Authors: Ron Renauld
“I’m just finishing up, Aunt Stella,” he called out to her.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” she demanded from the other room, still out of view.
“I was starving,” Eric said, throwing a green bean into his mouth and talking as he chewed on it. “I didn’t want to wake you from your beauty nap. Or should I say hibernation?”
“Don’t sass me, young man!” Aunt Stella taunted between grunts as she worked her way into the wheelchair.
“Yours will be ready in just a minute,” Eric said, scooping the potato chunks into a mixing bowl and then adding milk and butter before mashing them together. He had two plates set out on the counter. He filled one with the food, then took the filled plate and proceeded to empty it onto the other.
As Aunt Stella wheeled into the kitchen, Eric was taking an imaginary last bite off the plate he had just dirtied.
“I’m sorry I was so curt with you this morning,” Aunt Stella said stiffly.
“Yeah, I know,” Eric told her. “You’re always sorry. You’ll give me the same lecture next week and you’ll be sorry then, too.”
“Well, if that’s the way you feel, maybe I should take it back,” she said.
“Suit yourself,” Eric said indifferently, rinsing his plate off in the sink and then setting it in the dishwasher. He took his aunt’s plate and set it down at her place at the table.
“What are those?” she said, pointing a finger at her plate.
“Mashed potatoes,” Eric said, “What do you think?”
“Mashed potatoes,” Aunt Stella repeated icily. “Eric, how many times have I told you that when you boil a potato and then mash it, all you’re eating is carbohydrates. All the nutrients, everything good gets thrown out with the water. How many times do I have to—”
“Look,” Eric explained to her heatedly, “I put the damn things on to bake and they didn’t bake on time. If I would have waited until they were done, then all the nutrients would have boiled out of the vegetables, and all the nutrients would have boiled out of the corn and you would have been in just one hell of a mess, wouldn’t you?”
“Why don’t you time things correctly when you cook them, then, Eric,” Aunt Stella retorted.
“Why don’t you cook your own supper, Aunt Stella!”
She began to shake with rage, running her hands across the numb legs hiding beneath the folds of her bathrobe, as if no other explanation were needed.
“Jesus,” Eric muttered. “Look, I tell you what . . .”
He took the saucepan he had boiled the potatoes in and poured the hot, brownish water into a clear drinking glass, setting it before Aunt Stella in front of her plate.
“There. Your nutrients. Anything else?”
“Get out of here and let me eat in peace!” Aunt Stella ranted.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Eric said, picking up his notebook and going back upstairs to his room. It was almost time for the Sunday night movie on Channel Three.
How to Marry a Millionaire.
More Marilyn.
CHAPTER •
5
Jerry Moriarty slowed down his pace as he pedaled his way down Main Street. The sidewalks seemed filled with off-duty mannequins on their way to work, dressed in the height of high fashion, Cover Girl faces aglow with health and a promiscuous vitality. A few glances were cast his way, coy looks and winking eyes, accented with coquettish smiles. He grinned back at them all, nodding his head approvingly.
This was definitely the route to take.
He was on a ten-speed, some Italian import that supposedly balanced out even on the scales with the weight of a toaster. He wore only tennis shoes and a pair of white golf shorts that contrasted sharply with his deep tan. He was lean but muscular, especially in the legs. Getting around Los Angeles strictly by bicycle had a way of keeping one either in shape or in the hospital. He wore a knapsack slung over his shoulders and had an attaché case strapped to the carrier rack over his rear fender. Around his waist was a thick-linked chain threaded through an old inner tube, connected at the end links by a heavy-duty lock that bounced up and down off the front of his pants as he rode. He was in his mid-thirties, his hair stylishly cut, a thick moustache reaching out like hairy arms holding up his cheeks. He had the look of someone who didn’t follow trends so much as exploit them in his best interests.
At Market Street he turned and rode to Pacific Avenue, taking that south and riding parallel to the Grand Canal feeding what was left of the waterways fashioned after those of Venice’s Italian namesake. Reaching Washington Street, he turned the corner and crossed over the canal. Several blocks down he pulled up onto the sidewalk and chained his bike to the rack in front of the Venice precinct police station.
