A Song for the Asking

by Steve Gannon

  Throughout that afternoon Moro and Kane alternated interrogations, using various lines of questioning in an effort to determine whether any of the gang members drove a dark-colored Firebird Trans Am. Although this avenue was unsuccessful, two other detectives were hunkered down in the surveillance room monitoring conversations in the holding cells and unattended interview rooms, and the hidden microphones did confirm the PBGs’ turf war with the Sotels. In addition, Willie Cesko, aka Ratman, was ruled out as a suspect, having totaled his classic ’79 Trans Am during a drunken spree three weeks earlier. Progress, but nothing putting them closer to an arrest.

  Kane had just given Moro the okay to wrap it up when James Santoro, one of the CRASH detectives who’d been stationed in the listening booth, stopped him outside one of the interrogation rooms. “I think I’ve got something for you, Kane,” he said.

  “What?”

  Santoro signaled Kane to follow him into the windowless surveillance room at the end of the hall. “Step into my office,” he said. “You’re going to want to hear this for yourself.”

  It took Santoro a minute to locate the pertinent section of the recording. When he had it cued up, he pulled off his earphones and looked at Kane. “With three rooms to monitor, I almost missed this,” he said with a smile. “I just happened to tune in some Sotels we had down in one of the holding cells. We were all set to cut ’em loose.” He tripped a switch, activating a small speaker in the console.

  Impatiently, Kane listened to snatches of soft, slurring conversation. “My Spanish isn’t that good, Santoro. What the hell are they saying?”

  “It’s coming up here.” Santoro began translating aloud. “The first guy says, ‘Why’d that redheaded pendejo keep askin’ about our rides?’” Santoro glanced at Kane, then continued. “Another guy says, ‘You dumb shit, why do you think?’ The first guy says, ‘He kept wanting to know if anybody drove a fuckin’ Trans Am. Only car I know like that belongs to Miguel’s old lady—what’s her name? Annette? Man, I’d like to get a taste of that.’ A third guy laughs and says something about his dick falling off.” Santoro flipped off the recording. “That’s it.”

  Kane rubbed his palm over the rough stubble covering his chin. Was Angelo Martin killed by someone in his own gang? he wondered. If so, that would rule out the murder being the result of a drug-war retaliation, increasing the chances of a tie-in with the Bradley case. But how did it fit?

  Kane’s back ached and his head throbbed from the game of rotating interrogation they’d been playing all afternoon, but something about this seemed … right. “Do we still have those punks downstairs?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Bring them back up separately. I want to talk to each of them alone this time. Meanwhile, pull up any Miguels you have on your Sotel roster. We need a last name on him and his girlfriend Annette. If we can’t find Miguel, we’ll follow her till he shows up.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Stay on that bunch downstairs. After I’m done, we’ll put them back together again. I want to know every damn thing they say. Every syllable. If one of them so much as farts, I want to hear his bowels rumbling on that recording before his asshole even starts to pucker.”

  Santoro grinned. “No problem,” he said. “No problem at all.”

  11

  That Friday night Allison sat in the kitchen watching her father’s thick, powerful hands carefully arranging his workspace: cutting board and chef’s knife in the center, vegetables in clear plastic bags and meats in white butcher’s paper to the left, nested stainless-steel bowls to the right, condiments and spices lined up behind.

  Kane liked to cook, and for as long as Allison could remember, her father had always prepared at least one weekend meal for the family. Not the usual daily fare of casseroles, soups, pastas, salads, and meat-and-potato dishes that Catheryn cooked during the week; Kane’s creations were always unique. Occasionally his work schedule interfered and they would go out to dinner instead, but as a rule everyone in the house approached the end of the week anticipating a patriarchal Friday-night feast. Tonight, in keeping with the family’s cautious acceptance of Kane back into the fold and the uncharacteristic solicitude he’d displayed since returning, the meal promised to be special.

  Nate had been quietly watching with Allison. Finally he spoke. “Can I help, Dad?”

  “No.”

