A Song for the Asking

by Steve Gannon

  “I’m not,” hissed McKenzie, blushing furiously.

  “Hey, troll,” Allison called to Travis. “If you can stop stuffing your pimply face long enough to listen, I’ve got a news flash.”

  “Allison, don’t,” pleaded McKenzie.

  “I don’t have that many zits,” said Travis.

  “No? What’s that huge bulge on your chin hiding beneath a blanket of Clearasil?”

  “What’s that big obnoxious hole in the middle of your face?”

  “Give it a rest, you two,” Catheryn sighed. “I swear, of all my children you’re the most alike, so for the life of me I can’t understand why—”

  “The most alike?” protested Travis. “No, way, Mom. Allison and I have absolutely nothing in common.”

  “Sure we do,” said Allison with a secretive smile.

  “What?”

  “Somebody here likes us.”

  McKenzie slumped in her seat.

  “Allison, enough,” Catheryn warned sharply. “Travis, please tell Tommy it’s time to bring out the cake.”

  “But Dad’s not here yet,” cried Nate. “He said he would try to make it,” he added a bit more calmly, trying to cover his disappointment.

  “I know, honey. I’m sorry. It looks like he won’t be coming.”

  Travis rose from the table. “C’mon, kid,” he said sympathetically, helping Nate to his feet. “Let’s go check on dessert. You’ll feel better with a little chocolate under your belt.”

  Sensing his older brother’s need to escape Allison’s gibes, as well as being glad to evade the curious glances of several of his friends following his outburst, Nate accompanied Travis across the room. As they approached the order counter, Nate saw Tommy talking with Christy White, an attractive blond who had been Tommy’s steady girlfriend since the ninth grade. A star on the school swim team, Christy stood a few inches under six feet, shorter than Tommy but nearly as tall as Travis, and had an archetypical swimmer’s body—tanned face, well-muscled arms, and a terrific set of legs. She glanced up when they arrived.

  “Hi, Christy,” Travis said awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot.

  Christy forced a smile, seeming uncharacteristically preoccupied. “Oh, hi, Trav. And a happy birthday to you, Nate. How’s the party going?”

  “Okay.”

  “Except Allison’s acting like a jerk, as usual,” added Travis.

  “Then all’s right with the world,” said Tommy lightly, seeming to welcome the interruption. “She teasing you about McKenzie again?”

  “Among other things,” said Travis.

  “Some things never change. Has Dad showed up yet?”

  “No,” answered Nate, this time careful to hide his disappointment. “We’re not going to wait anymore. Mom says it’s cake time.”

  “I’ll bring it right over,” said Christy. She shot a tentative smile at Tommy, then hurried off toward a cold locker behind the counter, adjusting her Pizza Hut uniform as she went.

  Travis watched her go. “Anything wrong?” he asked, glancing questioningly at Tommy.

  “Nope,” said Tommy. “Let’s go join the party.”

  Nate followed his two older brothers back to the table in silence. When they arrived, Travis dropped down beside Catheryn, as far from the rowdy knot of youngsters present as possible. Tommy remained standing, pensively cracking his knuckles and staring back at the order counter. Nate rejoined his friends.

  “What’s with the Neanderthal clone?” Allison whispered to Nate, inclining her head toward Tommy. “He having a fight with Christy?”

  “I guess,” said Nate. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if it’s not that, it’s probably some other tragic occurrence, like he forgot where he left his football cleats,” said Allison. Then, peering across the room, “Ahh … the cake.”

  Nate looked up and saw Christy—her face illuminated by nine tiny, wavering flames atop the birthday cake she carried—leading a procession of Pizza Hut staff across the crowded room. Halfway to the table they broke into the traditional birthday chorus. Nate felt his face flush as the entire party joined in, followed shortly by nearly every other child in the room, their young voices happily compensating for inconsistencies in pitch and harmony with a zealous display of ear-splitting volume.

