Time Bomb Read online

  She stopped, bit her lip, got up, and walked back and forth in front of the bed.

  “About a month after the engagement, he got pulled out of uniform and put on some kind of undercover assignment that he couldn’t talk about. I assumed it was Dope or Vice, or maybe some Internal Affairs thing, but whatever it was, it changed our lives. He’d work nights, sleep days, be gone for a week at a time. The band fell apart. Without him it was nothing. I used the extra time to study, but the other guys got depressed, started drinking more—bad vibes. Mondo started drinking too. And smoking dope, which was something he’d never done before. He grew his hair even longer, stopped shaving, wore ratty clothes, didn’t shower regularly—as if the criminal thing were rubbing off on him. When I ragged him about it, he said it was part of the job—he was just playing a role. But I could tell he was really getting into it, and I wondered if things would ever go back to the way they’d been.

  “Here I was, all of twenty, lonely, scared about what I’d gotten myself into, unable—and unwilling—to go back to Daddy. So I swallowed my pride, put up with whatever Mondo wanted—which really wasn’t much. He was hardly ever around. Then, early in February, he traipsed in, the middle of the night, dirty and smelly, woke me up and announced he was moving out. Something really big, a new assignment—he’d be gone for at least a month, maybe longer. I started crying, tried to get him to tell me what was going on, but he said it was the job, I didn’t need to know—for my sake I shouldn’t know. Then he kissed my cheek—a passionless kiss, as if we were brother and sister—and left. It was the last time I saw him. Two days later he got caught in a dope burn and was gunned down, along with another rookie. The other guy survived but was a vegetable. Mondo was the lucky one—dead before he hit the floor. It was a big screw-up—dealers and junkies, and cops dressed as dealers and junkies, waging war at this dope factory out in the barrio. Four bad guys were killed too. The papers called it a slaughterhouse, made a big deal about how poorly prepared the two of them had been for the assignment. Lambs to the slaughter.”

  She hugged herself, sat down on a corner of the bed, out of reach.

  “After that, I fell apart, crying for days, not eating or sleeping. And there came good old Dad to the rescue, carrying me—literally—back home. Sitting me in the parlor, playing his old seventy-eights and fiddling for his little girl, just like old times. But I couldn’t deal with that, and I got really hostile to him, snappish, fresh-mouthed. In the old days he never would have tolerated it—he’d have taken a switch to me, even at my age. But he just sat there and took it, docile. That scared me. But mostly I was angry. Enraged at life. Insulted by God. And then the question marks started bugging me. Why had Mondo been thrown into something he wasn’t equipped to handle?

  “The funeral made it worse—all those gun salutes and rah-rah speeches about valor. I rode to the grave site in the same car as Mondo’s commander and demanded to know what had happened. The bastard was an old friend of Dad’s, still considered me a child, and he patronized me. But when I showed up at his office the next day and got pushy, he lost patience—just like a father would-—and told me since Mondo and I had never been legally married, just cohabitating, I had no rights to any information or anything else, shouldn’t start thinking I could put in a claim on Mondo’s pension.

  “I went home sobbing. Daddy listened, got all indignant and protective, and told me he’d take care of that S.O.B. Next day, the commander came calling, Whitman’s Sampler tucked under his arm for me, bottle of Wild Turkey for Daddy. All apologetic, calling me Miss Linda and Pretty One—Daddy’s pet name for me when I was little. Sitting in the parlor and going on about how the strain of the tragedy was getting to all of us, what a great guy Mondo had been. Daddy nodding as if he and Mondo had been best friends. Then the commander handed me an envelope. Inside were ten one-hundred-dollar bills—money the other cops had collected for me. Letting me know without saying it that even if I didn’t legally have rights, he was granting them to me. I told him I didn’t want money, just the truth. Then he and Daddy looked at each other and started talking in low, soothing tones about the dangers of the job, how Mondo’d been a true hero. The commander saying Mondo’d been picked for undercover because he was top-notch, had great recommendations. If only there were some way to turn back the clock. Daddy joining in, telling me about all the close call she’d had, how scared and brave Mama had been when she was alive. How I had to be brave, go on and live my life.

  “After a while it started to work. I softened up, thanked the commander for coming. Began to let my feelings out—to grieve. Started to finally be able to lay it to rest. Concentrate on what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Everything seemed to be going as well as could be expected until, about a month later, I got a call from Rudy—one of the other guys in the band—asking me to meet him at a restaurant out in the suburbs near Hill Country. He sounded uptight, wouldn’t tell me what it was about, just that it was important. When I got there he looked terrible—drained, pale. He’d lost a lot of weight. He said he was quitting the Department, moving the hell out of state—to New Mexico or Arizona. I asked him why. He said it was too dangerous sticking around, that after what had been done to Mondo, he’d never trust anyone in the fucking Department. I said what the heck are you talking about. He looked around—he was really jumpy, as if he was scared of being watched. Then he said, ‘I know this will blow you away, Linda, but you were his lady. You’ve got a right to know.” Then he told me he’d found out Mondo hadn’t been pulled off patrol because of his excellent performance. The opposite was true: He had a bad record—demerits for subordination, the long hair, borderline probation, low competence ratings. He’d been given dangerous assignments as a favor to someone.”

