by Baxter Clare
Indicating her empty glass, Gail said, “I’ll have whatever you’re having. It’s been a long day already.”
“Amen,” Frank agreed. “Follow me.”
She swiped a glass out of the cupboard and led Gail to the patio. Pushing a chair into the shade for her, she dribbled a finger of scotch into Gail’s glass and resumed her basking. Gail was at an angle behind her and Frank could feel the pretty green eyes crawling all over her. She’d like to dive into those mossy green pools and never be seen again. Just sink down into Wonderland. Bye-bye.
Gail startled Frank when she perched next to her on the lounge chair.
“You’re going to get burnt,” she said pulling Frank’s collar together.
“Worst of the sun’s down,” Frank argued, her free hand finding the rounded weight of Gail’s hip.
“Still, you don’t get a lot there.”
Frank wanted to look at Gail but didn’t dare.
“Do they have any idea who did it?”
Rolling a swallow of scotch around, Frank considered the question.
She’d gone by the Estrella’s as soon as she could, glad there were no cops there. It was the time of day when the sun was sharp and merciless, the time of day that revealed every last flaw and detail, the time of day fading glories hated. She’d walked up the driveway, pressing past the Estrella’s old car. Frank had studied the heat shimmying off the hood, resigned to the fact that summer was here. It sure would have been nice to get one last storm, but it hadn’t rained in weeks and there was nothing but sunshine in the forecast. For a long while Frank had studied what looked like mud on the passengers side.
When she finally continued up the drive, Claudia had answered her knock. From behind the screen door, she could have been carved from wood. Frank asked how Tonio was.
“Okay.”
She’d searched the weathered face, fuller than it was seventeen years ago, more deeply etched. But the eyes still burned bright and fierce. They asked for nothing and gave it in return. Claudia looked far beyond Frank’s shoulder, resigned to enduring this fool one more time.
As if she were telling Claudia the time, Frank had said, “You know Ike Zabbo’s dead.”
Claudia had slowly shifted her eyes back to Frank’s. The old adversaries wrestled wordlessly through the screen. Frank had eventually looked away.
“It’s a nice day. Might want to wash your car.”
Frank glanced at the Buick dancing in its heat waves.
“You’ve got some mud or something on the passenger side. Should get that off before it bakes on.”
She’d left the vague shade of the porch, went back to the office, and told Foubarelle she was taking the rest of the day off. He’d spluttered and objected but she hadn’t used a sick day in two years.
Now Gail was staring at her and Frank thought she really should get out of these hot clothes. Melting didn’t seem so appealing anymore.
“Frank? Did you hear my question?”
“I heard it,” she said into her drink. “No. I don’t think they do.”
She’d answered the question but Gail was still studying her. She lifted Frank’s chin.
“Do you?” she asked quietly.
Frank stared into her glass.
“I’m gonna tell you a story. Probably ‘cause I’ve had too much to drink but it’s a good story. I think you’ll like it. So once upon a time, a girl — she’s ten — she’s walking home from the corner market with her father. It’s winter. It’s dark even though it’s not that late. And it’s cold. Not that that’s relevant.”
Frank heard herself slur a bit on the last sentences, made a note to watch that. She hated sloppy drunks.
“The father’s carrying a bag of groceries. Dinner. Frosted flakes. Milk. Orange juice. And Ring Dings, ‘cause his daughter had asked for them. You’ll see in a moment why I remember the contents so clearly. They’re walking. He’s holding the grocery bag with one arm. His other’s held out to his daughter. She’s got her hand in his. His hand’s big and warm and she feels safe next to him. Out of nowhere, a junkie jumps in front of them. He’s got an ugly little gun. Snub-nosed .38 I realize later, when I become an expert in such things.”
Frank’s mouth was dry and she wet it with the good scotch. She resumed her story.
“All I knew then was that it was the scariest thing I’d ever seen. And this junkie was shaking it in front of us. He could barely point it, he was shaking so bad. And he’s screaming at my father to give him his wallet. My father tried to calm him down. He pulled me behind him and he reached for his wallet. I felt it leave his pocket. I was watching the junkie. I was terrified, but I was fascinated, too. The junkie looked like a dog I saw some kids set on fire once. Desperate. Scared. He was Jonesing so bad. My father handed him the wallet and he grabbed for it. When he did, Dad dropped the groceries and lunged at him. I don’t know why. He wouldn’t have hurt us. He just wanted the money, but maybe my dad didn’t want to give up his paycheck. He was a proud guy, stubborn. He worked hard for his money. I guess he thought he could take him. I don’t know. The junkie’s gun went off. My dad went down on his knee. He made a real heavy sound, then kinda toppled over onto the milk and frosted flakes and orange juice. The junkie took off. They never did find him. My Uncle Al was a cop. Handsome guy, like my father. Heavier, but it didn’t matter when he was in his uniform. I though they looked like movie stars. Both of ‘em. He drank himself to death. Got kicked off the force, drank all day. Blew his liver out at fifty-six. See, he was a cop. And someone killed his only brother and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”
Frank paused for another sip.
“I was in the station all night. My mom too. But nothing I told them was good enough. They never caught the guy. My mom got worse after that. She was manic-depressive and there were a lot more lows than highs. When I was in sixth grade, I started reading every criminology and every true crime book I could get my hands on. Devoured ‘em. I was gonna be a cop. A good one. One who caught bad guys. Got good grades. Got scholarships to three universities. Kissed my mother goodbye. I wasn’t gonna go down with her, I couldn’t, and out I came to sunny California. Land of milk and honey. Became a cop.
“That’s all I ever wanted to do was be a cop. And I’ve been a good one. Yeah, I’ve bent the rules sometimes. In the long run you have to. I remember Joe saying, ‘Law and justice ain’t the same thing, kiddo.’ And I didn’t believe him. Didn’t want to. I had to believe they were the same thing, see? The law was all I had. It was all I had to put my faith into. And I know he was right. I knew it a long time ago. But I still like to pretend. It justifies what I do every day. And sometimes they are the same thing. And then it’s a good day. When they’re not, when law and justice are light years apart, then it’s a bad day. And today was a very bad day.”
Finches chirped in the oak over-hanging the yard. The faraway rush of cars sounded like surf. A couple yards over, kids voices rose and fell in play. Gail asked quietly, “Do you know who shot him?”
Frank shifted her face toward the sun, closing her eyes against its burn. Trying to forget the spatter on Claudia Estrella’s Buick, Frank marveled at the negative images playing against her eyelids. She thought maybe she’d like to take a photography class someday.
“Frank?”
Gail’s hand was a command on her shoulder.
“No,” she said to the invisible sun. “I don’t know.”
About the Author
Baxter Clare lives on a ranch in Southern California with her longtime companion, numerous houseguests, wild animals, and domestic pets. Street Rules is her second mystery.
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