  “Dad likes to cook all by himself, Nate. You know that,” said Allison. “Except for cleaning up, of course. He trusts the little people like you and me to do that.”

  “Come on, please?” repeated Nate, whose wary reserve around Kane since the previous weekend’s fight had abated to an exaggerated need for his father’s approval.

  Concentrating on his task, Kane grabbed one of the meat packages and ripped open the paper. Eight split chicken breasts plopped onto the cutting board. Kane lined them up. Using a large chef’s knife he started on the first, quickly removing the skin and fat, then deftly filleting the meat from the bone. Allison watched as he picked up another, struck by the incongruous, almost hypnotic agility of his hands.

  “Please?”

  “Why don’t you let him, Pop? The worst he can do is chop off a couple fingers and bleed to death. Think of how nice things would be on the home front without a little mutant hanging around.”

  Nate’s face reddened. “Shut up, Allison.”

  “What’s that I heard?” said Allison, cupping her hand to her ear. “A tiny, mouselike squeaking? Maybe we should set some traps.”

  “Speaking of traps, how about if both of you shut yours right now?” Kane suggested. “Nate, I’ll let you peel the shrimp. Do it at the sink, and don’t get hulls all over like last time.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ll do a good job, you’ll see,” Nate said. “I’m the fastest shrimp peeler in the world.”

  “Yeah, sure. Just get the hulls off.” Kane pointed the heavy knife at his daughter. “Why don’t you go set the table?”

  “The picnic table’s already set. Mom said we’re eating outside,” said Allison, taking stock of the assortment of food and condiments spread across the counter. “What are we having tonight? Stir fry?”

  “You’ll see when it’s done. Where are the rest of the troops? I want them ready to chow down in thirty minutes.”

  “Mom and Trav are downstairs in the music room, and Tommy’s been on the phone for the last hour taking to the lovely Christine,” Allison answered, eyeing the small incendiary peppers Kane had purchased at an Asian specialty market in West Los Angeles. “Just tell me one thing. Is it going to be hot?”

  “Yeah, I’m making it hot. Now, pipe down so I can get some cooking done.”

  Allison watched as Kane neatly sectioned two yellow peppers. Next he grabbed a red pepper and prepared it as he had the yellows. Then, fingers expertly curled to avoid adding incidental flesh, he quickly reduced a pile of mushrooms to perfect thin slices, followed by broccoli, green onions, and ginger—all submitting to the rhythmic stokes of his flashing blade.

  “I’m done,” said Nate, pointing proudly to a small mountain of hulled shrimp. “See, Dad, not one broken tail. What’s next?”

  “Do the asparagus,” Kane ordered, scooping the shrimp into a metal bowl. “Some of the spears have grit on them, so wash each one carefully.”

  “You’re not gonna believe how clean I’ll get them, Dad.”

  “Nate, it’s just asparagus, for chrissake,” said Kane with a puzzled glance.

  “What a suck-up,” Allison whispered under her breath, parrying her brother’s glare with a saccharine smile.

  Kane completed the last of the vegetable preparation, then butterflied the boned chicken breasts, pounded them lightly with a mallet, and cut them into thin strips. He worked in silence, seeming to enjoy the process as much as the anticipation of the meal. When all the bowls stood filled and ready, he paused, ticking off the next sequence of steps aloud. Rice on, heat the water for steaming the asparagus, bread in the oven, start the mustard
sauce, blend the salad dressing, preheat the wok.

  And as she watched her father work, Allison suddenly realized why he liked to cook. Unlike so many things in life, the process of putting together a meal was predictable, repeatable, and something he could totally control.

  Twenty-five minutes later, as the sun descended over Point Dumé to the west, the entire family assembled downstairs at a large picnic table on the redwood deck. The temperature was perfect for outdoor dining. With dusk’s approach, the prevailing onshore winds had reversed, ushering in soft, warm gusts of inland air. Along the beach, isolated groups of terns raced the ocean’s surging fingers, skittering like fleas as they pecked out their final meal of the day, while here and there, illuminated by the last slanting rays of the sun, couples strolled the water’s edge—some glancing curiously at the new raft sitting high and dry on the sand in front of the seawall.

