by Sue Grafton
He was dressed in sweatshirt-gray gym shorts and a tank top. He looked tanned and fit, slouched on the one upholstered chair in the room, feet propped on the bed as he watched television. I went around to the end of the building and entered the corridor, passing a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. On impulse, I tried the knob and found it turning in my hand. I peered in. The room was the equivalent of a huge walk-in closet, with linen shelves along three walls. Sheets, towels, and cotton bedspreads were stacked in neat packets. There were also mops, vacuums, irons, ironing boards, and miscellaneous cleaning supplies. I pulled out an armload of fresh towels and carried them with me.
I found Brian’s room along the inside corridor and knocked, standing at an acute angle to the fish-eye in the door. The sound from the television set was doused. I stared off down the hall, allowing him time to cross to the door. He must have tried peering at me through the lens. A muffled “Yes?”
“Criada.” I called. The word was Spanish for “maid.” I learned that the first week of class because so many of the women taking Spanish were hoping to learn to speak to their Hispanic maids. Otherwise the maids did anything they felt like, and the women were reduced to following them around the house, ineffectually trying to demonstrate cleaning techniques the maids pretended not to “get.”
Brian didn’t get it, either. He opened the door to the width of the chain, peering through the crack. “What?”
I held a batch of towels up, concealing my face. “Towelettas,” I sang in Spanglish.
“Oh.” He closed the door and slid the chain off the track. He stepped back, leaving the door open between us. I moved into the room. He didn’t look at me. He indicated the bathroom to the left, his attention already riveted on the screen again. The show seemed to be an old black-and-white movie: men with high cheekbones and pomaded waves, women with eyebrows plucked to the size of hairline fractures. All the facial expressions were tragic. He crossed back to the set and turned up the sound. I went into his bathroom and checked it out as long as I was there. No visible guns, claw hammers, or machetes. Lots of sun block and hair mousse, a hair brush, a blow dryer, and a safety razor. I didn’t think the kid had enough hair on his face to shave it. Maybe he was just practicing, like prepubescent girls with little training bras.
I set the towels on the counter and went out to the bedroom, where I took a seat on the bed. At first, my presence didn’t seem to register. Terminal disease music was swelling, and the lovers stood together with their two perfect faces side by side. His was prettier than hers. When Brian finally saw me, he was cool enough to suppress any surprise. He picked up the remote control and muted the sound again. The scene continued in silence, many animated speeches. I’ve often wondered if I could learn to read lips that way. The lovers on the screen were speaking directly into each other’s faces, which made me worry about bad breath. Her mouth was moving, but Brian’s words came out. “How’d you find me?”
I tapped my temple, trying to divert my gaze from the television set.
“Where’s Dad?”
“We don’t know yet. He may be sailing down the coast to pick you up.”
“I wish he’d get on with it.” He leaned back in his chair and .raised his arms, lacing his fingers so his hands were resting across the top of his head. The gesture made his biceps bulge. He propped a foot up on the edge of the bed, kicked his chair back an inch. The tufts of hair in his armpits seemed oddly sexual. I wondered if I was reaching an age where all young boys with hard bodies would seem sexual to me. I wondered if I’d been that age all my life. He reached over and picked up a pair of clean socks, which had been rolled and folded to form a soft wad. He threw the ball of socks against the wall and caught it on the fly when it bounced back at him.
“You haven’t heard from him?”
“Nope.” He flung the wad again and caught it.
“You said you saw him day before yesterday. Did he say anything to indicate he might be leaving?” I asked.
“No.” He dropped the wad from his right hand, straightening his arm abruptly so that the socks bounced off the anterior aspect of his elbow. He caught it as it popped up, and he let it fall again. He had to watch very carefully so he wouldn’t miss. Bounce. Catch. Bounce. Catch.
“What did he say?” I asked.
He missed.
He shot me a look, annoyed at the distraction. “Fuck, I don’t know. He’s selling me this whole line of horseshit about how there’s no justice in the legal system. Then he turns around and tells me we have to turn ourselves in. I go, ‘No way, Dad. I’m not going to do it, and there’s no way you can make me.’ “
“What’d he say to that?”
