L.A. Blues

by Maxine Thompson

  Romero chuckled. “I know what you mean. Are you seeing anyone now?”

  “Nah!” I turn to Romero. “How about you?”

  “No. Work is my woman.”

  “How long were you married?”

  Romero heaved a sigh before he answered. “Five years. It wouldn’t have lasted that long if it weren’t for my little girl.”

  I tried to hide my shock. “You have a child?”

  “Yes, I do. She’s four. Her name is Bianca. Does it make a difference to you?”

  “Not really.” I shrugged. “I’ve dated men with children before, but if you must know, I’m not a kiddy person. Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

  “It just never came up. Plus, I don’t introduce my daughter to just anyone.”

  “Am I just anyone?”

  “No. Under different circumstances, you could be someone special.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hey, why don’t you give me a chance?”

  “I thought we were going to keep this platonic.”

  “We are.”

  “You know what they say about relationships based on intense experiences or relationships that start in a crisis?” I teased.

  “What do they say?”

  “They never work.”

  “Okay, I’ve got a few days off. How about, instead of you staying cooped up here, worrying, let’s run up to Santa Barbara and hit the missions? You can wear a wig and sunglasses, but we just need to relax for a minute.”

  We sat on the deck until late that night, just talking. I smelled the redolent smell of jasmine in his back yard and it really soothed the senses.

  “There’s the Big Dipper,” Romero said, pointing to the sky. “On the other side is the Little Dipper.”

  “Ooo-wow,” I said when I stared up at the alignment of the stars. I never noticed these when I was in the city.

  “Do you think about your partner—what was his name?” Romero asked, his question seemingly coming out of nowhere.

  I choked up. I hadn’t really talked about Okamoto to anyone since I talked to the Department’s shrink right after I was fired.

  “Okamoto. Yes, I think about him, but since I got into AA, I think about him in terms of the serenity prayer.”

  We both quoted in unison:

  God, grant me the serenity

  To accept the things I cannot change;

  Courage to change the things I can;

  And wisdom to know the difference.

  “Did you ever get counseling regarding his death?” Romero probed.

  A side of me wanted to clam up, but he sounded so sincerely concerned, I admitted, “No. What counseling I did get didn’t help because I was too messed up at the time.”

  “What kind of guy was Okamoto?”

  “He was straight. He was just good people.”

  “I understand you two were really close.”

  “I guess we were as close as you could expect two cops from two sides of the racial divide to be.”

  “No, people say you two spent a lot of time together.”

  “Wait a minute. Have you been snooping into my business?”

  “No, I just feel bad that things went down the way they did—you losing your job and all, and losing your friend—that is, if Okamoto and you were good friends.”

  “Well, number one, I was the one drinking, so I can’t blame anyone but myself. I would give anything to get back that night, but you know that thing about we get no do-overs in life. And in case you heard that we were lovers, we weren’t, which that’s none of your business anyhow. “

  I couldn’t see Romero’s face in the dark, but his voice sounded cool, measured. “I’m glad to know that. Sometimes sex gets into the picture and messes up our objectivity in this job.”

  “Well, we didn’t have it like that. We were partners—and friends. Platonic friends.” I stood up. “I think I’m ready to go to bed. Where can I sleep?”

  “You can have my bed. I changed the sheets this morning so they’re fresh. I’ll take the couch.”

  The next morning I tried to make calls to see what I could find out while I was underground. I called Alice. She whispered in the phone, “Z, I can’t help you anymore. They’ve been checking on me. I’m on probation.”

  I asked could I have her cell phone number since she couldn’t talk on the business line. When she complied, I called her when she was on her break. I wanted to ask her to scan or get a list of all the officers and supervisors who were present the night of my shooting. I knew it was a long shot, but I had to see if I could narrow down who shot me and killed Okamoto.

  Unfortunately, when I called Alice back, she didn’t answer. I took that as a ‘no.’ I was going to have to go and face her to get that information.

