Private Heat (7 page)

A door on the left side of the hall opened into a small bedroom mostly furnished with weights and exercise equipment. A double-bed-sized air mattress lay on the floor with the blanket and sheets at low tide. A variety of fast food bags and cartons flooded out of a paper grocery bag that had been pressed into service as a waste can.

The master bedroom, at the end of the hall, took up the entire south end of the house. A rumpled king-sized waterbed sported a mirrored canopy and was attended by the usual dressers and closets. Heavy red velvet curtains covered the windows and a sliding glass doorwall out to the deck. Cushy maroon shag carpeted the floor. I stepped into the attached bathroom and found a glass-enclosed shower stall, hot tub, and walls done in mirrors and lavender tones with no windows to the outside.

“Wow,” I said.

“Used to be a small bedroom off the hall.”

“Who's your decorator? Van Hedonist on South Division?”

“No,” she answered deadpan. “We did it ourselves. Do you like it?”

“I find it positively motivating,” I said, turning my face to hers. “You have any visitors today?”

“Like who?”

“Door-to-door salesmen, Jehovah's Witnesses, anybody?”

“No.”

I played a blank face and made busy by locking the doorwall and the windows. I pulled the curtains closed.

“Any calls?” I asked. “Aluminum siding, window salesmen, or maybe just a hang-up call?”

“Just some sergeant from the department. Franklin, I think. He said to put Randy's stuff on the porch.”

“Five-six, five-seven, over,” Ron's voice announced from the radio in my pocket.

“Who's that?” Karen asked, wide-eyed.

“A friend,” I answered and fished the radio out of my coat pocket. “This is five-six, over.”

“Six, you're getting cruised by a beat-up red Ford Escort. So far, they've made three passes.”

“Salt-and-pepper crew?”

“Right. White guy's wearing a do-rag and an earring.”

“That's a four. They're the subject's playmates.”

“That's Paulie and Chuck,” said Karen. “They're crazy, you know. They just don't care.”

“Chuck and Paulie who?”

“Charles Furbie and Paul Milton—they work with Randy.”

“The charge says that they are Paulie and Chuck and that we are in deep doo-doo.”

“Chucky-wucky and his sidekick are parked about a block south on the east side watching the world go by.”

“Costume party with guns.”

“Roger that,” Ron said.

“Roger's in San Diego seizing Korean ‘Gucci' bags,” I said and laughed.

“He doesn't call me any more.”

“Roger said he'd be up in the fall,” I told him. “Let's get together.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Let me know if our pals grab their socks.”

“Soit-in-lee,” answered Ron, “seven, out.”

“Six, out.”

“What are you going to do if they come in here?” Karen wanted to know, a little quiver in her voice.

“Maybe it's just a social call,” I said.

“I doubt it,” she said. She made it sound like a threat.

“Then I'll do what I have to do; what I get paid to do.”

“I'm gonna laugh when they kick your ass,” she said like she was defending family.

“Why would they come in here?”

“Well, you know, because of Randy.”

“Policemen get divorced all the time. I don't hear much about their squad members stalking their soon-to-be ex-spouses.” I let that float for a moment and finished with, “Unless there's something else?”

She stalked out of the room. “There is nothing else,” she said without looking back. Halfway up the hall she stopped dead and turned to face me with her arms folded again. “If you're so smart, why do you think they're sitting out there?”

“Maybe they just want to make sure I don't abuse Randy when he comes by to pick up his personal property.”

She answered with a nervous laugh.

“Maybe they're just good friends and want to make sure Randy doesn't do anything stupid,” I said. That wouldn't explain why they tailed me out of the police station, but Karen was rattled and, I hoped, close to spilling the beans.

“They think Randy is a dork.”

That surprised even me. “That leaves the infamous something else,” I said.

“Yeah, I think the ‘something else' is they want to kick your old-fart ass,” she said, stomping off into the living room.

“It's showtime,” Ron announced, omitting the usual net chatter. “You've got the blue Monte coming at you with a driver and no passengers. There's a marked police car behind it.”

“What's Chucky and company up to?” I asked.