“He didn’t say anything.” He tossed the sock ball against the wall again and caught it on the fly.
“You think he might have gone ahead and taken off without you?”
“Why would he do that if he was going to turn himself in?”
“Maybe he got scared.”
“So he leaves me to face all this shit by myself?” His look was incredulous.
“Brian, I hate to say this, but your father isn’t exactly famous for sticking it out. He gets nervous and he bolts.”
“He wouldn’t leave me,” he said sullenly. He tossed the socks in the air, leaned forward, and caught the wad behind his back. I could see the title of the book now: Tricks with Socks: 101 Ways to Amuse Yourself with Underwear: “I think you ought to go ahead and turn yourself in.”
“I will when he gets here.”
“Why don’t I believe that? Brian, I hate to sound pompous, but I have a responsibility here. You’re wanted by the cops. I don’t turn you in, that’s called ‘aiding and abetting.’ I could lose my license.”
He was on his feet in an instant, half lifting me, hauling me off the bed by my shirt, fist cocked back, ready to bust my teeth out. Our faces were suddenly six inches apart. Like the lovers. Anything cute about this kid was gone. Someone else stared down at me, a person within a person. Who could have guessed that this vicious “other” was hidden behind Brian’s blue-eyed, California perfection? The voice wasn’t even his: a low-pitched gravelly whisper. “Listen, you bitch. I’ll tell you about aiding and abetting. You want to take me in? Just try. I’ll kill your ass before you can lay a finger on me, you got that?”
I stilled myself, scarcely daring to breathe. I made my body invisible, beaming myself into hyperspace. He was nearly cross-eyed with rage, and I knew he’d strike out if he were pressed. His chest was heaving, adrenaline pumping hard through his nervous system. He was the one who killed the woman when the four of them escaped. I’d have bet money on that. Give a kid like that a weapon, give him a victim, some subject to vent his rage on, and he’d attack in a white heat. I said, “Okay, okay. Don’t hit me. Don’t hit.”
I thought the rush of feelings would make him extraordinarily alert. Instead, emotion seemed to slow his senses, dulling his perceptions. He pulled back slightly. He brought my face into focus, frowning. “What?” His manner seemed dazed, as if his hearing had gone out on him.
My message had finally reached him, through some impossible maze of supercharged neurons. “I just want you safe when your dad comes back.”
“Safe.” The very concept seemed alien. He shivered, tension rippling through his body. He released me, backed away, and sank onto the chair, breathing heavily. “God. What’s the matter with me? God.”
“You want me to go in with you?” My shirt was permanently pleated across the front where he’d gripped it in his fist.
He shook his head. “I can call your mother.” He bowed his head, running his hand through his hair. “I don’t want her. I want him,” he said. The voice belonged to the Brian Jaffe I knew. He wiped his face against his sleeve. I thought he was close to tears, but his eyes were dry… empty… the blue as cold as a gel pack. I sat and waited, hoping he would say something more. Gradually his breathing returned to normal and he began to look like himself again.
“It’ll look be
tter in court if you return voluntarily,” ventured.
“Why should I do that? I got a legitimate jail release.” The tone was petulant. The other Brian was gone, receding into the dark recesses of his underwater hole like an eel. This Brian was just a kid who thought everything should go his way. On the playground, he was kind of kid who’d cry, “You cheated!” any time he lost a game, but he would always be the cheater, in truth.
“Oh, come on, Brian. You know better than that. I don’t know who screwed with the computer, but believe me, you’re not supposed to be out on the street. You’ve got murder charges filed against you.”
“I didn’t kill anybody.” Indignant. By that, he probably meant he didn’t mean to kill her when he pointed die gun. And why should he feel guilty afterward when it wasn’t his fault? Dumb bitch. She should have kept ~ mouth shut when he asked for the car keys. Had to argue with him. Women all the time argued.
