A Song for the Asking

by Steve Gannon

  But how?

  All at once Travis remembered the moon, recalling that it had risen just before they had gone to sleep the previous evening. He tried to recollect how much later it came up each night, deciding it had to be less than an hour. “Listen, Tom,” he said. “The moon should be up before long. We’ll wait till we can see, then rap down.”

  Tommy nodded that he understood. “Cold.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  Estimating he had already descended over half of the doubled rope to rejoin his brother, Travis secured himself to Tommy’s anchor and unthreaded his metal descender. Next he retrieved the remaining line dangling below, untied the knot at the bottom, and carefully pulled on one end—watching as the other end snaked up into the darkness. Seconds later it cleared the rappel sling he had left higher up, hissing down from above.

  Okay so far, Travis thought, numb with exhaustion. He smiled ruefully, recalling the story of the man falling off the Empire State Building who had been heard repeating those very words all the way down. With a determined effort, he drove the morbid joke from his mind and proceeded to set up a new rappel anchor. Satisfied they were ready to embark as soon as they had enough light, he huddled next to Tommy to share their warmth.

  Together, they waited.

  Time passed. A thousand stars glittered in the night sky, but still no sign of the moon. Travis stared impatiently at the eastern horizon, feeling Tommy shivering beside him. At times he couldn’t tell whether his brother had slipped into unconsciousness or was merely asleep. Fearing the former, he talked, saying anything that came to mind, anything to maintain contact. After a while he found himself relating his trouble with Petrinski, his doubts regarding his music, and his persistent fear that he would disappoint their mother.

  “Know how you feel,” Tommy whispered.

  “I though you were asleep.”

  “Heard part … know how you feel.”

  “I doubt that, Tom. You’ve never disappointed anyone.”

  Tommy laughed weakly. “That’s about to change.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Travis hesitated, feeling his stomach lurch at the thought of his father. “Dad will be pissed about this when he finds out, and we’ll have to listen to his ‘I told you so’s’ from now till doomsday, but he’ll get over it,” he added, wishing it were as simple as that.

  “No,” said Tommy, struggling to get out the words. “I mean college.”

  “What? You weren’t serious the other night about not going, were you?”

  “Yeah. I was.”

  “But why?”

  “Because … because you’re gonna be an uncle.”

  Thunderstruck, Travis mulled over his brother’s revelation. “But why?” he asked again. “Christy doesn’t have to have the baby. Or she could have it and put it up for adoption. You could wait till later to have another—at least till you both graduate from college.”

  “She wants it,” said Tommy, his teeth chattering so hard he could barely talk. A noticeable slur had crept into his speech as well, but still he continued. “We’re getting married.”

  “Tommy, I know you’ve thought about this, but you’re only eighteen. You’re too young to get married, and—”

  “I’m doing it.”

  “What about school?”

  “Later …”

  “What about Christy’s swimming and her going to college? For that matter, what about her finishing high school?”

  “She’ll finish.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Tommy,” Travis sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Tommy put his hand on Travis’s arm. “Listen,” he said, a sudden urgency rising in his voice. “Tell her I’m sorry about … about what I said. Tell her I’m happy about the baby. Not sorry.”

  Travis covered Tommy’s hand with his. “We’re both making it down,” he said. “Deliver the message yourself.”

  Tommy nodded feebly. “In case I don’t … tell her.”

  Travis noticed a faint glow finally beginning to light the sky over the eastern peaks. He felt a lurch of apprehension, knowing they would soon begin their dangerous descent. “Here comes the moon.”

  “Trav …”

  “Okay, Tom. It won’t be necessary, but I’ll tell her.”

  It took Travis twelve rappels and most of the night to bring his brother down off the rock. In the first glimmerings of dawn, they reached the talus slope at the foot of the wall. By then Tommy was unconscious.

  Trembling with cold and fatigue, Travis scrambled the rest of the way down and retrieved their camping gear. Upon returning, he erected their tent on a flat slab of granite and pulled Tommy inside. “Hang on, Tom,” he whispered, struggling to get his brother into his sleeping bag. “You’re gonna make it.”