  As the song died away, Christy set the cake before him. Nate stared in amazement. From a base layer of chocolate-covered fudge rose a startlingly accurate replica of a medieval castle, complete with crenellated walls and battlements, towers at both ends, and a massive keep in the center—even a drawbridge. Turning to Catheryn, he grinned with unabashed pleasure. “Rad cake, Mom. Thanks.”

  “Gee, I wonder how she ever caught on to your childish fascination with castles,” Allison mused. “Could it be those posters of castles you have plastered all over your room? Or maybe it’s the books on castles you keep checking out from the library, or—”

  Travis, who had moved closer by then, elbowed her to silence. “Come on, Nate,” he said. “Make your wish. Then let’s see whether this thing tastes as good as it looks.”

  Nate closed his eyes. Then he reopened them and with one tremendous blast extinguished all nine candles.

  “What did you wish for?” one of his friends asked.

  “I wished that Sammy—”

  “Don’t tell your wish,” interrupted Travis. “If you do, it won’t come true.”

  Allison started plucking candles from the cake. “Jeez, the little bean-brain wasted his wish on a dog,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “He’s not just a dog,” Nate shot back. “He’s special.”

  “The only thing special about Sam is that he’s so old he can barely walk.”

  “Well, maybe he’s gonna get better.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I think Trav has the right idea,” said McKenzie, reaching over to pull out the last remaining candle. “Let’s eat.”

  Allison smiled. “You always think dear Travis is right.”

  “Allison, you’re impossible tonight,” said Catheryn, noticing McKenzie’s renewed look of chagrin. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Nothing. I just get cranky when I’m surrounded by cretins.”

  Before Catheryn could reply, a tall boy working behind the order counter called across the room, “Mrs. Kane. Telephone. It’s your husband.”

  Catheryn rose from the table, handing Tommy a large, wooden-handled knife that Christy had brought with the cake. “Here, Tom,” she said with a look of mock admonition at Allison. “I’m trusting you to cut the cake. See that everyone gets served and that nobody throws food, and if Allison keeps acting up, I’m authorizing your to use this on her.”

  Tommy scowled menacingly at his sister. “You bet. It’ll be a pleasure.”

  When Catheryn arrived at the counter, the lanky youth who had called passed her the phone. “Here you go, Mrs. Kane.”

  “Thanks.” Stepping past a couple waiting to order, Catheryn moved as far away as the phone cord would allow, covering her left ear with her hand to shut out the noise. “Dan?”

  “Naw, it’s your secret lover from the laundromat. Your powerful brute of a husband isn’t around anyplace near, is he?”

  “Don’t worry about him. That big lug would rather work than attend his son’s birthday party.”

  “Sorry about that, Kate. I tried to call you earlier on your cell phone. I couldn’t get through.”

  Catheryn nodded, suspecting that had been the case. Cell phone reception in Malibu was often sketchy, getting worse as one went farther north. “Where are you?”

  “I just got done with the shooting team,” Kane answered, referring to a preliminary investigation immediately conducted after every officer-involved shooting.

  “Shooting … oh, my God. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for one of the FBI guys. One of the kidnappers didn’t make it either. We did locate the kidnapped boy, though—locked in the trunk of a car in a se
lf-storage garage.”

  “So your hunch about the maid was right.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Will the boy be okay?”

  “I don’t know. They took him to UCLA.”

  “Were you the one who, uh …”

  “It was a team effort.”

  “Of course,” said Catheryn, accustomed to her husband’s occasional evasions concerning his work. “Well, I … I’m glad you’re all right. Is the case wrapped?”

  “Almost. We’re still missing the third guy, but the Bradley’s maid appears willing to cut a deal, so we’ll get him. There are some, ah … procedural difficulties to clear up, though. We have a meeting with the brass first thing Monday.”

  “But you’ll be back on regular hours?”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry, we’ll be heading out for Nate’s birthday surprise first thing tomorrow morning, as planned. Listen, tell the kid I’m sorry I missed his party. In fact, let me talk to him myself.”

  Catheryn covered the phone and glanced across the room. By now most of the children at the birthday table had chocolate smeared on their faces, and Nate had begun ripping open his gifts. “Nate!” she called. “Come over and talk to your father.”

