Dangerous Times (7 page)

He peeled the corroded gasket off the pan
and thought about what he would do after work. Angels Gate Park.
Where he could sit on the bench alongside the early19-hundreds’
lamppost. Finish the book he was reading. Maybe earn himself
something better than money.

Money, he reconsidered while he carried the
oil pan to the solvent sink. More money wouldn’t be a bad thing, as
long as it was the right amount. Kirk wondering now how much that
might be, how much he would need to pack it in and disappear.

Too much, he decided. More than he would
ever see.

Kirk set the pan on a rag next to the sink.
He turned toward the second bay and eyed his two-door ‘49 Ford. Up
on the lift, its chrome, deep black paint and 3” whitewalls
pleading to hit the streets.

That was his military pension sitting up
there. Kirk remembering the total cost of the parts, most of the
parts arriving in their original factory boxes, bought mail-order
from collectors around the country.

He gazed at the Ford and asked himself if it
had been worth it. “Damn right it had,” he said to his car.

Kirk looked at the workbench where the
Ford’s carburetor lay. It was the last piece of the puzzle. He knew
why it wasn’t in yet. Once installed the restoration was over. It
was unbearable to him, the thought of being left with nothing to
pour himself into, something of his own.

“Kirk!” Bob Staub hollered, coming into the
bay from the office. “Standing there doing nothing. What’re you,
stoned?”

“Wish I were,” Kirk said.

“Comedian, huh?” Staub laid a hand on his
salt-and-pepper crew cut and massaged his scalp. “Listen, wise-guy,
when you get to be my age, you’re gonna look back and see what a
fuckup you’ve been.”

Kirk couldn’t help smiling. “I’ve already
done that.”

“You don’t stop, do ya—dancin’ around
without a serious bone in your body.”

Kirk took hold of the BMW’s oil pan.
Wire-brushing it with solvent he wondered which of his bones should
be the serious ones. Hearing Staub say:

“Take a look outside. Go ahead, take a
look.”

Kirk let go of the pan and watched it float
downward into the solvent sink. He stepped between the lifts and
looked out into the front lot.

“See that?” Staub pointed. “Fernando on his
back under the Triumph? Got no lift to work with, and that’s
because your god-damn car’s sittin’ on it.” He puffed himself up
like a schoolyard bully. “You’ve got keys, so you’re gonna finish
it tonight.” Then added, “I stop by here tomorrow and it’s still on
the lift, I’m pushin’ it out into the street!”

Kirk faced him and said, “Okay then, you’re
right. I’ll finish it tonight.”

“Well, what a surprise,” Staub grinned as he
relaxed his stance. “Our Johnny-boy does have a brain.”

Our Johnny-boy, Kirk thought, watching Staub
return to the office. Kirk knew where that came from. The
big-bellied son of a bitch playing their relationship as if he were
his father.

Kirk returned to the sink, rolled his
sleeves up and pulled the oil pan out. Drying it with a rag he
looked up at the wall calendar; tomorrow’s box with the initials
R.K. in it: Saturday, his real father’s birthday.

It had gotten to be a habit, marking the
calendar with the birthdays of those who had died. It gave Kirk at
least one day a year to keep them each alive in memory. There
weren’t that many he wanted to be reminded of, but knew that in the
coming years there would have to be more boxes to mark.

Sleeves rolled up, Kirk’s eyes went to the
marine tattoo on his forearm. He thought of Adam Forstadt and
wished he knew his birthday. Kirk may have heard it at one time or
another, but couldn’t remember if he had. marine from Ohio. Good
person, and a good friend. Dead from friendly fire, thanks to
Kirk.

The oil pan clean and dry now, he reached
for a new gasket and felt the sting of the shrapnel lodged in his
back.

Chapter
16

Ben Hicks and Tim Burns met for lunch at the
Sandpiper in Rancho Palos Verdes. A seafood house with picture
windows that overlooked the ocean. Old Tommy O’Connor the bartender
had been serving the two detectives for years. He knew what a mess
Burns had been before giving up the bottle.

Tommy served Burns his second ginger ale and
said, “A man with the strength to win another day, you are.”

With a thank-you smile Burns raised his
glass to him.

Tommy poured Hicks his third Jim Beam and
asked if there was something wrong with the shark.

Before Hicks could say anything, Burns
looked up from his salmon and answered for him: “Two bites, all
he’s allowed. Training for a foot race, he is.”

