She glanced into her rearview mirror. 'Not possible,' she said. 'What's your second choice?'
Her window was still open. 'You know, Melanie, I'd like to, but I can't seem to get myself feeling too casual about all this—'
'I'm not casual,' she said. 'But we have got to eat and the fact is that nobody's looking at you, not here.'
'Everybody's looking at me!'
The driver behind them honked and Melanie waved a conciliatory hand out her window, then ordered two double cheeseburgers, fries, shakes. She pulled forward. 'I can understand how you'd feel that, Kevin, but I don't think it's true.'
They were still in the line, hemmed in, the cars edging forward slowly. It was going to take at least five minutes to go around the building and get to the service window. 'It's heartening you don't think that, Melanie, but if you're wrong, I'm dead.'
'I'm not wrong. You have to trust me—'
'I have to trust my instincts. They've gotten me this far.'
She looked over at him. 'For the record, Kevin, I've had something to do with getting you this far. I understand ... you saw a man get lynched last night, for God's sake. Who wouldn't be scared? I'm scared, too. But I think I'm seeing things a little more clearly.'
He had to admit he was on the edge of panic and she seemed almost creepily calm. 'Maybe you're right but—'
'I'm only sure that right here is as safe for us as anywhere in the city, and you're the one who wants to stay here and make your stand, so I'd say the best advice is, get used to it.'
They inched forward. Honks behind them – people talking loud, laughing, yelling – off to the side out Melanie's window, but no one seemed to be moving toward them. Kevin looked down and put a hand to his forehead. 'How are we getting out of this?' he asked.
'It'll look better on a full stomach,' she said deadpan.
Melanie had been right. She had played a major role in getting them to where they were right now ... no one had recognized him, the drive-thru burger joint had been an inspired choice, and, right or wrong, things did look better on a full stomach. He took in this woman sitting across from him and was washed with an intense gratitude.
Most importantly, she had believed him, believed in him.
He had always suspected there was more to her – much more – than he'd seen when they'd been 'dating,' but something about their chemistry, or his own guilty conscience, or both, had made it all, finally, futile. The relationship wasn't going to work, not under the ground rules they'd tacitly established, so he'd decided he had to move on.
But now his dire situation had shifted the balance between them. They were partners, equals; And this realization suddenly made him feel like a cheat. He'd been unfair to Melanie by not being up front with her when they'd been going out, by not telling her that before they had gotten together he had slept – once, one night only – with her friend Cindy Taylor. Now he felt he at least owed Melanie the truth – both about him and her supposed 'best friend.' She hadn't just 'come on to him,' as he had said.
So he told her.
And now Melanie, who had weathered his flight and panic attack with stoic calm, now Melanie had balanced her half-full milkshake cup on the steering wheel and was, quietly, crying.
The early-evening sun peeked through the low cloud layer, highlighting the red in her dark hair, the glistening wetness on her cheeks. 'I don't believe it,' she said. 'Cindy?'
'I thought I ought to tell you.'
'I don't know why ... why didn't you feel you should tell me before, when we were... I mean when I thought we were together.'
'We were together, Melanie.'
She almost laughed. 'Sure. God, what a fool I was. You must have both been laughing at me the whole time.'
'No. It wasn't like Cindy and I were an item. It was one night, before you and I got together.'
'But she said ... she told me—'
'She lied, Mel.'
She turned toward him. 'Why didn't you tell me?'
'What would that have done, Mel, except hurt you? Besides, I half-figured Cindy had told you anyway and you knew and decided it wasn't that big an issue.'
Melanie threw him a long glance. 'Nice try, Kevin ...'
'No, I guess that wouldn't have been your response.'
'I guess not.'
The windows were down a quarter inch, the wind whistling through. 'Besides,' Kevin said, 'I wanted you. If I told you about Cindy, I figured no chance.'
She looked at him again, not knowing quite what to believe. 'Maybe you just wanted somebody—'
'If I'd just wanted any old body I would have hung with Cindy or somebody else who might, frankly, have been a little easier to deal with.'
'Oh, that's nice. Thanks very much.'
