Illegal

SIXTEEN

Payne had big news for Sharon. He just didn't know how to tell her. Surreptitiously, he watched her attack a double-dipped roast beef sandwich, pausing only to gobble her fries. He always admired his ex-wife for eating like a cop and looking like a volleyball player.

And she was both.

Sharon had a business degree from U.C.L.A., where she'd also played varsity volleyball. After college, she competed in triathlons and learned kickboxing. Payne long suspected she could whip his ass.

The first time he saw her-a dozen years ago- Sharon was digging the ball off the top of the sand at Will Rogers Beach in Santa Monica. Five foot ten barefoot. Bikini briefs and halter top. Long, tanned, muscular legs. Lips with a natural pucker, as if she never stopped whistling.

Payne remembered sucking in his gut, straightening his posture, and watching her until the sun sizzled into the ocean. A two-on-two tournament, all former college varsity players, some on the professional tour. Payne never took his eyes off her. Reddish-brown hair tied in a ponytail, a sprinkle of freckles, an exuberant laugh when she high-fived her partner. Sharon specialized in defense. Blocking, digging, passing, and setting for her partner, who got all the glory for spiking the bejeesus out of the ball while Sharon swallowed mouthfuls of sand.

It said something about her character, he thought. Never seeking the spotlight, always content to be a team player. They started dating, and Payne discovered Sharon was smart, warm, caring, giving, and funny. To this day, he wondered how he had tricked such a terrific woman into loving him.

Sharon sat at a scarred wooden table at Phillipe, a hundred-year-old dive a block from Union Station. The place served up juicy sandwiches, free parking, and, for old times' sake, ten-cent coffee. Paper plates, sawdust floors, and neon beer signs.

No more bikinis. Sharon wore a glen plaid business suit with a shoulder holster underneath. Sensible black pumps. Her legs still had their definition but not much of a tan. She sat with a young woman prosecutor from the D.A.'s office who picked at a boring green salad.

Payne watched Sharon submerge her French dip sandwich into its juice, then take a bite that would not be called "dainty." The sight never failed to arouse him. Back in his single days, Payne concluded that female carnivores were more ferocious in bed, even if they burped occasionally.

Now he sneaked up on her in mid-chew. "Sharon, we gotta talk."

"Atticus!" She swallowed a chunk of beef and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "What are you doing here?"

He glanced around the crowded restaurant. "Can we go outside a second?"

She popped a fry into her mouth, excused herself, and followed him out the door and onto the sidewalk.

"You look great, Sharon." Warming up, trying to figure where to begin. "How's what's-his-name, the Mouth of the Southland?"

"Cullen's fine. Railing about illegals and Simeon Rutledge, but that's nothing new. He's still waiting to hear about a job with Fox."

"I hope they assign him to Mozambique."

"So, why are you here?"

He just blurted it out. "I'm gonna change my life."

"Too little, too late. And too unbelievable."

"I mean it this time. Going someplace where I can get a fresh start."

She studied him a second as a sixteen-wheeler drove by, grinding its gears. "Are you asking me to go along? To hit the road, get a fresh start with you?"

Her questions hung there like a colorful pinata, so he took a whack with his best swing. "It's occurred to me. Change is good, right? And you're stuck in a rut at the Department. So, why not go for some excitement?"

"First, because I love my work. Second, I'm engaged to Cullen."

"Funny, you didn't say you love Cullen."

"Stop it, Jimmy."

"Okay. Okay. I just thought that you and me and Adam-"

"Dammit! You need to get some help, Jimmy. Face the facts."

They were both quiet a moment. Then her face softened. "I'm sorry. You must be hurting. I heard about Judge Rollins."

"Yeah. It stinks."

She gave him a look both tender and compassionate, a queen tossing alms to a beggar. "But Jimmy, it's not like you to run away."

"Leaving first thing tomorrow."

She pursed her already puckered lips, giving the optical illusion that she wanted to be kissed. But as Payne knew, she was processing information. After a moment, she said, "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Maybe let Adam sleep over tonight."

A shudder went through her body, as if an icy wind had chilled her. "Not this again, Jimmy. Please."

"I'm not gonna kidnap him or anything. I'll take him to school tomorrow and-"

She slapped him. Hard. An open palm against the face, a crack as if she'd smacked the volleyball. He staggered a step backward.

