Underbelly Page 10

  Magrady told him about his run-in with Elmore Jinks’ partner Boo Boo, and him being with Chambers.

  “Why you all so hot and bothered to find Chambers?”

  “Do you think he killed Savoirfaire?”

  Stover smiled thinly. “We got you for that, homey.”

  “You honestly believe the DA will press that case against me?”

  “I know you to be capable of fatal indiscretions, Magrady.”

  “You gotta get off that merry-go-round, Stover.”

  He pointed at him. “Or you got away with something belonging to Savoirfaire after you iced him and the Rover Boys want it. Maybe Chambers was in on it with you, set Savoirfaire up for you to bash his head in.”

  “Believe what you like, Captain. But Jinks came at me and you need to do your job and put his ass away.”

  “Don’t you worry about how I do my job, sport.”

  Stover departed and Magrady was treated to a rendition of “Danke Schoen” from the Singing Vato. There was a TV playing mutely high up in one corner of the room. On it was a newscast about the fire that had consumed several thousand acres in Cleveland National Forest. On screen at one point was an artist’s rendition of a space-age-looking jet that, the crawl informed Magrady, was rumored to have gone down in the forest.

  Their dinners arrived, pushed in by an athletically-built light-skinned African American orderly named Rekon according to his name tag.

  “They call you that because you were in the service?” Magrady asked him, pointing at his pin. The orderly pushed his plate of roast beef and cream corn into place. The knuckles on the orderly’s hands were misshaped from repeated impact.

  “It’s my fighting name,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Short for Rekonso.”

  Magrady frowned. “You’re not a boxer. The bruises on your hands are wrong for that. You don’t get that from wearing the heavy gloves.”

  Rekon raised an eyebrow, nodding. “Mixed martial arts, old school.”

  “Brutal,” Magrady lamented.

  “Me and my old lady are pursuing it. She’s got a bout down in Maywood this Saturday.”

  “I guess that keeps the arguments to a minimum at home.”

  He laughed. “So you try and rob somebody?”

  “Just trying to help a friend.”

  “Right, right,” the other one said, having heard all manner of inmates’ excuses for winding up in the hospital jail ward. He finished his chore and departed.

  After sunset the Asgardian nurse returned and Magrady asked her about making a phone call.

  “You’re being sent to central booking tomorrow and you can make it there,” she said tersely as she changed his IV.

  “I need to talk to my lawyer. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “He will,” she said, giving him a pat on the arm as she moved off.

  Magrady was inclined to take his frustration out on her but knew she was practiced in the art of deflection when it came to hard luck prisoners. Certainly if he really got insistent, Rekon would be summoned double-quick and show him why his knuckles looked like they did. But he felt adrift, deprived of his freedom and prevented from carrying out his duties. Duties? To whom? To himself, the eternal search for the greater truth? Bullshit. Maybe to the magical mummified head of Talmock. Sure, why not?

  The sound was now up on the TV and another news report was on about the fire. It was now nearly forty percent contained. Switching from a live feed with a fire captain at the scene, the report then played a previously taped snippet with an Air Force spokesman from their PR office who would neither confirm nor deny the persistent rumors that an experimental aircraft, the Serpent’s Wing, had crashed in the forest.

  “I can’t speculate on that at this juncture,” the tense-jawed spokesmen said in answer to a reporter’s question that, if the plane did go down, was terrorism suspected.

  That night in the dark, Magrady lay in bed on his back, imagining some miscreant had used Talmock’s head to bring down the experimental jet and that Boo Boo and Elmore Jinks wanted it to fix horse races and mesmerize large-breasted women to do their lascivious bidding. Around two in the morning he awoke and removed the intravenous drip from his arm. Pain would keep him more on edge. He felt he was going to need all his resources soon.

