Casualties of War

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “You can do a British accent, right?” Ariella asked. “Of course you can. I told them you do and you can train for the regional inflection. That’s just details, anyway. They’re sending a contract over this afternoon. Can you come in later today? I can go over it with you, then set up negotiations.”

  A non-Latino role, a meaty one, with a huge director, one he admired. On a ship at sea. An 18th century Brigantine.

  Adán swallowed. “I’m…I’ll have to get back to you on this, Ariella,” he said. His mouth wouldn’t work properly. His heart was working way too hard.

  She hesitated. Then, “You’re absolutely right. We shouldn’t look too eager. I’ll let them sweat a few hours. Maybe even a day or two. Why don’t I call you back later, and we can set up a time to go over the contract then?”

  Somehow, Adán got her off the phone. He may have mumbled an affirmative. He wasn’t sure. Finally, she was gone. He dropped the phone and pressed both hands to his head, as it throbbed and boomed and his breath came shorter and shorter.

  His heart was slamming against his chest, hurting as badly as his head.

  How could he turn this down? Did he even dare? For the second time, he was being offered a career-changing role, the one actors dreamed about. It would push Adán into the mature roles. Statesman roles. Leader roles. True heavy-duty character roles, where his ability to make grown women melt at the knees was irrelevant.

  It would set him up to pick and choose his roles for the rest of his life. His career wouldn’t die when his looks faded. At 42, he was already facing that downhill slide. No one was saying it to his face, yet, although the camera didn’t lie and no makeup was good enough to hide that he was getting older. Soon, the younger roles would dry up.

  This role, though, would ensure he could keep working.

  If he refused, what would that do to his career? Hollywood was claustrophobically small. Word would pass. They would talk about his ego getting out of control. Directors would hesitate when his name came up for consideration, not willing to be rejected as if their movie wasn’t good enough.

  Adán worked the heel of his hand against his chest as it creaked with the strain. The chain under his shirt bit into his skin, underneath his hand.

  He pressed his fingers against the pendant that hung from the chain, forcing himself to breathe. Parris had given him the pendant, on the boat. Not the yacht he had tied up at the club right now, but his first boat.

  Parris…who had kept him grounded and real. God, he wished she was here now.

  Chapter Three

  Twenty years ago.

  The fourth time Adán met Officer Graves was when someone broke into his new apartment in Brentwood and took the brand new TV and video player. She was the senior cop of the two who turned up to take a report of the stolen goods.

  “You’ve moved up in the world, I see.” She looked around the apartment, while her partner tried not to gape at her casual tone, or that he was in Adán Caballero’s apartment.

  Adán was still getting used to the startled looks he got from strangers who recognized him.

  “Thanks to you,” Adán told her.

  She rolled her eyes. “Wasn’t me in the movies that got you here,” she said, hauling out her notebook.

  “You watched my movies?”

  “Out of the corner of one eye,” she assured him. “You were…adequate.”

  He grinned. “Still have a major hate for actors, huh?”

  “Just you, Caballero,” she assured him, although she was smiling, too. “Wanna tell us about the stuff that was stolen?”

  He pushed the receipts and the operations manuals across the counter toward her. “They’re that new,” he said, as her brow lifted.

  She spun the manuals around to read the covers. “You didn’t get one of those new things, the disk players?”

  “DVD player,” her partner supplied, trying to look important for knowing the name.

  “I’m not rich enough for one of those,” Adán replied.

  “Yet,” she said, peering at the covers. She scribbled notes and closed her notebook. “They came in through the balcony?” Her hair, he noticed, was shorter than he remembered and tied neatly at the back of her head. It made her look more fragile than any cop should, yet the air of competence rolling off her made up for it.

  “Bedroom,” Adán replied.

  “Bernie, wanna check it out?” she told her partner.

  “Through there?” Bernie asked, pointing toward the bedroom door and Adán nodded. Bernie stepped through the doorway.

