by Alan Russell
It didn’t matter that I had already made that same decision on another subject; this was different, or so I rationalized. “I don’t want to do that if it means something is festering.”
“Nothing is festering. It’s just that I’m feeling unsure in our relationship.”
“In what way are you feeling unsure?”
“The song is about an affair. I realize you’ve been through a lot, Michael. I know you can only give so much of yourself at this time. I’m not sure if that will change, or whether it’s even fair for me to hope it might change. I think a part of you still clings to your wife. I wouldn’t have you deny that love, but I’m hoping you can also find room in your heart for our love.”
Juice Newton kept singing. I’m glad one of us had something to say. It took me several moments to figure out a response.
“If Jennifer were still alive, I’m sure she’d tell you I have always been romantically challenged.”
“But she knew, unequivocally, you were in love with her.”
I shrugged and was once more at a loss for what to say.
“We’ll talk later,” said Lisbet, “and please don’t feel bad. I suppose I’ve wanted to have this discussion for a few weeks now.”
“We’re a lot more than an affair,” I said.
And then I listened to Juice tell me to call her an angel.
Ten minutes later Sirius and I were driving away. I hadn’t left Lisbet’s apartment on a bad note, but it still felt as if things were unsettled between us. She had insisted that we’d talk when both of us had the time, and that I needed to pursue my case.
“Angels need you,” she had asserted.
Her faith was her strength; I didn’t have any, so I borrowed some of hers for the day ahead.
When I took my leave of her, we kissed each other good-bye, but our lips were more perfunctory than passionate, and reflected our uncertainty. I didn’t like disappointing Lisbet, but I wasn’t sure it could be avoided. The person I was, I was afraid, might not be enough for her.
I spoke to Sirius: “Don’t be like me. Don’t you be like me.”
Melvin Udall had said the same thing to Verdell the dog in the movie As Good as it Gets. A confused man was quoting to his dog from a neurotic character who had also lectured his dog; it was a shame Melvin’s words felt so right.
CHAPTER 9:
SILENT MOVIE
I made some calls to try and figure out where Elle Barrett Browning was doing her shoot. The LAPD has long been accused of having a too-cozy relationship with the movie industry. There was a time when LAPD was essentially private security to the stars, and special treatment was doled out. These days it’s not nearly as easy for filmmakers to get favors from the police. Retired cops are now prohibited from wearing their old LAPD uniforms, which they used to do regularly at film locations. Filmmakers could count on the uniforms to act with impunity; cops rarely get questioned. It’s not the same with rent-a-cops.
There is a price tag associated with off-studio shoots, especially if LAPD has to close a street, or provide a police presence. The film industry usually goes through LAPD’s Contract Services Section (CSS), or its Special Events Permit Unit (SEPU), or both. From search engine hits I learned Elle was shooting a film with the working title Tomorrow Too Soon. It was a thriller, not her usual romantic comedy. Through LAPD I was able to learn that for the next two days filming was taking place in a vacant wing of the St. Vincent Medical Center.
The hospital was located in the center of Los Angeles in a district known by mapmakers as Westlake, although few of its residents know it by that name. Most people in the area identify themselves as living in the MacArthur Park district. White flight had occurred in the area long before I was born. The MacArthur Park neighborhood is comprised mostly of Hispanics, with its latest influx of residents coming from Guatemala and El Salvador. There are also a number of Koreans living there, courtesy of the expanding eastern boundaries of Koreatown.
An accident forced a detour that pushed traffic over to Wilshire Boulevard. As I turned on Alvarado, I caught a glimpse of MacArthur Park Lake. The English actor Richard Harris’s rendition of the song “MacArthur Park” was a huge hit in the late sixties.
The songwriter Jimmy Webb had been inspired to write the verses after losing his true love to another. Webb and his love had picnicked in MacArthur Park, and fed the ducks, and done the paddleboat rides back when the lake used to have paddleboats for rent.
I took a look at the passing park, and so did Sirius. What I saw wouldn’t motivate me to write a song.
“Another song was inspired by this place,” I told Sirius. “Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers wrote about making a drug buy under that bridge over there. That’s one of the reasons he titled the song ‘Under the Bridge.’ It’s a good song, but I’ll take Richard Harris’s melodrama over it any day.”
Sirius defers to my choice of music, although when we worked Metro K-9 he did seem to like the song “Who Let the Dogs Out?”
Thinking about Richard Harris made me remember that before his death he had been the original Dumbledore in the Harry Potter films. I was thinking that Corde had used a Dumbledore, or another one of his UAVs, to intrude on my private life. I wasn’t scared of wizards, but modern wizardry scares the hell out of me. Drones are a slippery martial slope. Video game wars make it too easy to kill and too hard for anyone to be held accountable.
I had never been to the St. Vincent Medical Center before but knew its claim to fame was being L.A.’s oldest hospital. The hospital was named after St. Vincent de Paul; I did know a thing or two about him, courtesy of Catholic school. What I remembered most—even more than his acts of charity—was that St. Vincent de Paul was captured by Barbary pirates as a young man and was actually enslaved for a time. As a boy, pirate stories generally grabbed my interest much more than the deeds of saints.