  VI

  MAGRADY’S LEG IRON CLANKED as he walked from the bathroom back to his bed. Before he could climb back in, the lock turned and two Sheriff’s deputies entered. One was what you’d expect of a sumabitch that had to corral the Southland’s often querulous inmate population. He was big, muscularly wide in the upper body and at least six-five. The eyes in that flat bronze Olmec face turned this way and that, partially lit by the pale fluorescents in the hallway behind him. He absorbed data, assessing the bullshit quotient and possible threat the hospitalized prisoners in the room might have posed—if the rest had been awake. The sun wouldn’t be up for another twenty minutes or so, but a man closer to collecting Social Security than he liked to admit had a prostate operating on its own clock.

  “Aravilla,” the considerable one said over the sounds of slumber. He didn’t wait for an answer and then announced, “Magrady.” He again seemed disinterested in a response as he stepped back and his more normal proportioned companion came forward.

  This one had red hair going grey at the sides and freckles along his forearms. “This ain’t American Idol, ladies. No sense being coy, it won’t earn you more points. Let’s go. You’re keeping me from my breakfast burrito,” he cracked.

  “Magrady, Aravilla, up and ready.” The ancient-faced one turned on the lights amid throat clearing and farting. His partner tossed a folded up jailhouse orange overall to Magrady who’d held up his hand.

  “Lemme see your tag,” The redhead demanded, indicating with his fingers for the vet to come toward him. He did and showed him the plastic ID bracelet around his wrist. He then unshackled Magrady, tossing the ankle collar onto the older man’s hospital bed. The chain attached to the collar had its other end fastened to a welded ring in the floor, the length of which allowed the wearer movement about the room.

  “We going to Central?” the Singing Vato asked, sitting up, blinking and yawning.

  “You Aravilla?”

  “Yeah.”

  The deputy pitched the crooner the other coverall and checked to make sure he was the intended. Aravilla got into his getup after getting free of his leg chain as Magrady fastened his coveralls. Then the two were handcuffed with a thinner chain reattached to both ankles and their wrists, then linked to each other. In this way Magrady and the Singing Vato were marched out in line, the red haired deputy in front and the larger one behind them. His knobby, veined hand rested casually on the butt of his pistol. All through this preparation, the other prisoners had watched them go save the one who’d been doing his multiplication tables. He remained in bed, seemingly asleep and oblivious.

  The two were taken down in an elevator to a prisoner transport van at a loading dock, and driven out onto Mission Road.

  Magrady and Aravilla exchanged a look. The van wasn’t heading south toward downtown and the central jail. The van took the ramp onto the 10 freeway, west.

  “Where we headed, chief?” Aravilla asked the back of the deputies’ heads through the heavy wire mesh between them and the front of the van. There was no answer, and no other prisoners were in the back. “Motherfuck,” Aravilla swore, impotently jerking his chains in frustration. The two were sitting opposite one another, secured to a steel loop bolted to the floor.

  Magrady sat back and tried not to fixate on the drama. Stover was having him buried in the system. Their paperwork would go missing, purposely misfiled and not in the proper computer files. So friends or relatives searching for them among the arrestees at Central or the Twin Towers wouldn’t find them too easily.

  “Who’d you piss off?” Magrady asked Aravilla.

  “This punk ass over at Rampart. A real prick sergeant who’s been bangin’ my cousin.”

/>   “I’m guessing you’ve made your displeasure known to him.”

  “Indeed,” the other man said, sighing. “They’re gonna stick us somewhere out in the boonies where no one can find us.” He jerked on his chains again. “Man, I had an audition to get to tomorrow. This is really fucked up.”

  It turned out that Aravilla was part of a talent agency geared toward helping ex-gangbangers get roles in TV shows and movies. He’d been up for a part in a cable three-parter in which the criminals and cops sang pop tunes and social commentary numbers à la Brecht and Weill or Springsteen, reflecting on their deeds. He was looking forward to playing the part of a mercurial character nicknamed the Chairman, hence his getting the Sinatra imitation down. But he had a run-in with the sergeant at a neighborhood eatery in Boyle Heights. The cop was off duty and, according to Flores, had goaded him about banging the shit out of his favorite aunt’s youngest daughter.

  Such unflattering comments led to fists flying and Aravilla wound up getting pounded several times in the kidney by the officer’s shoe. With blood in his urine, he’d earned an overnight stay in the jail ward. In hindsight this was less about seeing to his injuries, but a way to disappear the struggling song man.

