Bad Intent

Chapter 24

The Shortstop is a bar out on Sunset Boulevard in Echo Park, just below Dodger Stadium. The owners aimed for a baseball motif, but because the police academy sits at the edge of the stadium parking lot, it is the off-duty cop crowd that has given the place its character and rowdy reputation.

There was a big crowd spilling out onto Sunset, about half of them women in short Spandex or tight jeans. Wherever there are police, there are women looking for them. Mike says the uniform is the turn-on. I say it’s availability.

The closest parking place was two blocks away. It was a crappy neighborhood by day, scary as hell by night, with or without police nearby. I locked my bag in the trunk and slipped my keys into my jeans pocket. I wished, just fleetingly, for the little automatic Mike had forced on me a few nights before. I had to settle for walking with a purpose.

I was propositioned, as a matter of form, by a young hunk who was sitting on the curb heaving into the storm drain. I thanked him for the offer and walked on.

A couple of parked cars rocked to the rhythm of backseat love, and one pair of outdoorsy lovers were going at it in the recessed doorway of a closed dry-cleaning shop. They were doing a lot of heavy-duty verbalizing that bespoke the man’s failure to give the situation a firm approach. I thought he was compensating with some creative alternatives to the old in and out, but she did not seem impressed.

The bar was smoky and dark and vibrated with a country plaint from the jukebox. I couldn’t find Mike at first. A few bobbers and weavers standing at the bar inside the door made perfunctory come-ons. I wondered if they were the appointed greeters or just the outgoing type. When I asked for Mike, I got nowhere with them.

The bartender was a big man who kept a sharp eye on things, a retired cop. I had heard that police brass and city fathers had come down hard on him a few times after noisy brawls made the Metro page in the Times. He worked hard to overcome the bar’s bad reputation. All over the paneled walls he had hung signed, framed glossies of substantial types from Tommy LaSorda to former police chief Daryl Gates.

The bartender asked if I wanted a drink and when I told him I only wanted to find Mike Flint, he made himself scarce.

I went through to the first room, small tables and a few chairs, a lot of standing room and all of it filled-men and women in about equal numbers. The smell of liquor, perfume, people in close quarters on a hot night, could have been bottled and sold under the label “Lookin’ for Love.”

I was looking for Mike. And I hadn’t found him.

There was a second room in the back, on the far side of the bank of lockers the management gave to women customers for their purses. I had to wedge my way through the passageway, dodging hands that grabbed my rear, smiling off lines that represented damn good effort and years of practice. I appreciated the effort. I appreciated the attention. But all I wanted to do was find Mike and get the hell out.

The back room was as full as the first, noisier and smokier because it was smaller. There was a pool table in the middle of the room, but there wasn’t enough available space for anyone to play. I recognized Mike’s group off in the far corner by their grubby work clothes, and began making my way back toward them.

Finally, I saw Mike. He was sitting on the banquette at the far side, talking with a cluster of maybe half a dozen of the guys. I knew that he had been drinking, knew that drink explained why he found all the jokes so funny. Drink probably also explained the sweet young thing sitting on his lap.

Mike has a soft spot for chicanas, especially chicanas in short, flippy skirts. He says they have an assertive way about them that he likes. The one on his lap was being assertive about nuzzling my favorite soft spot on his neck. His focus, blurred as it was, seemed to be the guy gang and he was holding her as a matter of form, to keep her from falling onto the floor. Holding her like a habit.

Once again, I wished for the automatic he had locked away in the closet.

I heard my name pass through the crowd, and then I lost sight of Mike because everyone stood up and faced me. I was grabbed from behind and boosted up onto the pool table. I was confused at first, thinking these were ridiculous lengths to go to protect a brother officer from being caught dirty. When I had regained my balance and was standing on the table, I saw Mike’s face beaming up at me as he joined the others in applause. The little dear was still clinging to him, more like a fungus than a friend.

Someone yelled, “Speech,” and I finally realized that this was an accolade because of the news broadcast. As the vanquisher of a common enemy, I made a deep bow. Then I climbed down and went over to Mike.

