by Baxter Clare
"Yeah, uh-oh's right. Fuckin' pigs."
Bobby came back a minute later and handed Frank a scrap of paper.
Getting in on the passenger side she read the names, grunting, "Figures."
"Ha ha." Bobby chuckled, turning onto Vermont. "Remember when you found Nook taking naps when he was supposed to be knocking?"
Frank grinned. Watching a muscled young man loping along the sidewalk, she answered, "That was a while back, huh?"
A brand new LT, she'd inherited two old-timers who refused to change their ways. Nook was one of them. When she found out he was taking a nap every afternoon in a shaded lot she had Bobby and Noah sneak the jack out of his car. Later, after Nook parked and was snoring in the backseat, under a blanket no less, the three of them quietly jacked his vehicle onto blocks. After they'd slunk back to their car, Frank raised him on the radio. Through binoculars she saw Nook lurch from the backseat, fall out the rear door and stand staring in amazement. Frank kept calling him and he finally reached inside for the radio, answering that he had a flat and that someone had taken the damn jack out of the car.
"Tell me where you are," she responded. "I've got a jack."
"No, no!" Nook cried, pacing around his car. "There's no spare either!"
"Well, I'll come get you. Where are you?"
Nook stalled. "Repeat. You're breaking up." Frank repeated and he said, "Oh, it's okay. I got a cab here. We'll let the garage take care of this. What's your twenty?"
Instead of answering she approached on foot.
Nook was asking into his radio, "Do you copy?"
"I copy," she said, stepping into the shade.
Nook whirled. He stammered, "I just went into the store and when I came out—"
Frank held up a hand. "No more naps, Nook. Clear?"
"I just—"
"Clear?"
He shook his head and sighed. "Clear."
"Good. Here." She tossed him the jack.
His mouth dropped. "I was gonna call the garage."
"Garage is busy," she'd said, walking back to her car. "When you get it down meet us at Denker and Sixty-ninth."
"Oh, man." Bobby was still laughing. "That was a good one."
Frank nodded, missing Noah and wishing her old partner were here to laugh with them. They pulled into the Circle K and talked to a clerk. They worked him a solid half-hour but he maintained he didn't see the shooting that happened twenty feet away from him.
Back in the car, Frank said, "Keep an eye on him. Give him time."
"Yeah," Bobby agreed. "Time enough to have someone he loves get shot. Then we'll see how eager he is to talk."
"Oo-oo, Picasso. Your cynicism's showing."
"Am I wrong?"
"Wish you were."
"Then it's not cynicism. It's the truth."
"How can I argue with a double major in art and philosophy?"
On the corner of Slauson they found Irie hawking bags of oranges. He looked older than Moses—his skin, his hair, his clothes, all gray. His pants and shirt were frayed but clean and he wore gleaming white Reeboks. They made a show of pulling the old man over to the car. A couple dudes in a passing car hissed at them.
"Irie," Frank chided. "S'up wid dem shoes, mon?"
Without even thinking about it, Frank slid into Irie's vernacular—habit from years of dealing with people, from adopting their accents and dialect to help break down the huge wall between cop and civilian.
"Ya like dem?" Irie bragged in his thick patois. "I foun' dem. Four pair, lyin' in de street! Dem fit good, too! I keep two, give dem rest away." Irie's face was a topo map of wrinkles and old wounds. He rubbed a raised keloid on his cheekbone and said, "Ya wan' we talk 'bou' my feets or I tell ya somet'ing ya migh' wanna know?"
Bobby asked, "What do you have?"
The CI leaned against the car and squinted at the cops. "Fidelio Ramirez," he enunciated. " 'Im de one."
"Him the one what?" Frank asked.
" 'Im de one shoot Oscar Fuentes."
Bobby wrote the name down. "Where can we find this Ramirez?"
With a shrug Irie told them, "Dat ya problem dere. Street say 'im run away to Mexico, but 'im used to be livin' with 'is girl on Fif-eight Street."
"How'd you hear it was Ramirez?"
"Ya can't fuh to axe me dat," Irie snorted. "Chuh! I gots protec' meself. Ya know dat."
"Does Ramirez have any other names?"
"Mebbe Cuco."
"Cuco," Bobby repeated. "What else?"
