“Currently, we’re sitting outside the Foxy Lady Hair and Nail Salon in beautiful downtown Compton, watching homeboy take a nap in his Tahoe while baby-girl’s inside getting a ‘do. This nigga’s got his head all laid back on his leather seat, got his shades on his head, doin’ a Stevie Wonder impression in his sleep. I’m praying he wakes up with a nine against his temple, gets jacked for his ride. He’s got them fancy spinners on there some of these Compton niggas be killin’ for.
“Anyway, looks like we’re here for a while,” Dwight said, “now tell me what can I do you for?”
“First,” I said, “who’s this guy in the Tahoe?”
“The ride comes back to a Lamont Porter out of Inglewood,” he said. “Don’t know anything more than that.”
I paused, running the name through my head along all the others. “I don’t think I know the name.”
“We’ll do a work-up later on,” Dwight said over the sounds of traffic in the background, “and if we get the dude ID’d, I’ll give you a shout.”
“Thanks, D,” I said. “Oh, the reason I called?”
“Yeah?”
“You guys taking any bodies over there?”
“You know someone wants to work Surveillance?”
“Yeah, me.”
Dwight laughed.
“Why not?”
He apologized for the outburst and said, “Brother, they’d make you for the po-lice if you was dressed like a bitch, complete with a skirt and wig. Plus, you ain’t got the patience for this gig neither. When’s the last time you spent twelve hours in a car, pissin’ in a bottle?”
I thought about that for a moment. “It’s been a while.”
“And you’d take a hit on the paycheck too,” he said. “I know you don’t want to give up that bonus pay just to get out of that suit.”
“You’re probably right,” I said, now looking over each shoulder, checking my surroundings in the office. “I’m just grasping at straws here, D. I don’t get away from this idiot captain of mine, I might end up doing time.”
Dwight chuckled. “You don’t like ol’ Stove-pipe?”
“Guy’s a prick,” I said, “you know? I’ve worked for some bad captains—”
“You’ll outlast him.”
“Ya think?”
“I know it, homeboy.”
I perked up. “You know something we don’t know over here?”
“They’re looking at making him a commander,” Dwight said, “from what I hear. That’s if he can keep from stepping on his dick another couple of months ‘til Commander Bowman retires. That’s the spot opening up.”
“No shit?”
“No shit,” he said. “Hey, gotta run homeslice, looks like we’re on the move. Check witchya later.”
Floyd held his stare as I reached over and placed the phone back in its cradle. His eyebrows crowded together letting me know he knew I had been up to something.
“What?”
“Don’t you what me, dickhead, I heard the call. What the hell are you up to now? And what was all that shit about with Dwight knowing something we don’t know?”
“It’s hard getting a little privacy with you around,” I said, “you know that?”
“No secrets between married couples, Dickie. That’s in the rule book.”
“Yeah, well, we’re apparently going through a divorce.”
“Now that you bring it up, I’m going to be needing alimony, so I can stay in my accustomed lifestyle.”
“Yeah, I figured. Anyway, that was just Dwight, updating me on the surveillance.”
“Don’t lie to me, Dickie. What’d he say about you getting a job over there, and what about the captain?”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“What’d he say?”
“He said I’d hate surveillance work—”
“Yeah we already know that. What else?”
“And that Stover may not be here long.”
“Really?” Floyd said, a bit of a grin on just one side of his mouth. “That’s interesting.”
“Dwight said he’d heard they’re grooming the asshole for commander, if you can believe that shit.”
“Well yeah, man, promote the most incompetent.”
“If he don’t step on his dick first, D said. You get our reservations squared away?”
“Yep. We leave tomorrow morning, seven-something, flying Delta. I figure we’ll need to leave here by five-thirty, get to LAX by six. You got anything else to do today?”
“I was thinking maybe see my wife before she also reassigns my dumb ass.”