  “Dad, this looks great!” said Tommy, eyeing the steaming cluster of bowls in the center of the table. He rubbed his hands in histrionic expectation, adding, “And it smells fantastic. Let’s eat!”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” asked Catheryn.

  Tommy smiled guiltily. “Oh, yeah. Grace.”

  “Well, get ’er said before the grub gets cold,” said Kane impatiently.

  Catheryn smiled, then lowered her head to lead the family in giving thanks for the meal. During this time Allison glanced surreptitiously around the table. All eyes were closed except for Travis’s, who winked at her as Catheryn requested a blessing for the family, winding up the grace with: “Dear Lord, we thank you for the delightful dinner that Dan has prepared, and we respectfully pray that it’s not too hot to eat.”

  “Amen,” said Kane. Then, leaning across the table, he served Catheryn a huge portion of the main course—an ambrosial mix of stir-fried chicken, shrimp, mushrooms, green onions, red and yellow peppers, broccoli, and cashews—covered with a spicy soy and ginger sauce. Next he loaded up his own plate, grabbed a hunk of bread, and reached for the rice. “Damn, Kate, your blessings are getting longer all the time,” he noted. “Sure you don’t have some preacher blood in you?”

  “It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if I did. This family could use a little more religion.”

  “Yeah. We could all use a good case of shingles, too.”

  In addition to the stir-fry, Kane had prepared one of his other specialties, a side dish of steamed asparagus topped with a light mustard sauce so flavorful that Nate immediately devoured his serving and requested more. And despite his family’s good-natured complaints, it quickly became obvious that Kane had managed to find the perfect level of spiciness for the main course of meats and vegetables—just hot enough to enhance the flavors without overpowering them. For the next fifteen minutes, as everyone dug into the meal, conversation sputtered along in a sporadic manner, occasionally punctuated by brief periods of comfortable silence.

  “Some of you children may be too young to remember, but years ago when he was still bird hunting, your father used to make this dish with pheasant,” Catheryn noted when most of the plates were empty.

  “Yeah, I remember,” said Travis. “Before Sam got too old, right?”

  “Right,” said Kane, mopping his plate with a chunk of bread. “Sam may not seem like much now, but in his day he was one heck of a gun dog. Had a nose damn near as good as a pointer, but he worked in close and retrieved over water. Handled, too,” he added, referring to the ability of a trained gun dog to take hand and whistle commands at a distance. “He could have been a field-trial champion if I’d wanted.” Then, with a prolonged, satisfied sigh, “Any stir-fry left?”

  “All gone, Pop,” answered Allison. “We had a regular feeding frenzy going on here. Reminds me of something I once saw on a Jacques Cousteau special.”

  “Yeah, I saw that one with you,” Tommy said. “They were throwing bloody chunks of meat into the water, and—”

  “It’s a sad commentary on our manners to be comparing ourselves to a school of sharks,” interrupted Catheryn. “Let’s just say that your father’s cooking managed to do for a short while something he’s never been able to accomplish any other way: to shut us up.”

  “Yeah, Pop,” Added Allison. “You want to close our yaps, just keep cooking like that.”

  “I helped, Mom,” Nate declared proudly. “I did a good job, too. Right, Dad?”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Kane. “Speaking of jobs, did you give Sam his pill today? He could barely make it up the stairs when I got home.”

  Nate ducked his head and leaped from the table. “I’ll do it now.”

  “Damn, Kate,” Kane complained as Nate raced for the stairs. “That kid’s got a lot of growing up to do.”

  Catheryn, who since the fight had noticed Nate’s altered behavior around his father, shot Kane a sharp look. “Dan, he’s only nine,” she said, unable to keep an edge from her voice.

  “That’s no excuse. Maybe the kid’s memory would improve if I forgot to serve him some of the dessert I plan to whip up.”