“Good for you,” I said. “In the meantime, the sheriff’s on his way over here to pick you up.”
He was astonished at the betrayal, and the look he save me was filled with outrage. “You called the cops? Why’d you do that?”
“Because I didn’t believe you’d turn yourself in.”
“Why should I?”
“See what I mean? You got an attitude. Like somehow the rules don’t apply to you. Well, guess what?”
“Guess what yourself. I don’t have to take any crap from you.” He got up from the chair, grabbing his wallet from the top of the TV as he passed. He reached the door and opened it. A sheriff’s deputy, a white guy, was standing on the threshold, his hand raised to knock. Brian wheeled and moved rapidly toward the sliding glass door. A second deputy, black, appeared on his patio. Frustrated, Brian flung his wallet to the floor with such force that it bounced like a football. The first deputy reached for him, and Brian wrenched his arm away. “Get the fuck off me!”
The deputy said, “Son. Now, son. I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
Brian was breathing heavily again, backing up, his gaze raking the air from face to face. He was hunched over, and he had his hands out as if to ward off attacking animals. Both deputies were big, made of dense flesh and tough experience, the first in his late forties, the other maybe thirty-five. I wouldn’t have wanted to truck with either one of them.
The second deputy had his hand on his gun, but he hadn’t drawn it. These days a confrontation with the law ends in death, pure and simple. The two officers exchanged a look, and my heart began to bang at the specter of sudden violence. The three of us were immobilized, waiting to see what the next move might be. The first deputy went on in a low tone. “It’s all right Everything’s cool. Let’s just keep calm here and everything’s going to be fine.” Uncertainty flickered in Brian’s eyes. His breathing slowed, and he regained his composure. He straightened up. I didn’t think it was over, but the tension evaporated. Brian tried a deprecating smile and allowed himself to be handcuffed without resistance. He avoided my gaze, which suited me just fine. There was something embarrassing about having to watch him submit “Bunch of dumb fucks,” he murmured, but the deputies ignored him. Everybody has to save face. No offense that.
Dana appeared at the jail while Brian was being processed through booking. She was dressed to the teeth, a gray rayon-linen-blend power suit, the first time I’d seen her wearing anything other than jeans. It was eleven o’clock at night, and I was standing in the hall with another cup of bad coffee when I heard the snapping of her high heels down the corridor. I took one look at her and knew she was furious, not with Brian or the cops, but with me. I had followed the sheriff’s car over to the jail, parking in the lot while they drove into the sally port. I had even put the call through to Dana Jaffe myself, thinking she should be informed about her little boy’s arrest. I was not in the mood to take shit from her, but it was clear she intended to spew.
“You have caused trouble since the moment I laid eyes on you,” she spat. Her hair was pulled back in a shiny chignon, not a strand out of place. Snowy blouse, silver earrings, her eyes lined with black.
“Do you want to hear the story?”
“No, I don’t want to hear the story. I want to tell you one,” she snapped. “I have a fucking restraining order on my bank accounts. Every cent I have is inaccessible. I have no money. Do you get that? None! My kid is in trouble, and what the hell can I do? I can’t even get through to his lawyer.”
Her linen suit was immaculate, not a wrinkle on it anywhere; tough with linen, I’ve heard, even in a blend. I stared down at the contents of my cup. The coffee was cold by now, the surface bespeckled with little clots of powdered milk. I was really hoping I wouldn’t fling it all in her face. I watched my hand carefully to see if it would move. So far, so good.
In the meantime, Dana was going on and on, heaping invective at me for God knew what offenses. I pushed the mute button with my internal remote. It was just like watching some silent TV show. Some part of me was listening, though I tried not to let the sound penetrate. I noticed my coffee-flinging inclination was picking up momentum. I used to be a biter in kindergarten, and the impulse was the same. When I was a cop, I’d had to arrest a woman once for flinging a drink in an. other woman’s face, which the law regards as assault and battery. California Penal Code 242: “A battery is any willful and unlawful use of force or violence upon the person of another.” Battery is a consummated assault and is a necessarily included offense where battery is charged. “The force or violence necessary to constitute a battery need not be great nor need it necessarily cause pain or bodily harm, nor leave a mark,” I recited to myself. Except maybe on her suit, I added. Tee hee.