  The van made good time on the freeway as this was before the morning crush. From the 10 they segued onto the 405 North and hit a pocket of resistance past the Getty Center before dropping down through the Sepulveda Pass. The reason for the delay was a camouflaged Army Humvee that rear-ended by a civilian Hummer, a smaller H3, in the middle lane. Several service men and a woman had exited the Army vehicle and were discussing matters with a middle-aged woman in a fur coat, the driver of the Hummer. This Magrady took in as they rolled past.

  The large deputy, who drove, said something to his partner and the other one snickered. He took a look back at the prisoners, a leer fading on his face. “Just relax, fellas. I can almost taste that burrito.”

  “Good for you,” Magrady said.

  “Careful, pops, you might want to save your strength.” Redhead pointed a finger at him and turned back around. “You got a long day ahead of you.”

  “That right?” Magrady challenged.

  Aravilla made a disapproving frown at him.

  Eventually the prisoners were deposited at the Van Nuys County jail facility, part of a sprawling complex that included an LAPD division and nearby courthouse. They were placed in a holding cell with other arrestees, including an atypical white, tanned, suburban-looking man in tasseled loafers and suede sport coat. He did his best to remain in a corner, seemingly trying to will himself invisible to the rest. Naturally this had the opposite result.

  “The fuck, man,” a beer gut hanging, bearded individual said as he gazed mercilessly at the casually dressed inmate. “They bust you for trying to pick up a prostitute, something like that?” he demanded. No response. “What? You deaf, bitch? I got something to open up your ears.”

  The object of his twisted desire tried to get smaller.

  “They didn’t treat Britney like this,” a Marilyn Manson copycat said to a deputy who walked by the bars, reading something on a clipboard. The pop singer had once reported to this jail for whatever infraction she’d committed that week. She’d come in a bright red wig and miniskirt as countless paparazzi snapped photos in hopes she’d do something bizarre in the continuing headline drama of her then public meltdown. Instead she just filled out her paperwork and was able to leave.

  Yeah, Magrady lamented, they sure didn’t treat Britney Spears like this.

  Every minute that elapsed brought him no relief since he had no idea as to a time certain for release. He’d asked at one point to make a phone call but lacking money couldn’t use the pay phone. Magrady considered hitting up the suburbanite for some quarters but given he hadn’t said anything to defend him, he felt he didn’t deserve to ask for the loan. But he got his chance after they’d been brought a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches piled on a tray, just out of the microwave.

  “Hey, my doctor says I can’t let my blood sugar get too low,” the one with the stomach said to the loafer wearer. He held out his hand for the other one to hand over his food.

  “Look, just let me be.”

  Jelly belly jiggled his hand, waiting, entitled to receive his tribute.

  Magrady orbited closer. “You’re not that stupid, are you?”

  He put squints on the vet. “Fuck off.”

  “I’ve got nowhere to go,” Magrady said. It got quiet in the holding tank.

  “I said step off, whiskers.”

  “Now you know damn well these fine deputies like to run an orderly jail. You want to cause a ruckus, that’s one more charge laid on your head. Me,” he hunched his shoulders, “I don’t mind the extra days.” He figured two or three blows from those meaty fists and he’d be back in the hospital ward, but he couldn’t abide a bully. “See, I like the taste of ears,” making a reference he’d go Mike Tyson on him.

  Gut man took a step closer to Magrady who didn’t blink nor back up. He was ready to plant his elbow in the man’s Adam’s apple.

  Several beats, then, “My fine old lady’s comin’ to spring me. I don’t have time for this shit.”

  That earned him a round of disappointed guffaws as the potential combatants separated—which in their tight, crowded space meant several inches. The middle class man continued to unwrap his sandwich and began eating. He glanced once at Magrady, wary to know what his intercessor wanted from him.

  “I didn’t ask for your help and I’m damn sure not giving you anything,” he said over a mouthful.

  “Sucker,” Aravilla said to Magrady, smiling thinly.