Kevin turned toward her. 'Come on, Mel, what do you want me to say? I thought you were great. You think I felt anything about Cindy? Not likely. All right, so you and I didn't work – that doesn't mean it wasn't honest. I tried, we both tried, we just didn't fit.'
'But we did, I thought we did. We could have.' Melanie made a fist and banged it against her thigh. 'Oh damn, why are you telling me all this now?'
He reached out to her, grimacing at the pull on his ribs, touched her shoulder across the car seat. 'Because you're here now, Mel. I don't think you would have been here six months ago.'
'That's not true, I would have.'
'No. You would never have really believed I wasn't part of this madness. You wouldn't have questioned what you saw with your own eyes. You would have written me off, for the guy who never took anything seriously. But hey, at least now you already know all about my bad character. And I'm the same guy and you're still here in spite of it. That's different.'
He grabbed the dregs of Melanie's milkshake off the steering wheel. She was allowing a half-smile. He needed that.
'So now,' he went on, 'I thought it would be better if I laid it all out – Cindy, the whole thing. No surprises. This is who I am. Maybe, when, if this thing ever blows over we can, you know, like go on a date or something.'
Melanie sucked at her lower lip for a moment, then said she'd consider it.
26
Glitsky had come home just before five and had slept nearly four hours. Rita had gotten him up for dinner as he'd asked, all of his boys furious, stir crazy and squirrely at their long day indoors, wanting answers, thinking their dad was a paranoid who'd been a cop too long and the older ones telling him so.
"Now, dinner finished, the boys sat facing him across the kitchen table, the three of them en bloc, sticking together (which he thought was good), bonded against their old man (not so good). Even Orel, whose gangling body Glitsky had held snuggling in his lap as recently as six months before, he was working on his eleven-year-old interpretation of the evil eye – and though not as developed as the glare of his brothers, Jake and Ike (ave atque vale Jacob and Isaac), Orel was the one who most favored Flo, and so his hard look cut Abe the deepest. Which was not to say that the two older guys, who had it down to an art, were any easier for him.
Rita had her arms folded across her more than ample bosom. She was frowning. Glitsky was frowning. The kitchen windows were steamed with condensation – they'd had spaghetti for dinner and outside it was now dark and blustery. The dishes remained on the table.
Tonight's issue (as though there had never been a riot, as though life outside the windows was blithely proceeding in some kind of reasonable fashion): back in the spring, Glitsky had planned a camping trip for the following weekend in Yosemite. The Glitskys had always camped – it was one of their family 'things.' Flo had favored the wilderness, but they'd also done their share of site camping and the boys, even Orel, had jobs they excelled at, favorite things to do – putting up the tent, tying mantles on the lanterns, the fire, fishing, backpacking, finding edibles, cooking. So they'd called and reserved their spot and sent their deposit.
But one of Isaac's friends had invited him (and Jake, if he wanted to go) up to a cabin on a lake in the Sierras for the same days. Glit
sky was hearing about it for the first time and told Isaac he'd have to make it another weekend. Ike countered by proposing that they not cancel the family camping – he'd just go with his friend and the rest of the family could go to Yosemite and do their camping thing.
Glitsky told him he didn't think so.
So here they were having a rules committee meeting because now Jake had been enlisted and he, of course, would rather go up waterskiing with the big kids than sweat and hike and look at waterfalls in Yosemite. And – now, while they were at it – if the two older boys weren't going to Yosemite, why would Orel want to go with just his father, alone?
'Guys,' Glitsky said, 'we reserved a place. We made a commitment.'
'Who cares?' Isaac.
'Somebody gonna fine us or something if we don't show up?' Jacob.
Older than Methuselah, Glitsky persisted. 'The commitment is what it is – they've kept other people out because we're in.'
'So they'll let somebody in at the last minute. Big deal, they always do.' Isaac was leading the charge so Glitsky thought he'd try to defuse him first.
'Look, Ike, we've paid our money. We said we'd be there. That's the end of it. You just tell your friend thanks, you'll do it another weekend. A deal's a deal.'
