Angel City

by Jon Steele

Max had a vocabulary of six or seven words in varying languages courtesy of Officer Jannsen and the multilingual Swiss Guard protecting the house and grounds. Mommy was often the French Maman, milk was the German milch, his pacifier was the Italian ciuccio, even though Katherine always called it Mister Gummy. But for the most part, Max chose to express himself with a word he made up himself. It covered everything and anything that might be running through his little boy brain.

  “Goog.”

  “Oh, goog yourself.”

  Katherine dipped a soft cloth into a water basin and washed him. She used another cloth to apply lotion to his skin. She powdered him and dressed him in a fresh diaper and T-shirt.

  “There you are, fresh as a daisy. Let me get rid of the evidence and we’ll go downstairs.”

  “Goog.”

  “No, I’m having the pizza. You’re having a tofu burger.”

  “Goog, goog.”

  “Tough.”

  She dressed him in fresh flannel pajamas with little blue bears printed on the material, lifted him from the table, and set him back in his crib. He looked at her with a frown and uttered another of his favorite words, in French.

  “Non.”

  “Pas de panique.”

  She handed him a small rubber hammer and a Whac-A-Mole game. Hit one on the head here, another one pops up there. Repeat until sleepy.

  “Bang on this awhile. I’ll be right back.”

  “Zeug.”

  That one came from spielzeug, German for toys, but zeug was close enough for Max. He attacked the contraption vigorously.

  Whack, whack, whackwhack.

  “Zeug!”

  Katherine went into the hall and opened the closet. She tossed Max’s T-shirt and used pajamas into a laundry basket. The soiled diaper and washcloths went into a sealed bin. All the laundry was taken care of downstairs, even Max’s diapers. Problem was, laundry day was every day with Max. And as much as she loved the little squirt, and as much as Officer Jannsen kept telling her doing laundry builds character, Katherine sometimes felt she was trapped in a B-movie prison flick (starring Katherine Taylor as Prisoner 99 doing a ten to twenty stretch for grand theft auto). About six months into diaper duty, she asked Officer Jannsen (starring as the Warden Bitch of Cell Block 4) if she could get a lighter sentence and switch to disposable diapers. Katherine was told it was a security measure to use cloth.

  “Not the best idea to be seen with boxes of disposable diapers,” Officer Jannsen said.

  “Anne, the locals all know Max. The kid could get elected mayor by a landslide.”

  “There are other concerns.”

  “Like what?”

  “The plastic shell used in disposable diapers negatively affects the testicular cooling mechanism necessary for spermatogenesis in baby boys.”

  Katherine’s jaw dropped.

  “You made that up just to scare me, didn’t you?”

  “It’s scientific fact.”

  “Okay, ouch to that idea.”

  And that night in bed, sipping her Night Clouds tea, she wondered where Officer Jannsen ever learned such a thing as “testicular cooling mechanism,” because it sure as hell didn’t sound like something they teach at Swiss cop school. Then again, having met Inspector Gobet, maybe they did. Then Katherine began to think that actually a testicular cooling mechanism sounded like some adult spielzeug. And if there wasn’t such a toy, then maybe Katherine should invent one herself and sell it on eBay. Make gazillions.

  Remembering it, Katherine laughed to herself, thinking how much her life had changed since Lausanne, thinking it wouldn’t be a bad movie after all; starring Katherine Taylor as Katherine Taylor, and Brad Pitt as anyone as long as he was in it. She laughed again. From lesbo lust to dirty diapers to gorgeous man meat fantasy, all in a day.

  “The shrink is so going to crap himself.”

  She walked back to Max’s room. He was sitting now. Rubber hammer in one hand, other hand reaching through the bars of the crib and holding on to Monsieur Booty’s tail.

  “Boo,” Max said. Max-speak for Monsieur Booty.

  The beast always showed up this time of day to jump on the nearby stool for a bit of manhandling by Max. Whether it was having its ears pinched or whiskers twisted or tail pulled, Monsieur Booty always came back for more. The two of them seemed to have the most intense conversations, even if the entire vocabulary between them consisted of mew and Boo.

  “Okay, gang, let’s eat.”

