Rollo turned from the refrigerator with a can of Mountain Dew in one hand. "I didn't hustle him."
"You gave Nino a real moon rock?"
"Duh."
"Where did you get a moon rock?"
Rollo popped the can of Mountain Dew. "There was this NASA engineer, a regular mission-control kind of guy." He gestured with the can. "I guess things were different in the early days-space, Jimmy, the final frontier. Why shouldn't this guy bring home a little chunk of history from the office?" He took a long drink. "This engineer, he died last year, but he had a kid, smart kid too, fix anything electronic, but you know how it is-bad grades. High school, man, it should be illegal the shit teachers get away with." He took another drink, and the Mountain Dew foamed out and down his hand, dripping on Jimmy's carpet. Rollo idly rubbed it in with the toe of his shoe. "This kid. I kind of went into his high-school computer system and fixed his grades. Got him a scholarship to Caltech." He sat down at the computer. "So he gave me the moon rock."
"And you gave it to Nino?"
"I kept it for a while. It was fun. You know, holding it, thinking about it-like green cheese. But Nino, he's into possessions, and I thought he'd really like it. I mean, it's not like I was going to lay it off on the Smithsonian." He tapped at the keyboard. "Hmmmm."
"What?"
"I've got one, two, three, four, five calls to a motel just off Sunset, the Starlight Arms. According to AAA online, the Starlight is not one of your high-quality establishments. No phones in the rooms, no pool, no bathtubs, just showers. A fine selection of triple-X videos on cable, though."
"What's the number?" Jimmy looked up as Rollo gave it to him. "I've got it on my list too. Three days before Walsh died." He reached for a phone.
Somebody took his time answering. "Yeah?" The man sounded like it hurt to talk.
"Is this the Starlight Arms?" asked Jimmy.
"Yeah. So?"
"Is Harlen Shafer one of your guests?"
The manager or whoever he was laughed so hard he coughed up a couple of chunks of lung tissue. "We don't got guests here."
"Is Shafer still checked in?" asked Jimmy. Silence on the other end, then a dial tone.
"Who's Harlen Shafer?" Rollo asked as Jimmy hung up.
"What's the address for the Starlight Arms?" Jimmy waited while Rollo jotted it down. "Shafer was in prison with Walsh. He used to visit him at the trailer, probably copped dope for him. Katz said his fingerprints were all over the place."
"Let's go over there now," said Rollo. "I'm tired of playing phone tag, and this motel-I know that area. There's a great Thai restaurant not far from there-" He jerked at the knock on the door, ready to bolt.
Jimmy beckoned him quiet, walked to the door, and checked the peephole. He smiled, then opened the door.
Chapter 14
A jumpshot from Kobe Bryant at the buzzer, and the Lakers and Houston were in double overtime. Yes! The Butcher sat in his car, pumping his fist as he watched the lady climb the stairs of the apartment complex, the cheers of the crowd reduced to a fuzzy whisper through the blown speakers of the radio. The rain was gusting, and he followed the lady's progress through the rain that was spattering the windshield, wondering what a finely dressed woman was doing in surfer and secretary heaven. Jimmy's apartment was just past the Huntington Beach oil field, close enough to the oil patch to hear the grasshopper derricks creaking away, close enough to the beach to catch the salt air when a storm was rolling in.
The fancy lady had parked just down the street, walking to the building with a controlled swivel, her purse held close against her hip. All the thong queens and high-school honeys flashing it for free on the beach, but this lady with her power suit and self-control got him stoked. He had been tempted to turn on the wipers to get a better look at her as she crossed the street, but he didn't want to give away his position.
Shaq got fouled taking a shot, which bounced around the rim before rolling out. The air went out of the arena-the Butcher could feel it as acutely as if he were really there. He pounded on the steering wheel, the heavy plastic vibrating with the blows. Shaq was a dominating center but a brick foul-throw shooter.
The lady kept climbing, caught for a moment in a stairwell light. The Butcher checked out her tight ass for a moment until she moved higher, into shadow.
Shaq's first foul shot was an airball. The arena crowd was silent. The Butcher had to resist the impulse to tear the steering wheel off and beat someone to death with it.
The lady reached the third-floor landing, looked around, and then turned right. Unbelievable. She was knocking on Jimmy Gage's front door. Up until that moment the Butcher had been considering going one on one with the lady, but that ruined it for him. Chalk it up as one more thing Jimmy was going to have to answer for.
The rain beat down suddenly on the roof of the car, and the Butcher jerked. When he peered through the windshield again, the lady was gone. Inside. The Butcher adjusted his seat, trying to get comfortable, the busted springs groaning under him. Ridiculous for someone his size to be stuck driving around in a junked-out Geo Metro anyway. Twenty-nine years old, and the Butcher was driving a toy car. The best gas mileage on the market and every penny counted, but it still added up to shit car, shit life. Do the math.
The Butcher-that wasn't really his name, it was just something Jimmy Gage had stuck him with. No matter how much the Butcher tried to ignore the name, threatening those who used it, the tag had stuck. Soon enough he was going to take his real name back. Take his life back too.
Shaq bounced the ball prior to taking his second foul shot. Bounce bounce bounce. The announcer was so tense he sounded like he was going to cry. Bounce bounce bounce. Take the fucking shot, Shaq!
Shaq did. The Butcher closed his eyes, seeing that perfect arc. The radio squawked, and the Butcher opened his eyes. "Nothing but net, ladies and gentlemen!" The Butcher watched Jimmy Gage's front door, hearing the crowd cheer over the radio, feeling the blood pounding in his temples. Lakers up by one. That was sweet, but for the kind of money Shaq was paid, he should have made them both.
Chapter 15
"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Holt looked from Jimmy to where Rollo sat at the kitchen table. The two of them together always appeared guilty.
"Just the usual felonies and misdemeanors." Jimmy kissed her, lingering for a brief moment, and she hated the fact that she noticed how long their kisses lasted, trying not to compare the way they were now with the way they had been a few months ago. "Come on in. This is a pleasant surprise."
Holt hoisted her package, the brown-paper wrapping rustling as she handed it to him. "I hope this is too."
Jimmy pretended to shake it. "What have I done to deserve this?"
"Not a thing. Open it anyway."
Jimmy tore at the wrappings.
"The DA has decided to present the Strickland case to a grand jury," Holt said lightly, pleased that the news immediately got his attention.
"That's great!" Jimmy looked as happy for her as she had felt nailing that son of a bitch. If Holt had her way, serial rape would be a capital offense-a point of view that would have shocked her before she became a police officer. Now she knew better.
Her parents had been appalled when she had decided to enter the Academy, to the point of getting the mention removed from her alumni newsletter. Her father said he knew he should have put his foot down when she opted for criminal law instead of corporate at Stanford. He had barely gotten used to the idea of a federal prosecutor or a district attorney in the family, but a police officer? "Our sort don't get their hands dirty, Jane," her father had intoned. " I do, Daddy," she had responded. Her mother said her father would get over it, but they both knew better.