Through the din, I yelled, “Who’s your friend?”

“Olga,” he beamed, and patted the arm wrapped around his middle. “Olga, meet the love of my life.”

Olga hissed.

Hector was at my elbow. I smelled beer on him and his eyes had the same dreamy glaze that Mike’s had.

“It was great what you did, Maggie.” Hector pulled me into an embrace and planted a sloppy kiss on me. He was weaving. I knew that if I let go of him he would fall on his face.

I caught a glimpse of Mike watching us. His eyes had cleared. Actually, they flashed. Elaborately, I paid no attention to him, or to the female attached to him. He reached through the mob to put a hand on Hector’s shoulder.

Gazing up into Hector’s face, I said, “What’s with Mike? He looks cranky.”

“I don’t know what it is. Ever since I fucked Charlene we haven’t been really close.”

That was the first time in my life I wished I was as drunk as everyone else.

“He doesn’t blame me,” Hector was saying. “Not like it’s my fault. She came on to me. She’s so-o beautiful, what’s a poor sucker to do?”

I disentangled myself and propped Hector on the broad shoulders next to us. Mike was weaving some himself. Olga seemed to be getting mad that she had lost his attention. When I smiled at her she mouthed, “Bitch.” To Mike she snapped, “You said you wasn’t married,” and flounced off to try her luck elsewhere.

When Mike listed precariously to the left, I righted him. I said, “Ready to go home?”

“That was one hell of a piece of work you did.” His words slurred. “We watched it three times. Three times all the way through.”

“Good thing it only lasted a minute,” I said, taking his arm. “You smell like una noche de amor, amigo. Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

He draped an arm around my shoulders and let me forge the path of least resistance through the standing crowd. Besides beer and cigarette smoke and sweet young thing, he smelled like a hard day’s work. I liked it.

The fresh air outside made him reel. I hadn’t a clue where his car might be, so we headed toward mine. I said, “If you’re going to throw up, I’d rather you do it here than in my car.”

“Me?” Shocked offense. “You think I’m drunk?”

“I hope you are,” I said.

“You’re pissed about Olga.”

“No.”

“Damn.” He seemed dejected. “It would be easier if you were pissed. Go ahead and yell at me. I’ll feel better.”

“What’s the point? You’re so drunk, in the morning you won’t remember anything I said. Like yelling at an amnesiac. Why waste the effort?”

We passed a new set of lovers in the dry cleaner’s doorway. He said, “How can I make it up to you?”

“Make love to me right here, right now.”

His step faltered as he thought over the proposition. Then he stopped, appealed to me with tears in his eyes. “Sorry, baby. I don’t think I can.”

“Exactly,” I said.

I woke up early Saturday morning, sorted my arms and legs from Mike’s, and took the cotton out of my ears-he’s a ferocious snorer when he drinks. The air conditioner had been set too low and I felt a little chilled. The chill disinclined me from swimming laps, so I slipped into running things and headed down the hill toward Ventura Boulevard.

Some fog had drifted into the Valley, a cool, moist, gray in- fusion into the rising heat. For the first mile, I ran stiff and heavy-footed. But I found my stride at about mile two and ran easily among the residential streets north of the boulevard, falling into place among the mass of weekend runners.

Because I didn’t know the area, hadn’t clocked the streets, I couldn’t set a distance goal. Instead, I timed myself. If I didn’t get lost, I figured to arrive home at just about the same time the coffee was set to be ready.

I didn’t push myself, so I beat both the paper boy and Mr. Espresso by about two minutes. I was listening to telephone messages from the day before when I heard the paper thunk against the garage door.

I paused the answering machine, bored with it. In one way or another, every caller had offered me something: a job, an interview, sudden painful death. I had been through it all before and wanted none of it.

It was nice to have the house to myself for a while. Even Bowser was gone-Mike left him locked happily into the yard at the South Pasadena house, with food and water, he promised. I traded my hot running shoes for the ratty moccasins Mike keeps by the back door and slogged out for the paper.