  After covering Tommy with the second bag as a blanket, Travis placed a full water bottle by his brother’s head. Then, taking only a single canteen for himself, he headed up the trail, maintaining a steady lope back toward Mineral King. Eighteen long, arduous miles stretched between him and the ranger station. It had taken ten hours of determined plodding to cover that distance on the way in. If he ran, Travis hoped he could get out in four.

  He stopped once as the trail turned sharply upward. He looked back the way he’d come, his breath coming in ragged sobs. Still visible in the distance, alien and forlorn, the blue dome of their tent sat at the base of the rock scree. “You’re going to make it, Tom,” he whispered once more, fighting a terrible premonition that had settled like a stone in the pit of his stomach.

  And, turning, he started again for the pass.

  24

  Monday afternoon, shortly after lunch, Kane quit his shift early and drove Arnie downtown to LAPD headquarters, arriving at a little after two p.m. There, under the guise of running latent prints through the ALPS print computer, he killed time visiting friends while Arnie underwent his final processing-out procedures. At last, his shield relinquished, termination forms signed, exit interview completed, and retirement ID in hand, Arnie joined Kane on the mezzanine. He looked strangely forlorn.

  Kane thumped him on the back. “You’re a free man, amigo,” he said in a transparent effort to cheer up his friend. “How’s it feel?”

  “It feels like I need a drink. My hand’s about to cramp from signing all that shit.”

  “A drink?” said Kane. “Jeez, Arnie, this being a weekday and all, I don’t know. Some of us have to work tomorrow.”

  “Well, I’m not one of ’em. You coming?”

  Kane shrugged. “Maybe just this once.”

  “Where to?”

  Kane pretended to think. “How about the Fox Inn? They fixed the old place up recently—new dining room, kitchen, and bar. Just reopened. Some of the boys mentioned going over there later.”

  “I don’t want to get into some big crowd scene,” protested Arnie, looking at Kane suspiciously. “My official send-off is going to be bad enough.”

  “It’s just Banowski, Deluca, maybe one or two others,” Kane assured him. “No big deal.”

  “It better not be,” warned Arnie.

  An hour later, after bucking cross-town traffic and wishing for a siren all the way, Kane and Arnie pulled up to the valet station at the Fox Inn, a rambling, Tudor-style tavern and restaurant with leaded windows, green shutters, a gray slate roof, and single-storied wings fanning out from a semicircular entrance. With a grateful sigh, Kane killed the engine and slid from behind the wheel, tossing the keys to a youngster wearing a mint-green jacket and matching bow tie. “I spent years getting those dents just right,” he warned the attendant. “See that you don’t mess ’em up.”

  “No, sir,” the youngster promised, regarding Kane’s Suburban with a smile. “I won’t.”

  Kane grinned and started for the restaurant. “Then my mind’s at ease,” he said. Calling over his shoulder to Arnie, he added expansively, “Get a move on, partner. We have some celebrating to do.”

  “Right behind you, ol’ buddy. Right b
ehind you.”

  The two men pushed through a pair of heavy oak doors and made their way inside, skirting a new dining area with white tablecloths and cozy, intimate alcoves. At the end of a short hall they turned left into a comfortable, well-appointed bar, pausing to inspect a wood-paneled interior that had been redesigned to resemble an English pub.

  “Big change from the old place,” noted Kane, recalling the picnic-table décor and beer-guzzling, raunchy-song-singing atmosphere of the past.

  “Got that right,” agreed Arnie, who had spent more than a few nights drinking beer by the pitcher in the old tavern. “Least they have a full bar, now.”

  Kane shot a quick glance toward a room in the back that could be reserved for private parties. “See any of the guys?”

  “Nope,” Arnie answered, appreciatively eyeing a cocktail waitress in a skimpy outfit who was making her way through the crowded tables. “They’re probably stuck in traffic. Come on, let’s go stomp some brain cells.”