  Adán looked at Officer Graves. “How is life for you?” he asked.

  “Adequate,” she said, with a small smile.

  “I see they’re moving you up the chain.”

  “Still in uniform though,” she said, her voice neutral.

  “Is that usual?” he asked.

  “Guys who started after me are sergeants now or have their gold shields already.” She cleared her throat. “Just means I have to try harder. It’s up to me, right?”

  “I remember,” Adán said. “You can take care of yourself.”

  “Right.”

  “Despite your ass-kicking husband.”

  Her smile grew warmer. “Right.” She stirred and looked around the apartment. “I don’t have to ask how you’re doing. It seems like everyone is talking about you, these days.”

  He shook his head. “You’d be surprised by how illusionary all it is.”

  “Only you’re doing what you love.”

  “I am,” he agreed. “So are you.”

  She hesitated. “I am.” Her voice held a note of strain.

  Bernie came back from the bedroom. “Basic lift latch,” he said. “Credit card would do it.”

  “You need better locks, Mr. Caballero,” she said, pushing her notebook into her pocket. “We’ll file a report and ask around—fences and faces known to work the area. I wouldn’t hold my breath about getting your stuff back, though.”

  He nodded. He hadn’t expected more than that. “I had to report it, though.”

  “It helps us keep tabs on what’s moving around here,” she replied, her tone one of agreement. She put her cap back on. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  Adán watched the apartment door close behind them, puzzling out the odd, strained note in her voice.

  What had that been about?

  Two days later, he got his answer, for Officer Graves phoned to tell him she’d recovered his video player.

  “You’re kidding,” he said, astonished.

  “You gave us a serial number, so we know for sure it’s yours. Local fence had it. Couple of kids hocked it for chump change. He figured they were so young it was probably their parents’. Wanna come down to the station and pick it up?”

  “I’m due on set this afternoon,” he said.

  “You start in the afternoon?”

  “It’s a night shoot. I hit the makeup chair this afternoon.” He wouldn’t get home until dawn. “What time does your shift start tomorrow?”

  “Six. Will you be up that early?”

  “I’ll still be awake. I’ll stop by on my way home.”

  He was filming the sequel to the down-and-out cop movie. The first Smokey Silva movie had made such an obscene amount of money that double the funding for a sequel had been budgeted before the execs even thought about asking for it.

  The night shoot was on a back lot parading as a New York street during a rain storm. Adán spent the night soaked to the skin and wielding a blank-shooting Glock. The entire ten hours of filming involved a whole three lines of dialog.

  Shakespeare it was not. The fans loved it, though.

  He was physically tired after the night of running and climbing, yet his brain was wired. As he wheeled the car into the station parking lot, he was still weighing whether he should try to force himself to sleep or give in to his brain and do something constructive until sleep grabbed him naturally. He didn’t have to be back on set until tomorrow night.


  Officer Graves was sitting behind a desk in the bullpen. She got to her feet when he reached the front desk. “I got it, Emile,” she told the sergeant at the desk. She held up a finger to Adán. “I’ll be right back with your player. Just have to get it out of lock-up.”

  He nodded and turned to consider the plastic molded chairs in the tiny reception area. Nearly all of them were taken. Everyone was looking at him with wide eyes, trying to figure out if he was just some guy who happened to look like Adán Caballero. In a moment or two, one of them would risk it and try to engage Adán in conversation.

  Then the autograph requests would pile up.

  Then someone would get to their feet and try to stand even closer to him than anyone else.

  Then the shoving would start.

  Adán cleared his throat and turned back to the desk, putting his back to them.

  Emile lifted a brow. “Wanna wait in an interview room?” he asked.

  Relief touched him. “That would be a good idea,” Adán admitted.

  Emile crooked his fingers.

  Adán walked around the desk and followed the sergeant over to a blank door. The sergeant opened the door and held it aside. “Maybe next time have one of your people come by instead,” he murmured.

