“Casey is sure. Look at her.”
She had quickly gotten past the zucchini and was now fully concentrated on the dancers. I watched her hands subtly follow every movement because in her mind she was out there with the dancers.
The studio pianist ended with a showy arpeggio. The squeak and pat of ballet shoes on hardwood floors fell quiet. There was a moment of appreciative silence, and then equally appreciative applause. Before the applause had died, Casey had attached herself to one of the senior girls and persuaded her to demonstrate some movement from the dance she had just seen.
“We’ll never get her away,” I said.
Mike was watching Casey imitate the movements of the older girl. “She’s really talented, isn’t she?”
“Hard work and talent in about equal measure,” I said, distracted. I thought I had spotted a young man tall enough to partner her; a good sign. Casey’s height would always be a hurdle in ballet.
Casey pranced over, beaming. “Can I stay for a while? They’re going to do a workshop for the seniors and Mischa said I could stay.”
“Who’s Mischa?” I asked.
“Mr. Karpov,” she said, indicating the director.
Mike seemed dubious, but I asked, “For how long?”
“Until about five,” she said.
I looked at my watch. Until five gave us three hours to kill. “We had planned to house hunt.” I turned to Mike. “What do you think?”
“If it’s okay with you, let her stay. We can look around this neighborhood for a couple of hours.”
“We’ll be back at five,” I said to Casey. “Take care of yourself.”
“Oh, Mom,” she groaned, but she was too excited to get up a decent pout.
Mike grabbed her muscular arm before she danced away and pulled her against him. “Watch out for those guys. If I caught one of them out on the street in pantyhose like that, I’d have to arrest him for indecent exposure.”
She laughed. “You’re so weird, Mike.” She left us then.
“You’re so weird, Mike,” I said, taking his arm.
“What? Did she think I was kidding?”
We went down to the school office to hand over the tuition and sign emergency medical treatment forms, give the nurse Casey’s immunization records.
There was a form to list emergency contact numbers. After myself, I listed Mike’s office, then Guido’s pager. The fourth blank stumped me. Our former housemate, Lyle, was too far away to be of any immediate help, and he had no legal connection to help in the long run. I almost left the fourth spot blank, but after a pause, and as a matter of form, I wrote down Casey’s father’s number in Denver. Just writing the number made my palms sweat; Scotty was always a mess in an emergency. No matter what happened, I would not call him. I never, ever, wanted to go through a hassle involving him again. Ever.
When we left the school, we still had two and a half hours left. Pasadena was hot and smoggy. I was grateful that we were in Mike’s Blazer and not my car, because he had air conditioning and I did not.
“Where should we start?” I asked.
“South Pasadena,” he said, turning down Fair Oaks Avenue. “I think you’ll like the area. The locals stopped the state from extending the freeway through town. Screwed up the whole county freeway system to save their old trees, but did they care?”
“My kind of people,” I said.
“I thought so, too.” He smiled as he reached for my hand.
“I’m glad the department put you in the cooler,” I said. “It’s nice to have some time with you.”
“Just think, when I retire it’ll always be like this.”
“You wish.”
He didn’t argue.
I had no expectations about South Pasadena. In fact, I had never heard of the place until Mike mentioned it. As Mike drove south on Fair Oaks, I kept my eye on the odometer, measuring how far we were getting from Casey’s school. When Mike turned down a side street, we were still within bicycle-riding range for a young athlete like Casey. And a city bus ran straight up Fair Oaks.
The neighborhood we drove through was dominated by large, well-kept old houses dating from the 1920s and 1930s. A typical upscale California architectural mix: graceful mission-style white-washed adobe and red tile cheek by jowl with trim Cape Cod cottages, stolid red-brick Georgians, the occasional French country farmhouse. There were real yards, neat green lawns and mature trees that filtered out the worst of the smog, made the air seem cooler. Very nice, I thought. Maybe too nice.
I tugged on Mike’s hand. “Can we afford this?”