"Why fuh ya axe what else? I fuh gotta fin' 'im and han'cuff 'im and bring 'im in fuh ya? Chuh!"
Bobby gave Frank a sheepish look. "Do you have a twenty?"
Frowning, Frank pulled a Jackson from the wallet in her back pocket. She slipped the bill to Irie, asking, "Irie, mon, how old you is?"
Tapping the fat scar under his eye, he calculated, "'Bout fif-tree, fif-fo'. Why fuh you axe?"
She shrugged. "You been 'round a long time. Known you since I was a rookie."
"Fuh true." He grinned. "A long time."
"All dat time and I'm still not for sure why you do this."
Irie flashed pink palms. "Fuh be good ci'zen. Fuh do right ting."
"Right," she responded. "Of course."
Grinning, Irie stepped back. "Ya have good day, office's. Irie be tankin' you."
"Dat bwoy." Frank shook her head as they drove off. " 'Im I fuh shuh n'unerstan'."
Bobby asked, "You want to try and find Ramirez?"
Frank flipped her wrist over. "Naw, you better take me back. Been joy-ridin' long enough."
"Roger that."
CHAPTER 4
Saturday, 8 Jan 05—LAX
Alrighty then. Waiting to board my flight. Didn't write yesterday— didn't have time—so will write for twenty minutes today. Mary says if I found the time to drink I can find the time to go to meetings. Or write. Or whatever damn thing Fm supposed to be doing.
At any rate, here I am in the thumping, thriving heart of LAX. Haven't flown since the extradition to Miami. Not looking forward to sitting with my knees on my chin for five hours but Fm glad Fm getting this over with.
Gotta love this place. It's like a separate universe, got every race, religion, nationality, sexual orientation, etc. Can find every manner of relationship here—there's a creep that looks like a pedophile by the women's restroom, next to a girlfriend crying against her boyfriend. In front of them a toddler's banging into his grandmother's legs, the guy walking past could be a hit man, an adulterer, an extortionist or a guy who loves his wife and sells copy machines. Or a terrorist. You never know. And this is just one terminal. Incredible place.
There's the boarding announcement. I’ll finish this on the plane.
Here we go. Fat guy on his laptop to my left, old lady reading on my right. Me stuck in the middle. Only five hours. And then what? Tonight won't be so bad. I’ll find a room in Canarsie—they gotta be cheap in Canarsie. Not exactly a tourist mecca—and get a good night's sleep. That's one thing about being sober. Tm sleeping again. Took a while. First couple weeks were pretty rocky but now it's good. Pretty sweet to wake up rested instead of hungover. Td forgotten what that was like.
So tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I’ll take care of business then I have the afternoon free until my nine o'clock flight home. I hope Gail takes me up on Rockefeller Center. She probably won't, probably too much, too soon. Besides, she came to New York for a convention and to hang out with friends. She can see me anytime.
Look at me. I got Sunday over with before it's even started. What happened to "one day at a time"? Still Saturday, far as I know. Oh, great. Here comes the stewardess with the booze trolley. "I’ll have three Scotches and a can of club soda, please. Oh, and don't go too far away with that thing."
That's what I wanted to say, but it came out "Coffee. Black."
The fat guy got a Budweiser and of course I had to pass it to him. The can was cold and wet like it just came out of a cooler. I wanted to rip it open, guzzle it down and pass it on l
ike nothing had happened. I wonder how much alcohol they stock for a five-hour morning flight. Probably not enough to keep me going once I got started. That's the thing. Mary says you have to think the drink through—think that first drink all the way through to the end. One would be nice, two would be lovely and three even better, but how many would be enough? There's no such thing as enough. One drink doesn't even begin to satisfy the craving, just kicks it into overdrive and sets up the desire for more. More and more and more, world without end, amen. This is getting me nowhere.
Mary would ask why I want a drink right now.
Oh, many reasons, Mary. For starters Tm in a tin can a mile above the earth. The smell of the fat guy's Bud is crawling up my nose—no temptation there—not to mention Tm about to revisit the scene of my youthful and childish crimes. And atone for them. If I can. Other than that, gee, no reason.
This isn't very productive. Maybe I should get some work done. Think about what I can do instead of what I can't. Mary would say that too.