  Adán looked at him, startled. He didn’t have people. Only big name stars carried satellites like a tail behind them.

  The door closed on him. He stood inside an interview room so typical it was a cliché. Battered table, two chairs, a one-way mirror. Cigarette butts had gouged the green linoleum all around the table. One chair was bent, so only two feet sat on the floor.

  The door opened and Officer Graves came in, carrying his video player, sealed inside an evidence bag. She put the player on the table. “Sorry, I didn’t think about the people out there.”

  “Neither did I,” Adán admitted.

  “What do you think of our interview room?” Her smile was small.

  “Honestly? It’s a lot cleaner than the sets I’ve worked on.”

  She snorted. “We have janitors.”

  “While we have set dressers.” He reached for the player.

  “Do you have a moment?” she said.

  He hesitated. He had been wondering what he could do until he needed to sleep. “Why?” he asked.

  Her lips thinned. Discomfort oozed from her. “I wondered if we could…talk.”

  Adán raised a brow. He had been propositioned more times since the Smokey Silva movie had come out than in his entire life before the movie. Instinct told him sex wasn’t what Graves wanted.

  She blew out her breath. “It’s something you said the other day in your apartment. About doing what you love.”

  The odd note in her voice. He remembered it now. Adán nodded. “Sure. What about it?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Would you mind…would you be comfortable with sliding over to the coffee shop across the road and talking there?”

  He remembered the people in the waiting area. “Is there a back way out of here?”

  * * * * *

  He dumped the player in the trunk of his car and walked over the road to the shopfront eatery and stepped in. Graves was already there, wearing an oversized hoodie over her uniform and no cap. She picked up two Styrofoam cups of coffee off the high counter as he stepped in and glanced at him. She moved to the back of store and settled at one of the three tiny tables there and pushed the second cup across the table toward the empty chair.

  Adán settled opposite her. Coffee was the last thing he needed. He sipped, anyway. The warmth was welcome.

  She took her time tearing open sugar packets and milk tubs and stirring.

  Adán recognized her awkwardness. “How about we start with you telling me your first name?” he suggested. “You already know mine.”

  Her cheeks tinged with pink, which made the freckles stand out. “Parris,” she said.

  “As in Hilton?”

  “As in the English couldn’t spell the name of the city when they used it as some great-something of mine’s last name.” She shrugged. “John of Parris.”

  “Two ‘r’s, then?”

  “It’s an old family name. My mother thought it was a cute first name.” She shrugged again.

  “So, Parris. About doing what you love…?”

  She met his eye. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I figure…well, I read an interview you did. After the Oscar nomination.” She said it with the air of someone confessing a great sin.

  Adán grinned. “I won’t hold it against you.”

  Parris laughed. It was a strained sound. “You said something about being non-white holding you back.”

  Ah… He sat back. “My agent had a cow when she saw it. I’m supposed to be grateful for my opportunities, etc., etc. And I am, no question. At the end of the day, though, there are jobs I don’t get because I’m not white, blond and six foot tall.”

  “You’re taller than me,” she pointed out.

  “That’s because Vistarian men are generally tall. I’m the archetypal Latin American actor and no producer thinks of anything outside that slot when they see my headshot.”

  “I’m the token woman cop.”

  He nodded. “They’re holding you back.”

  “I don’t think it’s deliberate.” She paused. “I didn’t think it was deliberate.” She leaned forward. “You got that Duke of whatever it was movie. That wasn’t a Latino role.”

  “A duke of Italian heritage and the Italian ancestry was part of his motivation. The boy next door wouldn’t have looked right.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “You didn’t make them give it to you?”

  Adán wanted to laugh. “I ate Ramen noodles for five years before I got the role. The jeans I wore the night of the party were the only pair I owned that didn’t have a hole in the knee. I didn’t make anyone give me the role. I had to hang in there and wait until someone gave me the break.”