“Oh, is he now,” said old Tommy, eyes on
Hicks’ tall heavyweight boxer’s body. “And I’m King of the Limerick
Leprechauns, I am,” he smiled as he headed down the bar toward a
thirsty customer.

“Foot race?” Hicks asked.

“Have to watch your diet if you’re going to
make a run for it,” Burns said with an edge of sarcasm.

Damn, Hicks thought, regretting now that he
had told him. But then how could he run off without—

“Where would you go?” Burns wanted to know.
“What would you do?”

Ben Hicks turned away, glanced around the
busy room and noticed he was the only black patron. Wondering then
why he was thinking black-and-white at a time like this. Stalling,
he admitted to himself, unable to answer Burns’ question.

“I dunno,” he said turning back to him.

“Ben, your eyes are as red as my hair. Spend
the rest of the day at home and get some sleep.”

Hicks took a hit of his Jim Beam. Lowering
the glass he said, “Starting over at my age. Why’s it gotta be
about money all the time?”

“Maybe it isn’t,” Burns said. “Could be
about finding a good woman.”

“Yeah, right,” Hicks sighed, eyes down on
his drink. “And where’s yours?” he added with a smirk.

Burns went into a slouch.

“Sorry, man,” Hicks apologized. “My shit
ain’t right, an’ that’s the truth.”

“It’s okay,” Burns said softly. “Seven years
ago it is since we buried Colleen. Never be another like her. And
for you,” voice trailing off as he returned to his salmon, “I know
there will never be another Celia.”

“Sure ‘nough won’t,” Hicks agreed, thinking
of Celia remarried to that smart-ass white corporate lawyer. He
forced himself to take another bite of shark, relieved that Burns
had slipped into thought. Hicks had almost told his Irish-Catholic
friend about the Long Beach hooker he’d been seeing.

Damn, he sulked, chewing on the shark,
barely tasting it. That makes two things he was holding back on.
The other was the Big One. Four years ago, taking a bribe while
Burns was in ICU.

“Got to stay positive,” Burns spoke
suddenly. “From what you told me, your meeting this morning didn’t
go so badly, did it now?”

“Guess not.”

“Well then, there it is,” Burns said. “If
you would have stayed positive you wouldn’t have worried yourself
into no sleep last night.”

Hicks eyed him and said, “I look like I got
no sleep?”

“Good guess on my part, it is,” Burns
smiled. “Inspector general seems on your side,” he said then. “Do
what she says. Visit the Sinclair boy at the hospital tonight. Can
you do that?”

Hicks used another bite of shark to think
about it.

Burns glanced at his watch. “Got to get back
on duty,” he said reluctantly. “Promise me you’ll go home, get some
sleep, then visit the boy at the hospital.”

“Sure ‘nough,” Hicks nodded.

Burns fixed his hazel eyes on him. “I want
to hear the music of the promise,” he said.

“I promise,” Hicks stated, knowing he would
have to keep his word.

Hicks shifted his eyes and looked across the
room toward the windows that framed the ocean. The din of the lunch
crowd faded as he became captivated by the gathering clouds that
darkened the horizon.

Chapter
17

It was twilight as Kirk glanced at the dash
clock. “Thanks for the ride,” he said, reaching for the door
handle.

“‘At’s okay,” Bob Staub shrugged. Then
delayed him with, “Couple blocks down I’m gonna take a look at a
rental. Buy it, she’ll be my biggest yet. “Twenty-four units,” he
grinned. “Other two I got’re thirteen and fifteen.”

“That’s great,” Kirk nodded without much
interest. He clicked the door open.

“Hold it,” Staub said as he shut the
headlights. “You don’t give a shit, do ya, Johnny-boy.” He ran a
chubby hand over his crew cut. “Sitting there on your high horse,
no money in your pocket, in an old jacket with the zipper
broke.”

Kirk sat there and held the door ajar.
Thinking the cheapskate had just put his foot in his mouth. “Okay,
then,” he said casually, “guess you mean it’s time to talk about my
raise again.”

“Have to wait ‘til business picks up,” Staub
said.

Same old answer, Kirk thought. He wondered
if his boss considered him stupid. Working there and not knowing
how well the shop was doing.

Staub saying, “Gotta count your blessings.
Lotta people out there makin’ minimum wage.”

“That’s true,” Kirk agreed, willing to let
it go.