“Good plan,” Floyd said. “Go home. I’m heading for the gym and then I’ll be headed home too. I’ll see you tomorrow at zero-dark-hundred.” Floyd pushed his chair under his desk and swung his suit jacket over a shoulder, pausing for a minute with his shades on inside the office, ready to go. “And don’t worry about him splitting us up, Dickie, I’ve got a plan.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll let you know when you need to know.”
I stepped into my living room carrying my jacket and briefcase in one hand, my hat in the other, to find Valerie waiting as if she had something to say. I said, “Hi honey, everything okay?”
“Fine.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Would it kill you to call once in a while?”
I didn’t even realize that I hadn’t.
Valerie turned and began busying herself by polishing the living room furniture, not available for a hug, apparently.
I said, “Sorry, honey, it was a hard day at the office.”
Still facing away, she said: “Do you have any idea how little we see of each other?” Not waiting for a reply, she turned toward me, her hands now clutching her hips and said, “Or for that matter, even talk to one another? Do you realize or even care how much of a toll that job is taking on our relationship?”
I stood there, aware of the fresh lemon scent drifting past me, a breeze sneaking through the windows and out the door I left open behind me. I searched but found nothing in my head that sounded right as a response, so I remained silent.
She continued, “A simple phone call at some point during the day would mean a lot, you know. It’s what normal husbands do, men who don’t go to work to hang out with their best friend and dead people all day.”
“Babe,” I began to plead, “I’m sorry. Honestly, today was a very tough day. Between the captain busting my balls, the phone ringing off the hook, the surveillance we’ve got running, trying to plan a trip—”
“And you’re leaving again?”
“It’ll be a short one, just a one night turnaround to Phoenix.”
She turned away again, speaking now toward the rag she slid back and forth on a coffee table with plenty of vigor. “I swear you two love each other more than your wives.”
She walked away saying maybe I should find another place to stay for a while. Maybe move in with Floyd, since we seemed to enjoy spending so much time together.
“She’ll cool off and come to her senses,” Floyd said, pulling out of the lot on the way to the airport early the next morning. It was still dark outside, just beginning to show signs of a cloudless day in Los Angeles.
“I’ve never seen her like this. Now the ex? Sure, all the time. She hated the job, hated you, hated me—”
“Hated me? I can see her hating you,” Floyd said, “but I don’t get her hating me. What the hell did I ever do to her? Other than that one time I accidentally grabbed her girlfriend’s ass in the kitchen. And that was an accident, I don’t care what anyone says.”
“This is serious, though. Val doesn’t usually have these moments, the way the ex would. Maybe you should go without me,” I said, but didn’t mean it. “I could stay here, patch things up.”
“You’re better off letting her have a couple days to cool off, think things through. She’ll be fine,” Floyd said, “trust me. I ever tell you about that article I read, the one that says wom
en look for conflict in their relationships when they’re angry with themselves?”
Jesus, this guy, Floyd the marriage counselor now. I stared out the window without responding, watching a graffiti-covered city bus slow and veer to the curb. Blue-collar men and women stood nearby, waiting to board, prepared for another grueling day of dealing with asshole bosses. The brakes squealed as the bus came to a stop, dust bellowing from beneath the modern-day urban beast.
Floyd continued, “Probably not even you she’s pissed at. More than likely it’s some kind of hormonal eruption messing with her system, causing a complete imbalance or something. That shit makes women eat their young, Dickie. You do realize that, right?”
The turn signal indicator ticked an easy rhythm as we waited to enter the Long Beach Freeway south.
“You come home tomorrow night,” Floyd said, now looking back and forth from the road, “she’ll have things all sorted out, good as new. I’m so sure of it, that if I was you, I’d pick up a bottle of wine on the way home, walk in and slap her on the ass.”
“Just what I need, Floyd as my marriage counselor.”
“Fine, Dickie, you don’t want to listen to me, I’ll keep the guest room open. But you’re not getting out of this trip. I’m not dealing with that asshole Elmer Fudd without you.”