Maggie MacGowen had made page one, part one, column right. I spread the paper open on the kitchen table and glanced at the lead paragraph while I heated some milk with the little steam chingow on the espresso maker, made myself a big cup of caf6 au lait. When I sat down, I was ready to concentrate.

The “dark and stormy night” school of journalism is very tiresome. I wanted straight news. What I got was a clumsy metaphor using the heated-up weather to define the heated up D.A.‘s race, and then Maggie MacGowen came and threw a cold bucket on the leader, Baron Marovich. I managed to sort out the essentials.

Reached in his downtown office late last night, according to the reporter, Marovich denied every allegation of creating a reverse Willie Horton in order to get attention for his campaign.

He labeled me an example of media gone amok, a dangerous propagandist and dirty-trickster, tried to tuck me into his opponent’s camp. I had to read ahead to get his opponent’s name, because it had slipped my memory.

The story continued on page twenty-three, half a column giving a, synopsis of Marovich’s campaign history and some of the unfair-campaign-practices charges filed against him over the years.

Overall, the coverage was okay-I knew it would send Marovich into the stratosphere-but the best part was a little sidebar, a short, related bit of information set off within an attractive gray border. The headline was: “When Career Criminals Go Free.” The story gave details of a few of the more horrific crimes committed by convicts after they were released from prison on legal technicalities. Charles Conklin was not mentioned anywhere in the sidebar.

I called Guido, woke him up, gloated with him about the story. He was happy, though I thought he wasn’t as chatty as usual. He didn’t prolong the conversation beyond the essentials. I also thought I heard someone else in his bedroom.

There were some muffins in the freezer. I put one in the microwave, made a second cup of coffee with milk, and was halfway through it when Mike made his stumbling entrance.

By the time we got home the night before, Mike had been at the point of crashing. It had been difficult enough to get him from the car and into the bed. Beyond taking off his belt and shoes, I hadn’t bothered wrestling off his clothes. Still wearing his dirty work clothes, unshaven for the second day, face puffy, eyes red-rimmed, he was a charming sight.

He shuffled the last few steps to the kitchen table, aimed a shaky hand, and grasped my coffee cup. After he finished it in one long swallow, he shuddered. Then he looked at me.

“Wha’ happen?” he said.

“Olga,” I said.

“Oh, yeah.” He sat down and raised the empty cup to me for a refill. “Have mercy. I haven’t had that much to drink in years. Never again,” he moaned. “I’m too old.”

“It happens to us all, big guy.”

“How come you’re not mad?” He frowned at me. “Don’t you love me?”

“It’s not your fault women keep falling into your lap. I understand the attraction.”

“Uh huh.” He looked at me askance, suspicious.

“Hector explained all that to me last night. A woman offers herself, what’s a poor sucker to do?”

“Oh my God.” He had color in his grizzled cheeks again. “He told you about Charlene?”

“Not in detail. She threw herself at him. He’s a gentleman, he had to catch her. Is that how it went?”

“More or less. She was pissed at me for taking Michael’s scout troop camping when she had some kind of gallery opening. Old Hector didn’t know what hit him.”

“You didn’t hit him?”

“Nah.” The tough guy was making a comeback. “Like you said, it wasn’t his fault.”

I slid the paper in front of him. “Our story made the front page.”

He looked at it dumbly, eyes not working in concert. “I need my glasses. Read it to me.”

“It’ll keep,” I said. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m getting there.”

I poured him about half a quart of juice and started frying eggs. Normally, Mike takes great care of himself, runs, watches what he eats. But that morning he was completely out of the loop. He ate four eggs, hashbrowns, a stack of toast, and a whole grapefruit. I don’t know where he put it, but it seemed to start the juices flowing again. When he finally crossed his fork and his knife on the edge of his plate, he looked like a potential survivor.

“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, rubbing his chest, smiling up at me. “What’s the plan today?”

“The plan is no plan. I’ve hardly seen you all week. Can we just hang together for a while? You know, like a date?”

“Sounds good.”

“I’m going to take a shower.” I dumped my coffee dregs into the sink. “Would you do one favor for me? Would you listen to the phone messages and see what you think about them?”

“What I think about them?”

“Couple of them sound like serious death threats.”