The Garden Of Eden And Other Criminal Delights

S mall Miracles

“Small Miracles” was from a best-selling anthology of everyday coincidences that truly seemed directed by divine intervention. My contribution, reprinted here, shows that I’m not only a mama lion when it comes to my children but that I’m also equally protective of my mother, Anne Marder, who’s about five feet tall and tips the scales at 100 pounds after a hearty dinner. This story should have been entitled: “You Mess with My Mom, You Mess with Me.” In all seriousness, this incident taught me a lot about myself.

Unrelentingly logical, I have always been a math-science person. I graduated from high school in 1970 as a math major and went to UCLA, where I received a bachelor of arts in theoretical mathematics in 1974. Then, being a practical sort who aspired to employment, I entered UCLA Dental School and graduated with a doctorate of dental surgery four years later. At that time I fully intended to pursue a career as a dentist. One doesn’t usually attend dental school for self-actualization.

That was twenty-two years ago. And during those past twenty-two years, I’ve never picked up a drill-euphemistically known as a handpiece-nor have I scraped a single tartar-coated tooth. Instead, I am now a writer of detective fiction, choosing to explore the human condition instead of oral hygiene.

I couldn’t pinpoint the metamorphosis, but I am glad it worked out that way. I could list several factors that steered me toward mystery writing-a desire for justice, a suspicious nature, an overactive imagination, and, of course, a penchant for the bizarre. All of the above can be summed up by what transpired the day I nabbed a mugger.

On that particular morning, my then-four-year-old son-now a strapping lad of eighteen-had chosen to come down with a high fever and a burning sore throat. I suspected strep throat. My mother was at the house, lending a comforting hand while caring for my year-old daughter, Rachel. Rather than drag the entire crew to the pediatrician, I suggested that my mother take a walk with the baby to the corner bakery while I ran my preschooler to the doctor’s. It was a fine L.A. day-sunny but not too hot. Yes, I thought, a walk would be refreshing for both Grandma and baby. Not to mention the fact that the softhearted bakery lady was always good for a couple of extra cookies for my tyke.

Grandma, baby, and stroller left first. I followed a few minutes later, and I could see them easily about a half-block up. As I pulled out of my driveway, I noticed a car near them but on the opposite side… slowing… then stopping. A young man got out of the front passenger’s seat and started walking. And walking. And walking. Across the street from my mother and daughter, about twenty feet behind them.

But keeping pace with them.

I straightened the wheel of my automobile and shifted into drive. The car up the street was still there… creeping by… slowly.

And the man kept walking. Still across the way from my mother and child, still keeping pace.

That is odd, I thought. When I let someone out of the car, that person usually goes into a house. He doesn’t keep walking for a block or two.

I’m being paranoid, I decided. Nevertheless, this was my daughter, this was my mother. I drove down the street, pointedly behind the creeping car. And then it drove away.

Just like that.

And I felt a little better.

Meanwhile, the man across the street kept strolling aimlessly, not doing anything suspicious. I waved to my mom and she waved back. Then I drove off.

But something nagged at my gut.

I turned the corner, made a series of right turns, and circled around the block. Then I caught up with my mother, who was blithely ambling in the sunshine. Again we exchanged waves, although she did have a puzzled look on her face. It said, Why did you come back?

And the man across the street continued to keep pace with my mother.

Too much TV, I chided myself.

To o many detective novels.

I drove off. One block, then another.

But this was my daughter, this was my mother.

Again I retraced my route.

By the time I returned, my mother was down on her knees, her hand gripping her head. The stroller had been tipped over. My heart raced as I pulled over, screaming, “Are you all right?”

“He took my purse,” she shouted hysterically. Frantically, she pointed around the corner.

Again I asked if she was all right. Was the baby all right?

Yes, my mother answered. Despite the fact that she had two scraped knees from her fall, she was fine.

Anger coursed through my body. This was my baby, this was my mother!

With my son firmly ensconced in his car seat, I gave chase. Admittedly, not the brightest decision I’ve made. But I reacted rather than considered.

The French Connection it wasn’t. I was in a car and he was on foot, so I caught up rather handily. Leaning on the horn, I rolled down the window and screamed at the top of my lungs, “Drop the purse, you son of a bitch!”

“Son of a bitch!” my son imitated from the backseat.

But the sucker kept running. In retrospect, I think it was more in fear than in obstinacy. He pumped his legs hard and fast, racing with the wind. Chariots of Felony. But even Jesse Owens wouldn’t have had a chance against a V-8 engine. I kept honking the horn, shrieking at him to drop the goddamn purse.

“Goddamn purse,” my son aped.

Up ahead was a pedestrian. Two of them. I don’t remember much about them. Except that they were male and one of them was wearing a yellow plaid sport coat. I don’t know why that particular fact registered, but it did. And it was the one in the plaid coat who pulled out the gun… pointed it at the runner, and yelled, “Freeze!”

And the man froze.

Just like in the movies.

I jerked the car into a driveway, not really understanding what was going on.

Plaid Coat instructed the runner to drop the purse. “Drop it,” he shouted. “Drop it, drop it, drop it!”

The runner had that deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. He dropped the purse.

Plaid Coat told him to hit the ground.

Just like in the movies.

I bounded out of the car, spoke to Plaid Coat. I pointed to the runner, pointed to my mother’s stolen handbag, and angrily said, “That’s not his purse!”

Neighbors began filing out, offering to call the police. Which was kind of redundant.

Because Plaid Coat turned out to be an off-duty policeman who had been visiting his father, heard me leaning on the horn, and came out to investigate.

Now he took off his belt and began to secure the suspect. At that point I went back to my mother. She was upright and so was the stroller. I pulled the car over, loaded them both inside. Her palms were sore, her pants were ripped at the knees. But, as promised, both she and my baby were all right.

“He took my purse!” my mother sobbed.

“We caught him, Ma,” I said.

“You what?”

“We caught him. We have your purse!”

“Oh. That’s good,” my mother answered. “That’s very good.”

“Very good,” my son coughed from the backseat.

We returned to the scene of the crime, now thick with patrol cars. I explained my story as I held my baby, and my mother explained her story from inside my car. The uniformed police officers were amazed.

“We never catch these guys,” one of them told me.

My mother was required to come down to the station to claim the purse. It would be there waiting for her. The police needed only a couple of hours to process the paperwork.

“She can’t just take it now?” I asked. “Save us both a trip?”

“Nope. Evidence.”

“Fine,” I said.

They congratulated me. I took my mother and baby home. We were all pretty shaken, but life does go on.

I loaded my son back into his car seat and zipped him over to the pediatrician. A good move on my part.

Indeed, it was strep throat.