“We can probably find something in our range. Couple of guys at work live in the ‘hood. Bud—you met Bud?—he thinks he has a lead on a place that isn’t listed yet.”
“The old cop fraternity,” I said, squeezing his fingers. “Always takes care of their own.”
“We have to watch out for each other,” he said, “because no one else will.”
“Oh, look,” I said, pointing out the window. “Slow down a sec.”
We were passing a beautiful old Iowa farmhouse-style woodframe on a sweeping corner lot. It had a “For Sale or Lease” sign pegged in the middle of the immaculate lawn. I knew it had to be beyond our budget, but just in case, and out of habit, I pulled a 35mm camera out of my bag and took some pictures out the car window.
I admit that I use the camera as an interpreter; I don’t always know what I’ve seen until I have it on film. I wanted to pin the houses up on some wall for a while—pictures of them, anyway—get to know them.
Mike made frequent turns, apparently following no pattern, just cruising the neighborhood. He sped up or slowed down when he saw something—that’s what I thought he was doing. I was seeing it all through the lens of the camera I held to my eye.
Even as I fell in love with the area, I was growing edgy, as I do when there are big decisions to be made. Everything looked great, but were any of the neat-looking old men strolling on the sidewalks funny little old men who would bother my daughter? Were there sirens lying in wait for Michael behind the lace curtains? Were the sewers hooked up? Who would Bowser offend?
Mike seemed to be edgy, too, lost in thought, intent on the passing scene as he fiddled with the old handcuffs he kept dangling from his turn signal.
The cuffs were a standing joke between us. One night, just before we decided to cast our lots together, I cuffed him to the steering wheel and did him on the freeway while he drove. We both loved it, but it nearly got us killed. I had thought, now and then, when the magic grew cluttered with the daily chores, that I might try it again. Just for old time’s sake.
I touched his arm. “Why don’t you bring the cuffs in tonight? I’ll lock you to the bed and make love to you until you scream for mercy.”
“Uh huh.” He smiled with his mouth, but his eyes were elsewhere.
I left him to his thoughts and raised the camera again. Mike’s driving grew more erratic. I was about to say something when he sped into a turn and then, halfway through it, slammed on his brakes. The car behind us didn’t make the stop in time and rammed us. I heard rubber bumpers connecting, but no grind of metal, no broken glass. The bump was sufficient to bang my camera into the side of my nose, though. I said, “Ouch,” but there was no one there anymore to hear me.
Mike had bailed out his door, with the handcuffs, even before the bump came. When I turned around, I saw him at the driver’s side of the red Toyota that hit us, roughly hauling out the driver. Mike twisted the man’s arm behind his back, snapped a handcuff on one wrist, slammed him up against the side of the Toyota, kicked his legs apart, and then reached out and caught the free, flailing hand and cuffed it, too.
By the time I got out of the Blazer spewing coherent questions like, “Wha? Wha?”, Mike was patting down this totally befuddled man whose questions more or less repeated mine, with some surprisingly clear obscenities thrown in.
Mike tossed the man’s wallet, some loose change, and a Swiss army knife onto the hood
of his car. He flipped open the wallet, read the license, then threw it back down.
I still had my camera in my hand. I wiped away the blood running down from the side of my nose and I did what I do: I took pictures.
The prisoner was an overweight, middle-aged, ordinary looking fellow in shirt-sleeves. It was hot, but not hot enough to make him sweat that profusely. His glasses had been knocked askew and he tried to set them straight by using his shoulder. Mike fixed them for him.
“You have no right,” the man seethed, straining against Mike’s hold. “You can’t do this to me.”
“Sure I can. I just did.” Mike’s voice was controlled, but edged with something dangerous I had never heard before.
The man hissed, “Do you know who I am?”
“The license says George Schwartz, but suppose you tell me the rest of it. And while you’re at it, maybe you could explain why you were tailing us.”
“That’s bullshit. I wasn’t tailing you.”
“Mike?” I said, wondering which one here was the lunatic. Mike only shook his head at me, as in, Go away. I was alarmed, but I still trusted that Mike knew what he was doing.
