which fair dealing requires you are informed of.”

“That’s usually my job.”

“As your attorney...”

“What?” Yates interrupted him.

“Oh yes, we skipped that part,” the man explained. “I am now your attorney representing you and your interests in all matters current or hypothetical in nature. As a consequence, all of our conversations and correspondence are privileged and I shall be pleased to keep you safe and harmless to the fullest extent of my capabilities.”

“Which are considerable, no doubt.”

“If I may say so,” the attorney confirmed without any hint of modesty. “My first counsel is to advise you to rid yourself of any and all unregistered firearms that may or may not be currently in your possession. I would intend this to include such 9mm handguns that may have recently come under your direction and control.”

The attorney allowed himself a polite smile to acknowledge Yates’ surprise before continuing.

“While I am ready and able to defend you against any and all charges, including homicide, I don’t think it would be in your best interest to murder the benefactor of the trust that engaged my services on your behalf.”

“Who the fuck is Clive and what’s this all about?” Yates was losing patience.

“I have been instructed,” the attorney said ignoring Yates’ question, “to create a portfolio of investments on behalf of a trust that has named you as beneficiary. Though I cannot take instructions from you, I am always interested in whatever opinions you may have as to the activities of the trust.”

“What is it I’m supposed to do?” Though it didn’t occur to Yates, his question signaled the end of the conversation to the attorney.

“As to that, I have no idea.” The attorney stood up to leave.

“You spoke of my rights earlier,” Yates said struggling to get a grasp of the situation.

“Yes.”

“What are they, exactly?”

“Well,” the attorney responded thoughtfully, “you have the right to remain silent.”

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(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (6)

“Do you always have to show up here in that uniform?” was her greeting, which recalled Clive’s first words to him. “It sends the wrong message to the neighbors.”

“I don’t have to show up here at all,” he told his ex-wife. “You insist on cash and I’m not going to send it through the mail. So either you come to me, I come to you or you can do without.”

“I did without when we were together. That was enough for me.”

Yates noticed copies of Cosmopolitan on the coffee table. She’d gotten a subscription apparently.

“I’m going for a doctor this time,” she said noticing that he was noticing.

“Do you have any magazines that tell you what to do with a man after you’ve got him?”

“What would be the point?”

Yates handed her the envelope and turned to leave.

“Can I as you a question?” she used her softer I-used-to-love-you voice. “Why do you always put it in an envelope?”

“It’s customary and usual for blackmail payments.”

“At least I didn’t ask for alimony,” she answered in a demonstration of what she thought of as humor.

Yates looked at her, trying to see what it was that had attracted him to her back when. There was a hint of it, but not enough to spark any nostalgia.

“They’ll never promote you, you know. You’re damaged goods. Your only hope is to get famous or smart and I’ll lay eight-to-five against either.

As Yates went out the front door, she called after him, “Next time, keep your mouth shut in the sack. You can’t trust women and I can’t afford to be splitting this with anyone.”

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(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (5)

The only thing Yates disliked more than people were other cops. He had a deep-seated suspicion of anyone who gravitated towards law enforcement. He didn’t trust them and did everything in his power to minimize contact with them; not an easy task for an L.A.P.D. Sergeant. Detective Horvath was no exception.

On the face of it, the two men should have been kindred spirits; not that either of them would ever have acknowledged such a concept. Both had been Marines. Both had distinguished themselves early in their careers attaining the rank of Sergeant in record time. They could have been drinking buddies on one of the regular runs to Baja informally organized by members of the Department. It was not to be, however.

A shooting incident involving Yates, Horvath, a member of the Crips and an innocent bystander with selective memory insured that Yates’ career trajectory would be stalled on the launching pad while that of Horvath would be accelerated. Both men knew the truth about the shooting, but neither had ever told it. They contented themselves to live with the consequences of what the witness had thought he’d seen. Any other course of action would have opened the door to further investigation and far greater consequences for both of them.

“Why’d you kill him?” was Horvath’s opener.

“He sold me a set of tires that were no damn good.”

“This isn’t a joke. One implausible coincidence and your career is over; two and you’ll be talking to the D.A. from the wrong side of a partition.” Horvath looked at Yates trying to read his thoughts. None were evident.

“I didn’t like the look of the car and he was obeying all the traffic laws; probable cause in anyone’s book, so I ran the plate. It came back clean and I let it go at that.”

“You didn’t pull him over?” Horvath probed.

“Any record of my running his DL?”

“No.”

“Well, there’s your answer.”

The two men stared at each other. Horvath didn’t believe the story and Yates was daring him to take it further. Beyond the concerns of the immediate situation both men were assessing how well their mutual secret was holding and calculating the probability that the other would someday crack and need to tell someone.

“We’ll let it sit there,” Horvath said relenting for the moment. “Unless push comes to shove.”

“It always does,” was Yates’ parting shot.

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(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell

Hinky (4)

Yates spent a part of the next morning going through mug shots in search of Clive. As far as Yates was concerned, the man was already wearing a homicide jacket and drugs were probably a signature element of his lifestyle if not his commerce. Whoever made the statement that “they all look alike” never sat for a mug shot review in Robbery-Homicide. You could put the whole collection into a coffee table book titled “Faces from Hell” and make a fortune with it. After an hour of browsing, Yates gave up and left Parker Center without bothering to check in with Horvath.

Leaving downtown, Yates drove to a neighborhood in North Hollywood where a car thief with strong emotional ties to the Aryan Brotherhood resided with a lap dancer who specialized in stealing side arms from off-duty Sheriff’s Deputies at private functions. She usually sold the guns at premium prices since the bonus of implicating a member of law enforcement in whatever violent crime was to follow was extremely attractive to her clientele. Yates received his merchandise at wholesale as a result of past services rendered. It was unlikely that whoever had originally owned the weapon would have any connection to Clive. Furthermore, it was Yates’ belief that the Deputy in question would not have accurately reported the circumstances under which the service weapon had been lost, thereby leaving the lap dancer in the clear.

“What about the copyright laws?” the lap dancer asked him. Her name was Chrysstale, after the Champagne she would say, though the misspelling rather mooted the reference. She had just shown Yates her new tattoo, which inscribed “LAPD Rules!” across her lower abdomen.

“I’m not here to make an arrest, but I think the fact that he forgot the periods rules out infringement.”

“What periods?”

“Just give him the fucking gun and stop showing off!” Swanson was getting impatient and no doubt was anxious to score with the money Yates was exchanging for the gun.

Yates thought to ask the neo-Nazi if he’d ever come across someone of Clive’s description, but decided against it. Since Swanson was never more than a prepositional phrase away from a psychotic episode, the less he knew of Yates’ interests the better. Instead, he took a different approach.

“Know anything about a guy named Raymond Sloan?” he asked as casually as he could.

“Are you shittin’ me? Do I look like someone who’d know a Raymond Sloan?” Clearly, Swanson’s Aryan sensibilities had been offended.

“I just thought since he’d been murdered…”

Swanson took a moment to reflect on this, nodding his head slowly as though coming to terms with a new paradigm. “Cool. I’ll ask around.”

It was the best Yates could hope for.

“What periods?” Chrysstale demanded to know.

More to follow...

(c) 2006 Stephen Mitchell