The Black Marble by Joseph Wambaugh

was not okay. He was not anything like the detective who worked homicide downtown for fifteen years. That man was quiet and shy, but he was alert. This guy next to him was just some shipwreck victim. Clarence Cromwell pitied him, but he didn’t know him.
    Clarence looked around at the roar of activity, at the grinding paper mill. Papers everywhere. Take away my gun and car, but please don’t take my pencils. Nobody noticed yet how extra bad Valnikov looked today: “Val, you got a comb?”
    â€œA comb?” Valnikov looked at Clarence like he didn’t understand the word. Like he didn’t talk English anymore. “Yeah, Val, you know, a fuckin comb. ”
    Clarence wondered if he could be using drugs. Naw, he thought, a lush like Val don’t go smokin dope.
    â€œHere’s a comb, Val. I used to ride a old sorrel horse in Griffith Park, had neater lookin hair than you got. Go comb your hair, at least. You look like a skid row blood donor. What’re they payin for a pint a blood these days, ten bucks for positive, twelve for negative?”
    â€œPardon?” Valnikov said.
    â€œGud-damn, man! Go in my locker and get yourself a clean necktie. Looks like you washed that one in vodka. Git your shit together, Val!”
    But it was too late. Clarence Cromwell looked up and locked eyes with Captain Hooker, who nodded toward his office.
    â€œThere’s jist one thing savin your ass, Val,” Clarence Cromwell whispered before he stood up. “Me.” Then he was gone toward the captain’s office.
    Valnikov just sat and stared blankly at his crime reports, and trembled, and thought he could hear the voices of a Slavonic choir. Far away. In the frozen Siberia of his mind.
    Natalie Zimmerman was furious. She took long-legged strides back and forth, from wall to wall in Captain Hooker’s private office. The giant strides were stretching the woolen skirt tight across her thighs.
    Well now, old Nat’s wheels ain’t too bad, Clarence Cromwell thought, as he sat down. Ain’t too bad at all.
    â€œI do my job, Captain!” she said, voice shaking.
    â€œI know you do, Natalie. You get straight upper-ten ratings, don’t you?”
    â€œLook, Captain, I wanna make Investigator Three.”
    â€œYou will, I’m sure.”
    â€œNot if I work with that … with Valnikov. Because I’ll get as bad as he is, you make me his partner!” She finally stopped pacing, flopped down in the chair next to Clarence Cromwell and brushed a wisp of frizzy buckskin-colored hair from her forehead.
    Clarence Cromwell looked approvingly at Natalie Zimmerman’s crossed legs and thought maybe this’ll turn out to be a good idea. Might be what old Val needs.
    â€œIt’s not forever, Natalie,” Captain Hooker soothed. He was one of those scholarly looking kind of guys in three-button suits that always made Clarence Cromwell wonder how come they’re cops. Hooter was hipless and had to wear suspenders to hold up his pants and gunbelt.
    â€œDid you see him today, Captain?” Natalie pleaded, raising oversized glasses to rub the bridge of her nose. “The sucker’s bombed. Let’s face it!”
    â€œHe ain’t bombed,” Clarence offered. “He’s jist hung over. Jist gotta have some tea, git his shit … uh, mind together.”
    â€œWhy me, why me?” Natalie asked the lock of frizzy hair which usually hung on her forehead. She wore her Friz longer than most.
    Captain Hooker studied her, nodding like a condescending headmaster. “You’re the best female investigator I’ve got,” Captain Hooker answered softly, hoping Natalie would lower her voice.
    â€œThat’s great. You’ve only got two. How about Clarence here? Why can’t he work with him? They’re old buddies!”
    â€œUh, well, I, ar-uh, got my team to run,” Clarence reminded her. Thinking: Uh-uh, no way, baby. I got my