Nice Girl Does Noir -- Vol. 2 (Intro by J.A.Konrath)

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  She slid off her bed and struck a match over a skinny black stick on the windowsill. A wisp of smoke twirled up from the stick. Within a few seconds, a sickly sweet odor floated through the air.

  The music ended. The arm of the record player clicked, swung back, and a new LP dropped on the turntable. As Maggie flounced back on the bed, another smell, more potent than the incense, swam towards him. Kevin covered his nose. “What is that awful smell?”

  “Patchouli oil.”

  “Pa—who oil?”

  “Pa-chu-lee. It’s a Hindu thing. Supposed to balance the emotions and calm you when you’re upset.”

  Kevin took the opening. “Mom’s worried about you.”

  “She ought to be worried. The country is falling apart.”

  Bernie had said the same thing, he recalled. But for different reasons. “How do you mean?”

  “Idiots are running things. And anytime someone makes sense, they get assassinated.”

  “Does that mean you should just stay in your room and listen to music?”

  “You’d rather see me in the streets?”

  “Is that where you want to be?”

  “Maybe.” Then, “You remember my friend Jimmy?”

  “The guy you were dating…”

  She nodded. “He was going to work for Bobby.”

  “Who?”

  “Bobby Kennedy. They asked him to be the youth coordinator for Bobby’s campaign. He was going to drop out of college for a semester. I was, too. It would have been amazing. But now…” She shrugged.

  “Hey…” Kevin tried to think of a way to reach her. “Don’t give up. What would Dad say?”

  “He’d understand. He might have been a cop, but he hated what was happening. Especially to Michael.”

  Kevin winced. Two years ago their older brother Michael had been drafted. 25th Infantry. Third Brigade. Pleiku. A year ago they got word he was MIA. Their father died three months after that, ostensibly from a stroke. His mother still wasn’t the same.

  “Dad would have told you that Michael died doing his job,” he said slowly.

  “Launching an unprovoked, unlawful invasion into a quiet little country was Michael’s job?”

  “That sounds like something you read in that—in that.” Kevin pointed a finger at the Seed.

  Maggie’s face lit with anger. “Kevin, what rock have you been hiding under? First Martin Luther King, then Bobby. And we’re trying to annihilate an entire culture because of some outdated concept of geopolitical power. This country is screwed up!”

  Kevin felt himself get hot. “Damn it, Mags. It’s not that complicated. We’re over there trying to save the country, not destroy it. It’s only these—these agitators who are trying to convince you it’s wrong.”

  “These ‘agitators’ as you call them are the sanest people around.”

  “Throwing rocks, nominating pigs for president?”

  “That’s just to get attention. It got yours.” Maggie glared. “Did you know Father Connor came out against the war?”

  Kevin was taken aback.

  She nodded. “He said it’s become the single greatest threat to our country. And that any American who acquiesces to it, actively or passively, ought to be ashamed before God.”

  Kevin ran his tongue around his lips. “He’s just a priest,” he said finally.

  She spread her hands. “Maybe you should have gone into the army instead of the police. What good is a deferment if you don’t understand why you got it?”

  “I’m the oldest son. The primary support of the family.”

  “Well then, start supporting us.”

  He stared at his sister. “Dad would be ashamed of you, Maggie.”

  “How do you know? Mother came out against the war.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You should have seen her talking to Father Connor after church last week. Why don’t you ask her how she feels?”

  “I don’t need to. I already know.”

  Maggie shook her head. “You’re wrong. It’s different now, Kevin. You’re gonna have to choose.”

  He averted his eyes and gazed at an old photo on the window sill. Of himself, Mike, and Maggie. He remembered when it was taken. He and Mike were eleven and twelve, Maggie seven. Mike had been wearing mismatched argyle socks. He was scared his father would notice, and he begged Kevin not to tell. Kevin never did. It was their secret forever.

  ***

  Monday night Mayor Daley formally opened the 1968 Democratic National Convention. Marchers set up a picket line near the Amphitheater, and thirty demonstrators were arrested. But there was no violence, and it was a relatively quiet shift. Kevin didn’t need his riot gear.

  It was a different story at Lincoln Park, he learned the next morning, as he and Bernie huddled with other cops in the precinct’s parking lot.