  She lifted Max from the crib and carried him into the hall and down the stairs. Max pointed the way as they walked—sort of. His fist did well, but his little finger always veered off at a twenty-degree angle. Monsieur Booty followed at Katherine’s heels to halfway down the stairs, where he squeezed through the balusters and jumped to the ground floor and dashed ahead. Katherine went into the kitchen and dropped Max into his high chair. He still had his rubber hammer and proceeded to play Whac-A-Mole on the tray, using imaginary moles.

  Whackwhack, whack.

  “Go get ’em, tiger. It’s the ones you can’t see that’ll bite your butt.”

  She took Max’s dinner from the warming oven. Dinners at the house were catered from Molly’s Diner five nights a week. Turned out Molly had studied at Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts in Chicago. Even had her own two-star Michelin restaurant on North Halsted, till she realized she was only a dope-loving hippie at heart. She sold the place, moved to Grover’s Mill, and opened a diner just before Katherine arrived. Which was fine with Katherine, as cooking was never a required skill as a high-priced hooker.

  “Look what Molly made for you, Max. Tofu burger with mushy peas.”

  Whack.

  “Goog.”

  “You bet, and doesn’t it look yummy?”

  Katherine chopped up the food into tiny bites with a small rubber spoon. She scooped up a spoonful and lifted it to Max’s mouth.

  “Loff,” he said.

  “That’s a new one. Sounds German. Try it in English.”

  “Goog.”

  “Whatever. Open wide.”

  Max loved Molly’s cooking. He never spit up a morsel and he took his time with every spoonful. Savoring it like some food critic for the high chair and diaper set.

  “Nnnn.” Max-speak for Officer Jannsen, just now walking in the kitchen.

  Katherine felt herself blush.

  “What’s on the menu tonight?” Officer Jannsen asked.

  “Tofu burger and peas.”

  “He loves that one, doesn’t he?”

  “Sure does. And if the pizzas don’t show up soon, I’m going to start sneaking bites. Is that okay with you, Max? Can I steal some of your dinner?”

  “Goog.”

  “Know something? You’re getting to be a big boy now. You need to add a few more words to your vocabulary.” Katherine looked at Officer Jannsen. “Don’t you think he should be reciting the Gettysburg Address by now? Or is all this English, French, German—”

  “And Italian.”

  “Yeah, that one, too. Is it all confusing him?”

  “Don’t worry, Kat. He’s very busy internalizing linguistic patterns into a holistic structure.”

  “What the heck does that mean?”

  “It means he’s exceptionally intelligent.”

  Katherine gave Max another spoon of mushy peas.

  “Okay, me no worry.”

  Officer Jannsen sat next to Katherine. Max smiled at her, and mushy peas tumbled over his lips. Katherine scooped them up and held the spoon to his mouth.

  “Why don’t you let him try holding the spoon?” Officer Jannsen said.

  “Are you kidding me? He’ll put his eye out.”

  “Actually, I was watching him play with crayons the other day. He has well-developed primitive tripod grasp skills.”

  Ka
therine looked at Officer Jannsen a second.

  “Do you just make stuff up to trick me into doing what you want?”

  “What stuff?”

  “‘Internalizing linguistic’ things and ‘primitive tripods’?”

  “I studied human development at EPFL.”

  “Cop school?”

  “École Polytechnique Fédérale de Lausanne.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember. It’s on the lake. Full of geniuses and stuff.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Yeah, you know, scientific stuff.”

  “Oh, that stuff.”

  Katherine nodded to the gun on Officer Jannsen’s hip.

  “So how’d you end up a cop?”

  “I wanted to make a difference in the world.”

  “And here you are, stuck with Max and me in Grover’s Mill. That’s one big difference you’re making in the world.”

  “What makes you think I would rather be anywhere else?”

  Their eyes met for a moment.

  “Anne?”

  “Kat?”

  “I’m going to Control to check on the pizzas.”

  “I can go.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll do it. You teach Max about primitive tripod whatever. I’ll be right back.”

  Katherine hurried out the door and into the garden. She stopped a moment, took a breath of crisp evening air.

  “Okay, that one was not an imagination. Must talk to the fucking shrink, like, tomorrow.”

