The Violence Beat

by JoAnna Carl

  Wilda Svenson was in the living room. “Of course, Mike,” she said soothingly. “We’ll take her.”

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “I don’t mind calling a cab.”

  Mike started unbuttoning his jeans. “That bunch of jerks! We spent fourteen, fifteen hours saving that creep’s life yesterday and today—they let—” Words seemed to fail him. He glared at me. “No, I don’t want you to go home in a cab.”

  “We’ll take her, Mike,” Wilda said again.

  “I’d better put on a uniform,” Mike said. He went back into the bedroom, taking off his jeans as he went.

  Mickey O’Sullivan came in from the kitchen carrying a coffee mug. “I’ll take Nell,” he said. “Wilda, you can stay here and—make your phone calls.”

  Wilda blinked, then gave O’Sullivan a long look. “Phone calls? Oh. Yes.”

  “Look,” I said. “I don’t want to put anybody out.”

  “Where do you live?” O’Sullivan asked.

  “College Hills. Oh, but my car’s at the Gazette building.”

  “No problem. We’re less than a mile from the Gazette and less than two miles from College Hills. I’ll take you.”

  I apologized for not doing the dishes, and Wilda Svenson and I gave each other a polite good-bye. Lord knows what I said to her. “Nice seeing you again,” didn’t quite fit the situation. But within a minute or so I followed Mickey O’Sullivan through the garage, out to a gorgeous caramel-colored Lincoln parked in the driveway. He politely opened the door, and I hitched my fanny across the tan suede seat covers and fastened my seat belt. I certainly didn’t want to bash my head on Mr. O’Sullivan’s tinted windshield and get blood all over his deluxe dashboard.

  It promised to be a gorgeous fall day, the kind October and early November can provide in our part of the world. At midmorning on a Sunday, the neighborhood was mostly deserted. Three teenagers—one each black, white, and brown—were tossing baskets in a driveway across the street, their ball making loud thumps as it hit the backboard and the concrete, and an elderly woman was sweeping her porch.

  O’Sullivan’s car had barely moved when the kitchen door opened, and Mike came running out. He was still barefoot, but he had put on a white T-shirt and some dark blue uniform pants. He was shoving his right arm into the sleeve of his uniform shirt as he came. O’Sullivan stopped the car, and Mike ran up to my side. I found the button which lowered the window, and Mike leaned down to talk to me.

  “I’ll call you tonight. Or as soon as I get loose,” he said. Then he leaned in the window.

  Hell’s bells, he’s going to kiss me, I thought. I was acutely aware that Mickey O’Sullivan was watching all this with a sardonic expression, and I could hear the thump, thump, thump of the neighbor kids’ basketball. What could I do? Push Mike away? Get my notebook out of my purse and use it to shield my face? If he gave me one of those wonderful, lengthy, wet kisses I’d loved so much the night before, I’d die of embarrassment. I sat frozen.

  But the kiss was gentle, sweet, almost chaste. Then Mike looked beyond me. “Thanks for taking her, Mick.”

  O’Sullivan shrugged. “You get going,” he said. “Better not keep Hammond waiting.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mike answered. But he watched until we were headed down the street, standing in the drive buttoning his shirt. The kids gave a couple of catcalls, and Mike waved at them.

  O’Sullivan and I rode silently for a couple of blocks. He adjusted the car’s temperature, which already seemed perfect to me, and I tried to get my brain into gear. At least I could act as if I appreciated the ride he was giving a stranger. In fact, I didn’t understand who this guy was. The car was gorgeous, and he had a prosperous look. Probably one of Wilda Svenson’s real estate buddies.

  I didn’t really want to think about it. All I could think about was Bo Jenkins. Dead. It seemed impossible. I was burning to get out to the mental health center and find out what had happened. So I was nearly caught off guard when Mickey O’Sullivan spoke.

  “Have you and Mike been going together long?”

  “No, we just—” I bit my tongue. I’d nearly blown it. Mike and I hadn’t dated at all. We’d just gone to bed together.

