Time Bomb (38 page)

Buchanan was up in a flash. His right arm shot out and the boy’s head snapped back.

Mrs. Buchanan cried out.

Milo said, “That’s enough! Sit down!”

Buchanan put his hands on his hips and stared at Milo. “I want him to say it.”

“Pete,” said his wife.

Her husband pointed a finger at her. “
You
keep the hell
out
of this!”

“Mr. Buchanan,” said Milo, “let’s not make things worse than they are. Why don’t you just sit down?”

“I’da been listened to in the first place,” Buchanan said, “there’da been no trouble. He
did
it. He’s got to face
up
to it—no more
coddling.”
He tried to stare down Milo, gave up and glowered at his wife.

Milo said, “You’re absolutely right, sir. Face up is ex-actly what he needs to do. So let’s give him a chance to do that.”

Buchanan looked at his son. “Say it!”

The boy choked out a “sorry” between sobs.

“Sorry,
ma’am
!
”
barked his father.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“He really is,” said Mrs. Buchanan, looking at Linda. “He’s never done anything like this before and never will again. We’re
all
so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, for God’s sake,” said her husband. “What in hell do
we
have to apologize for? Except maybe for your coddling him, giving him everything he whines for so he’s never had to take any goddam responsibility for himself.”

“Pete, please.”

“Don’t Pete please me!” said Buchanan. “Just stop getting in the way and let me handle this the way it should have been handled a long time ago.” He extended a pair of big white hairy fists.

His wife bit her lip and turned away. The boy had stopped crying long enough to follow the parental skirmish.

Buchanan Senior turned his back on him and approached Linda. His lip was quivering and I noticed that one eye drooped lower than the other. “Ma’am, I’ve got a President’s last name.
I believe
in this country. A
deep
belief. We’ve got soldiers in our family going way back, generations. I did my time in Korea, active duty, got the papers to prove it. So we sure don’t encourage any Nazi talk around here. He musta picked it up on that crap he plays all the time—rock videos. Which is long gone from this house, that’s for sure.”

An angry look over his shoulder.

The boy covered his face again.

“Don’t you dare when I’m talking to you!” shouted his father. “Face
up,
goddammit!”

He turned and moved toward his son. Milo got between them. “I’m going to have to insist that you sit, sir.
Now
.”

Buchanan tightened, then let out breath.

Milo’s face was a police mask.

Buchanan muttered, then returned to the recliner, picked up the previous day’s newspaper from an end table, and pretended to be interested in the sports section.

His wife’s heavy face was ripe with humiliation.

Milo said, “Dr. Overstreet, if you want to press charges, I’ll have Matt arrested and taken in.”

The boy started crying again. His mother followed suit.

Mr. Buchanan looked at both of them with revulsion.

Linda walked over to the sofa and studied the boy. He tried to avoid her gaze, sniffled, and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

She said, “Why, Matt?”

Fidget. Shrug.

“That’s important for me to know. Before I decide what to do. Why’d you do it?”

The boy mumbled something.

Linda said, “What’s that?”

“Don’t know.”

“You don’t know why you demolished my car?”

Shrug.

“What’d you use?”

“Crowbar.”

“Did you know it was my car?”

Silence.

“C’mon, Matt. You owe me.”

Nod.

“You knew it was my car?”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d you want to hurt me? Have I ever done anything to you?”

Shake of head.

“Then why?”

“The school.”

“What about the school?”

“Bringing the . . . them in.”

“Who?”

“The niggers and beaners. Everyone said you were bringing them in to take over the neighborhood.”

“Everyone? Who’s everyone?”

The boy shrugged. “Just people.”

Buchanan broke in. “He didn’t hear that here. Not that I approve of what you’ve done, but we stick with the law, go our own way and don’t make trouble for others. And we don’t talk gutter talk. I work with the colored—we get along just fine.”

“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Buchanan?”

He named an electronics company. “Line supervisor. Got seventy-five people under me, plenty of them Mexicans and colored. He didn’t hear that kind of gutter talk here.” To his son: “Did you!”

The boy shook his head.

“It’s the goddam rock videos,” said his father. “And that car—he never shoulda had it. Too damn babyish to wipe his own nose. Look at you!”

