Mike frowned. “Get her how?”
“Like, do her,” Sly said. “Just like they done.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?” Mike asked.
Sly shrugged. “Guess I didn’t think of it. Guess it just came to me now.”
“Did she say who these people were?”
“No. Except that the only person in the world who knew and could save her from them was her father. And she didn’t know where he was.”
Sly bent over the picture and started to color in the hair. He had made only a couple of strokes before he looked up at Michael with anxiety. “I messed up. I can’t color good. I can’t do it.”
“Tell you what, squirt.” Michael took the pen from the tense little fingers. “You tell me what you want, and I’ll do it with you. Okay?”
Relieved, Sly slumped against Michael’s shoulder and gave him instructions: make the hair longer, fix the eyebrows, make him look mean.
“That’s him,” Sly triumphed as Michael filled in the blond hair with dark ink. “I swear it, that’s the asshole I seen.”
It was my turn to ruffle his spiky hair. “You’re sure?”
“I said I swear, didn’t I? That’s him. That’s the guy I seen. He was following us around for a couple of days, you know, cruising in that hot ‘vette.”
I said, “I’m surprised Hilly would go with a man who had been following her around if she thought someone was out to get her.”
“We were gonna get him first, like I told you before,” Sly said, his voice catching. “We had it all worked out. This guy kept tellin’us he had something to tell Hilly, like some message from her mom and dad. People would say that all the time to us to make us go over to them. Normally, we’d just keep walkin’. Hilly wanted to talk to that one guy’cuz of his car. She wouldn’t tell me why the car freaked her. She was gonna make him show her his ID or she wouldn’t talk to him. The deal was, when he got out his wallet to show her, I was gonna grab it and get the hell out of there. Then she’d know who he was.”
“If Hilly had told you her father had a car just like that Corvette,” I said, “would you have believed her?”
“Shit, no. No one has a car like that.”
“Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell you.”
“Sly, my man,” Mike said, “what you just told us is important. I think there may be other things you haven’t gotten around to sharing yet. When they come to you, have your social worker call me, will ya? We need your help to fry this man.”
Sly dropped the picture, like a contaminated thing, onto the grass in front of Michael. Mike picked it up and put it back into its envelope.
Michael got to his feet, lifted Sly like a bundle of sticks, and stood him on the asphalt. “Homework time, kid.”
The sun had disappeared below the line of buildings across the street, leaving the play yard lashed with long blue shadows. Most of the games had dispersed, and the children were moving inside, in clumps of two and three, taking their shadows with them. We four linked arms, I with Mike, Mike with Michael, Michael with Sly, in an irregular sort of conga line, shadows water-dancing behind us.
At the dorms, Mike turned to his son. “How late will you be?”
“Maybe an hour. Mom wants her car by eight-thirty.” Mike squeezed Michael’s shoulder. “Take care.”
“Dad?”
“What?”
“I got my letter from Cornell today.”
“And?”
“I’m accepted.”
Mike grabbed him in a bear hug. “I’m proud of you.” Michael smiled as if he had a sudden pain. Mike saw it and drew back.
“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Mike asked.
“I thought so.” Michael looked over at Sly, who was swinging from the step railing. “There’s a lot to think about.”
“Take your time,” Mike said. “You’ll figure out what’s right.”
“I hate it when you say that, Dad. Just once I want you to tell me what I should do.”
“I always tell you what you should do,” Mike said.
“Yeah. You say I should do what’s right.”
“Exactly.”
“Michael!” Sly called, hanging upside down from the railing. “Kiss the faggot and come on. We don’t have all night.”
“You’d better go,” Mike chuckled. “Your destiny may be calling.”
“Later,” Michael said, giving Mike a quick hug. “Nice to meet you, Maggie.”
“Bye,” I said. I watched him jog off toward the lighted doorway, recognizing a lot of Mike in him. It gave me an odd sensation, as if I were peering through a window into the past and seeing a distorted image of young Mike.