  I wasn’t ashamed because I’d gone home with Mike. We were both consenting adults, after all. But it wasn’t the way I usually behaved. And I wasn’t sure that Mike wanted a family friend to know he picked me up at a party and took me home for the night. I don’t lie, but discretion might be a good plan.

  “Mike and I haven’t been dating long,” I said. No, you couldn’t call twelve hours long. “But we’ve known each other around eighteen months. I interviewed him when he joined the Grantham PD.” I decided to turn my reporter’s skills on Mickey O’Sullivan. Or turn the tables on him. I turned to face him. “How long have you been seeing Mrs. Svenson?”

  He looked at me, and I thought I detected a twinkle under the bushy eyebrows. “Oh, we’ve been dating about six months,” he said. “But we’ve known each other around thirty-five years.”

  I laughed. He’d mimicked my answer exactly. “Touché,” I said. “Are you in real estate?”

  “No, I’m in the security business.”

  My feeble brain clicked over. “Oh! You’re M.P. O’Sullivan!”

  “That’s me.”

  M.P. O’Sullivan was a former Grantham cop. He’d been high up in the department when he retired, maybe ten years earlier, and bought a security company.

  “We did a phone interview. Last year,” I said.

  “That’s right. Story you wrote on jobs for off-duty cops. You did a nice job.”

  “Thanks. But I’m feeling like an idiot, since I didn’t realize who you were.” I tapped my head. “This has not been one of my better mornings. Mentally.”

  “Nobody can blame you. But you acted completely calm back there at the house. Just like you did with Bo Jenkins yesterday.”

  “I took my cue from Mike. Both times. You saw the tape?”

  “Yeah. This morning. I nearly had Wilda to bury when she saw Mike moving in on the guy with the pistol.”

  “You shoulda been there.”

  “No, thanks. I’ve had all of that kind of excitement I want.”

  A vague memory stirred, M.P. O’Sullivan had been a division head for the Grantham PD. Traffic? TAC? I couldn’t remember. Then there had been some sort of shooting incident. Had he shot someone? Or someone shot him? Or someone he shot shot someone? I’d have to look it up in the Gazette library. Anyway, he’d left the police department and developed a highly successful security firm, specializing in jobs for off-duty cops. He provided bouncers for bars, antishoplifting crews for discount stores, crowd control for rock concerts, bodyguards for jewelry salesmen.

  “Gee,” I said, “I sure feel safe riding with you, Mr. O’Sullivan.”

  “I’m not armed. And please call me Mickey.”

  “Well, thanks for the ride, Mickey. I’ve got to get out to the mental health center quick.”

  “To cover the story?”

  “That’s my job.”

  Mickey nodded. “You’re pretty good at it, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just talking as a reader, of course. Your stories are always clear. No dangling details.”

  “Thanks again. Of course, you’re a former law officer. You may understand crime stories better than the typical reader.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. But the cops I know think you write good stuff, too. Fair.”

  “That probably means I’m not doing a good job. Leaning toward the cops’ point of view.”

  He shook his head seriously. “No. When they goof, the citizens have a right to know. Professionals understand that they’re answerable to the public. A real pro doesn’t expect favors, just fairness.”

  “That’s nice to hear.” My mind was leaping ahead to the mental heal
th center. “And, by the way, thanks for thinking up an excuse to leave Mrs. Svenson behind. I’m sure she’s a lovely person—at least that’s what I hear from everybody who knows her. But this wasn’t a good time for chit-chat.”

  O’Sullivan grinned. “Wilda’s a professional talker. It would have gone all right. She can talk to anybody. But I thought this would get you and me out of the way, in case she and Mike want to go at it.”

  “They don’t get along.”

  “Usually they do. Wilda’s the let-it-all-out type. Yells and screams and then it’s over. Mike’s more like Irish was. Tends to take things harder. But they usually live and let live.”

  He stopped at a light. “Wilda doesn’t drop in unannounced every Sunday morning. Mike lives his own life. And she lives hers.”

  I realized we were at the turn two blocks from the Gazette office, and I opened my purse. I felt in the pocket where I always stow my keys. They weren’t there. “Oh, no!” I dug deeper.