Jesus, I sound like a damn AA parrot. "Squawk, squawk, squawk."
Okay. Time's up. On to reports.
CHAPTER 5
The fat guy ordered a second beer and when he snapped it open Frank tasted the tangy, malty spray through her nose. She took a long swallow of tepid coffee and focused on Johnny's sixty-day.
By the time the plane landed at JFK the fat guy had downed four beers. Watching him jerk out of a drooling, snoring sleep, she was glad she stuck to coffee. She made haste from the plane and followed the exit signs to the taxi stand. When her cab came she asked the driver, "You know the Canarsie Cemetery? On Remsen in Brooklyn."
"Yah, yah. I know whey ees," the cabbie answered.
"All right. I want a hotel near there. A Holiday Inn or a Motel Six, something like that."
"Yah, yah." He bobbed his head. "I know prace."
She sat back and the cabbie slalomed from the terminal. Frank lowered the window—no matter what coast she was on, cabs still smelled of rancid body fluids. The stale air rushed out. What replaced it was the muddy, dank smell of Jamaica Bay and she was instantly ten years old again. The gushing cold air ripped at her eyes but she kept her face into the wind. The bay smells mixed with truck diesel and the must from centuries of city living. A hunger pang stabbed her and she suddenly craved a warm onion bialy with a shmear. As the driver tore through the precocious dusk, Frank allowed a thin smile and rolled the window up.
She rapped on the Plexiglas divider. "I changed my mind. I want to go into the City. To the Times Square Crowne Plaza."
"You no want Brookryn?"
"No. Midtown. The Crowne Plaza."
"From Motey Six to Crowne Praza?"
"Yeah."
The cabbie shrugged and slid the window shut, veering north off the parkway a couple exits later.
Frank was at the hotel in under an hour. She carried no bags, only a toothbrush in her briefcase. Upstairs, stretched on the taut bed, she wondered which floor Gail was on. She clicked the TV on and roamed through channels. Nothing caught her interest. She knew there was a bar downstairs. Warned herself not to even think about it. She should think about food instead, and remembered her desire for the bialy. She dialed the operator, called Katz's Deli. They were open until nine. Frank thought about schlepping all the way down to the Lower East Side but decided she was more restless than hungry. Nor was she sure she wanted to go traipsing through her old neighborhood, seeing things she might not want to be reminded of.
Instead she took the stairs to the lobby. In the gift shop she popped for an outrageously priced pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She found the gym and worked out for an hour. After a shower she walked down Broadway, finally stopping in front of a kebab house. She'd passed the Italian restaurants knowing she'd want wine with dinner. Sushi was out because of the sake. Pizza because of the beer. But she couldn't associate Afghan food with alcohol, so she ate there. Mixed kebabs with spiced tea were good and after dinner she wandered Times Square back to the hotel.
It was eight thirty, too early to go to bed and still nothing on TV. She read the New York Times with her attention inevitably drifting to the locked minibar, whose key she had wisely declined.
She dropped the paper on the floor and laced her fingers behind her head, staring at the same ceiling that was there earlier. She wondered if Gail was in, imagined she was out dining with friends and colleagues, kicking up her heels in the Big Apple. She was sure the doc wouldn't be in her room staring at the ceiling. She'd be having fun somewhere, and her ability to play was one of the things Frank loved best about Gail. All Frank knew was drinking and working. Playing was something she'd have to learn about.
Not wanting to bother Gail on her cell phone, Frank called the desk to leave her a message. She scanned the room service menu while waiting for a machine to answer. She was surprised when Gail answered.
"Hey. It's Frank. I, uh, I didn't think you'd be in. I was just going to leave you a message."
"Well, here I am. I got in about thirty seconds ago."
"So what do you think about my offer of hot chocolate?"
"I think that'd be lovely."
"Okay, then." Frank couldn't believe Gail had said yes. "Lovely, it is. Uh, how about one?"
"That'd be fine."
"Okay. How about I meet you in the lobby."
"Sure. Where are you?"
"Well, actually I'm on the third floor."
"Here? At the hotel?"