It was an old building, but gleaming white with a fresh coat of paint. It looked like a restored monument to the heyday of Los Angeles architecture, boasting a futuristic look from the time of Fritz Lang. Set back from the street, it was surrounded by a well-groomed lawn. The station was situated between the Venice canals and their larger counterparts, the wide aquatic fingers branching off from Chace Harbor in Marina del Rcy.
Inside, the building’s renovation was only partially completed. A seamline in the ceiling marked the former location of a knocked-out wall and divided the station into new and old wings like either side of the proverbial tracks.
Moriarty could smell fresh paint as he walked into the station, carrying his attaché case and knapsack. He walked up to the officer posted behind the front desk, who in turn looked him over skeptically.
“Somebody steal your clothes, pal?” the officer cracked. Moriarty shook his head and raised the knapsack.
“Dr. Moriarty,” he introduced himself. “I have an appointment with Captain Gallagher.”
“Doctor,” the officer said. “Right.”
Moriarty tilted his wrist and pressed a button on his digital watch. “I’m a few minutes early, so I think I’ll go ahead and change first.”
“Good idea,” the officer told him. “Head’s down the hallway there, second door on the right. It says
MEN.
”
“Thanks,” Moriarty said, smiling. “Thanks, man.”
“Sure,” the officer said. “What kind of doctor are you anyway?”
“Gynecologist,” Moriarty quipped.
“My ass,” the officer said.
“No, that’s proctology,” Moriarty told him. “Can’t help you on that, I’m afraid.”
The officer smiled blandly. “A stand-up shrink. Gallagher’s going to just love you.”
Moriarty followed the directions to the men’s room and washed off at the sinks before going into one of the stalls to dress. He was alone in the lavatory, so he opened a side pocket of his knapsack and took out a small glass vial. Sitting down on the toilet, he placed his briefcase flat over his knees and tapped out two lines of the powder in the vial. He straightened out the lines with the edge of a dollar bill, then rolled the bill up into a makeshift straw and used it to snort down the powder through his nose.
“She don’t like/She don’t like/She don’t like/She don’t like/She don’t like . . .” He slapped himself in the face like he was trying to jolt a needle past a skip in a record, then finished singing, “. . . cocaine.”
He was mouthing the guitar solo when he heard someone come into the bathroom. He stopped and flushed the toilet, then took a change of clothes from his knapsack and dressed, emerging from the stall looking like a door-to-door pop psychologist.
He went back to the front desk and got directions to the captain’s office and another condescending stare from the desk sergeant. He’d expected as much, and wasn’t about to let it bother him. Once the cocaine took hold, nothing would bother him.
The door to Gallagher’s office was open, so Moriarty rapped his knuckles on the doorframe as he looked in.
“Captain Gallagher?” he called out to the man whose back was turned to him.
Gallagher was adding more hot water into his personalized mug and stirring around a fresh dose of freeze-dried coffee. He turned around and stared at Moriarty as he blew on the coffee before taking a sip.
“It’s open,” he said. Gallagher was a few years older than Moriarty, but still young for a police captain. His hair was clipped short and he dressed in polyesters off the racks at C & R. Ten years ago, he and Moriarty would never have met unless it was from opposite sides of a confrontation at a political rally. Now they were reluctant allies, courtesy of a new directive from the mayor and Police Commission.
Moriarty stepped into the office, a cluttered mess losing ground against the encroachment of incoming paperwork and indifferent housekeeping. The room was charged with the tension of backlogged work, creating an atmosphere of urgency best suited to Gallagher’s temperament.
“I’m Jerry Moriarty.”
“Captain Gallagher.”
Moriarty’s hand was out. Gallagher stared at it, then grabbed hold of it and pumped it several times perfunctorily.
“Sit down,” Gallagher said, gesturing to the leather chair in front of his desk. Moriarty obliged, resting his briefcase upright on his knees and holding it tight like a shield. Gallagher remained on his feet, having learned early in his career that looking down on someone literally as well as figuratively doubled one’s chances of controlling the conversation. He leaned over the desk, handing Moriarty a manilla file.