  While I was waiting, I found out Romero had a collection of movies I liked and some I was not familiar with. One, MS-13, the Mara Salvatrucha gang. The Gang was set up in the 1980s by Salvadoran immigrants in the city’s Pico-Union neighborhood. To pass time, I read up on them online. I wondered if they were responsible for Trayvon’s death. I made a note to look into them.

  He also had DVDs’s of The Godfather, Scarface, Rocky, and Training Day. His small library contained books such as, The Art of War, South Central L.A. Crips, MS-13. He still had his police training manuals and a book called Criminal Law, Cases and Comments, by Fred E. Inbau, James R. Thompson, and Andre A. Moenssens.

  When he was at work, I vegged out, watched old movies, and chilled as I figured out my next move.

  At Romero’s insistence, we drove up the coast to Santa Barbara for a day visit at the Old Missions that were now historical museums. I wore my disguise of a Tina Turner wig and a floppy hat with sunglasses.

  The ocean sparkled like a sapphire gem it was so clear that day, and the mountains loomed on the horizon. Birds twittered and fought in the distance. The weather was a perfect eighty degrees, not too hot, or not too cool, just right. The adobe homes and mansions were surrounded by bougainvilleas, geraniums, and oleander. Palm trees of different species flourished in this area. Monarch butterflies floated on the wind and I felt a sense of joy for the first time in years.

  For the first time, I was glad I was not an officer anymore. I no longer missed that lifestyle. In fact, I realized something. I liked my life as a private investigator—even if it put me in danger. But I liked living dangerously and free. I decided I could help more people without being part of a bureaucracy.

  Romero and I strolled through the Santa Barbara Mission, and we both were overcome by the sense of history. “To think our people settled California,” Romero commented, “and now we’re the under-classes.”

  “Well, we’ve had a black mayor and now we’ve got a Latino mayor, Villaraigosa, so I guess we’re taking Southern California back,” I reminded him.

  “It won’t be soon enough.”

  “Well, if we want to get technical, the native Americans were here first.”

  “True.” Romero seemed impressed with my knowledge of California history.

  We stopped and ate a lunch of linguini and salad at Aldo’s Italian Restaurant. While we were eating, Romero brought up the question since Santa Barbara appeared to be predominantly white, and we stood out like black-eyed-peas in a bowl of rice.

  “Do you have a problem with me being Latino?”

  “No. My father was a black Spaniard of sorts. I guess not.”

  “Ever dated a Mexican or a white guy?” Romero had his usual amused grin on his face.

  “No. How ’bout you? Ever dated a black girl?”

  Romero smiled. “My ex-wife is black.”

  I didn’t know why this made me feel more comfortable with him but it did. No wonder he knew how funny we black women can act about our hair. He’d begged me to go swimming in his in-ground pool, and I’d declined several times.

  That afternoon, we strolled along the coastline, enjoying the breeze of the ocean, the chaparrals and sandstone outcrops. We drove back ho
me that evening after the traffic cleared up.

  As we were driving back to Silver Lake, Romero asked me, “When you were on the force, did anyone ever approach you and ask you to do anything illegal?”

  “Why do you ask that?” I felt a little irritated.

  “I’m just trying to figure out why someone would want to shoot you.”

  “That’s the risk that goes with the job.”

  “No, I was just wondering if you’d made any enemies.”

  “No more than most cops make on the street.”

  “How about Okamoto? Did he have a lot of enemies?”

  “None that I knew of.” I thought about what Lawrence Collins had told me about two other police appearing on the scene, but I decided not to share this information with him. “Well, at least no more than most cops would have on the streets.”

  “Do you think there was someone he locked up who wanted to get back at him?”

  “No. He’d never mentioned anyone.”

  “Do you know an undercover cop they call Flag?”

  My heart lurched when he said that. I paused. “Yes. Why?” I wondered what he’d heard.

  “How well do you know him?”

  “This is none of your business, but I used to date him.”