  Nate looked up, then stubbornly shook his head.

  “This is a bad time, Dan. He’s right in the middle of everything.”

  “He’s pissed off at the ol’ dad, huh?”

  “He’s disappointed.”

  “I’ll straighten that out tomorrow. Meantime, the guys and I are heading out for a little morale booster, so don’t wait up.”

  “Instead of coming to Nate’s party, you’re going out drinking with the boys,” said Catheryn, her voice cooling.

  “Come on, Kate. You know how it is after a shooting.”

  “Dan, I realize you feel like unwinding, but it would mean a lot to Nate if you came.”

  “Negative. Hell, it would take me an hour to get there, and by then the party would be over. Look, I know Nate’s disappointed, but he’ll get over it.”

  “Dan—”

  “I’ll make it up to him tomorrow. End of discussion, Kate. Like I said, don’t wait up.”

  *

  A half hour later Kane headed into the Scotch ’n’ Sirloin’s dimly lit bar. For years an unofficial West L.A. Division hangout, the Scotch—despite the solid and faithful support of the officers of the LAPD—had somehow avoided the stigma of becoming a “cop bar.” College kids from UCLA and Santa Monica College still jammed in on weekends, especially when there was live entertainment, and the diverse throng filling the room that evening was typical for a Friday night.

  Once inside, Kane stopped at the bar to order a double Jack Daniel’s. Drink in hand, he pushed through the crowd, quickly spotting Arnie, Banowski, Deluca, and two detectives from burglary sitting at a table in the back. When Kane arrived, Deluca was capping off a long, convoluted joke involving an elderly Jewish couple who had shared a life of trial and tribulation—financial setbacks, a plane crash, three weeks in a lifeboat—the wife always at her husband’s side. “So the husband’s on his deathbed,” Deluca chortled, as usual so amused by his own joke he was barely able to deliver the punch line. “‘Mona,’ he says, looking up at the woman who once again, at his darkest hour, he finds standing beside him. ‘You’re a fuckin’ jinx!’”

  “Damn, Deluca. You still telling the old Jewish-couple story?” said Kane after the laughter subsided. “Time to get some new material.”

  Deluca took a pull on his beer. “Screw you, hero,” he said.

  “Back at you,” Kane replied, shaking proffered hands as he pulled up a chair to join them.

  “Nice work today,” said Arnie.

  “Yeah, everyone in the squad room’s talking about your little climbing expedition,” noted George Nostrant, one of the burglary detectives. “Ballsy move.”

  “There were moments when things got a little tight,” Kane admitted.

  “Definitely a superhuman effort,” said Banowski. “Can I touch you? Please?”

  “Bite me,” Kane chuckled, beginning to relax for the first time since the shooting.

  Deciding the occasion called for a formal gesture, Arnie stood and raised his drink. “Gentlemen, I would like to propose a toast,” he said. The other men fell silent as Arnie lifted his drink even higher and continued. “Here’s to one of the finest detectives to have ever graced the Los Angeles Police Department, a man who has tirelessly performed his duty to protect and serve the citizens of our community without complaint, and who has proved a shining example of courage and humility for everyone whose life he has touched. And a man, I might add, who is the only officer present tonight wearing women’s underwear. Gentlemen, I give you Detective Daniel Thomas Kane.”

  Kane grinned, showing sanguine disregard for Arnie’s toast amid the tumult of good-natured catcalls that followed.

  “How’d it go with the shooting team, paisano?” asked Deluca after Arnie had resumed his seat.

  Kane’s smile faded. “I came here to relax, Paul.”

  “Sorry.”

  The group lapsed into silence. A moment later they watched appreciatively as a young cocktail waitress in a short green skirt approached, two full pitchers of beer in one hand and a tray of cocktails balanced expertly on the other. She set the pitchers on their table without spilling a drop, cleared their empty glasses, and replaced them with fresh napkins and a new round of drinks. “Anything else, guys?” she asked.

