The Two Minute Rule

by Robert Crais

  Holman was wondering why the officers were under the bridge when he read that a police spokesman denied that an open six-pack of beer had been found on one of the police cars. Holman concluded that the officers had been down there drinking, but wondered why they had chosen the riverbed for their party. Back in the day, Holman had ridden motorcycles down in the river, hanging out with dope addicts and scumbags. The concrete channel was off limits to the public, so he had climbed the fence or broken through gates with bolt-cutters. Holman thought the police might have had a passkey, but he wondered why they had gone to so much trouble just for a quiet place to drink.

  Holman finished the article, then tore out Richie’s picture. His wallet was the same wallet that had been in his possession when he was arrested for the bank jobs. They returned it when Holman was transferred to the CCC, but by then everything in it was out of date. Holman had thrown away all the old stuff to make room for new. He put Richie’s picture into the wallet and walked back upstairs to his room.

  Holman sat by his phone again, thinking, then finally dialed information.

  “City and state, please?”

  “Ah, Los Angeles. That’s in California.”

  “Listing?”

  “Donna Banik, B-A-N-I-K.”

  “Sorry, sir. I don’t show anyone by that name.”

  If Donna had married and taken another name, he didn’t know. If she had moved to another city, he didn’t know that, either.

  “Let me try someone else. How about Richard Holman?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Holman thought what else he might try.

  “When you say Los Angeles, is that just in the three-ten and two-one-three area codes?”

  “Yes, sir. And the three-two-three.”

  Holman had never even heard of the 323. He wondered how many other area codes had been added while he was away.

  “Okay, how about up in Chatsworth? What is that, eight-one-eight?”

  “Sorry, I show no listing in Chatsworth by that name, or anywhere else in those area codes.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Holman put down the phone, feeling irritated and anxious. He went back into his bathroom and washed his face again, then walked over to his window where he stood in front of the air conditioner. He wondered if the water from its drain was falling on anyone. He took out his wallet again. His remaining savings were tucked in the billfold. He was supposed to open savings and checking accounts to demonstrate his return to the normal world, but Gail had told him anytime in the next couple of weeks would be fine. He fished through the bills and found the corner of the envelope he had torn from Donna’s last letter. It was the address where he had written her only to have his letters returned. He studied it, then slipped it back between the bills.

  When he left his room this time, he remembered to lock the deadbolt.

  Perry nodded at him when he reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “There you go. I heard you shoot the lock this time.”

  “Perry, listen, I need to get over to the DMV and I’m running way late. You got a car I could borrow?”

  Perry’s smile faded to a frown.

  “You don’t even have a license.”

  “I know, but I’m running late, man. You know what those lines are like. It’s almost noon.”

  “Have you gone stupid already? What would you do if you got stopped? What you think Gail’s gonna say?”

  “I won’t get stopped and I won’t say you loaned me a car.”

  “I don’t loan shit to anyone.”

  Holman watched Perry frowning, and knew he was considering it.

  “I just need something for a few hours. Just to get over to the DMV. Once I start my job tomorrow it’ll be hard to get away. You know that.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Maybe I could work something out with one of the other tenants.”

  “So you’re in a jam and you want a favor?”

  “I just need the wheels.”

  “I did you a favor like this, it couldn’t get back to Gail.”

  “Come on, man, look at me.”

  Holman spread his hands. Look at me.

  Perry tipped forward in his chair, and opened the center drawer.

  “Yeah, I got an old beater I’ll let you use, a Mercury. It ain’t pretty, but it’ll run. Cost is twenty, and you gotta bring it back full.”

  “Jesus, that’s steep. Twenty bucks for a couple of hours?”

  “Twenty. And if you get fancy and don’t bring it back, I’ll say you stole it.”

  Holman passed over the twenty. He had been officially on supervised release for only four hours. It was his first violation.

  4

  PERRY’S MERCURY looked like a turd on wheels. It blew smoke from bad rings and had a nasty case of engine knock, so Holman spent most of the drive worried that some enterprising cop might tag him for a smog violation.