  Magrady ate slowly and tried to remember various passages from Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. It was the first book he’d picked out on his own as a kid to read from the school library. Trying to conjure up those scenes, and that thrill of those word pictures in his head at that time, gave him something to do. Something to do for a while until that got boring. At eighteen past four he was imaging how his shoes had been manufactured when a deputy called for Aravilla.

  The Singing Vato stuck out a fist to Magrady. “Stay up, home.”

  “You too, man,” he said, giving the other one some pound. “I’ll look for you in the movies.”

  “That’s right.”

  The cell door was unlocked and he left, flanked by the pair that had brought them there. Magrady’s stomach fluttered. Like him, Aravilla hadn’t made a call to let anyone know where he was and there wasn’t going to be a court hearing this late in the day. And he doubted a friend had found him.

  Aravilla didn’t look back, but hesitated as he was led through the doorway as those questions must have occurred to him as well. Forty minutes later, Magrady was called and he too was taken through the doorway by the happiness boys. The room they stood in contained two chairs and a mop leaning against the wall. Another door, with an electronic lock, was at the far end.

  “Take that off,” the red haired one said, handing Magrady a grocery bag containing his mushed clothes.

  Magrady removed the overalls and put on his pants and shirt. He put a hand on his back pocket. “Where’s my wallet?”

  The two looked blankly at each other. “Wallet, you say,” the heavyweight replied. “We don’t know nothin’ about that. It must have been taken at the hospital.”

  “Shitty security they got there,” his tag team buddy said, clucking his tongue.

  “This ain’t right.” The key to Bonilla’s place was missing too. “How the hell am I supposed to get home?”

  “You’re a free man, sir.” The walloper moved to the security door and punched in a combination. The door clicked open a sliver and he pushed it further out. “Best get going.” His Olmec face was set like carved granite.

  The other one gave Magrady a glazed look, and for the briefest of moments he wanted to smash that face, if only to get arrested and have a place to sleep tonight. No matter how uncomfortable the holding tank was and having
to deal with the blowhard with the beer belly. But he knew better and walked out the door that they’d put Aravilla through less than an hour before. He was let out onto the side of the building and a passageway along a parking structure. The door closed behind him.

  Fuckin’ Stover. No money and no coat and it was getting cold. Magrady walked over to Van Nuys Boulevard and went south. He begged fifty cents at a gas station off a youngster riding a sweet 1200 cc Yamaha motorcycle. At a supermarket, he was awarded two dollars for helping an aging woman with dyed bright orange hair load her church van with various boxes of out-dated, but eatable food donated to their pantry.

  “You sure you don’t want me to help you get a bed tonight?” she asked Magrady. “I know several shelter operators in the area.”

  “That’s okay, thanks. I’ll be fine. I appreciate this.” He waved at her and walked off. It was nighttime and he was frigid. Hustling money was one thing, but staying at a shelter would depress him even more as to how precarious his situation was. Nearing Burbank Boulevard he came upon a funky coffee shop and entered. An open mic session was happening. A chunky young woman with hot pink highlights in her hair was humorously recounting her time chained to an old oak to prevent it being bulldozed while desperately having to pee.

  Magrady warmed up and managed not to spend his money. There were numerous people in the place and when the couple left, he sat in one of their chairs and pretended the half full cup before him had been his. He also carefully stole some tip money. He knew at least once this young woman in fur boots caught him but she smiled wanly in an understanding way. There was a working pay phone near the bathroom and Magrady tried a collect call to Janis Bonilla. But the operator couldn’t put it through since he only got her recording.

  Back in his seat he noticed one of those canvas bag type purses on a nearby ledge. Whoever it belonged to wasn’t around at the moment. Magrady zoomed in on several bills haphazardly stuffed into it. A few bucks more and he could catch a bus back to his side of town. Just two lousy dollars. He was hungry as hell and cold and uncomfortable, but wanted to get home worse. He looked around and the storyteller with the bright hair who’d been rockin’ the mic earlier glanced up from the text she was editing while sitting at a table. They exchanged half smiles and she resumed her work.