  She stopped, touched her gut. “Lord, even after all these years it gets to me.”

  “Your dad.”

  Dull nod. “He and his old buddy, the commander. They set him up, put him in a situation they knew he couldn’t handle. Like throwing a new recruit into the jungle— sooner or later, you know what’s going to happen. Lamb to the slaughter. Damned close to premeditated murder, said Rudy, but nothing anyone could ever prove. Just knowing it put him in jeopardy, which was why he was getting the hell out of town.

  “He left the coffee shop, looking over his shoulder all the while. I drove away at about ninety per—feeling out of my body, numb, like a player in my own nightmare. When I got home Daddy was sitting in the parlor. Fiddling. Grinning. After one look at my face, he put his bow down—he knew. I started screaming at him, hitting him. He reacted very calmly. He said, ‘Pretty One, what’s done is done. No sense fretting.’ I just looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Feeling nauseated, wanting to throw up, but determined he wouldn’t see me weak. I snatched the fiddle out of his hands—an old Czechoslovakian one that he really loved. He’d been buying and trading them for years until he’d found a keeper. He tried to grab it but I was too fast for him. I held it by the peg head and smashed it against the mantelpiece. Kept smashing until it was splinters. Then I ran from that house and never returned. Haven’t spoken to him since, though a couple of years ago we started exchanging Christmas cards again. He’s remarried—one of those men who needs a woman around. Some bimbo from Houston, half his age. She’ll get his pension, and the house I grew up in, and she’ll be the one tending his old bones.”

  She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Cops and guitars.”

  I said, “A long time ago.”

  She shook her head. “Nine years. God. Haven’t had much of a taste for music for a long time—don’t even own a phonograph—and here I am humming to you and playing geisha and I barely know you.”

  Before I could answer, she said, “Haven’t had anything to do with cops, either, till this mess.”

  But I remembered that she’d mentioned being a Ranger’s daughter to Milo. Pushing the door open a crack.

  “Maybe the time’s ripe for change, Linda.”

 
; A tear made its way down her cheek. I moved closer to be able to hold her.

  15

  After a while she got up and said, “There’re some things I have to take care of. Boring stuff—shopping, cleaning. Been putting it off for too long.”

  “What are you planning to do for transportation?”

  “I’ll manage.” Restless. Embarrassed by it.

  I said, “I’ve got some things to take care of too. The glories of the single life.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  We left the bedroom and walked to the front door, not touching. I opened the door and stepped out into the green corridor. Weekend-silent. The mildew smell seemed stronger. Newspapers lay in front of several doors. The headline was something about Afghanistan.

  She said, “Thanks. You’ve been wonderful.”

  I held her chin and kissed her cheek. She gave me her mouth and tongue and gripped me for a moment, then pulled away and said, “Out, before I yank you back in.”

  “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  She smiled, but so briefly it made me wonder if I’d imagined it. “You understand, I just need to...”

  “Breathe?”

  She nodded.

  “Nothing like breathing to liven things up,” I said. “Would asking you out for tomorrow night lower the oxygen level?”

  She laughed and her damp hair shook stiffly. “No.”

  “Then how about tomorrow? Eight P.M. Take in a couple of art galleries, then dinner.”

  “That would be great.”

  We squeezed hands and I left, feeling a curious mixture of melancholy and relief. No doubt she viewed me as Mr. Sensitive. But I was happy to have some breathing space of my own.

  When I got home, I called Milo.

  He said, “How’s she doing?”

  “Coping.”

  “Called you an hour ago. No one home. Must have been an extended consultation.”

  “Gosh, you must be a detective or something.”

  “Hey, I’m happy for you. The two of you are cute together—a regular Ken and Barbie.”

  “Thanks for your blessing, Dad. What’d you learn at Ferguson’s?”

  “Good old Esme? That was fun. She reminded me of the kind of teachers I used to have—more into what lines had to be skipped than what you actually wrote in the composition. Her house had this permanent Lysol smell—made me feel as if I was polluting it just by being there. Porcelain poodles on the hearth, little groupings of miniature doggies in glass cases. But nothing animate. She had me leave my shoes at the door—thank God I’d worn the socks without the holes. But for all the spick and span, she has a nasty little mind. Textbook bigot to boot. First she tested the waters with a few sly comments about the city changing, all those Mexicans and Asians invading, and when I didn’t argue, really got into how the coloreds and the other outsiders have ruined things. Listening to her, the school used to be a regular junior Harvard, chock full of genius white kids. Refined families. Fabulous school spirit, fabulous extracurricular activities. All her star pupils going on to bigger and better things. She showed me a collection of Dear Teacher postcards. The most recent one was ten years old.”

  “What did she have to say about the latest illustrious alumna?”