As we walked out toward the car, I took Mike’s hand. “He’s a great kid, Mike. You’ve done a good job.”
“His mother gets a lot of the credit.”
I reached up then and kissed his five-o’clock shadow. “I just plain old love you, Mike. But I still don’t know what to do about you.”
“Take your time,” Mike said, smiling down at me. “You’ll figure out what’s right.”
CHAPTER 21
The telephone rang in the middle of night. We both bolted upright, the reflex reactions of a cop on call and a mother. Mike picked up the receiver.
“Flint,” he said in a clear voice, rubbing sleep-filled eyes with his fist. When I was sure the call had nothing to do with Casey, I fell back onto the pillows, still sizzling with adrenaline rush. I eavesdropped on a lot of uh huhs and Jesus Christs before Mike hung up.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Bad stuff. George Metrano was booked on a single charge of murder and processed into the city jail at eight.” He reached through the dark for my hand. “An hour ago in his cell he made a noose out of his denims and hanged himself.”
“Jesus,” I moaned. I curled myself around Mike and held on. “He’s dead?”
“Yes, dammit.”
“Does Leslie know?”
“Yes. They’re bringing her in. Throw on some clothes. We should hurry. Leslie won’t feel much like waiting around for us.
“Back up,” I said. “I must have missed something. Why would Leslie wait around for us? What does it have to do with us?”
“George left two letters on his bunk. One for Leslie. And one for you.”
“For me?” I sat up again and snapped on the bedside light. “Why would he leave a letter for me?”
“Guess we’ll find that out.”
We drove through dark space, a hot jet of light moving too fast to connect with the night world outside. Transients from the daytime galaxy.
At the Long Beach police station, we were taken into a small interrogation room furnished with a table and a few odd chairs. There Leslie sat alone with her head resting on folded arms. The fluorescent lights overhead washed her face a pale milky gray, made her smeared lipstick too vivid in contrast. Her eyes seemed unfocused when she watched me walk in and pull out the chair beside her. She muttered something I could not decipher.
I touched her coat sleeve and repeated the same impotent words I had used at her house the night before. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” She brought up her chin and rested it on her hands, staring at the wall in front of her. “Doctor gave me something so I wouldn’t go off and do something wild. Wish I had said no to it. My mind is so full of mush I can’t feel anything. You ever have that happen to you, you can’t feel anything?”
Sergeant Mahakian came in then with a pair of men in suits, detectives, no doubt. Six people made tight quarters out of the small room.
Mahakian carried two folders.
“I know this is unpleasant,” he said. “But I don’t know a better way to do it. The letters Mr. Metrano left are evidence, so we can’t release them to you. I need you both to read their contents carefully to help us verify that they were in fact written by George Metrano and do reflect his state of mind. Now, in light of the circumstances, Mrs. Metrano, you might want some privacy. If
that is your wish, you just tell me so and the others will clear out.”
Leslie pulled herself upright. “Did you all read my letter already?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then I guess there isn’t much left that’s private about it, is there?”
“No, ma’am.” He smiled gently. He opened one of the folders, took out a single sheet of paper encased in a plastic sleeve, and placed it on the table in front of Leslie. She moved it so that I could see it.
Yellow lined paper that had been folded into quarters, with a single sentence scrawled in blue ink: “Forgive me.”
Leslie read it, turned the sheet over, read her name printed there like an address on an envelope.
“That’s all?” she said, looking at both sides again. “That’s all he had to say to me?”
“We didn’t find anything else with your name on it. The second letter is addressed to Miss MacGowen. I would like her to read it over first before she passes it on to you, Mrs. Metrano. If she thinks its contents are too hurtful, we may hold off showing you until we can get in a family member or a counselor.”
Leslie gave me a glance that told me she was beginning to feel again. She was furious.
