My frightful evening rose to a climax, burst and sprayed me with cold salt water, slightly muddy. I had never finished high school; here was Olga moving away into the world of doctorates. And having her hand held for guidance by a damned good-looking man, our Hal Levy,
I said: “I dunno. It seems to me you’d be better off teaming up with some lady doctor if you have to team up with anybody.”
Olga laughed and stopped pacing. “If I didn’t know you so well,” she said, “I’d think you were jealous.” A remark which shook my faith in psychologists. “Why, Hal is quite well-to-do, and there’s room in his office for me. It would cost like hell to buy my own set-up, besides having to chore around the clinics meeting doctors who’d refer to me. Most M.D.s are inclined to keep the practice inside the A.M.A.”
“You don’t have to decide at once,” I said. But she was cutting my heart, liver and lights out with little slashes of a dull knife. We were back to money, and I was almost certain to be unemployed.
“That was a piece of news I was keeping for you,” Olga said. “Professor Farber says I can take my viva voce any time now. The paper I did on Patten General will stand up as a thesis, he says.” That was the hospital for the insane where she had worked as an orderly to do research. “I might get my doctorate in a few weeks.”
She was ten years younger than I, she was still short of her thirtieth birthday by a comfortable margin. She had the education, but I had the experience; her friends from now on might tolerate a successful police officer; they would not go out of their way to be polite to a night watchman.
Most men don’t have to face the prospect of losing a job and a wife all in one day. I said: “Let’s go to bed.”
Chapter Ten
Morning was fine and clear; I wasn’t. But I put on my best light-weight uniform, complete with solid gold lieutenant’s bars. Olga sat quietly by me as I drove her to the bus line she took to the campus. Then she pecked my cheek before she slid out. “Your strength is as the strength of ten because you’ve had so much experience in dirty fighting,” she said, and joined the knot of people waiting for the bus. Standing there, she opened one of her textbooks, and was at once lost in it.
Still chuckling, I turned back for the station house – Civic Security Centre – and whatever hell had been prepared for me.
Bill Leatherwood was on the switchboard, Drew Lasley at the high reception desk. Like me, he was in the uniform he usually reserved for making speeches and other dress-up occasions. He said: “Captain Davis is in his office, Andy. After you’ve read the papers, he wants to see you.”
I must have made a face. Both Leatherwood and Lasley laughed. Bill Leatherwood said: “Comes the revolution, we won’t have any newspapers, lieutenant.”
So I went down to my office. Somebody – Leatherwood, probably, acting under Jack Davis’s orders – had covered my desk top, neatly, with the morning press. The Los Angeles papers, and one from the county seat. I sat down and read.
No impulse came to me to get scissors and paste and start a scrapbook for my children, if any. I read that I was more at home guarding ammunition dumps than peaceful suburbs. I had, in direct fashion, made an arrest a few moments after the discovery of Nora Patterson; the wrong arrest, but, apparently content with any arrest, I had called off the hunt for the fugitive.
Said fugitive was still at large. Nobody said so, because there are libel laws, but the reason the assaulter was still at large was because I had called off the chase for twenty minutes or so. They implied that by juxtaposition.
A fancy word for a cop to know.
The Naranjo Vista police force had issued almost a thousand traffic tickets in the last year. I hadn’t known that; I supposed most of them had been for parking. But it had never before been tested in a major crime.
It –
And I –
And the shooting of Norman Patterson. I was unable to prevent a foul fiend – well, they didn’t quite use that one, but almost – from prowling the environs of our peaceful city, but I was quick on the trigger to shoot the already grief-stricken Patterson. The bullet passed within an inch of making him a cripple for life.
This was luck, as I had expected.
Now comes one Bailey Spratt, vice president of the PTA, member of the sheriff’s posse, war hero, churchgoer, etc., with an interview. “The Citizens’ Committee of Naranjo Vista, of which I have the honour to be president, is certainly going to look into the way our community is being policed. I am sure that we shall find that many of our officers are just what we always assumed they all were: honest, hard-working men, indifferent to weather conditions or long hours of work or anything else but their proud duty of protecting our lives and property. However, every barrel is liable to have a rotten apple in it; and we are going to leave no stone unturned to root these rotten apples – pray we only find one or two – out and banish them forever from Naranjo Vista.”
