Dietz said, “Shut up and call the cops.”
“Who are you? You can’t talk to me that way! This is a private residence.”
I sank down on a dining room chair. Through the front window, I could see that neighbors had begun to congregate, murmuring anxiously among themselves- little groups of two and three, some standing in the yard.
What had the man said to me? I ran it back again: I’d heard Dietz’s car rumbling in the street and that’s when I’d turned, smiling at the man who was smiling at me. I could hear his words now, understood at last what he’d said to me as he approached-“You’re mine, babe”-his tone possessive, secretive, and then the incredible sexual heat in his face. I felt tears rise, blurring my vision. The window shimmered. My hands began to shake.
Dietz patted Irene’s arm and returned to me. He hunkered at my side, his face level with mine. “You did great. You were fine. There was no way you could have known that would happen, okay?”
I had to squeeze my hands between my knees so the shaking wouldn’t travel up my arms. I looked at Dietz’s face, gray eyes, the blunt nose. “He tried to kill me.”
“No, he didn’t. He tried to scare you. He could have killed you the first time, in Brawley on the road. He could have nailed you just now with the first shot he fired. If he kills you, the game is over. That isn’t what he wants. He’s not a pro. He’s sick. We can use that to get him. Can you understand what I’m saying? Now we know his weakness.”
“Yeah, it’s me,” I said, forever flip. Actually, I didn’t understand much of anything. I’d looked into the face of Death. I’d mistaken him for a friend. Other people had tried to kill me-out of vengeance, out of hate. It had never really seemed personal until the man on the walk. No one had ever connected to me as intimately as he had.
I glanced over at Irene. Her respiratory distress, instead of subsiding, seemed to be getting worse. Her breathing was rapid, shallow, and ineffectual, the wheezing in her throat like two high-pitched notes on a bagpipe. Her fingertips were turning a shadowy blue. She was suffocating where she sat. “She needs help,” I said.
Dietz turned to look at her. “Oh hell . . .”
He was on his feet instantly, striding across the room.
The owner of the house was standing at the telephone, repeating his address to the police dispatcher.
Dietz said, “We need an ambulance, too,” and then to Irene, “Take it easy. You’ll be fine. We’ll have help for you soon. Don’t panic …”
I saw Irene nod, which was as much as she could manage.
In the midst of the confusion, Clyde Gersh appeared, drawn by the scattering of neighbors who were standing out in front. He told me later than when he saw the damages to the house his first thought was that Agnes had been discovered and had put up some kind of fight. The last thing he expected was to see Irene on the floor in the midst of a stage III asthma attack. Within minutes, the cops arrived, along with the paramedics, who administered oxygen and first aid, loaded Irene on a gurney, and hustled her away. In the meantime, I felt strangely removed. I knew what was expected and I did as I was told. I rendered a detailed account of events in a monotone, letting Dietz fill in the background. I’m not sure how much time passed before Dietz was allowed to take me home. Time had turned sluggish and it seemed like hours. I never even heard the name of the guy who owned the house. The last glimpse I saw of him, he was standing on the porch, looking like the sole survivor of an 8.8 earthquake.
14
when we got home, I fumbled my way up to the loft. I pulled my shoes off. I stretched out on the bed, propping the pillows up behind me while I took stock of myself. All the niggling aches and pains in my body were gone, washed away by the wave of adrenaline that had tumbled over me during the attack. I was feeling drained, lethargic, my brain still crackling while my body was immobilized. Downstairs, I heard the murmur of Dietz talking on the phone.
I must have dozed, sitting upright. Dietz appeared. I opened my eyes to find him perched on the bed beside me. He was holding some papers in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. “Drink this,” he said.
I took the mug and held it, focusing on the heat. Tea has always smelled better than it tastes. I can still remember how startled I was as a kid when I was first allowed to have a sip. I glanced up at the skylight, which showed a circle of lavender and smoke. “What time is it?”
“Ten after seven.”
“Have we heard from Clyde?”
“He called a little while ago. She’s fine. They treated her and sent her home. No sign of Agnes yet. How are you?”
“Better.”
“That’s good. We’ll have some supper in a bit. Henry’s bringing something over.”
“I hate being taken care of.”
“Me, too, but that’s bullshit. Henry likes to feel useful, I’m starving, and neither of us cook. You want to talk?”
I shook my head. “My soul’s not back in my body yet.”
“It’ll come. I got a line on the guy from the L.A. police. You want to take a look?”
“All right.”
There was a sheaf of LAPD bulletins, maybe six. I studied the first. wanted felony traffic suspects. There were ten mug shots-like class photos-one circled in ballpoint pen. It was him. He looked younger. He looked pale. He looked glum-one of life’s chronic offenders at the outset of his career. His name was Mark Darian Messinger, alias: Mark Darian; alias: Darian Marker; alias: Buddy Messer; alias: Darian Davidson. Male, Caucasian, thirty-eight years old, blond hair, blue eyes, tattoo of a butterfly on the web of his right hand (I’d missed that). His date of birth was Jury 7, Cancer, a real family man at heart. His California driver’s license number was listed, his Social Security number, his NCIC file number, FBI number, his department report number, his warrant number. The arrest, apparently in the summer of 1981, was for violation of Vehicle Code Section 20001 (hit-and-run resulting in death) and Penal Code Section 192(3)(a) (vehicular manslaughter while driving under the influence). The photograph was an inch and a half wide square, taken straight on. It helped to see him shrunk down to Lilliputian proportions, the size of a postage stamp. He looked like a low-life punk, the black-and-white mug shot not nearly as sinister as the flesh-and-blood reality.
The second police bulletin read: arrest for murder of a police officer, Felony Warrant LACA, with a string of numbers, charging Penal Code Section 187(a) (murder) and Section 664/187 (attempted murder) with a six-line narrative attached. “On October 9, 1981, two Los Angeles police officers responded to a domestic disturbance during which the above suspect fired an unknown type semiautomatic at his common-law wife. When the police officers attempted to subdue him, suspect shot one of the officers in the face, resulting in his death. The suspect then fled on foot.”
The names of two detectives, assigned to the case, were listed below that, along with several telephone numbers if information came to light. At the bottom of the page was a line in bold print. kindly notify chief OF POLICE, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, it said. KINDLY KILL THIS MAN ON SIGHT, I thought.
The third bulletin was dated less than two months back. ONE MILLION DOLLAR ROBBERY INFORMATION wanted. And there he was again, in a police composite drawing, this time with a mustache, which he must have shaved off in the interim. According to the victim’s account, the suspect had followed a wholesale gold dealer into a gold exchange business in the Jewelry Mart section of downtown Los Angeles on March 25, where he relieved the victim of the gold he was transporting, valued in excess of $625,000. The suspect had produced a gun and robbed the victim and another employee of an additional $346,000 in gold “granules” and $46,000 in cash. Mark Messinger had been identified from fingerprints at the scene.
I leafed through the remaining bulletins. There was apparently no crime Mark Messinger was incapable of committing-the well-rounded felon with a major in murder and minors in armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. He seemed to operate with equal parts impulse and brute force. He didn’t go in for the intellectual stuff, nothing with finesse. The million-dollar robbery was probably the most sophisticated thing he’d ever done.
“Now we know how he can afford to take on a cut-rate hit,” I said.