  “They beat the crap out of us,” Wilkerson said. “See this?” He pointed to a shiner around his left eye. “But don’t worry.” He nodded at the sympathetic noises from the men. “I gave it back.” He went on to describe how hundreds of protestors had barricaded themselves inside the Park after the eleven o’clock curfew. Patrol cars were pelted by rocks. Demonstrators tried to set cars on fire. When that didn’t work, they lobbed baseballs embedded with nails. The police moved in with tear gas, the crowd spilled into Old Town, and there were hundreds of injuries and arrests. Wilkerson said the Mayor was calling in the Guard.

  “What did I tell you?” Bernie punched Kevin’s shoulder. “No respect. For anything.” When Kevin didn’t answer, Bernie spat on the asphalt. “Well, I’m ready for some breakfast.”

  They drove to a place in the Loop that served breakfast all day and headed to an empty booth, still wearing their uniforms. Two men at a nearby table traded glances. Kevin slouched in his seat.

  One of the men cleared his throat. “Look….” He folded the newspaper and showed it to his companion. Even from a distance, Kevin could see photos of police bashing in heads. “Listen to this,” the man recited in a voice loud enough to carry over to them. “‘The savage beatings of protestors were unprecedented. And widespread. Police attacked without reason, even targeting reporters and photographers. For example, one reporter saw a young man shouting at a policeman, ‘Hey, I work for the Associated Press.’ The police officer responded, ‘Is that right, creep?’ and proceeded to crack the reporter’s skull with his nightstick.’”

  Bernie drummed his fingers on the table and pretended not to hear. When their food came, Kevin pushed his eggs around the plate. “My parish priest came out against the war,” he said.

  Bernie chewed his bacon. “I’m sure the Father is a sincere man. But has he ever seen any action?”

  “Not In ‘Nam.”

  “What about Lincoln Park… has he ever dealt with these—these demonstrators?” Bernie lowered his voice when he spoke it, as if the word was profane.

  Kevin shrugged.

  “Well, then.” Bernie dipped his head, as if he’d made a significant point.

  I’ll call your shiner and raise you an MIA? How could you compare Vietnam to Lincoln Park? “Maybe they have a point,” Kevin said wearily.

  “What point comes out of violence?”

  “Couldn’t they say the same about us?”

  “We’re soldiers, son,” Bernie scowled. “We have a job to do. You can bet if I was on the front line…” He threw a glance at the two men at the next table, then looked back at Kevin. “Hey, are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You seem, well, I dunno.” He gazed at him. “I got this feeling.”

  Kevin tightened his lips. “I’m fine, Bernie. Really.”

  ***

  The cemetery hugged the rear of the parish church. It was a small place, with only one or two mausoleums. Unlike the Dougherty’s, most Bridgeport dignitaries chose Rosehill, the huge cemetery on the North side, as their final resting place. Kevin avoided going inside the church; he didn’t
want to run into Father Connor.

  Despite the blanket of heat, birds twittered, and a slight breeze stirred an elm that somehow escaped Dutch Elm disease. He strolled among the headstones until he reached the third row, second from left. The epitaph read: “Here lies a good man, father, and guardian of the law.”

  Life with Owen Dougherty hadn’t been easy. He was strict, and he rarely smiled, especially after he gave up drinking. But he’d been a fair man. Kevin remembered when he and his buddy Frank smashed their neighbor’s window with a fly ball. Frank got a beating from his father, but Kevin didn’t. His father forked over the money for the window, then made Kevin deliver groceries for six months to pay him back.

  He sat beside his father’s grave, clasped his hands together, and bowed his head. “What would you do, Dad?” Kevin asked. “This war may be wrong. It took Michael. But I’m a cop. I have a job to do. What should I do?”

  The birds seemed to stop chirping. Even the traffic along Archer Avenue grew muted as Kevin waited for an answer.

  ***

  Tuesday night Kevin and Bernie were assigned to the Amphitheater again. The convention site was quiet, but the rest of the city wasn’t. On Wednesday morning Kevin heard how a group of clergymen showed up at Lincoln Park to pray with the protestors. Despite that, there was violence and tear gas and club-swinging, and police cleared the park twice. Afterwards, the demonstrators headed south to the Loop and Grant Park. At 3 AM the National Guard came in to relieve the police.