Mr. Spratt was also corresponding secretary of the Metaphor Mixers of America, it seemed.
The phone rang. “Bob Myers to see the lieutenant.”
“Nope.”
Sitting there, I stared at the papers. One thing stood out. They were after me, not Jack Davis. You would hardly know from the press that Naranjo Vista had a chief; I was criminal investigation officer, night chief and everything else. The papers were using a rifle, not a shotgun.
Opening my desk drawer, I took out a sheet of department letterhead. My fountain pen worked at the first touch, which is not its habit. I wrote the date and then Jack Davis’s name and title, and then Dear Captain: — and then I wrote my resignation and signed it, big and clear. Five by five, as the radiomen say. Then I blotted it and made an envelope for it and folded it and stood up and walked down the hall to Jack Davis’s larger office.
Patrolman Mires was on duty outside the captain’s office. I said: “Tell Captain Davis I’d like to see him.”
Mires looked at me strangely. “We got orders the office is always open to you, lieutenant.”
“Tell him I’m here, Jimmy.”
So Jimmy Mires hit the switch box and said: “Lieutenant Bastian to see the captain,” all correct and military.
The squawk box said to send me in. The last thing I saw was Jimmy Mires smiling at me. He was a sort of sombre kid, but he managed a pretty good grin.
I’d come a long ways down in the past few hours, when my own juniors thought they had to encourage me.
To my surprise Jack Davis was not alone. A small, mean-looking guy of about fifty was sitting at one side of his desk; and my ever-loving pal, Bailey Spratt, was in a straight chair at the front of the desk.
I clicked my heels and saluted like a Marine honour guard hailing an ambassador; I really threw a ball at Jack. He returned the honour without too much embarrassment.
“Grab a chair, Andy, and sit in. This is Mr. Dewitt, he is vice-president of the Bartlett Construction Company. And I think you’ve met Mr. Spratt.”
“Last night,” I said. “Good morning, Mr. Spratt.”
Bailey Spratt was in a business suit today. No guns showed through the slick tailoring. Maybe he disarmed to make his living. He said: “Yeah, I had the pleasure of meeting the lieutenant last night. And I wanta tell you, I was a captain in the Air Force –”
“I’m a major in the Army,” I said, “but don’t bother to call me sir, Mr. Spratt.”
Jack Davis frowned, Bailey Spratt got red in the face, but little Mr. Dewitt just cleared his throat. He said: “It is unfortunate that Mr. Bartlett is away just now. I understand you know him personally, Mr. Bastian.”
“Yes,” I said. I did; I knew him and had done favours for him. Mr. Bartlett was not important in Naranjo Vista; he was just the man who had built our five thousand homes. Under the sales contracts, the buyers paid no taxes for the first few years; instead Bartlett Construction – Mr. Bartlett – furnished police, fire and health protection, removed the garbage, flowed water to and sewage away from every house – and paid the bill.
Mr. Bartlett wasn’t important at all.
“Last vacation,” Jack Davis said, “Ralph Bartlett stayed with Andy Bastian and his wife, his father being in Europe.”
Mr. Dewitt said: “Yes. A great honour. The government has lent Mr. Bartlett to several foreign countries to supervise housing projects.”
Bailey Spratt moved his muscular body on the uncomfortable chair Jack Davis had assigned to him. He said: “Yeah, yeah, yeah, and now that we’ve drunk our pink tea, can we all pull our little fingers in and get down to business?” He slapped a piece of paper lying on Jack’s desk. “I got here a petition, signed by fifty householders of Naranjo Vista – and not one of them in arrears on his payments, Mr. Dewitt – asking for Lieutenant Bastian’s resignation.”