  For a while Romero became quiet. I wanted to tell him about the disc and what Okamoto had told me the night he died, but for some reason, I held back. We drove the rest of the way to his home in silence.

  “How about if we run up to Palm Springs for the weekend?” Romero asked me on Thursday.

  At first, I was surprised. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why don’t you live a little?” Romero teased. “Be spontaneous. Life is short.”

  No.” I was adamant.

  “Humor me,” Romero said. “You’re safe with me. Look, I work all the time, and I never take advantage of all the fun right in my own back yard here in L.A.”

  Reluctantly, I gave in. In the back of my mind, I thought about my investigation for Trayvon, and how angry Chica was at me, and I felt guilty. But, then again, I thought about it. If someone killed me, I wouldn’t be able to investigate Trayvon’s death, so maybe I needed to just sit still for a moment and see what the police could do. Maybe the police could handle this better than me. Maybe I was out of my league. I didn’t have a badge and L.A.P.D. behind my name anymore. I was out there on my own.

  I told myself, “I’ll get back on it when it’s safe to go home.” But the truth of the matter was, I was enjoying Romero’s company. We laughed easily together, and we were having a good time, in spite of the circumstances.

  I thought about how I could’ve died when I was shot, and then I changed my mind. I liked this space I was in. I wanted, even if just for a moment, to escape all my worries about Trayvon, Okamoto, Mayhem, Venita. I didn’t want to have to worry if someone was trying to harm me. In fact, I hadn’t even worried about taking a drink since I’d taken a moment to relax.

  Although I was against going to Palm Springs, I gave in. I was going to start living la vida loca.

  28

  As surprised as I was when Romero invited me to Palm Springs, I still kept my guard up. I continued to wear a wig, sunglasses and a hat pulled down low when I left his house. All week I’d made most of my AA meetings. I guess I could make it without a meeting for two days. So far, taking a drink was the farthest thing from my mind in this environment. I had to admit it was nice having a man’s company.

  I thought of the ways Romero was like me, somewhat of a loner, and how he was different. He was much calmer, laid back. He seemed calm at all times. He had a coolness, a mystique about him.

  We drove to Palm Springs on Friday and returned on Sunday. The desert had always been a high energy, spiritual place for me, and I could feel myself draining away all the grief, all the pain, all the hurt of the last year the farther we got away from L.A. As Romero drove at a good seventy-five miles per hour on the open highway, the sand dunes, the mountains, the sage, and sable, the orange and pink cliffs, whirred past my car window and relaxed me.

  We checked in a Marriott hotel without a reservation, because summer time was the slow season for Palm Springs. The room had two large beds, and it was understood that we were not to sleep together. Inside, I was feeling conflicted about this. For one, I was beginning to feel Romero. I liked his manliness, his sense of assuredness and self-possession.

  That first evening, we drove to an El Salvador restaurant set right out in the middle of the desert and ordered plantains and black bean and corn-filled tortillas.

  The center of the table was set with fresh oranges and lemons surrounded by scented candles. The place boasted a combination of world foods, from middle Eastern and Mediterranean and African cuisine. The fragrance of ginger, cinnamon, cumin, mint, olive, turmeric, parsley and sesame seed filled the restaurant. At the end of the meal, the waiter provided us with sweet mint tea.

  The average temperature was one hundred and ten in the dessert. We tried to go for a walk to browse through the shops, but we wound up having to try to tiptoe between businesses to get up under their air conditioning systems.

  When we made it back to our hotel, we took a dip in the hotel’s pool. I didn’t bring a bathing suit, so I cut off a pair of jeans and swam in shorts and a T-shirt.

  “Ooohh, wee. Ooo, la-la, wee, wee,” Romero let out a long, wolf- call whistle at my figure, which bordered on thick now. He blew his fingers like I was too hot to trot, which made me blush. I hurried and dipped into the water, which felt refreshing due to the heat.