  She walked toward the garage, saw three Ford Explorers parked in the driveway. The pizzas had landed.

  “Swiss Guard, big deal. Can’t even deliver a pizza.”

  She followed the flagstone path to the log cabin hidden in the trees. The front of the cabin had a screened-in porch, and she saw the door to the sitting room was open and the lights were on. She knocked on the screen door.

  “Allez! We’re hungry!”

  No one answered.

  She went inside, through the porch and into the sitting room and down a hall. She heard a voice:

  “. . . details are still sketchy, and French police were seen confiscating press video and camera equipment, as well as the mobiles and cameras of onlookers in the name of national security. However, one piece of video has emerged on the Internet . . .”

  She rounded the corner into a small room made even smaller by all the thirty-six-inch monitors on the walls, all displaying different angles of nearby roads, the grounds, hallways in the main house, Max’s bedroom. Five large men, pistols strapped to their belts, crowded together in the middle of the room watching one monitor. On screen: a wobbly wide shot of a bridge above the river.

  “. . . and again, this is amateur video, but you can clearly see members of the police on the Pont des Arts as the tour boat approaches . . .”

  News, no thanks, Katherine thought. Same shit, different day, over and over again. She saw a pile of unopened pizza boxes on a table just inside the door. She sorted through them looking for the one with anchovies. She found it at the bottom and was going to tell the boys thanks for nothing, but realized they wouldn’t notice anyway. She headed for the door.

  “. . . and there, that’s it. A blinding flash of light and the bridge disappears in a cloud of fog, and look, look there. You can see the shadow of a man falling, almost flying, through the fog. He doesn’t appear to be one of the police, and he appears to have a long knife in his hand . . .”

  She turned toward the monitor, saw a fuzzy image on the screen. Zooming in, coming into focus. Katherine tipped her head to look at it.

  “. . . jumping onto the tour boat, where police report they later found gruesome scenes . . .”

  Another voice cut through the room:

  “Schalten sie den fernseher!”

  The TV shut off, the men turned to the voice, and so did Katherine. It was Officer Jannsen, standing in the doorway with a happy-to-see-everyone Max in her arms. Took a few seconds for Katherine to realize the only sound amid the sudden silence was that of Max sucking on his Mister Gummy. She looked at the Swiss Guard, then back to Officer Jannsen.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Officer Jannsen shifted Max from one hip to the other, his diapered rear end now resting on the butt of her Glock.

  “Nothing’s wrong. I was wondering what took you so long.”

  “You just barked at the boys in German.”

  “I’m Swiss-German. German is the official language of the Swiss Guard.”

  “It’s also the language you bark in when you’re officially PO’d.”

  “PO’d?”

  “Pissed off. I was trying to watch my language in front of the you-know-what in your arms.”

  “I’m hungry,” Officer Jannsen said, “that’s all. And you don’t need to be watching the news.”

  “I may be certifiable, but I’m with-it enough to know . . .”

  She stopped talking, and her eyes took in the faces watching her. She looked at the darkened screen. Something felt familiar; something terrible. She looked at Officer Jannsen.

  “This stuff on the news, does it have something to do with me?”

  “How do you mean?”

  Katherine felt a flash of rage. She tossed the pizza box on the table, walked over, and took Max from Officer Jannsen’s arms.

  “Don’t give me that Swiss cop shit.”

  “Kat—”

  “No. You tell me what’s going on. What’s the big fucking secret?”

  “Watch your tone of voice, Kat.”

  “Don’t fucking tell me to watch my fucking tone!”

  She saw an expression on Officer Jannsen’s face, saw her eyes pointing toward Max. He’d stopped sucking on his pacifier. He was staring at Katherine, holding his breath—he was frightened.

  “Oh, crap, Max. I’m sorry.”

  Officer Jannsen looked at the men, kicked her head to the door. They were gone without a sound. Katherine began to cry.

  “I’m so sorry, Max. I’m so sorry.”

  Max tipped his head to the side as if to study the tears in her eyes. Katherine took a quick breath and smiled and gently bounced him, trying to laugh.

