Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [61]
When I came up to the bar, he was retelling the legendary story of an arrest of a bunch of drug dealers in a ludicrously bad neighborhood in Compton. The dealers lived in a house with a lot of dogs behind big gates.
“We pull up to the gate and somebody says, ‘Where the hell are the bolt cutters?’ Somebody else says, ‘The sheriff will have them.’ Well, the sheriff’s car is gone. No bolt cutters. So now we’re into Keystone Kop anarchy. Guys are hopping the fence and getting hung up on the spikes. They could have been shot. Runners are going out the back door—this is what you’re talking about when you talk about two agencies cooperating,” Andrew was saying as I approached.
His look shifted instantly from unaware to cautious. Here comes another strange and unpredictable female in my life. It broke my heart to see that on a face I had held between my hands and kissed.
“Don’t worry.” I smiled. “I’m not here to make a scene.”
“Sit down, have a drink.” He offered his bar stool, made introductions to the other detectives. There was Jaeger, who looked like a three-hundred-pound beagle made of melting lard, and a rigid African-American named Winter, both in jackets and ties. They would testify against me at the trial.
“No thanks, I just wanted to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“The nine hundred dollars.”
This was not the speech about intimacy and commitment I had rehearsed in the shower, but when it sprang out, the number seemed right, a searing response to the way in which he had reduced our lovemaking and closeness and adventure and laughter to another sum in a meaningless progression of conquests.
“Oh, okay.” He laughed. I think he was drinking scotch. “I’ll give you your nine hundred dollars.”
“Good.”
“Now will you have a drink?”
“I’ll just take a check. You can postdate it, that’s all right.”
Andrew said dismissively, “Why don’t you chill?”
Barry Loomis was leaning in. “How’s it going?” he asked. “I got the fax about this scum Brennan.”
“See?” I said sweetly. “We’re keeping you in the loop.” To Andrew: “Come on, you must be making lots of overtime.”
“This is not the time and place.” Andrew’s face was turning dark, uncomfortable with his boss so close to the heat.
“Let’s just be done with it and then I’ll go.”
“Don’t go,” said Barry, looking to make it worse, whatever it was. “The Dodgers are on.”
“You want to mail it to me?” I persisted.
“What?” Barry chortled. “The results of the test?” and clapped Andrew on the back.
Clown.
“What did you spend it on?”
“I told you,” Andrew said, “the Harley.”
Barry and I rolled our eyes at each other, both long-suffering victims of our mutual pal’s obsession.
“Ohhh,” we said in unison. “The Harley.”
Andrew shrugged stiffly. “Had to fix the muffler.”
Barry nodded sympathetically. “He had to fix the muffler.”
“I know. He treats that pile of crap better than he treats his ladies—plural.”
At this, Jaeger and Winter broke up. One of them howled, “You go, girl!”
“Look,” said Andrew, hunched even farther over the bar, “I’ll call you. We’ll work it out.”
“Really?” I did not go. “When was the last time you called me?”
Barry, teasing: “What’s the matter? Why don’t you call the lady?”
“You know what?” Andrew stammered, clamping down on the violence he must have felt pushing out of his throat. He drew out his wallet, pulled some bills, and threw them in my direction while the others started to holler and hoot.
“I’m not the whore, Andrew. I don’t go down on senior detectives on Sunday morning in a car.”
Barry was bent over double, Jaeger and Winter smirking and snorting and turning away. Andrew was appalled at this betrayal, sucker-punched by his best friend, and for a moment I was ashamed. But as the fury started to work the lines of his forehead, I held his eyes: See this? This was me when I saw you with her.
But it did not make anything even or okay, it just made me sick.
“I’ll see you,” I mumbled, and turned away.
Disoriented, I threaded through the bar crowd and in between