  Donna’s address led to a pink stucco garden apartment in Jefferson Park, south of the Santa Monica Freeway and dead center in the flat plain of the city. It was an ugly two-story building with a parched skin bleached by an unrelenting sun. Holman felt depressed when he saw the blistered eaves and spotty shrubs. He had imagined Donna would live in a nicer place; not Brentwood or Santa Monica nice, but at least something hopeful and comforting. Donna had complained of being short of cash from time to time, but she had held steady employment as a private nurse for elderly clients. Holman wondered if Richie had helped his mother move to a better area when he got on with the cops. He figured the man that Richie had become would have done that even if it crimped his own lifestyle.

  The apartment building was laid out like a long U with the open end facing the street and a shrub-lined sidewalk winding its way between twin rows of apartments. Donna had lived in apartment number 108.

  The building had no security gate. Any passerby was free to walk up along the sidewalk, yet Holman couldn’t bring himself to enter the courtyard. He stood on the sidewalk with a nervous fire flickering in his stomach, telling himself he was just going to knock and ask the new tenants if they knew Donna’s current address. Entering the courtyard wasn’t illegal and knocking on a door wasn’t a violation of his release, but it was difficult to stop feeling like a criminal.

  Holman finally worked up the nut and found his way to 108. He knocked on the doorjamb, immediately discouraged when no one answered. He was knocking again, a little more forcefully, when the door opened and a thin, balding man peered out. He held tight to the door, ready to push it closed, and spoke in an abrupt, clipped manner.

  “You caught me working, man. What’s up?”

  Holman slipped his hands into his pockets to make himself less threatening.

  “I’m trying to find an old friend. Her name is Donna Banik. She used to live here.”

  The man relaxed and opened the door wider. He stood like a stork with his right foot propped on his left knee, wearing baggy shorts and a faded wife-beater. He was barefoot.

  “Sorry, dude. Can’t help you.”

  “She lived here about two years ago, Donna Banik, dark hair, about this tall.”

  “I’ve been here, what, four or five months? I don’t know who had it before me, let alone two years ago.”

  Holman glanced at the surrounding apartments, thinking maybe one of the neighbors.

  “You know if any of these other people were here back then?”

  The pale man followed Holman’s glance, then frowned as if the notion of knowing his neighbors was disturbing.

  “No, man, sorry, they come and go.”

  “Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

  “No problem.”

  Holman turned away, then had a thought, but the man had already closed the door. Holman knocked again and the man opened right away.

  Holman said, “Sorry, dude. Does the manager live here in the building?”

  “Yeah, right there in number one hundred. The first apartment as you come in, on the north side.”
>
  “What’s his name?”

  “Her. She’s a woman. Mrs. Bartello.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Holman went back along the sidewalk to number one hundred, and this time he knocked without hesitation.

  Mrs. Bartello was a sturdy woman who wore her grey hair pulled back tight and a shapeless house dress. She opened her door wide and stared out through the screen. Holman introduced himself and explained he was trying to find the former tenant of apartment 108, Donna Banik.

  “Donna and I, we were married once, but that was a long time ago. I’ve been away and we lost track.”

  Holman figured saying they were married would be easier than explaining he was the asshole who knocked Donna up, then left her to raise their son on her own.

  Mrs. Bartello’s expression softened as if she recognized him, and she opened the screen.

  “Oh my gosh, you must be Richard’s father, that Mr. Holman?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Holman wondered if maybe she had seen the news about Richie’s death, but then he understood that she hadn’t and didn’t know that Richie was dead.

  “Richard is such a wonderful boy. He would visit her all the time. He looks so handsome in his uniform.”

  “Yes, ma’am, thanks. Can you tell me where Donna is living now?”

  Her eyes softened even more.

  “You don’t know?”

  “I haven’t seen Richie or Donna for a long time.”

  Mrs. Bartello opened the screen wider, her eyes bunching with sorrow.

  “I’m sorry. You don’t know. I’m sorry. Donna passed away.”

  Holman felt himself slow as if he had been drugged; as if his heart and breath and the blood in his veins were winding down like a phonograph record when you pulled the plug. First Richie, now Donna. He didn’t say anything, and Mrs. Bartello’s sorrowful eyes grew knowing.

  She wedged the screen open with her ample shoulders to cross her arms.

  “You didn’t know. Oh, I’m sorry, you didn’t know. I’m sorry, Mr. Holman.”