"Yeah. Don't worry, though. I'm not stalking you. I was headed to a Motel Six in Brooklyn and I thought what the hell, why not treat myself? So here I am, about to order a hot fudge sundae from room service." Frank decided to gamble big. "I don't suppose you'd care to join me?"
"You're not playing fair. You keep plying me with chocolate."
"It's my new drug of choice. Better a big bowl of ice cream than a bottle of Scotch."
"What room are you in?" Frank told her and Gail said, "Order one for me, too. I'll be down in five minutes."
"Roger that."
"With extra chocolate."
"Roger again."
CHAPTER 6
Frank opened at Gail's knock and gawked. "You're running around the Crowne Plaza in pajamas?"
Swishing by in flannel pants and a shirt, Gail scoffed, "I have more clothes on than three-quarters of the women in the lobby. And in case you haven't noticed, sleepwear has become street wear. I'm sure I'm very fashionable."
Frank hoisted a brow and closed the door. "Make a cool Post picture. 'LA's Chief Coroner Traipsing Plaza in PJs.'"
"Since when did you become so priggish?"
"Priggish? Me?"
"Yes." Gail giggled. "You."
"Never. Never a prig. Just surprised, is all. Guess I'm self-conscious in such a fancy place."
"Then I suggest you not run around in your pajamas."
"I won't. I don't have any."
"How long are you staying?"
"Just tonight. I'm going home tomorrow. Sit?" Frank perched on one of the chairs at the small table. Gail took the other. "So how'd your speech go last night?"
Gail chuckled. "Oh, God, I was so nervous." In a quivering voice she said, "I sounded like I was driving down a bumpy road. But everyone told me I did a good job so I assume I was at least intelligible."
"I'm sure you were wonderful. Did you present anything else?"
"No. After the opening speech I got to relax and just be an attendee. Thank God."
"What was the best session so far?"
"Probably the one on forensic tox software. God, there's so much technology out there. Applications I couldn't even have dreamed about twenty years ago."
"Oh, yeah? Like what?"
Gail cocked her head and squinted at Frank. "You hate computers. Why do I get the feeling you are oh-so-adroitly deflecting conversation from yourself?"
Guilty as charged, Frank fibbed, "I don't know. Can't a girl be curious?"
"Not you. Not about software applications."
> Frank had to grin. Gail knew her too well.
"My turn. Can I ask what you came here for?"
Stalling, Frank answered, "You mean the hotel or New York?"
"New York."
"Sure. You could ask."
"And would you tell me?"
Frank sighed. "I'd have to. That's what I'm supposed to do to stay sober. Tell the truth. Hide nothing."
"Wow," Gail said, crossing her long legs, tucking her feet under. "I shouldn't think that would be an easy task for you."
"I've had easier. You cold? Want a blanket?"
"No, I'm fine."
"It's probably gonna be a cold fudge sundae by the time it gets here."
"Any fudge is good fudge. And you're fudging."
"Busted," Frank conceded. "All right. Guess we should start from the beginning. I told you my mom was dead, right?"
Gail nodded. "You said she died of heart failure and when I asked from what you got vague on me."
"Sounds like something I'd do." Frank sighed again. Seemed that the truth required extra oxygen. "She died when I was twenty-something. Twenty-three, I think. I came back and took care of all the arrangements but I didn't have a funeral for her, just handled the business of burying her, paid for it and left. Never went to the cemetery where they put her. Never said good-bye. And I ... I figure it's time to do that. I've waited long enough. Time to say good-bye, put an end to her—to us." She shrugged, wondering where the hell room service was.
"Why now, after all this time?"
"It's just one more thing I've been running from all these years. One more thing I don't want to face. And I have to. I have to put all these ghosts to rest if I want to stay sober."
When the knock came Frank jumped so quickly she almost tipped the table over. After holding her eye to the peephole she opened the door. A uniformed man smiled, hefting a tray. Frank watched him place the tray on the table and uncover the sundaes.
"Thank you," Gail gushed.
"You're welcome," the man chirped in a thick accent. Frank put two bucks in his hand as he passed. "Thank you, ma'am."
She closed the door and bolted it. "How is it?"
"Good. But hurry. It's melting."
Frank complied. She buried her spoon into the mound of ice cream as Gail asked, "Why didn't you have a funeral for your mom?"