“They're doing a U-ee and making feet as we speak.”

The right front tire of the Monte Carlo climbed and then descended the curb. The car lurched to a stop.

“Six, out and off the air,” I said. I turned off the radio and deposited it under a sofa cushion. “Get in the bathroom and lock the door,” I said. Karen didn't question her instructions.

Police Officer Randal Talon stood up through the open roof of his Monte Carlo, his pony tail and open flannel shirt ruffled in a warm evening breeze. Facing the house he hollered at the top of his lungs, “What the fuck are you doing parked in my driveway, you piece of shit?”

Sergeant Franklin pulled up on his bumper and blocked the drive with his new full-sized Chevrolet patrol car. He exited the vehicle and made straight for the front door of the house.

“Just get your property, Randy,” said Franklin as he made fast, long steps across the lawn.

“Bullshit, Franky!” said Talon. His voice rasped deep over curled lips. He stepped out of his vehicle without opening the door. “Get that piece of shit out of my house, goddammit!”

Sergeant Franklin stepped through the door, pulled the screen shut, and filled the doorway. “Just get your stuff, Randy,” he said, “and then we're out of here.”

“Arrest that motherfucker,” said Randy. “He's trespassing on my goddam property. Bust his ass for illegal entry.”

Officer Randal Talon crossed the porch in one step, snatched the screen open, and buried a low shoulder into Sergeant Franklin. Sergeant Franklin cascaded into the room backward. On the way down, he said, “Don't do it, Randy!”

Randy did it. “Karen, you bitch!” he said and scanned the room. “Get your ass out here!” He started for the kitchen. I stepped to block the way. “You're under arrest, asshole.” He launched himself like a lineman after a quarterback.

The stream of pepper spray hosed him on the forehead. His eyes crossed and his face went from mean to “Aw, shit.” I've heard a lot of people say that pepper spray would not deter them. Randy probably would have said the same thing. He would have been wrong. I had to sidestep as he sailed by. He hit the carpet—most of the way to the kitchen—knees and forehead first, his hands being occupied with covering his face. After a moment and a loud “son-of-a-bitch,” he abandoned the custody of his face to his left hand and groped his right hand back to the Highpower.

Franklin got to his knees and fell, hands forward, onto Randy's gun and hand. Rolling like a shark with a mouthful of seal, he wrestled the pistol loose.

Unfortunately, the front room being small and closed in, the good sergeant and I also got a small dose of pepper gas. Franklin got to his feet, and despite his discomfort, hooked Randy under one arm and started dragging him toward the door, the Highpower dangling in his right hand. He summoned me with a nod of his head, and I hooked Randy under the other arm. We hauled him out the door and set him on the edge of the porch.

A white-striped green garden hose lay coiled next to the door. I turned it on, adjusted the spray to a cone of fine mist, and hosed my face down.

Franklin punched the magazine out of Randy's weapon and put it in his pants pocket. He slid the weapon into his belt just behind his left hip. Randy remained seated and folded very tight. I handed the hose to Franklin. He hosed down his hands and then his face. Between eruptions of profanity Randy reexamined his lunch. When Franklin was satisfied, he turned up the spray and set about hosing Randy.

“I told you to just get your stuff,” he said. “Why didn't you just get your stuff?”

My eyes were getting smoky again, so I went back into the house. Karen peeked out through a narrow crack in the bathroom door. I shook my head and she closed the door and snapped on the lock. In the kitchen I rinsed my face in the sink. On my way back out I opened a side window in the living room.

I stepped back through the screen door and onto the porch. Talon was very wet but mostly composed. “You're under arrest,” he said, “for illegal entry, interfering with an officer, assaulting an officer—”

“No. He's not,” said Franklin, “but
you're
getting close.”

“Bullshit, Franky,” said Randy. He leaned toward the sergeant and pointed his finger at himself. “I'm a police officer. I said he's under arrest.” He shook his finger at the sergeant. “It don't matter what you think, you gotta back me up.”

I took the shirt box off the pile and dropped it onto Randy's lap. “Keep that up and all you'll be is a thug on the street, a liar in the courtroom, and a monster in your own home.”