  “Yeah, Arleen,” said Deluca with a grin. “Make my life perfect and meet me tonight after you get off work.”

  Like most of the young women who worked at the Scotch, Arleen knew of Deluca’s reputation as a lothario and had long ago decided her best course was not to take him seriously. “Sounds tempting,” she replied, starting back to the bar. “Can I bring my boyfriend Steve along, too?”

  “If that’s what it takes,” Deluca called after her. “Nice cakes,” he added, watching her retreat. “I have a feeling one night with her would dehydrate the average man for a week. Italians excepted, of course.”

  “Naturally, as most Italians can’t get it up in the first place—unless there happens to be a duck or a sheep in the vicinity,” Kane observed. “Which reminds me, Deluca. I left my jockstrap on your old lady’s bedpost the other morning. I would appreciate it if you’d tell Sarah I’d like it back.”

  “Screw you, Kane,” said Deluca, irritated by the deliberate mention of his wife. “You’re saying you wouldn’t like to get that hot little number between the sheets?”

  Kane shook his head. “Now, why would I want to do something like that? One night with me and the poor girl would never be satisfied with another man for the rest of her miserable life.”

  The other men present grinned and shook their heads, everyone there knowing that Kane’s attitude concerning marriage was nonnegotiable and straight from the Old Testament.

  “Excuse me, Your Holiness,” said Deluca. “I expect they’ll be nominating you for sainthood before long.”

  “Jeez, Paul, don’t get your bowels all in an uproar. You want to screw around on Sarah, that’s your business. And your problem.” Kane took a pull on his bourbon. “But as we’re swapping humorous stories here, I just remembered an incident I’ll toss into the kitty,” he added, looking pointedly at Deluca. “A story, I might add, that bears somewhat on the subject of marriage.”

  “Is that right?” asked Deluca suspiciously.

  “I’ve heard it,” said Arnie.

  “Tough,” said Kane, continuing unperturbed. “When I first started working patrol, my partner and I answered a domestic call out in Sherman Oaks. I was pretty green and made the mistake of turning my back on the woman of the house, who claimed she had been beaten by her spouse when she caught him cheating on her. When she realized we intended to arrest her husband, she pulled a cleaver from under her dress and tried to bury it in the back of my skull.”

  “Lucky she didn’t aim for something vital,” Banowski noted.<
br />
  “My partner grabbed her just in time,” Kane continued, ignoring the interruption. “Anyway, when we went into the kitchen, we found she had already used the cleaver on her husband—which just goes to show that when you screw around on your wife, you never know what might happen.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” said Deluca.

  “There’s more,” said Kane. He paused, noticing Lieutenant Nelson Long entering the bar. Long was a big man, whose square, friendly face concealed a perceptive intelligence that had earned him the rank of lieutenant and a position as detective commanding officer for the West L.A. Division. As an African-American, he had surmounted many obstacles on the rise to his present position in the department, and he was one of the few members of the brass, black or white, whom Kane truly trusted.

  “Hey, Lieutenant,” Kane yelled, raising his hand. “Over here.”

  As Long started over, Kane quickly finished his story. “Anyway, the guy in the kitchen checked out before the ambulance arrived, so we got the wife cuffed and stuffed and charged her with murder. All the way down to the lockup she kept carrying on like she couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Get this: She was actually pissed off at her husband for dying!”

  Amid the reaction of skeptical amusement that followed, Lieutenant Long arrived at the table. “Pull up a chair and drink awhile, Lieutenant,” said Arnie, hooking over a spare chair with his foot. “You just missed one of Kane’s cautionary tales. If there was ever any doubt, this one proved he is not one to let the facts get in the way of a good story.”

  Thanks, but I can’t stay,” said Long. “I have some news.”

  Everyone quieted.

  “What?” said Kane.

  “You know the Bradley kid was in bad shape when we found him. He’d been in the trunk of that car for days, and with all this heat …”

  “What are you trying to say, Lieutenant?” asked Kane.

  “The boy didn’t survive, Dan. I’m sorry. I thought you would all want to know.”

  4