“Let me rephrase the question,” Mike said to Schwartz. “Maybe you could explain why you were tailing us before I beat the dog shit out of you.”
Schwartz wasn’t taking in enough air to gasp properly. In his position, I would have passed out from either anoxia or impotent rage. He managed to speak: “I’m an investigator for the district attorney’s office. Let go of me.”
“Marovich?” Mike smiled evilly. “Now, why in hell would Mr. Baron Marovich want to tail me?”
“Ask him.”
Mike yanked up the cuffs, making Schwartz wince. “I asked you three times now. Why don’t you save us all some grief and just tell me what this is about.”
“I don’t know what it’s about. Marovich told me to keep an eye on you.”
“Since when?”
“Since you called Jerry Kelsey and tried to set up a meeting.” “I can’t talk to my old partner without the D.A. putting the dogs on me?”
“I don’t know.”
I thought it was time for Mike to ease up. Poor Schwartz was hopelessly overmatched. He was about to lose the last of his dignity by crying or messing in his Dockers. I took a last shot of his face, then put down the camera.
“Mike?” I said again.
“Hold on,” he answered gruffly, but he relaxed his grip on Schwartz.
“I can’t decide what to do with you, Mr. Schwartz,” Mike said. “I could charge you with harassment, threatening a police officer with a lethal weapon—if you can believe this piece-of-shit car could be lethal. There’s a new stalking law we could try. Failure to signal before turning? How about plain old toostupid-to-be-out-on-the-streets? Maybe I should just shoot you. What’s your pleasure?”
Schwartz got himself together enough to answer. “This is bullshit, Flint. Total bullshit. Get these fucking cuffs off me right now or I’ll have your ass.”
Mike crossed his arms. “In a city as old as this one, there has to be a law still on the books against using obscenities in front of a lady. Now, if the lady declines to file charges, I’ll have to let you go this time with a warning.”
“Fuck you, Flint.” Schwartz was building up some angry steam now.
Mike jerked the chain between the cuffs, not enough to hurt Schwartz, but enough to make him madder. “Here’s the warning: You tell that asshole Marovich that if he wants to talk to me, all he has to do is pick up the phone. I’m a real cooperative guy. But if I ever see your ugly face, or any of his goons anywhere near my family again, tell that hell will look like Club Med in comparison with what I put him through. If we’re clear, Mr. Schwartz, you’re free to go.”
Mike gave Schwartz a shove as he let go of the chain. Off balance, Schwartz fell forward to his knees. Like a kneeling supplicant, he raised his face to Mike.
“Take these fucking things off me, Flint.”
“You can keep them. A little souvenir.” As Mike turned to walk away, Schwartz came up hurling his considerable bulk at Mike’s back. My camera came up with him.
“Mike!” I yelled, snapping the entire sequence. I didn’t need to warn Mike. He had set up Schwartz. He let Schwartz get almost within striking range, then he agilely slipped to the side at the last instant. Schwartz, in full flight and with nothing to stop him, crashed against the side of Mike’s car. As he slid back down to the pavement, the cuffs etched a long gash in the blue paint.
Mike looked over at me. “Did you get it all?”
“Yes.” I was so nonplussed I stood there frozen.
Mike pulled the slender key for the handcuffs out of his pocket and held it up to Schwartz. “Had enough, son? Come to papa.”
Warily, Schwartz got up and backed toward Mike with his wrists extended as far as he could. Faster than Houdini, Mike unlocked the left cuff and snapped it over the spare tire rack on the back of his Blazer. While Schwartz swore—none of it very original—Mike went to his car phone, called the local police, and reported a collision. And an assault on a police officer.
A black and white cruiser came right over.
“He rear-ended me,” Mike told the uniforms after showing them his badge. True, as far as it went. “I tried to talk to him, but he got froggy. So I had to cuff him. We have the whole thing on film. I’ll send you copies.”
By that point Schwartz had decided to get real quiet. Like a lamb, he climbed into the back seat of the police car. Maybe like a lamb saved from slaughter.
