California Girl

8

NICK FOUND CASEY VONN at Foothill Rents. Sundays were busy, men bringing back Rototillers and lawn seed broadcasters and backhoes. Casey was in the yard wrestling a trencher back into place. Dirty T-shirt, cutoff sleeves. Oily jeans with a knife on his belt, muscles and tattoos.

Nick had seen him around, mostly on a black Harley hog ripping up and down the Tustin streets like he’d just held up a bank. Big ears and a thatch of black hair.

The warrant check had Casey with drunk in public and an assault that got him ninety days in County. The assault was a while back, just after Nick made patrol. But he remembered it had to do with Casey’s motorcycle gang, the Hessians, and Casey had put the guy in the hospital. It figured.

“Hey, Casey Vonn,” Nick said, crunching across the oil-stained gravel. He came from the sunshine into the shade of a big metal port.

Casey didn’t look at him. Just rammed the heavy trencher forward. Then yanked it backward, lining it up straight.

“Still a little crooked,” said Nick.

Casey picked a big crescent wrench off the table, flinched, and Nick saw the wrench flying at his face. Turned and took it high on his shoulder. In a flash Casey was over the back fence, running alongside the flood control channel. Nick got over the chain link easy and hit the ground running. Saw Casey up ahead in his clunky boots, figured he’d catch him in less than thirty seconds. Thought: knife. Nick had run down plenty of creeps in the last seven years and it was one of his favorite things about the job, kind of like being on the football field for the Tillers, knowing you had a step on everyone. Or a couple of steps. What a good feeling, to close the distance, see the guy in front of you look back and his eyes get big. Then take him down according to what he’d tried to do to you. This big-eared sisterfucker Hessian with a crescent-wrench greeting card, he was going down hard.

Nick took him low, ramming his shoulder into the small of Casey Vonn’s back. Nick held on tight while they fell, then he let go and scrambled quick to get a handful of Casey’s black hair and his.45 against the back of Casey’s head. When Casey was compliant Nick reached down, flipped open the knife case, and tossed the heavy weapon into a green tumbleweed.

“You’re slow as shit, Casey.”

“You’re the goddamned football star.”

“Get your hands behind your back.”

Casey was breathing hard and fast. His cigarette box had come out of his pocket and gotten torn up in the fall. There was a trail of broken up smokes and shredded tobacco.

Nick watched Casey’s skinned, bloody, grease-stained hands cross submissively on his back. He got the cuffs tight but not too tight, then stood. For a second, looking down, he saw two of Casey. Felt his balance go out of whack for just a second. Ever since the rumble and the branch they used on him.

“You could have hurt me with that wrench, Casey.”

“It got your attention.”

“Janelle is what got my attention.”

“What about her?”

“She told us everything you and Lenny did. She’s got a black eye to prove it. You’re looking at serious charges, so there’s no use bullshitting me.”

“I never did nothing to her and I’m never changing that story. You do what you want, pig.”

“I hate that word for cops.”

“What charges?”

“I know guys who’d kick your teeth out right now,” said Nick. He looked down at Casey. Too easy.

Casey didn’t say anything right away. Just lay with his face in the dirt getting his breath back now. “What charges, Becker?”

“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

“I never did nothing to her. Whatever she said she’s lying. Fuckin’ girl drinks, you know? I’ve seen her put away half a bottle of schnapps, no problem. Lies all the time. Do anything for money.”

Nick put both hands on one of Vonn’s shoulders, rolled him over, and sat him up. Cuts on his cheek and lower lip, nothing serious. Casey sat cross-legged and hunched.

“Maybe we can work a deal,” said Nick.

“I’m listening.”

“You tell me everything you and Lenny and Janelle used to do, and I’ll make sure you don’t get charged for any of it.”

Sirens wailed and Nick thought the timing was great. Stupid confusion crossed Casey’s face. Nick could tell he was guilty just by the set of his lips.

“Most of it’s probably not a crime anyhow,” Nick said. He surprised himself with the idea. Then went with it. “It’s never been a crime to touch your brother or sister. It’s just everyday brother and sister stuff. I know. I got little sisters, too.”

Vonn eyed him. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s just touching, is what I’m talking about. Tell me about the Foot Tickle, Casey. And the Leg Tickle and the Bun Bunny and the Front Bunny.”

“Those are all lies.”

“I told you it’s no big deal. It’s not even a crime.”

“Then why’d you chase me down?”