  “What’s the matter?” O’Sullivan said.

  “I don’t have my keys.” I tried to think of when I last had them. “I gave them to Bo Jenkins’ kid yesterday, to keep him amused when Bo and I handed him over to Mike. Afterwards, I ran straight out the back of the PD, to write my story. I got a ride in a patrol car. I don’t know what happened to the keys. House keys, car keys. The whole batch.”

  “I can take you home, instead of to the Gazette. But can you get in?”

  “On Sunday morning, probably all three of my roommates will be there. And I have an extra set of keys.”

  “I can wait while you get the extra keys and bring you back to the office. Where do you live?”

  I gave him the address. College Hills is an older part of town, near Grantham State. It runs to apartments, some in modern complexes and some in old houses. The streets are narrow and lined with cars, since parking is always a problem near the campus. The businesses are mostly college-related. It’s a great neighborhood for copy shops, cheap and off-beat restaurants, book stores, T-shirt vendors, and faddish clothes. It’s not so great for supermarkets and malls.

  I share one of the old houses—I think it must have been built in the 1920s as a student rooming house—with three other people. Martha is a grad student, Brenda is a nursery school teacher, and Rocky—well, Rocky is Rocky. Rocky works as a waiter in a lunch-type restaurant and also owns a piece of a bar. And he owns the house we live in. He calls himself our landlady.

  I directed Mickey O’Sullivan to my parking spot in the backyard and jumped out of the car. I was a bit dismayed when I saw that Brenda’s car wasn’t there. She was our early riser. Up with the blankety-blank birds, even on Sundays. I might have to pound on the door until somebody heard me.

  “Come on in while I find the keys,” I said. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

  Rocky usually sleeps until noon on Sundays. But not this time. I could see him through the kitchen window. Damn. I didn’t really want to have to explain Rocky to Mickey O’Sullivan. A former cop the age of Mickey O’Sullivan was practically guaranteed to be homophobic. But I didn’t want to act ashamed of Rocky either. He was a friend.

  I knocked, and Rocky shot the dead bolts and opened the door. He was wearing a sweat shirt and shorts, a sign that he was on another of his periodic exercise kicks. He stood in the doorway with his arms folded—six feet, four inches of pudge, topped by a young face and a balding head.

  “Well, well, I hope little missy finally took my advice and got laid,” he said. “I’ve been telling you for a year that it would help your disposition.”

  “Shut up, Rocky,” I said.

  Then Rocky saw Mickey O’Sullivan behind me.

  “Oops!” he said. He grimaced and stepped back to let us in.

  O’Sullivan’s eyebrows were scowling so hard they were almost tangled together.

  “This is Rocky Rutledge,” I told him. “He’s my landlord. And our resident busybody. But he makes great coffee. Rocky, this is Mickey O’Sullivan. A family friend.” I didn’t stop to explain whose family. “Please give Mr. O’Sullivan a cup of your best coffee while I go find my extra keys.”

  “Certainly. Mr. O’Sullivan, this way please.” Rocky led O’Sullivan to the kitchen table and cleared newspapers from one side. “Cream and sugar?”

  I ran upstairs. Rocky does his weird act around Brenda, Martha and me, but I thought he’d be all right with O’Sullivan. He’s a professional restaurateur, after all. He understands hospitality. And he doesn’t swish. I decided to take ten minutes to blow-dry my hair and change clothes. By the time I went back down, Rocky would have O’Sullivan wrapped around his pinkie, ready to leave him a big tip.

  Five minutes later, when I turned off the blow-dryer, I ran to the top of the stairs and listened. I heard Mickey O’Sullivan laugh. So I took three extra minutes for makeup. Then I ripped off my athletic shoes, jeans, sweatshirt, and dirty underwear and put on clean underwear and my black-and-tan plaid slacks with a black shirt and loafers. I’ve tried more formal clothes for the job, but somehow I always wind up tramping through high grass at a crime scene. Casual is best for the violence beat.

  I grabbed the black cardigan and raced back downstairs.

  O’Sullivan was handing his card to Rocky. “Call me if you decide you need some psychological muscle,” he said. “I have plenty of guys who could handle the job.”