Jake pushed some spaghetti around on his plate. 'Mom would've let us.'
This was below the belt as well as beside the point. 'Mom isn't here, Jake. We're here. So how about we vote and get it settled?'
Isaac pushed his chair back. That's the other thing.'
'What is?'
Rita spoke up for the first time. 'They don't want me to vote.'
Isaac took the floor. 'It's not wanting, Rita. It's just not fair.'
Glitsky hated 'not fair.' Especially today, he hated people blaming everything but themselves for what was wrong with the world, for the troubles they had. That was Philip Mohandas's platform – in his own kids, it made him crazy. The fuse was burning, but Glitsky kept his voice low. 'What's not fair, Ike?'
At the refrigerator, he turned. 'Rita gets next weekend off, whatever happens, right? I mean, isn't that why we pick the dates when we do things? So she can get some of her own time? She's not going either place with any of us.'
'Okay. So what?'
Jake picked it up – they'd obviously gotten their strategy down. 'So she's not involved.'
'So why should she get to vote?' Ike finished for him, and even Orel chimed in. 'Right.'
Glitsky looked sideways at Rita. She was still frowning. 'What they say is right, I'm not involved.' She didn't even begin to like it, but she was a fair and honest woman, one of the reasons Glitsky was delighted with her. In general.
Isaac jumped right on her admission. 'See!'
Glitsky could do a pretty fair evil eye himself. Beaten, and knowing it, Glitsky threw one around the room at them. 'All right,' Glitsky said, 'Rita doesn't vote this time.'
So they put it to the vote and, no surprise, it came down three to two, the boys over dad. Glitsky lost.
He listened to the telephone ring in his ear, heard the answering machine of his best friend, Dismas Hardy. He thought he could use a few minutes of easy camaraderie with an adult male friend, somebody to talk to, who spoke his language, or he would lose his mind entirely.
The television in the divided living room droned in the background, more news about the fires, the riots, Kevin Shea. Where was Shea? he wondered distractedly. Maybe fled the jurisdiction?
Dismas Hardy, Abe's pal, was informing whoever the caller might be that he and his family had gone away for the weekend to Ashland, Oregon, for the Shakespeare Festival, where they would not have access to a telephone. Would the caller please call back after next Monday?
He remembered – the Glitskys and the Hardys had gone up to Ashland together two of the past four years. Camping (that dirty word). Frannie, Hardy's wife, had even begged Abe to bring the boys and come up with them this year. But, somehow, without Flo, Abe hadn't felt right about it. Ashland had been more Flo's thing, he'd told Frannie, although that wasn't really true. Glitsky loved Shakespeare, theatre, had even taken a shot at opera and found it fascinating. He took a lot of grief at work about this stuff – these were supposedly non-cop interests – but he was comfortable with them, with who he was.
Nevertheless, he'd told Frannie they couldn't make this year. So the Hardys were up in Ashland now and he was here in a burning city losing rules committee meetings with his children even after he'd rigged them all to go his way.
Glitsky left his usual terse message on Hardy's machine, then forced himself up, back through the kitchen. Everybody was in the larger bedroom of the two younger brothers, watching the other television, some inanity with a laugh track. Isaac and Jacob were sprawled across the floor. Orel slept open-mouthed, leaning against a sleeping Rita.
'Hey, guys,' he said, and the older boys glanced and said, 'hey,' waiting, resenting the intrusion.
'Nothing. Just checking in.'
They shrugged and went back to the program and Glitsky gave up the effort of making an effort and headed for his bedroom, falling across the bed with his clothes on.
Isaac was shaking him. 'Dad! Dad! Come on!'
He forced an eye – it weighed the proverbial sixteen tons. 'What?'
'The phone.' His son seemed truly concerned over his lack of response.
'Phone didn't ring, Ike.' Glitsky didn't hear the phone, and it was right next to his bed. He always heard the phone. It was his primary wake-up medium. He rolled over again, closed his eyes. He was nearly back asleep.
'Dad!'
God, why wouldn't the kid let it rest? 'What?'
'The phone. Some emergency. They need you. Some senator or something.'