“And after that, I want to know about the black eye and the dope.”

“What dope?”

Sirens louder now. More good timing, Nick thought.

“The reds, Casey. Don’t tell me you didn’t give her the reds.”

“Wasn’t me,” he said quietly, looking down at the dirt.

“Lenny?”

Casey spit. “Ask Lenny about Lenny.”

“I already did and he said you gave Janelle the reds. And Janelle said you gave her the reds. Lots of fingers pointed at you, my friend.”

“They’re fuckin’ liars, man.”

“That’s why I chased you down, Casey. That’s how bad I wanted somebody to tell the truth. So just start off with that kid stuff, the Bun Bunny and all that. Just start with one thing and then go to the next.”

“What if I don’t? What if I just get my lawyer?”

“That’s fine, but I’ve got to arrest you before they’ll appoint one. And lawyers are for creeps like Lenny. So suit yourself.”

Two uniforms came jangling down the flood canal road but Nick told them to wait back by the rental yard.

For the next half hour Nick listened and asked questions. He almost brought out his notepad and pen but he figured that would be enough to spook Casey Vonn back into the slime he came from.

When Nick was sure he had enough he got the knife from the tumbleweed and put it in his pocket. Walked Casey back toward the rental yard. Nick switched the cuffs to the front and the deputies helped him get Casey over the fence.

Nick told Casey to sit in the back of his unmarked and he’d get him a cigarette. He told the rental yard customers gathered around the car to beat it and they did.

When he’d finished lighting one of his smokes for Vonn, he told him he was under arrest for statutory rape, assault, and narcotics violations.

“You behave yourself, I’ll forget about the wrench,” he said.

“You said the tickle and bunny stuff isn’t a crime because she’s family.”

“Let’s ask a jury.”

“You never said nothing about a jury.”

AN HOUR LATER Nick and two deputies arrested Lenny at his home out in Modjeska Canyon. Took all three of them to pry Lenny out of the bathtub. Skinny as a scorpion and he smelled bad and his eyes had a terrible wattage in them. In the garage Lenny had a nice chopped Harley Panhead with a Fat Bob gas tank done up in flame orange and red. And maybe ten thousand little white pills that looked and smelled like Benzedrine hidden down in some old fishing gear under the workbench.

ON HIS WAY home that evening Nick stopped off at Millie’s for a couple of drinks. He liked the quiet before returning to the happy, deafening chaos of the Becker family. Willie was almost three. Katherine one and a half. Stevie two months. Katy was big and beautiful and often exhausted.

He opened the door to find Willie screaming and chasing Katherine around the living room. Katherine wailed happily. Katy right behind them hollering for them to be quiet while the baby in her arms screamed in sheer excitement.

Nick reached down and ran his hand through Katherine’s hair. He hugged Willie against his leg, brushed his hip holster to make sure Willie didn’t have a hand on it again. Leaned into a kiss from Katy.

“How’d it go?” asked Katy.

“Popped ’em both.”

“My hero!”

“My hero!” screamed Willie.

“My hero!” screamed Katherine.

The baby wailed and kicked.

“It’s nice to be home,” Nick said.

“Got our Sunday-”

“MY HERO!”

“MY HERO!”

“WILLIE AND KATHERINE, BE QUIET! I’VE GOT THE SUNDAY PORK CHOPS ABOUT READY, HONEY! THE PORK CHOPS ARE ALMOST READY!”

She was flushed and pretty. A couple of vodka tonics into the evening, thought Nick. He liked her that way. Loose and easy and a little goofy. She’d gained a fair amount of weight after three children but Nick liked that, too. Her flesh was firm and cool and it always smelled sweet.

AFTER PORK CHOPS they watched Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color in black and white. Nick wondered when the new color sets would get down into the three-hundred range so they could afford one. Five hundred bucks would get you a nice RCA Victor with Vista Color, but they didn’t have that kind of money.

They put the children to bed and Nick made fresh drinks and brought Katy one in the small bathroom where she was brushing her straight blond hair. Nick left the bathroom door cracked, lay on the bed, and watched her. He liked to see this, liked the way the just-combed hair stood out before settling back into place. Katy had on her slinky floral night slip, didn’t cover much. A loose robe over it. She sat on the counter with her head turned slightly toward the medicine chest mirror, one leg crossed over the other, one foot on the floor flexed to keep her balance.

Nick watched her turn off the light and come toward him. He felt surrounded by complex and contradictory emotions, like bats at dusk, swooping down from different directions.