  She looked thoughtful. “You didn’t quit.”

  He considered it. “Are you thinking of quitting?”

  “It has crossed my mind once or twice,” she said. The casual air betrayed her. She had been thinking about it a lot.

  “Two things this business taught me,” Adán said. “One, you haven’t failed until you quit and two, you never know what’s around the corner.”

  She sipped her coffee, thoughtful.

  “If it’s what you love, don’t quit,” he added. “Just wait. Then wait a little longer.”

  “Out-wait the bastards…” she said. She put the cup down. “It’s not that I love writing traffic tickets and arresting jaywalkers,” she said, with a candid air. “It’s, well…” Her cheeks turned pink again.

  “You want to serve,” Adán said. “I get it.”

  “Smokey Silva…that’s something he said.”

  He pointed at her. “Just from the corner of your eye, huh?”

  She pushed her tongue out at him, then glanced at her watch. It was a thick man’s watch and looked way too big for her wrist. “I should get back.” She got to her feet, taking the coffee cup with her. She looked down at him. “Thank you.”

  “Did I help?”

  “I think so.” She pressed her lips together. “I can’t talk it over with anyone I work with. They all use the other washroom. They wouldn’t get it. I figured you would.”

  “And I do,” Adán said. “You can’t talk to your husband?”

  She grimaced. “Stuart’s a detective. First class. They’re already talking about making him a lieutenant. When I try to talk to him, he looks puzzled. He believes in the law.” She hesitated. “Sometimes blindly.” She pressed her fingers to the table. “Thanks.”

  Adán watched her walk away, the oversized hoodie swinging around her hips.

  He waited until she had stepped back inside the station, then left himself. He didn’t finish the coffee.

  * * * * *

  A week later, Parris Graves tapped on his apartment door five minutes after he got home. A
dán leaned against the doorframe. He was aching from the stunts he had been put through so the director could get his close-up. All he wanted to do was slide into the pool downstairs and soothe the aches away. “Parris.”

  She was wearing jeans and a tee shirt and sandals. She gripped her hands together. “I didn’t quit.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Only now I want to crush skulls in. It has been a crappy day. More than usual.”

  “Ditto,” Adán admitted.

  She worked her hands, almost wringing them. “If I buy the pizza, would you be willing to listen?”

  He hesitated.

  “I’m putting you on the spot…” she said, backing away.

  “No, it’s not that. There’s a party I’m supposed to show up for and it’s the last thing I want to…” He made himself halt. “You know what? Screw the party. That is…will your husband mind if you’re having dinner with another man?”

  She smiled. “He’s on the late shift. He trusts me. I trust him. And it’s just dinner.”

  “I’ll get my sunglasses.”

  The quiet dinner at a table in the corner with his back to the world wasn’t just a chance for Parris to vent. It ended up being exactly what Adán needed, too. Parris gave seething descriptions of ignorant cops who thought she was good for nothing but getting coffee and arrogant perps who figured she was a walk-over. In between, Adán spoke more freely about the irritations of being a ‘name’ and not feeling like one and being caught in a typecasting rut.

  “It sometimes feels as though the world is having hysterics around me,” Adán said. “I could fall into it so easily and get sucked into believing the press about me but that’s another danger, too.”

  “A big, fat head,” she replied, nodding, as she reached for another slice of the pizza. “Una cabeza grande y gorda,” she added slowly.

  Adán grimaced.

  “Still bad?” she said.

  “It wasn’t the complete disaster your first try was,” he admitted. “Have you been studying?”

  “CDs,” she admitted. “There’s a Puerto Rican on staff and I try talking to him when he’s not too grumpy.”

  “Why do you want to learn Spanish?”

  “Because it’s L.A.’s second language,” she said. “Because I don’t like people talking in front of me and not knowing what they’re saying. Because having a second language, especially Spanish, looks good on the resume.”