It went like that for the first four or five holes. Trunk hit two or three or four balls before he liked his lie; Jimmy drove and chased down Trunk's mulligans. On the third hole Napitano opened a wicker picnic basket and pulled out a bottle of champagne and some fried egg and bacon sandwiches. Jimmy was sent to bring Trunk a taste. Then sent back to bring him refills. Then stood by waiting while Trunk threw up again, handing him a towel when it was over.
"Don't feel sorry for me," Trunk said softly, as Jimmy helped him back into the cart. He fished a fat joint out of his knickers, hands shaking. Desmond and Napitano had pulled over about fifty yards ahead, talking as they waited for them to catch up. Trunk fired up the joint, took a deep drag, then slowly exhaled. "This is strictly medicinal."
Jimmy plucked the joint from him, took a hit himself, and passed it back. "An hour of being your caddy, and I could use some medicine too."
Trunk laughed.
"How long have you and Desmond been friends?" asked Jimmy.
"From the first minute I met him. How about you?"
"Same."
Trunk watched him. The whites of his eyes were yellowed. "Let's you and me just drive to the seventh tee and wait for Desmond. I'm tired. I thought playing here would be good for me. I mostly played public courses, rocks and divots and scalped greens. This country club-it's nice, but I'm tired." They drove in silence, Trunk puffing the joint, passing it over when he felt like it. "You ain't asked me anything," he said finally. "I keep waiting, but you don't get to it."
"I figure it's up to you."
"That's a first. Never met a reporter yet who wasn't in a hurry to get in and get out."
Jimmy parked the cart on a grassy slope off the asphalt track and parked under a large tree, where it was cool and shady. He took the remnant of the joint from Trunk's thick fingers and held it up to his lips so Trunk could get the last of it.
"Thanks," said Trunk, exhaling. He wiped his forehead. They waited, watching Desmond far down the fairway, sauntering toward his ball. "Desmond says you're looking for some heavy-tonnage pageant hawk wears lots of rings." He kept his eyes on Desmond. "She don't come to mind, but all that means is she was smart enough not to get caught." Desmond's shot hooked left, and Trunk shook his head. "I keep telling him not to drop his shoulder."
"Good luck telling Desmond anything."
Trunk looked over at Jimmy, then went back to Desmond. "I popped Willard Burton once-kiddie porn. Must have been ten years ago." He stopped to listen to a crow squawking overhead, breathing heavily but smiling as though he were listening to his favorite tune. "Slimebag beat the bust. I had him dead to rights, but he had a hotshot attorney who argued that Burton had a constitutional right to take nudie pictures of little girls. Lawyer even brought up Alice in Wonderland to prove it. Did you know the guy who wrote that book was a perv too?" He rested his hands on his knees. "Makes makes me almost glad I never had kids."
Jimmy noted the almost but didn't say anything.
"Burton getting a walk like that pissed me off. Police work is more personal than most cops will admit, but I got nothing to lose now. I kept an eye out for Burton, that's all I'm going to say. I would see him sometimes hanging around junior high football games, scoping out cheerleaders, passing out his business card. I heard he worked the beauty contest circuit for a while too, but I never nailed him again. I think he knew I was watching, because one day he was just gone."
"Gone?"
"Just dropped off the face of the earth. Must have been eight or nine years ago."
"Right after Heather Grimm was murdered."
Trunk considered it and nodded. "I just figured good riddance. Then Desmond calls me a few days ago and says you're looking for him. Says maybe Burton's involved in a homicide." He lifted his head up with an effort and locked eyes with Jimmy. "I had to sit down, I was so happy. Getting a second chance at him now-"
"If I had known that, I could have saved Nino thirty-seven thousand dollars. You probably would have settled for a nine-hole course off the Pomona Freeway."
Trunk smiled. "I'd have settled for a round of miniature golf, you dumb cracker." His head drooped, his neck too weak to support it.
Jimmy looked away, now wanting to embarrass him. He watched Desmond on the sixth green, lining up his putt. "Do you know anyone who can help me find Burton?"
Trunk raised his head again and sat up. "Don't-don't I count?" "You said you had lost track of him."
"I bumped into him a couple years ago." Trunk peered at the sixth green. "I didn't even recognize him at first. He'd cut off his beard, dyed his hair, got rid of his glasses too, but it was him. He calls himself Felix Watson now, which ain't much of an improvement if you ask me, but I guess it's a name without a history… Sweet."
Jimmy followed his gaze and saw Desmond walking over to the cup to retrieve his putt, heard Napitano applauding from his nearby cart.
"Sixteen footer," said Trunk. "Desmond always was steady."
"Where did you run into-"
"Warehouse district, but don't expect to find him there-he moves around like a Mexican jumping bean. Felix Watson shoots porn films. That's how I bumped into him again. He's smarter now though, strictly three pieces of picture ID for the talent, and all his permits in place. Couldn't touch him." Trunk grinned, and Jimmy glimpsed again the man he had once been. "You should have seen his face when he saw me walking into the warehouse. It was almost worth having to cut him loose."
"I'm going to find him."
"He's a freelancer. I asked around-nobody at the department has a line on him."
"I'll find him."
"I believe you just might." Trunk watched Desmond and Napitano approach. "Desmond showed me that picture of you and the girls in the magazine, all of you naked as jaybirds. You know, when I started out working vice, that magazine would be strictly under the counter. Now it's on display at the supermarket, just fun and games." He turned to Jimmy. "Good thing I'm dying. I live much longer, I'd be out of a job."
Chapter 33
"Hey, I know this guy." Rollo leaned his head out the window as Jimmy parked. "Wayne! Dude!"
Wayne looked up from his magazine, a crew-cut muscleboy sitting on a steel equipment crate, catching rays in a tank top and shorts. He waved at Rollo and stood up.
"Lucky break, Jimmy," said Rollo, as they crossed the street. "Wayne's cool."
The house was in an upper-middle-class section of the San Fernando Valley, a two-story job on a cul-de-sac, a rental van in the driveway. Every house on the block had a swimming pool in the backyard, with high fences and hedges to guarantee privacy. It was a mind-your-own-business street, sunny and safe and clean, just like every other street in the Valley-one of the reasons this area just over the hill from L.A. had become the porn-production capital of the universe. Rollo had never heard of Willard Burton, or his new name Felix Watson either, but he had crewed plenty of porn flicks, shooting cutaways and facials. It didn't take too many calls before he got the address of today's shoot.
Wayne tossed down the current issue of Honcho as Jimmy and Rollo walked up, a six-packed stud on the cover. Wayne was shorter up close, with a hyperdeveloped torso, veins snaking across his biceps and innocent Bambi eyes. "Hey, Rollo, they didn't tell me you were crewing today."
"I'm not," said Rollo. "Social call. What about you? They got you doing security now?"
"Nah. I'm driving the gear, running errands, whatever. I like the goatee, by the way."
Rollo tugged at his new facial hair. "Thanks. This is my friend, Jimmy."
They shook. Wayne had a small hand, but Jimmy could feel the lifting calluses across his palm, right under the fingers. "Felix working today?"
Wayne nodded. "You know Felix?"