  “Holly was a very dull student—wholly unmemorable. A strange girl—the whole family was strange. Clannish, unfriendly, no pride of ownership in their house. The fact that no one really knows what Burden Senior does for a living bugs her. She kept asking me about it, didn’t believe me when I told her I had no idea what New Frontiers Tech was all about. This is a lady who mainlines conformity, Alex. Sounds like the Burdens broke too many rules.”

  “Behavioral niggers,” I said.

  He paused. “You always did know how to turn a phrase.”

  “In what way was Holly strange?”

  “Didn’t go to school, didn’t work, rarely left the house except to take walks at night—skulking, Ferguson called it. Said she saw her a few times when she was out trimming her flowers. Holly was skulking along, staring at the sidewalk.”

  “Old Esme trims her flowers at night?”

  “Twice a day. That tell you something about her?”

  “Did Holly always skulk alone?”

  “Far as she knows.”

  “What about the boyfriend?”

  “Sounds as if she was overstating, calling him a boyfriend. Just a colored boy she saw Holly talking to a few times. In old Esme’s world view, that implies fornication, but since we know Holly was a virgin, the two of them might actually have just talked. Or anything in between. Esme said the boy had worked at the local grocery last year but she hadn’t seen him in a while. Bag boy and deliveries. She always felt nervous about letting him into her home—guess why. She didn’t know much about him, just that he was Very Big And Black. But people tend to exaggerate what they’re afraid of, so I wouldn’t put heavy money on ‘big.’”

  I said, “Perceptual vigilance. Learned about it in social psych.”

  “I learned it interviewing eyewitnesses. Anyway, I couldn’t even get a full name out of her. She thought his first name was Isaac or Jacob but wasn’t sure. Something Jewish-sounding. She found it amusing that a colored boy would have a Jewish name. That launched her into an-other what’s-this-world-coming-to speech. I kept waiting for her to segue to faggots, but she just droned on about stupid stuff until I found myself staring at the poodles.”

  “Sounds like a lonely lady.”

  “Three times divorced; men are beasts. She probably talks to the goddam poodles. I finally got out of there and stopped by the grocers—place called Dinwiddie’s—to see if I could learn anything more about the boy, but the store was closed.”

  “Planning on going back?”

  “Eventually.”

  “How about today?”

  “Sure, why not? Not that it’s likely to lead to anything earth-shattering. But Rick’s out doing good works at the Free Clinic. If I stick around I’ll end up doing laundry.”

  Or drinking too much.

  I said, “An hour, lunch on me?”

  “Hour it is. But forget lunch. While we’re at the market I can palm an apple, just like Pat O’Brien walking the beat. Always wanted to do that. Be a real cop.”

  Despite his pessimism, Milo arrived dressed for work: gray suit, white shirt, red tie, note pad in pocket. He directed me to a street named Abundancia Drive, which ran through the center of Ocean Heights and ended at a small town square, built around a treeless circular patch of lawn. A hand-lettered sign—the kind you see in the small parks of Mayfair in London—designated the patch as Ocean Heights Plaza. The grass was bare except for a white Lutyens-style garden bench chain-bolted to the ground next to a NO DOGS, NO BICYCLES warning.

  Ringing the patch were business establishments. The most prominent was a one-story red brick bank done in retro-Colonial, complete with pillars, pediments, and limestone planters brimming with geraniums. The rest of the shops were also red brick. Red brick and gingerbread cute enough for a theme park.

  I found a parking spot in front of a dry cleaner’s. Gold-leaf Gothic lettering was de rigueur for the storefronts. Welcome to the home of mixed metaphors. Fichus trees pruned low and trimmed to look like mushrooms grew from circular metal grilles embedded in the sidewalk, spaced so the plantings fronted every other store.

  The shops were a classic village mix. Haberdasheries for both sexes, each with a soft spot for Ralph Lauren. Ye Olde Gift Emporium and Card Shoppe. Alvin’s Apothecary complete with a stone mortar and pestle over Dutch doors. A medical building that could have passed for Santa’s Workshop. Arno’s Old World Jeweler/Watchmaker. Janeway’s European Bakery. Steuben’s Imported Sausage and Charcuterie. The Ocean Café.

  Dinwiddie’s Fine Grocers and Purveyors was a double-width enterprise with forest-green wainscoting and a cream-colored oval sign over the entry that read EST.. 1961.

  California antiquity.

  The picture window was framed with green molding
and dominated by a straw cornucopia, out of which tumbled a contrived flow of gleaming, oversized produce. More fruit was displayed in wooden crates slathered with old-fashioned painted labels. Each apple, pear, orange, and grapefruit had been polished to a high gloss and was individually cradled in damson-blue crepe.

  “Looks like you picked the right place to palm,” I said.

  Inside, the place was bustling and spotless, cooled by wooden fly fans, serenaded by Muzak. GOURMET FOODS at the front. A liquor section big enough to intoxicate the entire neighborhood. Foodstuffs stacked to the rafters, everything neatly ordered, the wide aisles marked by overhead wooden signs painted that same dark green.

  A pair of green-aproned women worked steadily at antique brass cash registers hooked up to computerized scanners. Three or four shoppers waited in each line. No one talked. Milo walked up to one of the registers and said, “Hi. Where’s the owner?”