“Here’s a list of the juvenile offenders you’re going to meet first,” Gallagher told him, making little effort to hide the distaste in his voice. “Bunch of real beauties. They should all be locked up, but the judge handed them all over to you.”
“Well, giving them jobs to pay back their debt to society makes a hell of a lot more sense than jailing them at the taxpayer’s expense, wouldn’t you say?”
“Bullshit!” Gallagher retorted.
Another officer stuck his head into the room.
“Captain, we’re still waiting for you at roll call.”
“Yeah, all right,” Gallagher told him, “I’ll be right there.”
“I’ll prove it to you,” Moriarty said assuredly once they were alone again.
Gallagher smirked, eyeing Moriarty. You poor shit, his expression said. His voice said, “Look, I’m required to give you some space and about six months to make this whole thing work. Now how do you plan on doing that?” He asked it like a trick question on a game show.
Moriarty could see it was useless trying to talk sense to Gallagher, so he ladled out textbook clichés.
“First of all, by gaining their trust,” he offered.
“I like that,” Gallagher said, rolling up his sleeves. “I like that. Gain their confidence and then we nail ’em with the information you get, right?”
Moriarty leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers along the edge of his briefcase. It was his turn to smirk.
“No way, Gallagher. My material’s strictly confidential.”
Gallagher shook his head and leaned back over his desk, stabbing his finger into the intercom.
“Anne, you wanna come in here?” he said into the box, then looked back at his visitor. “You know, Moriarty. For an Irishman, you’ve got a thick skull.”
Anne was an officer, full-figured beneath her navy uniform, young and pretty beneath her heavy makeup. Her thick mane of brunette hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She came up behind Moriarty and looked at him with a hint of recognition.
“Anne Archambaud,” Gallagher said by way of introduction, “Doctor Moriarty.” He pronounced “Doctor” as if it were a criminal classification somewhere between pimp and child molester.
Moriarty rose to his feet. Anne took his hand more readily than Gallagher had.
“How do you do?” Moriarty said politely, letting his eyes take in the woman.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Anne said.
“Where?” Gallagher asked, then changed his mind. “Forget it. Just show him to his office, will you?”
Anne nodded. Moriarty followed her out of the office.
“Oh, incidentally, Irish,” Gallagher called out, almost gleefully. “We’re a little short on parking spaces.”
Moriarty stopped halfway out the door and looked back, smiling.
“That’s okay, Captain. I ride a bike.”
Gallagher stared at the door after it closed.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “A conservation kook on top of everything.”
If Moriarty was aware of Anne’s interest in him, he didn’t let it show. He walked beside her down the hallway, his eyes forward, taking in the old wing of the station.
“Are you another cop who doesn’t believe in my program?” he asked her rhetorically.
“I don’t know enough about it, yet,” she said.
“At least you’re willing to give me a chance, which is more than Gallagher.”
“Gallagher’s all right,” Anne told him, stopping in the hallway and opening a side door leading to the staircase. “He’s just trying to be a tougher cop than his dad was.”
“What happened to dad?” Moriarty asked sarcastically, not all that interested.
Anne stopped again at the head of the stairs and looked at Moriarty until she was sure she had his attention.
“He got shot to death by some doped-up kid in a dark alley.”
The explanation was fraught with psychological import, although not of the sort she had intended. Moriarty fell silent as they made their way down the steps to the basement. The temperature dropped noticeably, as did the quality of lighting. Naked bulbs glowed dully in caged sockets protruding from the walls, throwing their faint illumination through the cobwebs growing around old lockers and forgotten corridors.
“Well, here’s your new home,” Anne announced cheerfully as they came to the back corner of the basement. She pointed to a darkened jail cell, where malfunctioned parking meters, blockade sawhorses, and other dust-covered items were doing hard time on trumped up loitering raps.
“It used to be the drunk tank,” she told Moriarty, holding the cell door open as he entered.
Moriarty wasn’t sure whether to kick over one of the sawhorses or start laughing and announce that the joke was very funny, but that now she could show him his real office. He pulled the chain on an overhead light. It was going to take more than a hundred watts to put this place in order.
“Not exactly a place to counsel San Francisco housewives, is it?” Anne asked him mischievously.