  “It’s okay, Max. Don’t pay attention to silly Mommy. Mommy’s just a little cuckoo sometimes. You know, like the funny clock in the house . . . cuckoo, cuckoo.”

  Max smiled, took the pacifier from his mouth, pressed it to her lips.

  “Ciuccio.”

  “No, not like Mister Gummy. Cuckoo, like the bird.”

  “Ciuccio,” Max insisted.

  Katherine took the pacifier between her lips. She opened her eyes wide like she was tasting chocolate fudge ice cream. “Mmmmm.” Max pulled away the pacifier and reinserted it into his own mouth. He began to suck happily. Katherine kissed his forehead, crying and laughing at the same time.

  “Oh Max, you’ve gotten stuck with such a lousy mother.”

  Officer Jannsen stepped close to Katherine.

  “No, Kat, you’re a wonderful mother.”

  “Oh yeah, scare my child to death. I’m so perfect.”

  Officer Jannsen reached over to rearrange a few strands of Max’s black hair.

  “Yes, you did scare him at first. Then you guided him through his fear and gave him confidence. You taught him fear can be controlled.”

  “You think?”

  “Observed Maternal Behaviors in the Transference of Human Emotions was the title of my PhD thesis.”

  Katherine rolled her eyes. “Of course, genius with a gun that you are.” She glanced toward the monitors. “And all that? What was it?”

  “Kat, you know the doctor wants your Internet and TV screened.”

  “Yeah, I know. But humor me, I’m nuts.”

  Officer Jannsen nodded. “There was a terrorist attack in Paris.
Nine people were killed. The news is full of pictures you don’t need to see.”

  “And that’s it? Nothing to do with me?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Okay.”

  Max sensed a change in Katherine’s mood. He broke into a drooling smile.

  “Are you laughing at your cuckoo mommy for being afraid of the boogeyman?”

  “Cuckoobug!”

  “Yeah, cuckoobug for Cocoa Puffs. That’s me.”

  “Goog.”

  “Oh, goog yourself.”

  She tickled Max’s belly. He squealed and giggled.

  Officer Jannsen picked up the pizza and took Katherine’s arm.

  “Come on, Kat, let’s go back to the house. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  FIVE

  MONSIEUR DUFAUX WORKED THE TABLES IN CAFÉ DU GRÜTLI, chatting with his customers. He checked table six at the windows. The fellow sitting there had finished his dinner, pushed his plate aside, and was now leaning over the front page of 24 Heures. Dufaux walked over, picked up the fellow’s plate and cutlery, and saw the empty glass on the table.

  “Voulez-vous une autre carafe?”

  “Just a glass, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Et l’addition?”

  “Put it on the inspector’s tab.”

  Monsieur Dufaux picked up the carafe.

  “And perhaps one day the inspector will grace me with a visit to pay this tab? I mean, yes, you only come in a few nights a week, but after a couple of years, a tab adds up. It’s now longer than the Book of Numbers.”

  Harper flipped over the newspaper. “Sorry?”

  “Inspector Gobet’s tab and the Book of Numbers. From the Bible. They both go on and on.”

  Harper thought about it.

  “Let me know when it’s as long as the Book of Psalms.”

  “Quoi?”

  “One hundred fifty chapters. Longest book of the Bible.”

  Dufaux scratched his chin.

  “Pas mal. I must remember that one. I’ll bring you a fresh glass, on the house. I’ll join you, too.”

  Harper watched Monsieur Dufaux make his way through the tables, the man’s shoulders bouncing with chuckles. Harper made a mental note: Crack a joke in this joint, get a free glass. He turned his eyes to the windows. Outside, evening had given way to the dark. He focused on the pools of light beneath the streetlamps along Rue Mercerie. Unbeknownst to the locals, the streetlamps in the protected zone had been fitted with Arc 9 filters. Part of Inspector Gobet’s plan to beef up security around Lausanne Cathedral. The filters slowed the speed of artificial light by fifty thousand microns per second. Didn’t matter to the locals, but with Arc 9s, Harper’s kind could detect minute spikes of black body radiation in the light. Or so went the theory. He flashed the light mechanic from Berne, six months ago, positively giddy explaining how the filters worked.