Talon threw the box at me. It hit me, edge on, in the middle of my chest. I took two quick steps back, hoping to avoid the sharper contents of the box. Hypodermic needles and pharmaceutical bottles exploded in a shower over the porch and lawn. He scrambled to his feet and I had the pepper spray out.

Sergeant Franklin stepped between us. He backhanded the can, looped a headlock onto Randy, and bulldogged him out to the Monte Carlo. As Franklin handcuffed him to the steering wheel of the Monte Carlo, a patrol car pulled up with the rollers on. Franklin dispatched them with a rough nod of the head.

“Give me your keys,” said Franklin.

Randy provided him with a stream of profanity.

“Not a problem,” said the sergeant, “I can open your trunk without them.” He started back to the patrol car.

“Franky,” said Talon, “I got the keys.” He pulled them out of his pocket and started on the handcuffs.

“I wouldn't do that,” said Franklin as he rested his hand on the can of mace on his belt.

Randy stopped and looped the keys to the sergeant in a gentle arc. Franklin snatched the keys out of the air and looked at me. “Bring that stuff down here,” he said.

When I got the first load down to the curb the sergeant was examining a shaving kit he'd found in the trunk of Talon's car. “That piece of shit planted that crap on me, Franky.”

Franklin shook his head, zipped up the bag, and threw it back into the trunk. “Just set it on the ground,” he said, “I don't want you putting anything in this vehicle.”

Two more trips and I had it all piled on the lawn at the rear of the Monte.

“Go back up to the house,” said Franklin.

I went. Franklin loaded the trunk like he was stoking a boiler and slammed the lid.

At the driver's door Sergeant Franklin did a lot of finger pointing and slow talking. Officer Randal Talon did a lot of slow negative head wagging. Finally, Franklin handed Randy his keys and watched as he released himself. Randy got the Monte started and held out an empty palm to the sergeant. Franklin shook his head. Randy drove off, slowly.

Sergeant Franklin went to the trunk of his cruiser and rummaged. A minute later he was at the porch with a plastic evidence bag and wearing a pair of latex gloves. He collected the pharmaceuticals and syringes and put them into the bag. After looking at his watch, he made some notations on the bag. He carried the bag and the shirt box back to his patrol car.

He came back to the porch with his pad and pen in hand. “Hardin, come on out here,” he yelled into the open screen door.

I heard the bathroom door squeak open. “Randy's gone,” I said. I went out onto the porch with the sergeant. He gave me a card and said, “You may be contacted by a lieutenant from our Internal Affairs department. If your fingerprints are found on any of the contents of that box, you'll hear from someone else.” He clicked his pen and put it in his pocket. “How long are you going to be on this job?”

“Noon, day after tomorrow.”

“I'll ask the shift car to give you an extra pass-by,” he said. “If you have any more trouble, the number is nine-one-one. Can you give me a copy of the restraining order?”

I gave him the one from my inside pocket. It wasn't much drier than the one in my hanky pocket.

Franklin started back to his car. After a few steps he stopped. He said, “You only squeaked by.”

I nodded. He left.

When he was out of sight, I walked out to my car and extracted the duffel bag from the trunk. As I returned and stepped through the front door, I heard Karen hang up the telephone in the kitchen. She walked into the living room, parked her fanny on the sofa, and shot me a grin like the Cheshire cat.

“Who's the weasel now?” she said.

“I gotta call my wife,” I said and dropped the duffel bag on the chair. “All right if I use your phone? It's local from here.”

Karen sat smug and happy on the sofa. “Sure,” she said.

In the kitchen I picked up the telephone. I poised my finger to peck out my home number, but hesitated. Karen's very dangerous husband—by her lawyer's account—whose nasty temper I'd just experienced, had been gassed, grappled out of her living room, and allowed to simply drive away. Honest relief is one thing, but Karen sitting there all grins and snappy repartee is quite something else. I had to know who could inspire that kind of confidence. I punched the redial button.

“Alton, Burns, and Fay Securities,” announced a young lady in a come-hither alto.