We walked away from the rental car counter, Floyd holding a contract in one hand, a set of keys to a Mercury Sable in the other, saying, “Isn’t this where they’ve got that sheriff, makes the inmates wear pink and sleep in tents?”
“Sheriff Joe Arpaio,” I said, “my law enforcement hero. Makes the inmates watch CNN, Fox news, and a religious channel. None of that Soul Train crap, MTV. Guys act tough, he puts them in pink jump suits. No coffee or cigarettes. Bologna sandwiches for lunch. He said in an interview once—I saw it on Fox—‘Our troops in Iraq sleep in tents, when they’re lucky, not sleeping under a tank. It’s a hell of a lot hotter there, and those brave men and women haven’t committed any crimes.’ The ACLU goes crazy over him, file new lawsuits every day. Joe says they can kiss his ass, pretty much. Kind of boss we need, guy with some nuts.”
Floyd and I walked down an aisle of mid-sized sedans, Floyd pushing the trunk release on the remote until we found our rental. “We should see if we can get a tour,” he said, dropping his bag in the trunk, “get our picture with the sheriff. He could wear that cowboy hat, and your dumb ass could pose there next to him in your fedora. I’ll get in there with you, just to spice things up.”
I tossed my bag in the trunk and closed it. “Tell him we’re looking for a new boss, if he’s interested.”
“That’d be cool,” Floyd agreed.
“Arizona’s one thing,” I said, “but I think we’d have riots for a year if he was elected sheriff in L.A. Can you imagine? The guy makes Daryl Gates look like a liberal.”
I folded myself into the passenger’s seat, found the lever that moves it back, and rolled it to a clunking stop. “Damned midgets riding in this thing,” I mumbled.
Floyd checked the instruments, adjusted the mirrors, and tuned the radio to a rock station in preparation of takeoff. Then he looked over and asked, “Get checked in or head straight for the jail?”
“Might as well get this over with,” I said, reaching for the air-conditioner controls, “I’m sure this asshole’s going to ask for an attorney, just to make my week complete.”
We entered the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, Durango Jail facility on West Gibson Lane in Phoenix, and approached the desk officer with our badges displayed. After identifying ourselves, Floyd explained he had arranged for us to interview Inmate James Scott today, and then asked, “Is Sheriff Joe here?”
The thin, pale-complexioned deputy with wavy brown hair and thick eyeglasses rose from his chair without comment and stepped over to an operation panel with red and green lights and black buttons. He pressed something and the gray, heavy metal door to our right clunked. The familiar sound told me we could enter, and also hinted that the young man had no intention of entertaining Floyd. Perhaps he had no sense of humor.
Floyd seemed less perceptive, or maybe more persistent. “We were hoping to meet him, get a picture with him. Maybe have a tour of that place with the inmates wearing chains and pink jump suits.”
“Gentlemen,” the subdued deputy said, continuing to ignore Floyd, “you’ll have to check your weapons before you proceed.”
“Guns and knives on the table, Dickie, is what the young man’s telling you,” Floyd said, continuing to have fun with the young man, “and don’t forget that switchblade in your boot.”
Guns, extra ammunition, knives, and handcuff keys secured in the small metal lockers, the deputy escorted us to Interview Room One, the black plaque on the gray door identifying it for us. The figure of a man wearing an orange jumpsuit sat in a chair near the center of the room. He turned to face us as we entered, and the heavy door closed behind us.
I studied the man for a moment, a bit perplexed. “James Scott?”
“Yes sir?”
Floyd frowned and said, “Where the hell is Elmer Fudd?”
23
FLOYD PULLED OUT a chair opposite the man in his orange jumpsuit. He appeared to be in his sixties, and was fit, thin with a straight posture. His complexion was clear, his eyes a soft blue surrounded by brilliant white, and he was neatly groomed and clean shaven though showing a day’s shadow. He was a perfect match to the DMV photo of James Scott.