  “I don’t know. Having cops on the premises might inhibit a lot of my customers,” Rocky said.

  “The guys wouldn’t have to wear uniforms,” O’Sullivan said. “And I have plenty who could be polite to the clientele.” He opened the door and stood back for me to go out first. “Nice meeting you, Rocky. Thanks for the coffee.”

  We got back in the Lincoln before I spoke. “Would you really provide security for a gay bar?”

  “I have some very tactful guys on my list. They could handle a gay bar. I’ll send security guards anywhere the client wants them. We guarded the gifts at the Schultz-Waldheim wedding last year.”

  Grantham, like any city, has its crime families—its mob. While Sicilians have a corner on organized crime in many parts of the country—or so I hear—the two major operations in Grantham are both headed by guys with German names.

  “I got Schultz to pay me up front,” Mickey said.

  “You were one of Irish Svenson’s best friends, weren’t you?” I said.

  “Right. I gave him his nickname.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “We were rookies together. Grantham had an old-time, Irish cop-type police chief in those days. Francis X. Donavan. He’d come from the East Coast, where they pay a lot more attention to nationality than we do out here.”

  I nodded. One of the things I like about the Southern plains is that nobody gives a darn what nationality anybody else is.

  “Donavan comes in to greet the rookie class on our first day, before we even get our name tags. He looks the list of names over, and he says, ‘Well, sure and we’ve got one real Irishman in this group.’ And he stops in front of Irish. Or Carl, that was the name he went by then. Of course, Irish really did look like a son of Erin—red hair, freckles. And I looked like some kind of a southern European. My hair was coal black then. And I’ve always had a dark complexion.

  “So Donavan looks Irish in the eye and goes on, ‘Young man, the map of Ireland’s all over your face.’ Well, Irish turns as red as a streetlight, and he says, ‘Maybe so, sir. But there’s a black Irishman in the class, too.’ Then he nodded toward me. And he says, ‘His name is Michael Patrick O’Sullivan.’ And Donavan looks surprised. He checks his list again, and says, ‘And what might your name be?’ and Irish says, “Carl Svenson, sir. I’m not Irish, but nine hundred years ago my Viking ancestors hung out around that part of the world a lot.’”

  We both laughed. Then Mickey went on. “Donavan laughed and laughed. Later, I thought it wa
s a sign of how well Irish’s career was going to go. He managed to see that the chief was about to make a fool of himself and to turn it into a joke. Donavan never forgot Irish. Or me either.

  “After that I started calling Carl ‘Irish,’ and pretty soon the rest of the class did.”

  “So you go way back with the Svensons.”

  “I introduced Wilda and Irish. Wilda worked with my wife in a real estate office. Marie was receptionist, and Wilda was a bookkeeper in those days. Marie and I were Mike’s sponsors in baptism.” He looked at me. “Presbyterians don’t call ’em godparents.”

  “Neither do Methodists,” I said.

  “Marie kept Mike the night Wilda went to the hospital to have little Alicia, the baby who died. Wilda and Irish were at the hospital with me when Marie died.”

  “That’s real friendship.”

  “Best friends I ever had.” He grinned at me. “I guess it was inevitable that Wilda and I would take up together. We were used to each other. Of course, my girls love Wilda. Mike thought it was fine, too. At first.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “I noticed a little coolness between Mike and his mother,” I said finally.

  Mickey pulled the Lincoln into the two-story parking garage the Gazette built for its employees. On a Sunday morning, there were only two cars, both on the lower level—my little Dodge and the giant and ancient Olds that one of the security guards drove. Mickey parked where I pointed, beside the Dodge, then turned toward me.

  “Mike thought old farts like Wilda and me were looking for ‘companionship.’” Mickey said. “Somebody to go to the community concerts and the country club buffet with. On Labor Day, he showed up a few hours early for the picnic down at the lake. That was the first time he realized old farts still like companionship in the bedroom, too.”

  Mickey grinned, and I did, too.

  “Don’t let Wilda jack you around,” he said. “Her executive nature will come out if you let it. You’re okay, Nell.”