Mr. Dewitt said: “Mr. Bartlett –” and let it trail away. Mr. Dewitt had a sort of milky way of talking, but his eyes were like a racoon’s and when he shut his mouth his little chin jutted out a good inch from his thin lips. He was Mr. Bartlett’s vice-president, and while I had very little respect for Mr. Bartlett as a father – Ralph, of whom Olga and I were very fond, had had a rough time – when it came to business, Sidney Bartlett didn’t throw money away on yes-men for vice-presidents.
Bailey Spratt said: “Mr. Bartlett is just like any other man in business. We’re customers, and the customer has gotta be right, or you go out of business.”
My memory is well trained. I said: “You sell cars, don’t you, Mr. Spratt?”
He glared. “I have a factory agency, mister.” He named the make of car.
“This department uses four of your cars,” I said. “The county has over a hundred of them. Other cooperating police departments use them, too. In other words, captain, we’re customers.”
“Listen, mister, if you’re trying to threaten me, knock it off.”
Up till now I had been relaxing in the chair Jack Davis had waved me too. Now I stood up and looked down at Bailey Spratt. “I was trying to threaten you, yes. But just to show you how it feels to be threatened. Mr. Dewitt here doesn’t have to listen to your loud-mouthing. You’ve bought the houses, and if you want to sell them, that’s your business. Captain Davis doesn’t have to listen to you. He hired me, and on my record that was a good thing to do. Last night I goofed, I fluffed, and badly, and that is no good.” I reached in my pocket. “Captain, here is my resignation. You’ll notice that it reads for the good of the department. You’ll also notice that it was written before I knew that Householder Spratt was here.”
“You’re a hell of a soldier,” Bailey Spratt said. “Quitting under fire.”
“You can’t have it both ways,” I said. “Spratt, were you a pilot, or what?”
“I was a supply officer,” Bailey Spratt said.
“That is what I thought.”
Jack Davis slapped his desk. “Cut it out,” he said. “You’re squabbling like a couple of kids.” He reached out. “Ever play three card poker? It’s called Spanish monte. Takes three cards. Now, let’s see. We got your card, Mr. Spratt, this petition. We got your card, Andy, your resignation. I got a card, too, and I don’t know but what it takes the hand.”
He slid open the centre drawer of the desk, took out a sheet of legal-sized paper. It had no printed heading. “Let me read it,” Captain Jack Davis said. “‘We, the undersigned officers of the Naranjo Vista Police Department hereby tender our resignations, to take force –’ that’s a kind of strange way of putting it, but I didn’t write this – ‘when and if Lieutenant Andrew Bastian is removed from our department, by resignation or dismissal.’ It’s signed by every member of the department. The last signature is that of Jack E. Davis, which means me.”
Bailey Spratt beat the desk again with the flat of his hand. “That’s illegal,” he said. “Peace officers can’t quit and leave a community without protection. I’m a pretty big man in politics around here, and I’m taking this right to the district attorney.”
Mr. Dewitt said: “Mr. Spratt, you may be big in politics, but it seems to me that you have just lost the votes of the entire police department.” His bright eyes didn’t twinkle, his thin lips didn’t quirk; I couldn’t tell if he thought he was being funny or not. Me, I thought he was a riot, somewhat better than the Marx Brothers; but then I was prejudiced. Mr. Dewitt let what he’d said sink in, and then reached in his own inside pocket. “I have never indulged in card games, Captain Davis, nor, I might add, in any other form of gaming, but if there is a game involving four cards, we are, perhaps, playing it. I have here a telegram from Mr. Bartlett, and I read: ‘Tell Andy Bastian I’m behind him all the way. Don’t bother me with details. Signed, Sidney Bartlett.’ Message ends.”
Bailey Spratt stood up. “By God, you haven’t heard the last of this.” He marched out.
Mr. Dewitt said: “He has been trying to sell Bartlett Construction a line of trucks. I must say, he’s not the sort of salesman I’d hire.”
Mr. Dewitt stood up. He held out his hand to me and I shook it; it was like holding a five-year-old pine cone. Then he shook hands with Jack Davis, and then my chief and I were alone.
“All very pretty,” I said. “What it means is, you’d better not use my resignation for a couple of weeks, till you can make it look like you didn’t crack under pressure.”