That got through. A shiver of adrenaline got him up, his son handing him the receiver. 'Glitsky,' he said.
He listened a minute. It was Marcel Lanier, pulling a late one. He needed his boss downtown. Immediately or sooner. All hell was breaking loose again. Chris Locke, the district attorney, had been shot. Killed. Someone in another mob. Senator Wager, who was in the same car, had barely escaped herself. She was down at the Hall now, in shock, waiting in one of the interview rooms, asking for Glitsky himself.
Glitsky put a hand to his throbbing head. 'Lord.'
Isaac was still standing there, watching him. 'What, Dad? What?'
Into the phone. 'I'll be right down, Marcel. See if there's a black-and-white nearby, send them here to pick me up. Call me back if you can't.'
The connection went. Abe laid the receiver back down and noticed Isaac striking an I-don't-believe-this pose. The boy said, 'You're not goin' out again?'
Glitsky swung off the bed. 'Got to.' But he softened his voice, reaching a hand to bring the boy nearer, give him a little physical contact. Isaac ducked again, glaring.
'What are we supposed to do now, Dad? When are you coming home?'
Glitsky checked his watch. A little after ten. He must have hit the bed and died. He wondered what time Locke ... then it struck him again.
Jesus. Chris Locke dead.
Isaac was still glaring, breathing hard with emotion. Glitsky's mind was racing, covering too much territory, losing track of where he was. He tried to focus on his son. 'I'm sorry, Ike, what?'
Isaac's eyes filled with tears, then fury. Swiping at his eyes, he turned, swore and ran from the room.
'Isaac!'
Glitsky was up, following, but before he'd gotten out of the room he heard Isaac's door slam on the other side of the house. Rita, hair tousled, wrinkled smock askew, rudely pulled out of her own sleep, faced him in the doorway to the kitchen. 'I've got to go out again,' he said. 'Please keep them inside, I don't care what they say or how you do it.'
She was shaking her head, a deep frown creasing her face. 'I don't know, Abe. Orel, I can keep him, but the other boys ...' She motioned back with her head. 'What do I tell them?'
She was right and that, too, was terrifying. Beyond any consideration of the disorder out in t
he streets, the realization suddenly that the older boys were old enough – they could just disobey and walk out and Rita would be powerless to stop them.
He nodded. 'I'll tell them.' And they'd either obey him or go out into the streets. Authority – he either had it or he didn't. He was going to find out.
He gave Rita a weak smile and walked past her toward the back bedrooms.
27
Another Irish bar – the Little Shamrock, oldest one in the city – on a slow Wednesday night. Nobody out at all. Streets dark. Curfew in half the town and the rest content to stay indoors, which was probably smart.
Wes should be in himself. Probably would head back after a couple more, but this was pleasant, sitting here. These Sambucas kind of put him in mind of his days in Italy when he'd been an exchange student, nights under the stars with Lydia, back when she'd loved him.
Sambuca Romana. Pretty much the same stuff as Pernod, or ouzo in Greece, which they drank with ice all over Europe, the clear stuff turning milky with the ice and water. Here, he'd asked Moses McGuire to put the Sambuca on ice and got a full second of hesitation before he'd said okay.
McGuire was around the same age as Wes, a simpatico guy, if a bit of a purist around his drinks. That was all right. Wes considered himself a kind of purist, too, regarding his drinking. If it didn't have alcohol in it, he didn't drink it. So there was a bond there.
He smiled, took another sip, watching the television, which normally wasn't turned on in this bar. But tonight was real slow, and it was just Wes and a couple of hardcore darts players and McGuire, bartending. Besides, since last night every television in the country was going full time. He didn't blame McGuire. The country was coming apart and everybody wanted to see it live on five.
Wes had missed the opening volleys, the lynching, the first riots, the fires, Kevin's problem. He'd slept in (as he did every morning). Last night he'd been out in North Beach, did a little Brasilia Club cha-cha and tango and the parts he remembered had been fun. He woke up at home on the futon in the living room, his brain, by the feel of it, about two sizes too large for his skull.
Glitsky 01 - Certain Justice, A Page 10