The Delta Star Read Online Free PDF Page B

and their briefcases (Chip’s wasn’t plastic like Mario Villalobos’, it was cowhide, hand-stitched) and headed for a fun-filled morning of watching dead bodies get hacked up, sawed and generally reduced into something resembling steak tartare, which they both ate for brunch.
    “The prom queen and the quarterback,” Mario Villalobos said, shaking his head painfully. “With shoulder holsters.”
    Just then a young bluecoat came charging into the squadroom, a freckled lad with violet eyes. He ran up to the homicide table and said, “Sergeant! You work homicide don’t you?”
    “Yeah,” said the detective trying to remember the young cop’s name. “What can I do …”
    “Sergeant. You aren’t gonna believe this!”
    “Could you maybe kick back a little and …”
    “Sergeant!” The young cop wiped his sweaty face on the blue sleeve of his uniform. “They found this bag in Lafayette Park! Two-A-Forty-three found it and …”
    “That’s not my area,” said Mario Villalobos. “See Detective Sanford and …”
    “Sarge! They thought it was crappy diapers in the bag. Or old Kotex or something. At first. It looked like a rotten melon! All purple and black!”
    “What?” Mario Villalobos sighed.
    “The head!” the young cop cried. “There was a head in the diaper bag. I thought it was a rotten melon! It’s a man’s head! I think! They’re watching it there. We called for the dicks but nobody came. We waited five minutes and …”
    “Wait a minute, son,” Mario Villalobos said. “First of all, that isn’t my area. Detective Sanford will be glad to roll on that call. But you should try to settle a bit before you …”
    “You should see it, Sergeant!” the young cop cried. “It looked like a rotten melon. I thought it was just diapers in the bag at first and …”
    “Mellow out,” said Mario Villalobos, grabbing the freckled young cop by the shoulder. “Listen to me. Did it still have the eyes in it?”
    “Eyes? Eyes? Yeah, I think so. Yeah! It still had eyes!” the young cop cried.
    “Well then you can’t bowl with it, can you? So what good is it? Just go get yourself a can of soda pop, and after you settle, go see Detective Sanford? Okay?”
    So while Sergeant Mario Villalobos was wrapping up his morning’s paper work and the freckled cop with violet eyes was trying to mellow out by thinking, what the hell, you can’t bowl with it, The Bad Czech was about to get mad enough to commit murder. It all began when he decided to hang the wino.
    The wino was one of those real pain-in-the-ass winos. One of those play ragpickers who push a shopping cart around Pico and up Alvarado clear to the freeway, pretending to pick up trash and bottles, stealing whatever isn’t chained, locked, screwed or nailed. One of those winos who, in addition to being a thief, also had a fetish and foraged through MacArthur Park stealing the underwear from old women who couldn’t put up a fight. One day he pulled the stockings right off the old shocks of a snoozing grandma in a wheelchair and was chased by The Bad Czech clear to the water’s edge, where the wino waded and swam to Duckie Island and had to be arrested by helicopter. The Bad Czech’s uniform was covered with duck shit and had to be dry-cleaned twice. The Bad Czech didn’t like that wino one little bit.
    His name was Elmo McVey. He was a cadaver with a crew-cut who smelled like the Vernon slaughterhouse. It was particularly frustrating because he was ruined by alcohol yet somehow could still outrun The Bad Czech.
    The two cops spotted him while they were making their first pass through MacArthur Park, hoping they wouldn’t observe any assholes pulling a pigeon drop on pensioners, or mugging checker players, or purse-picking commuters on the way to the bus stop. The last thing The Bad Czech wanted to see when he was this cranky was Elmo McVey. But there he was.
    The skinny wino was sneaking up on a young Guatemalan couple who were necking on the