She got under the covers and turned her back to him. “I’m tired tonight, honey. Is that okay?”

“Sure. I understand.”

“You, too?” she asked.

“Not tired, really. Lend a guy a helping hand?”

“I really am tired, Nick. Why don’t you believe me?”

“I do. I know how it is all day with the monsters.”

“Rain check?”

“Rain check.”

“I love you, Nick.”

“I love you.”

He kissed the back of her head and flipped on the reading light. Picked up an Ian Fleming paperback. Bond got laid every night or so. Nick got laid-had last gotten genuinely laid-thirty-four nights ago. Before that, twenty-eight. A hand job here and there. Nick suspected there was something out of whack with this, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you just talked about. Before the children, a whole different story. It had gone out the window when Willie was born and never come back.

Better to just not think about it. Bond wouldn’t let him not think about it. Bond pissed him off.

Last night he’d had another dream about the secretary in the district attorney’s office. Sharon. Second time in a month. In the dreams he always said something funny to her. In real life he’d never said a word to her except for a hi or two.

He offed the light and got into his robe and slippers. Sat in the rocker in Steven’s room and watched the baby sleep awhile. Liked the smells in here. Wondered what an eight-week-old human being dreamed about. Wondered how Clay was doing over there in the jungle. Just one letter, four months back. An advisor. Nick got up and made another drink.

Out in the garage were two of Nick’s favorite things. One was a wooden cabinet he had built. It was eight feet high, with double doors and shelves that slid out on ball-bearing runners. He’d painted it red to match one of his other favorite things, their Ford Country Squire station wagon with the wood-look siding. The family called the big cabinet the Odd Box and the wagon they called the Red Rocket. The car was red outside and red inside, too, with red vinyl seats and plenty of chrome on the dash. Nick kept the car inside against the weather and the box locked against the children, though the things inside it were essentially valueless.

He dialed open the padlock and swung out the Odd Box doors. The lower shelves held the dirt collection and the older things. The higher the shelf, the more recent. The top three shelves were still empty.

He glanced at the bottles of dirt from important places. The grave he and his brothers had dug for Jake the collie. The lake where he’d caught his first fish. Soil from Northrup Field, where he’d scored his first touchdown. From Prentice Park, where Katy first told him she loved him. Maui beach sand from their honeymoon. Earth from the Sheriff’s Academy range. Soil from the hospital grounds where his children were born. Each bottle was labeled with the date and the location.

And oddities: the toy panda he’d gotten for his second birthday and treasured well into third grade. The first baseball mitt his father had given him, old and shapeless and dark with oil. A pastel drawing he’d won a magazine contest with. A luminous dial pocket watch he’d gotten one year for Christmas. A hummingbird’s nest. Fossilized branches he’d smuggled out of the Petrified Forest in Arizona.

And so on. Up through his marriage and his children and his Sheriff’s Academy training and his career.

Nick pulled out the shelves one at a time, looking them over for nothing in particular. Just getting the feel of time passing. Of his life going by. A rock from near the Mercury 1 liftoff. Cool, big daddy. He’d been collecting things longer than he could remember. His mother said she’d never know what his pockets would be full of by the end of the day. She found a baby king snake in his pocket once. A field mouse. A cherry bomb. A handful of live ammunition he’d found out in one of the groves when he was five. Pack of cards with pictures of naked women on them-another orange grove treasure. Nick could never pass up a good souvenir.

He closed up the cabinet, spun the lock dial, and pulled on it once.

Back inside he sat in the living room a minute, listened to the sounds of the house. The Hotpoint was noisy but it sure froze those ice cubes in a hurry. He moved the drapes and looked outside to the houses across from theirs, the driveways and the sidewalks and the streetlights dampened by a light autumn fog. Grape stake fences. Trash cans at the curb. A white Country Squire station wagon and a blue Kingswood Estate and a brown Vista Cruiser and a yellow Colony Park and two green Mercury Commuters. Backboards and hoops above the garage doors. Kitchen lights on at the Fortners’. Off at the Sloans’. Kids in their rooms with baseball cards and Beatles cards and dolls and plastic dinosaurs. Or, one town over, two brothers molesting their sister, mom a suicide and dad not home. Poor girl drugged to the gills, trying to forget about it. Bright girl. Pretty. Dimples. Goddamned tutu and a guitar. A real shame. Nothing will happen to her tonight, anyway. Maybe I did some good.