  “Dessert?” Allison groaned. Can we hold off a bit? I’m stuffed. I couldn’t eat another bite.”

  “Too bad. I’ll just have to eat yours.”

  “Why don’t we take Allison’s suggestion and hold off a little for dessert?” said Catheryn. “Let our food settle.”

  “I vote with Mom,” said Allison. “Besides, she has an announcement to make.”

  Catheryn looked at Allison and shook her head.

  “What?” asked Travis, missing the silent exchange. “Did you hear from the Philharmonic?”

  “Nothing definite yet,” Catheryn answered slowly. “I was going to save it for later, but … I may be offered the position.”

  “That’s great!” said Travis.

  “Way to go, Mom!” added Tommy.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” asked Kane.

  “I auditioned for a temporary position with the Philharmonic last week,” Catheryn answered. “I didn’t mention it because I didn’t think I would get it, but—”

  Kane cut her off. “That’s a negative,” he said, his tone turning peremptory. “With four kids to raise, not to mention your music students, there’s no way you’re taking on another job.”

  “Dan …”

  “Damn it, Kate. I can’t believe this is the first I’m hearing of this,” Kane continued, conscious of his tenuous acceptance back into the family and fighting to control his temper. “Did you plan to do this without discussing it with me?”

  “Of course not. Before making any decision, I thought I would sit in on some rehearsals and see how it went before I brought it up.”

  “And when are these rehearsals supposed to take place?”

  “Tuesday through Thursday mornings at the Dorothy Chandler, with a double rehearsal on Tuesday. If I’m home late next week, I was hoping—”

  “No problem, Mom,” said Allison. “I’ll be here to take care of Nate.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Nate said adamantly, returning with Sam’s medicine. After taking his seat again at the picnic table, he scooped a bit of rice from his plate, pinched it into a ball, pressed in the pill, and tossed it to Sam. As usual, the old dog swallowed without chewing and waited hopefully for more.

  “I know you can take care of yourself,” said Allison with a patient smile. “I just meant I’d be here to help in case something happened—like if the neighbors’ cat accidentally mistook you for a mouse and decided to have you for a snack.”

  “Mom!”

  “Hush, you two,” reproved Catheryn. “Allison, I appreciate your offer, but let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “That particular bridge may just get washed out,” Kane observed, his face darkening despite his effort to remain calm. “When are the performances?”

  “Thursday through Saturday nights at eight, with a two-thirty matinee on Sunday,” Catheryn answered, adding, “That part wouldn’t start till mid-August.”

&
nbsp; “And who’s going to take care of things around here then? You plan to let Allison run the whole house?”

  “I can do it,” Allison declared, glancing nervously at her father.

  “I’ll help,” said Travis.

  “Me, too,” Nate joined in.

  “We can all pitch in,” said Tommy, his voice reflecting the tension that had descended on the table.

  “You’ll be gone by then, Tom. The only way you’ll help is by not being around to cause trouble. How long is this replacement job, Kate?”

  “Just thirteen weeks, but—”

  “Thirteen weeks.”

  “There aren’t any out-of-town engagements scheduled, so I wouldn’t have to travel,” Catheryn continued patiently, ignoring Kane’s interruption. “And I haven’t officially been offered the position. We’ll talk about it later, Dan,” she added, reluctant to continue the conversation in front of the children.

  “You bet we will.”

  An ominous silence followed. In a transparent attempt to change the subject, Travis spoke up. “Uh, Dad, our new job’s going pretty well.”

  “Yeah, I meant to ask about that,” Kane said. “What’ve they got you doing? Hulking lumber?”

  “Mostly. That, and sweeping up, rolling out power cords—all the drudge work. We’re definitely at the bottom of the food chain, but in between we’re getting to do some nail-bending, too. Funny, I didn’t think I’d like it, but framing a house is fun. One minute you have nothing; the next all the walls are up. It really goes fast.”

  “What’s more, Trav has already made a new friend,” Tommy added teasingly.

  “Who?” asked Catheryn, sounding pleased.