I paced the length of the wall adjacent to the door, in front of a two-way mirror, thinking, who is this James Scott, how is he related to Elmer Fudd—or is he?—and is anyone watching through the glass as the mystery man sat silent.
He appeared slightly nervous, his hands buried in the pockets of his jail-issued clothing, fidgeting. His eyes darted from me to Floyd; he was probably anxious to find out who we were and why we were there. Everyone in the room seemed a little unsure of the situation.
I stopped in a corner with a ringside view of the action, Floyd now seated at the table across from the man in the county jail jumpsuit. Floyd opened his case file and pulled out a pen and paper. The two of them studied one another, not quite ready for the bell, and also not willing to touch gloves.
“You’re James Scott?” Floyd finally asked.
“Yes sir.”
Floyd paused for a moment, looked over to me, his corner man, but I had nothing to offer. Though I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel either. He turned back to face his opponent.
“Mr. Scott, I’m Detective Tyler with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department,”—he nodded toward me—“this is my partner, Detective Jones.”
The man glanced over, nodded, and returned his attention to Floyd.
“Do you own a home in Downey, California?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
“Do you currently live at the Downey residence?”
“Kind of,” he said and paused, “what is this about, Detective?”
“Kind of?”
“My wife and I moved out here to Phoenix—temporarily, I hope—to be with her mother. She, my mother-in-law, has had some problems with her health.”
“Is anyone supposed to be staying at your house, the one in Downey?”
“Sometimes my brother stays there,” he said, “that should be it.”
Floyd glanced at me and then back. “Tell me about your brother, Mr. Scott.”
“I’m not sure I understand your question. What is it you want to know?”
“Let’s start with his name,” Floyd said. “What’s your brother’s name, Mr. Scott?”
“Randy . . . Randall Scott,” he said, his eyes now squinting, deep in thought.
“Tell us about him?”
“What do you mean?”
Floyd, patient with the man but maybe frustrated. “I mean tell me about your brother, is that a difficult question? What is he like? Does he work? Is he a drunk? Has he been to jail? What’s he look like?”
“Randy,” he said and let a
breath out, giving it a moment, “is a good man, honestly. He may be a little unsettled, or maybe troubled would be a better way to say it.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and folded them on the metal table before him, relaxing a bit now, probably seeing where this was headed. “The last ten years or so have been challenging for him. He’s had some trouble holding down a job, maybe drinks more than he should. I’d say he’s been down on his luck. He’s been in and out of the V.A. for depression over the last couple years, and now, finally, they have him taking some medication that is supposed to help.”
“So, he’s a veteran?”
The man nodded.
“As for jail,” he continued, “he’s had a couple minor brushes with the law, nothing major.”
“Tell us about that.”
“Well, just minor incidents, as I said. He had a fist fight outside a bar one night that landed him in jail—he and the other guy both—but it was only a disturbance charge or something, maybe public drunkenness, I’m not sure. He was out the next day and I don’t think anything else ever came of it. He’s had a few tickets I know, but honestly, I think that’s about it.”
Floyd with his arms crossed: “You indicated he’s a vet.”
“He is,” he said, straightening his back, adjusting his position in the seat, “both of us were in ‘Nam.”
Mr. Scott paused for a moment, apparently in thought. He said, “Funny thing about that war, the way some of us came back okay, others were never the same. I saw some combat with my outfit, but not to the extent he did. Randy was with the 101st, and those boys were always into something. He fought in three major battles, God only knows how much unsanctioned action he saw. That’s the way it was over there.”
“So, he was Airborne?”
“Yes, he was,” James Scott said, “a sniper. He doesn’t talk much about his time overseas, never has. Can I ask what this is about? I’ve answered a lot of questions for you gentlemen, and I don’t mind helping out, but it’d be nice to have an idea what’s going on, know what kind of trouble he’s in or if he’s okay, and have an idea of what this has to do with me, why I’m locked up.”
A Good Bunch of Men Page 21