I heard footsteps approaching in the corridor behind me. I glanced back and spotted Senior Deputy Tiller, with a file folder in his hand. He nodded at me briefly and disappeared through the doorway.
“Excuse me, Tiller?”
He stuck his head back out the door. “You call me?” I glanced at Dana. “Sorry to interrupt, but I have to talk to him,” I said, and followed him into the office. Her look of annoyance indicated she wasn’t nearly done with me yet.
Chapter 23
*
Tiller looked up quizzically from the file drawer where he was tucking the folder. “What was that all about?”
I closed the door, lifting a finger to my lips. I pointed the back. His eyes strayed to the hallway. He closed the file drawer and jerked his head toward the rear. I followed him through a maze of desks. We reached a smaller office, which I took to be his. He closed a second door behind us and motioned me onto a chair. I tossed my empty coffee cup in the trash can and sat , with relief. “Thanks. This is great. I couldn’t think how else to get away from her. She must have needed someone to crank on, and I was elected.”
“Well, I’m glad to oblige. You want another cup of free? We got a fresh pot back here. That probably me from the vending machine.”
“Thanks, but I’m coffeed out for the time being. I’d e to sleep at some point. How are you?”
“Fine. I just came on, working graveyard. I see you got our boy back in the can.” He sat down on his swivel chair and leaned back with a creaking sound.
“Wasn’t that hard to do. I figured Wendell had to have him somewhere close, and I did a little legwork. Boring, but not tough. What’s the deal on this end? Do they know yet how he got sprung?”
Tiller shrugged, uncomfortably. “They’re looking into it.” He changed the subject, apparently reluctant to share the details of the in-house investigation. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, I could see that his sandy hair and his mustache were threaded with silver, his eyes wreathed in creases. The boyish contours of his face had begun to shrink, leaving puckers and wrinkles. He must have been close to Wendell’s age without the youth-perpetuating benefits of Wendell’s cosmetic surgery. I was staring idly at his hands when I felt a little I question mark appear above my head. “What is that?’
He caught the look and held out his hand. “Wh
at, the class ring?”
I leaned forward, peering. “Isn’t that Cottonwood Academy?”
“You know the school? Most people never heard of it. Went out of business, I don’t know how many years back. These days you don’t find many all-male institutions. Sexist, they call it, and they may be right. Mine was the last class to graduate. Only sixteen of us. After that kapoot,” he said. His smile was tinged with pride and affection. “What’s your connection? You must have a good eye. Most class rings look the same.”
“I just saw one recently from a Cottonwood graduate.”
“Really. Who’s that? We’re still a real tight bunch.”
“Wendell Jaffe.”
His gaze stuck to mine briefly, and then he looked away. He shifted on his chair. “Yeah, I guess old Wendell did go there,” he said, as if it had just occurred to him. “You sure you don’t want some more coffee?”
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
“Me, what?”
“Brian’s jail release,” I said.
Tiller laughed, jolly ho-ho, but it didn’t sound sincere. “Hey, sorry. Not me. I wouldn’t even know how to go about it. You put me near a computer, my IQ drops about fifteen percentage points.”
“Oh, come on. What’s the scoop? I’m not going to tell anyone. What do I care? The kid’s back. I swear I won’t say a word.” I shut my mouth then and let the silence accumulate. Basically he was an honest soul, capable of an occasional unlawful act, but not comfortable about it, unable to deny his culpability when confronted. His fellow cops love guys like him because they’re quick with a confession, eager for the relief. He said, “No, really. You’re barking up the wrong tree here.” He did a neck roll, trying to relieve the tension, but I noticed he hadn’t terminated the conversation. I prodded him a bit. “Did you help Brian the first time, when he escaped from juvie?”