Mrs. Buchanan left the room and came back with a box of tissues. She pulled one out and handed it to her son.

He swabbed his nose.

His father said, “Congratulations, smart guy. That Trans Am is history.”

“Dad—”

“Shut up!”

Linda said, “Matt, let me get this straight. You resent me because you think I’m trying to take over your neighborhood by bringing in kids from other neighborhoods. So you smashed up my car.”

Nod.

“How’d you know it was my car?”

The boy said, “Seen you.” Barely audible.

“Was anyone else with you?”

Shake of the head.

“Did anyone else know you were going to do this?”

“No.”

“You just did it yourself.”

Nod.

“Why’d you paint a swastika on the car?”

Shrug.

“Do you know what the swastika stands for?”

“Kinda.”

“Kinda? What does it stand for?”

“Germans.”

“Not Germans,” said his father. “Nazis. Your grandfather fought them.”

Linda said, “Why’d you paint a swastika?”

“Dunno. Just being kinda . . .”

“Kinda what?”

“Rad, Bad. Like the Angels.”

“Hell’s Angels?”

“Yeah.”

“Christ,” said his father.

Linda said, “What were you doing up so late, Matt?”

Buchanan glared at his wife and said, “Good goddam question.”

The boy didn’t answer.

Linda said, “Matt, I asked you a question and I expect an answer.”

“Cruising.”

“With a crowbar?”

No answer.

“Why’d you have a crowbar with you?”

“To do it.”

“To smash my car with?”

Nod.

Buchanan said, “Talk, goddammit.”

“Yeah,” said the boy.

“So you’d planned to smash my car.”

Glance at his father. “Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“I dunno—few days.”

“Why a few days? What gave you the idea?”

“Her . . . the shooting.” The boy sat up straighter, doughy face brightening. “It just showed how fu— how trashed everything was, the ni— the black kids and the Mexes. It just showed how ruined everything was and it was the school’s fault.” Turning to his father: “That’s what
you
and she said.”

Mrs. Buchanan put her hand to her mouth.

“Oh, Christ,” said her husband, blanching. “You goddam little moron! People have opinions—this is America, for Christ’s sake! You express an opinion—you’re supposed to speak your mind. That’s what democracy is. Otherwise it might as well be Russia. But you don’t go around destroying private
property
for Christ’s sake!”

He turned to Linda. “Listen, ma’am, you’ll be paid every last penny for your car. That Trans Am is going to the used-car dealer tomorrow and every last penny we get from that will go for
your
car and you’ve got my word on that.”

“Good. I expect payment within a week,” said Linda. “But that’s not enough.”

The boy stared at her, petrified.

“Please,” said Mrs. Buchanan, “don’t make him go to jail. He’s—”

“Not jail,” said Linda. “Too easy. I want more out of him. Some real repentance.” To Matt: “Where do you go to school?”

“Pali.”

“Junior?”

“Sophomore.”

“What time do you get off?”

“Two.”

“He’s in limited academic,” said his mother.

“By two-thirty I want you over at my school. Helping out.”

“How?” said the boy.

“Any way I want you to help. One day you might be scrubbing some graffiti off a wall. Another day you might be working the Xerox machine. Or writing an essay.”

The boy flinched.

“Don’t like to write, Matt?”

“He’s had trouble,” said his mother. “Dyslexia.”

“Then it’ll be especially helpful for him.”

“Yes, it will,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “Yes, it surely will. We do appreciate it. Thank you, ma’am.”

“Detective Sturgis,” said Linda, “I’m willing not to press charges if Matt here cooperates and ends up being a big help to me. On one condition. If he screws up, can I still press them?”

“Absolutely,” said Milo. “I’ll keep the file open, make sure he gets the max, all felonies, tried as an adult.” To Matt: “We’re talking heavy jail time, son.”

“He’ll cooperate,” said his mother. “I’ll see that he—”

Linda said, “Matt? You understand what’s going on?”

“Yeah—yes. Ma’am. I will. I . . . I’m really sorry. It was dumb.”

“Then I’m willing to give you a chance.”

Mrs. Buchanan poured out copious thanks.