  Kane followed Arnie to a pair of vacant stools at a four-sided mahogany bar dominating the center of the room. One of the young bartenders, whose nameplate read “Jerry,” looked up as they took their seats. “What can I get you gentlemen?” he asked, nodding at Arnie and Kane.

  “I’ll have a Coke, no ice, for now,” answered Kane, thinking the kid didn’t look old enough to crack a beer, let alone tend bar. “My friend Arnie here, in keeping with his sexual preferences, would like something with lots of fruit on it—maybe some pineapple and a nice red cherry. And stick one of those cute little umbrellas on top, too.”

  “Not likely,” rumbled Arnie. “I’ll have a Wild Turkey, beer back. And keep ’em coming,” he added. He glanced curiously at Kane. “You’re not drinkin’?”

  “I’ll hold off for a bit,” Kane answered. “Somebody has to drive your sorry ass home.”

  Arnie shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  When their drinks arrived, Arnie quickly downed his bourbon and ordered another. “Damn, Arnie,” I can’t believe you’re a civilian now,” said Kane after a long moment of silence.

  Arnie nodded glumly. “Me, neither.”

  Again they lapsed into silence as the bartender placed a fresh drink in front of Arnie.

  “I saw your pal Snead last Friday,” Kane noted, trying to kickstart the conversation. “He was madder than hell about your retiring. Blew his witch hunt right out of the water.”

  “Fuck Snead.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Kane, lifting his Coke.

  “Yeah.”

  Kane regarded Arnie carefully. “Are you going to be okay with this?”

  “Retiring?” Arnie stared into his drink. “I don’t know. To tell you the truth, it’s hittin’ me harder than I thought it would.”

  Kane hesitated. Although they had discussed Arnie’s retirement on several occasions recently, this was the first time he had seen a crack in his partner’s thorny determination to put the LAPD behind him. “Aw, hell, Arnie, you’re better off,” he said, making another effort to cheer him up. “No more departmental crap, no more IA, no more Snead. And like you said, once you add your pension to the paycheck from your new job, you’ll be making considerably more than you were.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m going to miss you, but it’s not like we won’t be seeing each other. Hell, you’re practically part of the family.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Arnie with a small smile, the first since he’d left police headquarters. “And that means a lot to me. A whole lot. Thanks, Dan.”

  “How about coming over next week for some chow? I’m planning to cook up some bouillabaisse for the troops on Friday.”

  “Sounds good. Will Tommy and Trav be back from their climbing trip by then?”

  “Climbing trip? Those two are just backpacking. I told them no climbing.”

  Arnie looked away. “Oh, yeah. Right.”

  Kane’s eyes hardened. “You know something I don’t?”

  Arnie studied his drink before answering. “Well, uh … a while back Trav did mention something about climbing. He asked me not to mention it, and I sorta put it out of my mind. Sorry.”

  “Jesus, Arnie! How could you forget to tell me something like that? If Tommy gets hurt and blows his scholarship—”

  “I know, I know. I should’ve said something.”

  “You’re damn right you should have said something. I swear, when I get my hands on those two, I’m gonna kill ’em.”

  “Don’t go too hard on them,” said Arnie. “They’re just kids.”

  “Yeah, and I know just how to handle them,” said Kane. Then, changing the subject, “I wonder where the guys are.”

  Just then a crash sounded from the private room in the back, followed by a raucous ovation of hollers and cheers. “What the hell’s going on back there?” Arnie asked the bartender, turning on his stool toward the back.

  “Just a bunch of doctors having some kind of reunion,” Jerry answered. “Proctologists, I think. They have a couple strippers scheduled for later, some stag films, that kinda stuff.”

  “Asshole specialists, you say?” Kane shot Jerry a look of irritation while Arnie’s back was turned, then glanced toward the source of renewed whooping and laughter. “What are they drinking?”

  Unperturbed, Jerry grinned back at Kane, then referred to one of the tabs on the spike. “Mostly beer and tequila.”

  “Hmmm. Strippers and stag films. Beer and tequila.” Kane flipped out his ID and hung it on his coat. “What do you say, Arnie? Think they could use a little police supervision?”