  Greer transferred Bernie and Kevin to Michigan Avenue for the noon to midnight. Tension had been mounting since the Democrats defeated their own peace plank. When the protestors in Grant Park heard the news, the American flag near the band shell was lowered to half-mast, which triggered a push by police. When someone raised a red shirt on the flagpole, the police moved in again. A group of youth marshals lined up to try and hold back the two sides, but the police broke through, attacking with clubs, Mace, and tear gas.

  As darkness fell, demonstration leaders put out an order to gather at the downtown Hilton. Protestors poured out of Grant Park onto Lake Shore Drive, trying to cross one of the bridges back to Michigan. The Balbo and Congress bridges were sealed off by guardsmen with machine guns and grenades, but the Jackson Street bridge was passable. The crowd surged across.

  The heat had lost its edge, and it was a beautiful summer night, the kind of night that begged for a ride in a convertible. When they were teenagers, Kevin’s brother had yearned for their neighbor’s yellow T-Bird. He’d made Kevin walk past their neighbor’s driveway ten times a day with him to ogle it. He never recovered when it was sold to someone from Wisconsin.

  “Hey, Dougherty. Look alive!” Kevin jerked his head up. Bernie’s scowl was so fierce his bushy eyebrows had merged into a straight line. About thirty cops, including Kevin and Bernie, were forming a barricade. Behind the police line were guardsman with bayonets on their rifles. A wave of kids broke toward them. When the kids reached the cops, they kept pushing. The cops pushed back. Kevin heard pops as canisters of tear gas were released. The kids covered their noses and mouths.

  “Don’t let them through!” Bernie yelled. Kevin could barely hear him above the din. He twisted around. Bernie’s riot stick was poised high above his head. He watched as Bernie swung, heard the thwack as it connected with a solid mass. A young boy in front of them dropped. Bernie raised his club again. Another thwack. The boy fell over sideways, shielding his head with his arms.

  The police line wobbled and broke into knots of cops and kids, each side trying to advance. Kevin caught a whiff of cordite. Had some guardsman fired a rifle? The peppery smell of tear gas thickened the air. His throat was parched, and he could barely catch his breath. He threw on his gas mask, but it felt like a brick. He tore it off and let it dangle by the strap around his neck. Around him were screams, grunts, curses. An ambulance wailed as it raced down Congress. Its flashing lights punctuated the dark with theatrical, strobe-like bursts.

  Somehow Kevin and Bernie became separated, and a young girl suddenly appeared in front of Kevin. She was wearing a white fluffy blouse and jeans, and her hair was tied back with a bandana. She looked like Maggie. Young people streamed past, but she lingered as if she had all the time in the world. She stared at him, challenging him with her eyes. Then she slowly held up two fingers in a V-sign.

  Kevin swallowed. A copper he didn’t know jabbed her with his club. “You! Get back! Go back home to your parents!”

  She stumbled forward and lost her balance. Kevin caught her and helped her up. She wiped her hands on her jeans, her eyes darting from the other cop to Kevin. She didn’t seem to be hurt. She disappeared back into the crowd. Kevin was relieved.

  A few yards away a group of cops and kids were shoving and shouting at each other. Rocks flew through the air.

  “Traitors!” An angry voice that sounded like Bernie’s rose above the melee. His outburst was followed by more pops. As the tear gas canisters burst, a chorus of screams rose. The protestors tried to scatter, but they were surrounded by cops and guardsmen, and there was nowhere to go. The cops closed in and began making arrests.

  Coughing from the gas, Kevin moved in. He was only a few feet away when the girl with the long hair and peasant blouse appeared again. This time she was accompanied by a slender boy with glasses. He was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. The girl’s bandana was wet and was tied around her nose and mouth. She was carrying a poster of a yellow sunflower with the words “War is Not Healthy for Children and Other Living Things.”

  The boy looked Kevin over. He and the girl exchanged nods. “What are you doing, copper man?” His eyes looked glassy.

  Kevin kept his mouth shut.