Mr. Buchanan seemed to sag in his chair, looking older, smaller, the strain of macho pretense lifted from tired shoulders.

He said, “You’re one lucky camper, mister. And you haven’t heard from me, yet.”

25

Outside at the curb, Milo said, “I had nothing to do tonight. Went driving. Saw his car circle the block real slowly, about nine-thirty, slow down further when he reached the school. Third time he came around I decided to put the cherry on my roof and stop him. He had the crowbar right there on the seat. Dumb kid. He nearly browned his pants when he saw me.”

Linda said, “You heard the mother—all those school problems.”

“Just like Holly,” I said.

“But they didn’t know each other,” Milo said. “I worked him over on that with extreme thoroughness. He has no record, no membership in any gangs or groups. So it looks like this is the only mischief he’s been into—or caught at.”

Linda’s back was to him. He raised an eyebrow, wanting to know how much I’d told her.

I gave a tiny shake of my head, said, “Maybe you nipped a criminal career in the bud.”

“His career wouldn’t have lasted long—the dumb ones are the ones we catch. Anyway, time to be shoving off. Sorry for waking you but I thought you’d want to know.”

“I did,” she said. “I’m glad you called. Do you think I did the right thing?”

“Seems as good an option as any. The juvenile system takes over on something like this, we’re talking stern lecture. Maybe. If you got a real kick-ass judge, a week at the honor farm and exposure to some people he doesn’t need to be exposed to. But if he screws up again, let me know. I can always pull a few fast ones, procedurally speaking, and scare the bejesus out of him.”

Linda said, “Okay. And thanks again.”

He said, “
Bon soir
,” saluted, and walked off.

“Good man,” said Linda.

“No argument there.”

We went back to my place and found we were too wound up to sleep. I located a deck of cards in a kitchen drawer and we bored ourselves with a few hands of poor-attention-span gin, finally turned off the lights and dozed, lying close to each other.

The next morning, I drove her back to her apartment and went up with her. She changed into a lilac-colored suit, picked up her rental car in the subterranean garage, and drove to school. I ran a few errands, then drove there myself. Bits of streamers still clung to the chain link. Otherwise the grounds were quiet—almost ghostly. Morning-after blues.

I waited in Linda’s office while she checked to see if any adjustment problems had cropped up in the aftermath of the concert. A few teachers reported some unruliness, but nothing they couldn’t handle. At noon I stopped in with those teachers and, having convinced myself everything was going smoothly, left.

At 1:00
P.M
., Mahlon Burden called. “Any progress, Dr. Delaware?”

“I met with your son last night.”

“Excellent. And?”

“He had nothing new to offer about Holly, but he did say you visited him about a month ago. You were concerned about her.”

Pause. “Yes, that’s true. I knew Howard had been . . . sneaking her over to his house. He and his wife thought I didn’t know, but of course I did. Since they were spending more time together, I thought he might be able to tell me why she’d been looking sad.”

“Sad?”

“Withdrawn. Uncommunicative. More than usual.”

“When did that start?”

“Let me think back—late September or the beginning of October. I remember because my fall catalogue had just gone out. Excuse me for not mentioning it when you were at the house, but with everything that’s been going on—the memories—it slipped by. I haven’t been functioning at full capacity.”

“Did you suspect her contact with Howard was causing the withdrawal?”

“I didn’t suspect anything, Doctor. I was simply trying to develop hypotheses. Now, of course, you’ve provided me with one. The death of the black boy. That occurred late September. He and Holly may have been closer than I thought. What else do you know about him other than that he was a drug user?”

“Some people who knew him doubt he was a drug user.”

“People?”

“Ted Dinwiddie.”

“Ted Dinwiddie.” Burden gave a small laugh. “Not exactly an Einstein, that one. Howard used to do his homework for him. Where was Novato killed?”

“South L.A.”

“South L.A. Before the riot we used to call it Watts—never could understand that, people burning down their own homes, fouling their own nests. Did your detective friend mention which gang he belonged to?”

“There’s no evidence he belonged to any gang.”

“In this city, drugs means gangs,” he said. “Or at least that’s what they say. What else can you tell me about him?”