  Crashing disorderly bar gatherings under the auspices of keeping the peace had long been a favorite pastime of Kane’s, particularly during his early days on the force. Unless drugs were present, an off-duty cop with the right attitude usually found himself welcomed—especially if he had a drink in his hand instead of a gun—and over the years Kane had made a number of friends that way, not to mention an occasional bust. Regardless of the outcome, it usually proved interesting.

  Arnie shook his head, still stinging from Kane’s criticism regarding the boys. “Not really in the mood, Dan.”

  “Come on, partner. It’ll do you good,” Kane insisted.

  Finally, with a shrug, Arnie slid from his stool. “Why not?” he said. “It’ll beat the shit outta sitting here getting chewed out by you.”

  Drinks in hand, the two detectives threaded their way toward the back. As they approached, one of the cocktail waitresses emerged from the room, blushing as an effusion of whistles chased her out.

  “Ready?” Kane asked with mock seriousness when they arrived at the door. He placed his hand on the knob. “I go right, you go left.”

  “Just like always,” Arnie noted with a brief smile, starting to get into it. “Guns?”

  “Nah. It’s just a bunch of pansy doctors. Now, if it were dentists, that’d be different,” Kane joked. “One, two …”

  On three, Kane flung open the door and burst into the room.

  Arnie tumbled in close behind. He froze as he looked around the crowded chamber. Jammed into the small room, shoulder-to-shoulder an area approved (as stated by a nearby wall plaque) for a maximum occupancy of twenty, were over forty of LAPD’s finest: Deluca, Banowski, and the rest of the men from the homicide unit; a healthy turnout of detectives from robbery, burglary, auto theft, and juvenile; a handful of sergeants and patrol officers from the day shift; and friends of Arnie’s that Kane had invited from other divisions.

  Lieutenant Long, the single member of the brass who had been asked to attend, raised his glass amid the ensuing din. “Hey, Mercer,” he called, yelling to be heard over the noise. “Here’s to you. And to making it out in one piece.”

  “Hear! Hear!” everyone shouted.

  Stunned, Arnie stared around the room in shock and disbelief. Finally he composed himself enough to speak. “I was led to believe by my lying partner here,” he said, glancing from face to face with obvious pleasure, “that this wa
s supposed to be a convention of butt-hole specialists. At least he was partly correct. You guys sure as hell aren’t doctors, but I haven’t seen this many assholes since boot camp.”

  Kane raised his hands to quit the boisterous outburst following Arnie’s declaration. “Before things go too far,” he announced, “there’s a guy here who some of you may not know. I want to introduce him because he was Detective Mercer’s training officer several hundred years back, and as such he may be able to shed some light on Arnie’s meteoric rise in the department. Let me present Sergeant Thorpe “Gasman” McGowan from the Foothill Division, that imposing-looking stud over there guzzling down a pitcher of beer. Stand up and take a bow, Gasman. Oh, sorry. You are standing.”

  “Eat my shorts, Kane,” a steely-eyed man with a flattened nose and the mellifluous voice of a drill instructor replied from across the room.

  “Sergeant McGowan got his nickname from something that happened many years back when he and I were working SWAT together,” Kane continued. “It was an unfortunate incident during which he accidentally lobbed a tear-gas canister into his own command post—gassing the shit out of everyone in the unit who didn’t have a mask on. He made history with that act, rivaled only by the notoriety he received earlier in his career by being the only person ever to be accepted on the force after having a sex-change operation—something I’m sure Gasman doesn’t mind my disclosing as it’s a known fact he’s a confirmed homosexual. Gentlemen, I give you one of the meanest, ugliest, toughest bastards you ever want to meet—Gasman McGowan.”

  The compact officer stood and waited for the ovation sparked by Kane’s introduction to abate. At last he spoke. “As you all know,” he began in reprisal, his sepulchral growl cutting through the room like a saw, “aside from being the most disorganized detective on the force, Dan Kane is also a notorious liar. To set the record straight, I didn’t fire the gas gun accidentally. I will admit hitting the command post was unintentional—I was actually aiming at some members of the press down the street.”