Mike waved to Schwartz as he was driven away. Then he turned to me.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s have it.”
“Jesus Christ, Michael Flint.” I opened up on him, standing right there in the middle of that peaceful street. “Of all the excessive uses of force I have ever seen, and I have covered my share, that was the single most reprehensible, unnecessary example of pure fascist-tactic police abuse I have ever encountered. What the hell were you trying to prove?”
Unremorseful, he put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “He crossed the line.”
“And what line was that?”
“My personal line. Think about it. Schwartz must have picked us up at the house this morning. Now he knows where your daughter goes to school. How does that make you feel?”
“I don’t like being followed,” I said. “But, my God, Mike, Schwartz isn’t a criminal. He works for the D.A.”
“So he says.”
That gave me pause.
“And so what if he works for the D.A.?” Mike went on. “We’re talking Baron Marovich, not Mother Teresa. I don’t trust Marovich as far as I can throw him, and he outweighs me by thirty pounds. The point is, no one comes near my family. Even the Mafia has rules about that. Capice?”
“I capice okay,” I said. “But I still say you went too far.”
“Never laid a hand on him. Did what I needed to do to control the scene, nothing more. Everything strictly within department guidelines. You have it all on film. Besides, fuck him.”
“Don’t try to snow me,” I said.
He smiled sheepishly. “You’re mad, huh?”
“Yes I’m mad. You scared the shit out of me. See this?” I tapped the little cut on my nose. “I got hurt.”
“Want me to kiss it?”
“Not yet. I’m still too upset. I’ve never seen this side of you. Is that the way you behave on duty?”
“When I need to. This time, I definitely needed to.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about it.”
“You’d better decide,” he said. He was not in any way repentant. In fact, he was cocky. “I figure I’ve given Marovich fair warning. If I ever see him around you or Casey or Michael again, I’ll shoot him.”
“Bull,” I said.
“No bull,” he said. Then he held out his arms to me. “Come here.”
I went over and put my arms around him because I needed to be reminded who he was, or who I
thought he was. He still felt the same, had the same soft bristles at the back of his neck, the same little patch of missed whiskers on his chin. I had been feeling a little shaky ever since the cafeteria lunch at Casey’s school. It was nice to lean against something warm and solid. To lean against Mike. My mind was in turmoil, but at least my body was comforted.
I looked over Mike’s shoulder and saw the audience we had drawn, a group of five neighbors and one little dog that could be mistaken for a dust mop.
An elderly woman in bright walking togs, holding on to an elderly man in similar bright attire, called out, “Are you all right, dear?”
“We’re fine,” I said.
“Are you lost?”
I looked up at Mike and started to laugh. “We’re not lost,” I said. “We’re the new neighbors.”
Chapter 11
All the rest of Tuesday I felt unsettled. My outrage over being followed had been chilled by the cool, cocky expression on Mike’s face as he overpowered George Schwartz. It was some stranger who put the cuffs on Schwartz, not the Mike I knew.
Once we were home, I watched Mike’s every move for clues, hoping, I think, that some gesture or turn of phrase would reveal to me something essential about him that I had missed, or reassure me that I had not been wrong. Expose him, redeem him, I didn’t care which. I had to know.
My moodiness seemed to infect the household. Casey had come home hot, muscle-weary, suffering a rare crisis of faith in her own ability; the senior students had been magnificent, a tough standard to follow. Without saying much, and still in her dance clothes, hair hanging in damp strings, she had gone back out into the smoggiest part of the day to take Bowser for a walk.
Sitting close together in the cool gray living room, Mike and I went over the inventory of my stored furniture, discussing without much interest what we might want to ship down once we had decided on a house. Furniture was safe territory. I was afraid to bring up what was really on my mind, afraid of the outcome. Afraid that, if the answers weren’t right, the furniture would never come out of storage. It was a relief when Michael came home and brought a bells-and-whistles distraction with him: Sly.
Bad Intent Page 9