“Arrrghhh,” I said to Sirius.
Somehow he took that as an invitation to give me a kiss, prompting me to fake umbrage.
“What kind of a scurvy dog are you? Kiss me again and I’ll keelhaul you, then make you walk the plank, and finally feed you to the fish, you festering, flea-bitten swabbie.”
My bucko must have thought all of that sounded pretty good because he wagged his tail enthusiastically. After parking, I opened all the windows a few inches and then left my seadog to dream of hidden treasure. Of course his dream wouldn’t be about the treasure itself, but the fun in kicking up all that sand. Humans might have created the term “restless leg syndrome”; dogs live it.
I flashed my badge at reception and was directed toward where the filming was taking place. Movie shoots always attract crowds, but the vacant wing was far enough from the goings-on of the hospital that most visitors appeared unaware of what was occurring in their midst.
The moviemaking was supposed to be taking place on a closed set, but a break in the action gave me the opportunity to make my way halfway through the wing before finally being challenged by a Goth-looking production assistant.
“Only crew is supposed to be here,” she said, speaking loudly enough to get the attention of a security guard who was helping himself to some pastry that catering had left out.
I displayed my wallet shield to the Goth and then to the late-arriving cavalry. “Detective Gideon here to see Ms. Browning,” I said.
The guard took over sentry duty. “Are you on the visitor’s list?” he asked, waving a clipboard.
“I am not visiting,” I said. “I am working.”
I handed him my business card, the one with the LAPD logo that says “Detective Michael Gideon, Special Cases Unit.” The guard looked at it and then excused himself.
“You’re a cop?” asked the Goth.
“I am.”
“I would offer you a doughnut, but they’re all gone.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but
doughnut jokes don’t go with your Morticia Addams look. That’s why there are no Goth comics. You can only get so many belly laughs out of nihilism and the price of black eyeliner.”
She laughed, and I shook my finger at her. “There’s no laughing in the Twilight world,” I said. “That goes against all the rules of angst. It’s like invoking Ra.”
“I’ll try and remember that,” she said. “I’d hate to have my dream of being a crypt writer dashed.”
I had to give her the laugh she deserved. It was likely she was an aspiring comedian or comedy writer and used people like me to try out material. In L.A. it seems as if everyone has dreams of working at something other than what they do. Even those who make it to the top of their profession want to be something else. Comedians want to be actors; actors want to be singers; singers want to be performers.
I was happy just being a cop, and managed to do my job even while talking with the receptionist. The guard made his way onto the set and then came to a stop, facing a woman seated in a chair. Elle looked up from the screenplay she was studying, and with a bowed head the guard passed her my card. I couldn’t hear what, if anything, was said, but I could read body language. Elle’s back stiffened when she saw my name on the card, and she pulled at her lower lip. Her fingers nervously traced a pattern up and down the screenplay’s spine as she considered what to do.
While the guard awaited her answer, a man carrying a teapot and cup came up to Elle. He was tall and thin, looked to be around thirty, and could have come straight out of central casting as a model of what a Hollywood personal assistant looked and acted like. The man noticed how preoccupied Elle was, and his body language showed his own concern. He bent down and must have asked if she was all right. She waved off his question and with a few words dismissed the guard with her thanks. As the guard trudged away, the second man spoke to her again. Whatever Elle said caused both of them to look my way and take notice of my scrutiny. Elle quickly put on a different face, offering me a smile. Her personal assistant wasn’t as charitable. It was clear he wanted to run interference, but Elle shook her head and with a point of her finger gave him directions to do something else. Whatever it was didn’t seem to please him, and with an unhappy shake of his head he took his leave, but not before giving me the skunk eye. Elle motioned for me to come and see her, gesturing that I was to follow after her.
“I have been summoned,” I told the receptionist, but then added with an Arnold accent, ‘I’ll be back.’ ”
Deadpan, she said, “I see dead people.”
I wasn’t sure if she was imitating Haley Joel Osment or just sharing information. Some matters are best left alone.
When I caught up with Elle, she raised her index finger to her lips before I had a chance to say anything. I played along with her, saying nothing while she led me past a former nurse’s station into an unoccupied room.
She signaled to me that our Quaker meeting was not yet concluded, and on the back of her script wrote, No talking. Let’s text instead. What’s your telephone number?
I took my pen, wrote my number down, and Elle wrote hers. She started texting using both thumbs. I don’t like phones for talking, and I hate them for texting. Call me quaint, but I don’t think the genus Homo and our opposable thumbs came about for the purpose of texting.
I don’t want our conversation overheard, she wrote.
I hunt-and-pecked my answer: Overheard by whom?
She wrote paparazzi. I didn’t have to write bullshit; my expression said as much.
I typed, OVERHEARD as in what happened last night at my girlfriend’s? Someone recorded our lovemaking and then called and woke me up, so I would hear the replay of it.
Trying to text was frustrating me. My inexpert typing and inability to vent only compounded my annoyance. But even without hearing my story, Elle could see the anger in my expression—and hear it as I pounded at my cell phone.