  “You don’t want this blood on your hands. She told me how you helped her up. Come with us. You can, you know.” The boy held out his hand as if he expected Kevin to take it.

  Wisps of tear gas hovered over the sidewalk. Kevin tightened his grip on his club. He stared at the kids. The girl looked more and more like Maggie.

  Suddenly, Bernie’s voice came at them from behind. “Kevin. No! Don’t even look at ‘em!”

  Kevin looked away.

  “Don’t listen to him, man!” The boy’s voice rose above Bernie’s. “You’re not one of the pigs. You don’t agree with this war, I can tell. Come with us.”

  “Get back, you little creep!” Bernie moved to Kevin’s side and hoisted his club.

  The boy stood his ground. “You know you don’t belong with…” He waved a hand. “… him.”

  A commander in a white shirt at the edge of the barricade yelled through a megaphone. “Clear the streets. Do you hear me, men? Clear the streets. Now!”

  Someone else shouted, “All right. Grab your gear. Let’s go!”

  A line of police pressed forward, but the boy and girl remained where they were. Everything fell away except the sound of the boy’s voice. In an odd way it felt as silent as the cemetery behind the church.

  “Time’s running out, man,” the boy said, his hand half covering his mouth. “How can you defend the law when you know it’s wrong?”

  Bernie’s voice slammed into them like a hard fist. “Kev, don’t let him talk to you like that.”

  Kevin spun around. Bernie’s face was purple with rage. Brandishing his riot stick, he swung it down on at the boy’s head. The boy jumped, but the club dealt a glancing blow to his temple. The boy collapsed.

  “Bernie, no!” Kevin seized Bernie’s arm.

  Bernie snatched his arm away. “Do your job, Dougherty.” He pointed to the kids with his club. “They are the enemy!”

  The girl turned to Kevin with a desperate cry. “Make him stop!”

  Kevin strained to see her face in the semi-dark. “Go. Now. Get lost!”

  “No! Help me get him up!” She knelt beside the boy.

  “What are you waiting for, Dougherty?” Bernie’s voice shot out, raw and brutal. He clubbed the boy again. The boy lay curled on his side on the ground, mo
aning. Blood gushed from his head. His glasses were smashed.

  “Do something!” The girl screamed at Kevin. “Please!”

  Her anguish seemed to throw Bernie into a frenzy. His eyes were slits of fury. He raised his stick over his head.

  Kevin froze. Everything slowed down. Images of Maggie floated through his mind. She could be in the crowd. Maybe Father Connor. Even his mother. He thought about Mike. And his father. What Bernie was doing. What his duty was. His duty was to serve and protect.

  The moment of clarity came so sharply it hurt. His chest tightened, and his hands clenched into fists. For the first time—maybe in his entire twenty-three years—he knew what that duty meant.

  “Dougherty,” Bernie kept at him, his voice raspy. “Either you do it, or I will!”

  Kevin stared at his partner. Then he dropped his club and threw himself over the girl. She groaned as his weight had knocked the wind out of her. Her body folded up beneath him, but it didn’t matter: she was safe. Kevin twisted around and caught a glimpse of Bernie. His riot stick was still raised high above his head.

  Kevin wondered what his partner would do now. He hoped the whole world was watching.

  THE END

  OTHER PLACES, OTHER TIMES

  This darkly humorous Keystone cops-like story was written for the MURDER IN VEGAS anthology (Forge, 2006) edited by Michael Connelly. It was subsequently nominated for both the Agatha and Anthony Awards for best short story. You can also find it on audio at www.sniplits.com

  HOUSE RULES

  If Marge Farley had known what was in store during her vacation to Las Vegas, she might have gone to the Wisconsin Dells instead. At the very least, she might not have taken the side trip into the desert. But she’d been craving something new and different, which was why they’d come to Vegas in the first place. And she’d surprised her husband Larry with a trip to Red Rock Canyon to cheer him up.

  But Larry ignored the petrified sand dunes, the waterfalls cascading into the canyons, and the red-tailed hawks soaring high above the Mojave. Polishing off both bottles of water, he stomped back to the car. “This isn’t fun. It’s too hot. And dusty. Let’s go back.” He swiped beads of sweat off his forehead. Wet bands ringed the back of his shirt.