Mahakian handed me two sheets, both encased in plastic sleeves. Both were covered with close, precise printing done with a cheap, leaky ballpoint pen. I slumped back in the straight-back chair and, with Mike looking on over my shoulder, I read:
Maggie MacGowen,
I don’t have anyone else to turn to. My wife trusts you so I am asking you to please help her understand. Tell her not to hate me.
Tell her I never meant to hurt anyone. Maybe what I did was wrong, but I was only trying to do what I thought was best for us.
I confess before God that I caused the death of Randall Ramsdale. He would not help me with a loan. We had a fight about it that got out of hand. I feel he must take some of the blame for what happened to him. If he had not been so stubborn the result would have been different.
I hope that when my wife understands why I had to give our little girl to Mr. Ramsdale she will forgive me. Amy had a good life with him and we had a good life because of the financial help he gave us. I found her a good home.
After Mr. Ramsdale was dead I tried to get Amy back for my wife. I took to showing myself to Amy. I wanted her to get used to seeing me and feel comfortable when the time came. But I guess it scared her to see me because she in a way recognized me from a long time ago. Mrs. Ramsdale had her own reasons for keeping Amy and she told Amy I was trying to kidnap her and hurt her.
You will have to ask Mrs. Ramsdale what all she did, but I know she had that child scared to death of me. I believe that was why Amy ran away, because she believed I was going to hurt her. There was a private investigator came around asking questions. I thought he would help Amy understand I was her real and true father and she could come to me on her own. But it did not work out that way. When she came to me herself, she only got more scared when she recognized me as the man she thought would hurt her.
The saddest day of my life was the day I learned from Mrs. Ramsdale that Amy was dead. You have got to make my wife believe that I had no part in the killing of that little girl. Alive or dead we would still get Amy’s inheritance, so why would I harm her?
I know I did some hurtful things to you and you probably hate me for that. I do not believe I would have harmed you. I had to make you understand that I was serious, just like I had to make Mr. Ramsdale understand that I was serious and needed some assistance from him. I guess that what I want to say most is that I am sorry that all this got started. I am taking the only action I know of that will put an end to it all with some honor.
Tell my wife that I have paid my insurance premiums and she will be okay.
Sincerely,
George Metrano
I read it through a second time, vaguely disappointed. At one point in this affair, I had nearly ascribed some noble, altruistic motives to George — poor man, big family, desperate solution. The letter showed no hint of nobility. Inelegant prose, an ugly story, tawdry rationalization. Nowhere did I see the word “love.” Nowhere did I get the idea he felt truly repentant, nor had he accepted full blame for anything he had done. The only remorse I saw was that nothing had worked out the way he wanted it to. Like a Vegas craps shoot.
The man had been dead less than two hours. He had addressed his last formal thoughts to me. I should have felt something more — at the very least some sense of tragedy. But I did not. To be sure, I was aggrieved for his wife, who sat next to me, waiting her turn to see the letter. In a way, I guess that what I felt most was relief.
For years, George had dumped one heavy burden after another on Leslie. Among other things, he had stolen her peace of mind — no small crime. In the end, even in writing, he hadn’t had the guts to confess his transgressions directly to her. He had been as amoral as a newborn child. And in his way, nearly as dependent. I didn’t know yet whether Leslie had figured out that she was going to be a whole lot better off without old George, but I did my part — I passed her the letter.
Mahakian started to reach out for the pages before Leslie took them, but he pulled his hand back. Along with Mike and me and the two men in suits, he watched Leslie read.
Tears ran down her face, and her jaw was set in angry knots. Good grief therapy, that letter, I thought. When she was finished, she pushed her chair back and slowly rose to her feet.
Leslie addressed Mahakian. “When a man dies in prison, how is he buried?”
“Well.” Mahakian looked around for support. “The body is usually turned over to the family.”
“Yes. But if he has no family to claim it, what happens?”
“I’m not real sure. Now and then cadavers are turned over to medical schools. Most of the time the county buries them in potter’s field in a sort of mass grave with other indigents. Why? Your husband said there was insurance money.”