When Elle read my text, she didn’t immediately write back. Finally she wrote, Sorry.
I took a few deep breaths. Just thinking about last night’s call—and the laughter I heard in the background—made my pulse race. I wanted to spit out questions at her, but instead had to slowly tap away. That quickly tried my patience. Exasperated, I put away my phone and reached for her script. With my pen I scrawled: This silent movie isn’t working for me. We need to talk for real.
As she shook her head I wrote, Yes, and underlined it three times.
Elle could see I was about to start talking. She took back the script and wrote: I have an apartment with an underground entrance and a private elevator that goes directly to my unit. I can give you a key and we can meet there at six.
I nodded, and she wrote down her address on Wilshire Boulevard, along with instructions on how to get into her place. As a final touch, she drew a little map. Then she ripped the page out of the script and handed it to me, along with a key.
I decided to ask her one last question and wrote, I notice you’re wearing an ankh. Are you religious?
Her lips pursed in thought, and she wrote, I am spiritual.
I wrote, Do you believe in angels?
Elle shut her eyes the way people do when they are in pain or when they just can’t bear to see what’s in front of them, and then she walked out of the room without answering my question.
On the walk back to my car I wondered how I would have answered my angel question. I probably would have waffled by saying cops are trained to deal in evidence, which makes belief or disbelief a moot point. Whatever I might have said or done, I wouldn’t have responded as Elle did. My honest answer would have been that, despite twelve years of Catholic school, I knew very little about angels. Skeptic or not, it was time to get a belated education.
Cell phones have eliminated the need to memorize telephone numbers, but I dialed a number that had been locked into my brain for many years.
“Do you have half an hour for your prodigal son?” I asked.
It was a five-mile drive to the place of my birth. I had come into this world in the parking lot of the Blessed Sacrament Church on Sunset Boulevard. If it hadn’t been for the acute hearing of a then young priest, I would have died as an abandoned throwaway baby.
Father Patrick Garrity—known by his parishioners as Father Pat—saved my life. Father Pat credits my existence to divine intervention. He saw to my placement with the perfect adoptive family, and over the years has remained involved in my life. In many ways I am the son he could never have, and he has almost a filial pride as to all the goings-on in my life. When I married Jennifer, Father Pat conducted the service; when she died, he helped put me back together.
Sirius led the charge to Father Pat’s office, knowing a bag of duck treats was there waiting for him. To get around the rule of no pets being allowed in the church, Father Pat always refers to Sirius as my “seeing-eye dog.” According to him, it’s not much of a stretch of the truth.
My partner was munching away when I entered Father Pat’s office.
“Did you make him say grace first?” I asked.
Father Pat opened his arms, and we hugged one another. He looked up at me, his bright blue eyes magnified behind the thick lenses of his glasses. He’s more than a head smaller than I am, but I always feel like a child in his presence.
“It’s been too long, Mikey,” he said.
No one else besides Father Pat has ever called me Mikey.
“Mea culpa,” I said.
That wasn’t the smartest response to offer up to a diocesan priest who had majored in classics. “Beatus homo qui invenit sapientiam,” he said.
I nodded as if I understood what he was saying, and we both sat down. Sirius stayed at his side. His head was bowed, and it looked like he was praying for another treat.
“No, I did not make Sirius say grace,” Father Pat said.
He reached out and patted his head. “But that�
�s not to say his manners weren’t impeccable. He took the duck jerky as gently as a penitent does the Host.”
In priest-talk the Host is the communion wafer. “The body of Donald and Daffy,” I intoned.
Father Pat smiled, but not at my irreverence. “That’s one,” he said. “The church thanks you for being a sponsor of the Assumption of St. Mary banquet we’ll be having.”
Whenever I cross an ecclesiastical line, Father Pat imposes a one-hundred-dollar fine on me. I still don’t know how I ever agreed to the arrangement, but it does cut down on my irreverence. I never complain, because I owe Father Pat my life, but his fines do seem arbitrary. I suspect they are levied commensurately with the success, or lack of it, of various fundraising campaigns.
“I hope you’ll be serving duck at the banquet,” I said, and then held my breath for a moment, afraid of being held accountable for another Benjamin.
“It will be mostly potluck.”
Father Pat pulled out another small strip of duck from the bag. He looked at me, daring me to say anything, and then raised it above Sirius’s snout. While I kept my silence, Sirius gently relieved the priest of the treat.
“Lest you think the only thing that brings me here is to enrich the church coffers,” I said, “I am actually here on a case. I need to know more about angels.”
“Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” said Father Pat, “but why is a representative of the LAPD interested in angels?”
I told him the story of what Wrong Pauley had seen. When I finished, Father Pat rubbed his forefingers up and down on his chin. His lips were pursed and he looked to be deep in thought.
“Do you believe he saw an angel?” he asked.
“I believe he believed he saw an angel.”
Father Pat nodded and thought for a moment about what to say. “I am not sure what to tell you. I cannot speak for what this man saw or did not see. I can only tell you what the Bible says of angels, which is a very different thing than what you might have learned from Hollywood or Hallmark cards or popular music.”