Staub wasn’t. “Maybe get yourself a
part-time job on weekends,” he said. “Don’t have to spend your
military pension on your car anymore, since she’s about done. Sock
away what you can and start lookin’ for investments.”

Funny guy, Kirk said to himself, giving
financial advice while refusing the raise.

“In my fifty-two years,” Staub went on,
“there’s only one fucking thing I learned. It’s the money in the
pocket that makes the man.”

“That’s true,” Kirk agreed again, regretting
that he hadn’t taken the bus.

“Yeah, you know,” Staub laughed. “You know
shit,” he said. Staub reached up above the windshield. “Wanna see
the pleasure money can buy?” He flipped the visor down.

Kirk stared at the attached photo. Staub
saying, “Spend the green on her, her sap flows like a river.”

“She’s really something,” Kirk lied, eyes on
a big breasted woman, upright naked on her knees with fingers
spreading her vagina.

Kirk glanced at Staub’s fancy car coat,
stretched closed over his hoggish body. Imagining the messy pile of
flesh he and his bought woman must make.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Staub said. “She’s not
exactly my cup-a-tea. Been chasin’ a better one for—I dunno—long
time. She’s—” he stopped himself.

Still holding the door open Kirk sat looking
at the Beverly Cottages. He gazed across the patchy lawn at the
fieldstone wall and the angled roofs beyond, all gloomy in the
January twilight.

Kirk, trapped between home and employer. The
irony of it, he had to smile. Stuck between the rock and a hard
spot.

He became aware of Staub’s silence and
looked over at him.

“Gotta get,” Staub said, avoiding Kirk’s
eyes. He flipped the visor up and put the pickup in gear.

Strange, Kirk thought. It was as if Staub
had embarrassed himself and had to flee. Far out of character for
an animal like him.

Staub popped on the headlights and stared at
the brightened street. “Gonna finish your car tonight, right?”

“Right.”

“Maybe I’ll be there,” Staub sighed heavily.
“Fucking inventory to catch up on,” still avoiding eye contact.
“Might see ya later, might not, okay?”

“Okay,” Kirk said, seeing himself working on
his Ford, his boss in the office working on a bottle of Jack.

“Thanks again for the ride,” Kirk smiled as
best he could, and he slid out of the pickup.

Free of Staub, he stood at the curb and
watched the pickup roll into a U-turn and head down Cabrillo.
Thinking of Staub’s words: It’s the money in the pocket that makes
the man.

Kirk recalled what an author had referred to
as Crop Rot. A bacterium that can be caught while harvesting money.
It gets into the brain, then travels the bloodstream until it
reaches the heart. Nesting there, it multiplies and kills off any
and all compassion.

Poor Bob Staub, Kirk mused.

He noticed a new Lincoln on 10th. It was
parked under a streetlamp, catty-corner from where he stood in the
chill of the evening. Nice, Kirk thought, but not his kind of
car.

He approached the walkway that would lead
him home, picturing his Ford on the lift. He thought about how much
he cared for the car, bringing the old machine back to life.

On the walkway now, he paused to look at the
For Rent sign he had planted in the lawn. Two months ago and still
no takers.

He continued on toward the archway and eyed
the stone wall; BEVERLY COT AGES with its T missing. Son of a
bitch, he’d like to catch the kids who had stolen it.

Passing through the archway he turned right,
asking himself when he would have time enough to search the stores
for a matching T. Probably don’t even make them like that anymore,
Kirk supposed.

Only 6 cottages and always something going
wrong, he complained to himself. But then as property manager he
had to thank his lucky stars for the rent money he saved.

He halted alongside the wall and glanced at
his Timex. The watch meant a lot to him, one of the many little
things his father had left him. He leaned against the wall and
waited. The nightlights weren’t on yet. He prayed there wasn’t a
problem with the timer.

The unlighted pool before him, Kirk faced
the semi-circle of cottages. Under the rising moon their angled
roofs gave the place a storybook look. Too bad it was all going to
hell, he thought. Their wooden facades weathered, the widening
cracks in the surrounding pavement.

He heard a faint click as the nightlights
came on, and there was the sudden glow of the pool. Kirk checked
the walks between the cottages, to see if any bulbs were out. He
looked to his left, to the other side of the archway and glimpsed
the driveway that ran behind the first two cottages. And between
Cottages Two and Three, a portion of the lighted carport with its
attached utility room, where the washer and dryer were housed.