“My husband?” Leslie handed Mahakian the letter, holding him in an eerily level gaze. “The man who wrote this shit is a complete stranger to me.”
With back straight and head held high, she strode from the room.
“Should I go after her?” Mahakian asked, befuddled.
“Definitely,” Mike said. “She’s bombed on dope. I don’t think she should drive herself.”
Mahakian passed his files to one of the suits and dashed out. He was a nice man. Good-looking, about Leslie’s age. A long heart-to-heart with him could be good grief therapy for her of another sort. I wondered whether he was married.
Leslie had said she couldn’t feel anything because of the sedative. Her reactions were flat. I planned to call her when the sedative had had time to wear off, to hear what she really thought. I knew it would be a big-time flame-out.
We stepped into the hall just as the elevator doors closed behind Leslie and Mahakian.
Mike said to me, “Quite a letter.”
“Quite,” I said. “George wasn’t about to take the fall alone, was he? Not even posthumously. I feel so awful for Leslie.”
“She’ll be okay.” Mike pushed the elevator call button.
“Tweedledee and Tweedledum,” I was saying as the doors slid open for us.
“What is?”
“George and Randy. To be sure, a deadlier combination than Tweedledee and Tweedledum, but as alike in their way.”
“You mean stubborn?” Mike pushed the lobby button and we started down. “Isn’t that what George kept saying about Randy, that he was stubborn?”
“I mean that if either of them wanted something, he thought any means to attain it was legit, even baby-selling and murder. What a couple of puds. My God, Attila the Hun had a finer moral code than those two.”
“Well sure, but old Attila was a big old bleeding-heart liberal leftist.”
I laughed. “What makes you think so?”
“He had to be as far left as you can go,” Mike said, leading me out through the deserted lobby. “Have yo
u ever heard anyone described as being to the left of Attila? Never. It’s always ‘He’s further to the right than Attila the Hun.’ Therefore, if everyone is to his right…”
“Take me home,” I said.
Mike and I were both feeling the loss of two nights’ sleep. Ever macho, Mike said he was fine to drive, but I had to keep him talking all the way up the freeway. He gave up the effort just about the time the first orange glow of dawn lit the sky over the San Gabriels. He pulled off the freeway in downtown L.A., weaving like a drunk up Figueroa, and parked in the lot across from the Original Pantry. The Pantry never closes — it can’t, even in a riot, because there’s no lock on the door.
Mugs of coffee helped a little. Looking without interest at a plate covered with eggs, bacon, hash browns, I suggested we get a room at the Hilton and crash for a while where the telephones couldn’t reach us. Elizabeth was due to be brought in sometime during the midmorning, and there wasn’t time to go home, sleep, and come back.
Instead, we went to Parker Center, where there are a few cots stashed around so that morning-watch troops — the patrol shift on duty from midnight to eight — can get a little sleep when they have court scheduled during the day.
Mike found me a cot in a sort of closet behind the third-floor offices. The bed was narrow and hard, and had a tiny hard pillow, like the headrest in a coffin. My sleep was as close to death as I think I’ve ever gotten. At least it felt that way. I wasn’t out very long, two hours at the most, before I was awakened by the morning sounds of working people. I was sitting on the edge of the cot, running my fingers through my hair, when Mike came in to get me. I was rumpled and grouchy and in dire need of repair. Mike, on the other hand, had shaved and put on a fresh shirt.
“Feel better?” he asked, damnably chipper.
“I think so. You wouldn’t just have another clean shirt in your locker, would you?”
“I might.”
I went into the closest rest room and did the best I could with the materials I had to work with, liquid soap, water, and a borrowed comb. Mike knocked on the door and handed through a red cotton golf shirt with “Robbery-Homicide” and a cartoon gangster with a tommy gun embroidered on the left breast. I traded my wrinkled oxford-cloth for his shirt, tucking it into the top of my 501s as I opened the door.
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