Jack Davis said: “Don’t be a damned fool, Andy. There’s a hell of a lot of work to do around here. Who’s going to do it if you loaf around my office all day?”
So I marched back to my office. Every damn cop I passed in the hall felt he had to salute me, and since I was in uniform, I had no choice but to snap the ball back to them. If this went on, the Naranjo Vista force would be so exhausted from saluting that it wouldn’t have energy to do anything else.
I latched my office door and changed into the flannel slacks and tweed coat I kept in my closet.
But I’d be a liar if I didn’t say that I felt pretty good.
Chapter Eleven
There was routine stuff on my desk – duty rolls to initial, a letter from an insurance company to answer about a break-and-entry, and so on. It was an hour before I got it cleared away, and then I leaned back and told the switchboard to get me the lab at county.
After a while a voice said: “Lab, Lieutenant Miller.”
“Lieutenant Bastian at Naranjo Vista. I don’t suppose Sergeant Ernen is there, but I’d like to know how far along he is on the profile of our rapist.”
Miller laughed. “Ernie’s here all right,” he said. “I don’t know when that guy sleeps. I can put him on, but I’ve been looking over his work, and I think it would be smart if you came up here.”
I took a department car, a marked one. For awhile I would have to be very careful what vehicle I drove where; Bailey Spratt could be out to nail me if I drove a city car to lunch, for instance. Hence, the car with the shield on the side, though I was in plainclothes myself; to use a plain car might look like sneaking.
We were having lovely weather. The benevolent state of California had the sprinklers going on both sides of the freeway; they made little rainbows as they played down on the iceplant and the lantanas and the semi-tropical pampas grass that held down the soil of the cutbanks.
Olga would never let me water our garden when the full sun was out; she said that the little drops of water would make burning glasses on the leaves, and scorch them.
The State Highway Department was obviously not married to Olga.
Poor C.H.D.; I was luckier than they.
But would I be luckier in a few months when Olga got her Ph.D. and moved into practice as a clinical psychologist? It was already bad enough at the parties we went to; young executives, young dentists, young scientists and their wives were ill-at-ease with a police officer.
The same people would be just as uneasy with headshrinkers and soul divers as they were with me. So we’d move in different circles, and they’d be tough ones for me to turn in, me with my USAFI high school certificate and my profound knowledge of greed and misery, violenc
e and despair.
Seeing myself, in my mind’s eye, at those parties, I had a horrid thought; they wouldn’t laugh at me because I would have a gun bulking under my clothes, and nobody laughs at the man with the gun.
And there, in the bright sunlight, driving the well-serviced department car through traffic that deferred to the shield and the red light, I uttered a little, almost invisible prayer; me, who has never been religious because the cheesewits and hypocrites who ran the Boys’ Home had tried to force me into religion.
This was my prayer: Dear God, don’t let my gun rob my brains. Amen.
The sign for the Civic Centre turnoff brought me back to business. I got out of the fast lane into the right hand one without much difficulty because I was driving a police car; California freeways do not give way for civilians very readily.
Once I got off the freeway, traffic thinned down and driving was actually easier. In two or three minutes I was in the parking lot behind the new ten-storey Civic Centre.
There were coin-in-the-slot parking spaces, and then there were free ones reserved for police cars; I took one of the latter, though I was out of my jurisdiction.
A girl was typing some kind of report at the desk opposite the elevator on the third, or lab, floor. She looked like civilian personnel. We didn’t run to such luxuries in our little department; our sworn officers did their own typing. She told me where I could find Sergeant Ernen.
He was there all right, hunched over a bunsen burner, blowing through a pipe to make the flame melt some kind of metal into a bead. He cocked an eyebrow at me and I perched on one of the high stools and waited for him.
He quit whatever he was doing, and pointed at the bead. “Not your case, Andy. Somebody’s been making slugs and selling them for the parking meters. Not counterfeiting, did you know that? I’m trying to find out what the alloy is, might tell us where he’s buying his metal. I think it’s pot metal from a linotype machine, but I’m not sure yet.”
A Nice Girl Like You (Lt. Andy Bastian Mysteries Book 2) Page 8