"Hey, Detective Payne," a man called out. "Careful, or I'll bust you for assault." Two other men hooted and honked like migrating geese.

The wise guy was Detective Eugene Rigney. A pair of plainclothes buddies with him, heading for the restaurant.

Payne didn't think about what he did next. He just did it. Leapt at Rigney, wrapped both hands around his neck, knocked him back into the restaurant window, the glass shuddering.

Payne heard himself screaming "bastard" and "suckered me" and "nothing left."

"I got nothing left!"

Heard Sharon, too, shouting at him to stop.

Saw the startled look in Rigney's eyes, his hands clawing at Payne's fingers.

Felt sparks flash down his spine, one of the other cops slugging him in the back of the neck. Then a punch to the kidneys that loosened Payne's grip and dropped him to the pavement. Then the hard-shoed kicks. His back. His gut. Inches from his nuts. Cops were great kickers.

He curled into a ball, protecting the family jewels with one hand, his patched leg with the other.

"Stop it!" Sharon shouted, pulling the men off him.

Rigney was coughing and squawking, his voice hoarse. "You fucking loser. If your ex wasn't a cop, I'd toast your ass right here."

"We oughta arrest him," one of his buddies said. "Assaulting an officer."

Sharon got between the men and Payne, who was on all fours, struggling to get to one knee. "Go eat lunch, guys," she told them. "No harm, no foul."

"No harm?" Payne said. "I think I have internal injuries."

"Shut up, Atticus."

Rigney spat on the sidewalk, muttered several multi-syllable words that all seemed to have "mother" in them, then led his pals inside.

Sharon crouched down and cradled Payne's head in her palms. Her hands felt cool to the touch on his blazing cheeks. He thought he might cry.

Jeez, what's wrong with me?

When she spoke, her voice was as sweet as a lover's lament. "Jimmy, I want you to get some help."

"I'll be fine once I piss some blood."

"Not what I'm talking about. You know what I mean."

"What?"

She pulled his face to her chest, his chin resting between her breasts. He could stay here a while. Like forever.

"Oh, Jimmy. Baby…"

Oh, man. How long since she called him that, her voice soft as a feather? How long since her eyes shone like silk, the color of honey?

"Jimmy. Listen to me. You can't see Adam tonight."

"No?"

"Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever."

Pain, hot as lava, boiled through his body. He felt his chest tighten, his stomach knot. He wanted to scream at Sharon to stop.

I don't want to hear this!

"Adam's dead," she breathed into his ear. "He's been dead over a year. A Saturday morning on the P.C.H. You were driving the car."

Payne's head throbbed. Boulders careened down a mountain slope, crashed into one another, shook the ground.

Still cupping his face, she wouldn't let him look away, even as his eyes moistened. "Why torture yourself this way? Why torture me?"

A boulder landed on top of him, crushing his skull, grinding him into dust.

Tears tracked down her face. "Our little boy is gone, Jimmy. It doesn't mean we should forget him. But we can't pretend he's still here. Do you understand?"

A tremble ran through his body.

"Jimmy! Answer me!" Her voice sharpening, a finger poked in his eye.

"I understand."

"Do you? Because it's not enough just to say it."

What is enough?

Nothing he could think of.

He'd visited therapists, studied the motel artwork on their walls, listened to their New Age music, all flutes and zithers. Answered their questions as they tiptoed around the stages of grief. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Blah-blah-blah.

"Do you have suicidal ideations?"

"I have homicidal ideations."

"You want to kill the other driver? The illegal alien."

"Didn't matter he was illegal. He was drunk. And he ran."

Another shrink touted the "healing placidity of Zen." Oddly, the guy had nervous, fluttering hands with nicotine-stained fingernails. He told Jimmy a parable about a man being chased by a tiger. The man leaps off a cliff and grabs a vine. Looking down, he sees another tiger, waiting to devour him. Terrified, the man notices a wild strawberry growing out of the cliff. He swings on the vine and plucks the strawberry from its bush.

"Oh, how sweet it tasted!" the shrink burbled.

"I see the tigers," Payne said. "But where's my fucking strawberry?"

Now Sharon gently ran a hand through his hair. When she spoke, her voice was strained, a dam holding back a flood. "You have to accept our losing Adam. You have to move on, Jimmy. If you don't, you won't make it. You'll die."