  Romero jumped in right behind and started dunking me, teasing me, and splashing me. Between the water, and the playing around, I could feel things heating up between us. As he tried to kiss me in the water, I pulled away though.

  He acted as if nothing had happened, and continued to play around.

  “Let me rub your feet,” Romero offered, after we got back to the room to shower and change back into our clothes.

  I just laid back and relaxed as Romero massaged my feet, my shoulders, my hands, my scalp. He used this good smelling lavender oil, which went deep into my skin and healed. A sense of peace washed over me and I surrendered to the flow. I felt as if I was swirling up into the darkness, far, far away.

  The next morning I lay in bed, relaxed, spent and satisfied. I’d just had the most satisfying series of multiple orgasms that I’d ever had in my life. And what surprised me the most was the sex didn’t include a lot of freaky, crazy stuff like handcuffs and whips.

  In fact, I had to hold back, to hide what a freak I’d become from Romero. I just followed his lead and everything was so good. I’m so glad we didn’t get into the kinky things I’d done with Flag, which always left me feeling cheap afterwards. I felt good about myself in the light of morning today. We were just a man and a woman making passionate love. Not just two desperate people pushing the envelope, and not always in a good way.

  I lay there, evaluating Romero, trying to think of what had been so different and why I felt so moved. Generally, as a cop, I learned to be as callous as the men I worked with, so I didn’t have time to “fall in love.”

  Even so, I couldn’t help but compare Romero’s style of lovemaking to Flag’s. Flag was all about technique, but there was no love in him. Ironically, I really felt a lot of love coming through from Romero, and his technique, as a result, seemed even better. He’d been considerate and made sure he had condoms, versus me having to tell him to use one.

  “You’re sure you’re not on Viagra?” I teased him when he was ready to go a fourth round back to back.

  He looked down at his package. “Mami, this is all you. I’ve waited a long time for this moment.”

  Thinking of it, Flag could take his selfish behind ass and go take a long leap off a short bridge. If his name is on the list of officers on the take, he’s not the type of person I’d want to ever be in my space again.

  Now with Romero—he’d just showed me what lovemakin
g was about. He made love like poetry. His love felt like words with a rhythm, a motion, a passion, and a sound—all communicating a deeper meaning behind them. I no longer looked at him as an adversary. He was the man.

  At the same time, I was not trying to read more into it than it was, but last night Romero whispered he loved me. I didn’t say anything back. Was it too soon?

  “You know I wasn’t supposed to get intimate while I’m in recovery.”

  “Okay, we won’t do it again,” Romero teased.

  I took my pillow and hit him with it and we started a pillow fight, which wound up being another passionate tango of arms, legs, tongues, and body parts.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m easy,” I said afterwards, as we lay spooned in each other’s arms. I stared down at his olive hand clasping my dark hand.

  “Easy? This has only been fifteen years since we met and since I’ve wanted to make love to you.”

  On the way back from Palm Springs, headed to Silver Lake, I asked Romero to stop at Okamoto’s house in La Puente. It was along the way off the 10 San Bernadino Freeway. I just had a hunch.

  Earlier in the week, I’d called his ex-wife, Laura, and she told me that Okamoto’s house was still on the market. According to Laura, Okamoto died without a will, so the house was still caught up in probate.

  We stopped in La Puente. For a while we sat on the street and studied the house. It was at the end of a cul-de-sac. The grass had grown waist-high tall and Okamoto’s bungalow house was boarded up. I thought back to how neat he kept his lawn and how proud he was of his two-bedroom and I almost cringed.

  “Well, let’s see if we can get in,” I suggested.

  “You know this is trespassing, Z,” Romero remarked. “Do you know what we’re looking for?”

  “I don’t know. I thought Okamoto was my friend, and there was something he wanted to tell me the night he was killed, but he never got to tell me. Maybe I can find out what it is if we can look around his house.” I knew I was only telling part of the truth. I really didn’t know what it was I wanted to find out.