  Holman felt the slowness coalesce into a kind of distant calm.

  “What happened?”

  “It was those cars. They drive so fast on the freeways, that’s why I hate to go anywhere.”

  “She was in an auto accident?”

  “She was on her way home one night. You know she worked as a nurse, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was on her way home. That was almost two years ago now. The way it was explained to me someone lost control of their car, and then more cars lost control, and one of them was Donna. I’m so sorry to tell you. I felt so badly for her and poor Richard.”

  Holman wanted to leave. He wanted to get away from Donna’s old apartment, the place she had been driving back to when she was killed.

  He said, “I need to find Richie. You know where I can find him?”

  “It’s so sweet you call him Richie. When I met him he was Richard. Donna always called him Richard. He’s a policeman, you know.”

  “You have his phone number?”

  “Well, no, I just saw him when he came to visit, you know. I don’t think I ever had his number.”

  “So you don’t know where he lives?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Maybe you have Richie’s address on her rental application.”

  “I’m sorry. I threw those old papers out after—well, once I had new tenants there was no reason to keep all that.”

  Holman suddenly wanted to tell her that Richie was dead, too; he thought it would be the kind thing to do, her saying such kind things about both Donna and Richie, but he didn’t have the strength. He felt depleted, like he had already given all of himself and didn’t have any more to give.

  Holman was about to thank her for all of it when another thought occurred to him.

  “Where was she buried?”

  “That was over in Baldwin Hills. The Baldwin Haven Cemetery. That was the last time I saw Richard, you know. He didn’t wear his uniform. I thought he might because he was so proud and all, but he wore a nice dark suit.”

  “Did many people attend?”

  Mrs. Bartello made a sad shrug.

  “No. No, not so many.”

  Holman walked back to Perry’s beater in a dull funk, then drove west directly into the sun, trapped in lurching rush hour traffic. It took almost forty minutes to cover the few miles back to Culver City. Holman left Perry’s car in its spot behind the motel, then entered through the front door. Perry was still at his desk, the little radio tinny with the Dodgers play-by-play. Perry turned down the volume as Holman handed him the keys.

  “How was your first day of freedom?”

  “It was shit.”

  Perry leaned back and turned up his radio.

  “Then it can only get better.”

  “Anyone call for me?”

  “I don’t know. You got a message machine?”

  “I gave some people your number.”

  “Give them your own number, not mine. Do I look like a message service?”

  “A police captain named Levy and a young woman. Either of them call?”

  “Nope. Not that I answered and I been here all day.”

  “You set up my TV?”

  “I been here all day. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

  “You got a phone book or you gotta bring it tomorrow?”

  Perry lifted a phone book from behind his desk.

  Holman took the phone book upstairs and looked up the Baldwin Haven Cemetery. He copied the address, then lay on the bed in his clothes, thinking about Donna. After a while he held up his father’s watch. The hands were frozen just the way they had been frozen since his father died. He pulled the knob and spun the hands. He watched them race around the dial, but he knew he was kidding himself. The hands were frozen. Time moved only for other people. Holman was trapped by his past.

  5

  HOLMAN ROSE EARLYthe next morning and went down to the convenience store before Perry was at his desk. He bought a pint of chocolate milk, a six-pack of miniature powdered donuts, and a Times, and brought them back to his room to eat while he read the paper. The investigation into the murders was still front-page news, though today it was below the fold. The chief of police had announced that unnamed witnesses had come forward and detectives were narrowing a field of suspects. No specifics were presented except for an announcement that the city was offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for the arrest and conviction of the shooter. Holman suspected the cops had nothing, but were floating bullshit witnesses to bait real witnesses into making a move on the reward.

  Holman ate the donuts and wished he had a television to see the morning news coverage. A lot could have happened since the paper went to bed.

  Holman finished his chocolate milk, showered, then dressed for work in his one set of fresh clothes. He needed to catch the 7:10 bus to arrive at his job by eight. One bus, no changes, one long ride to his job and back again that night. Holman just had to do it every day, a single ride at a time, and he could turn his life around.

  When he was ready to leave he called the Chatsworth police station, identified himself, and asked for Captain Levy. He didn’t know if Levy would be at work so early and expected to leave a message, but Levy came on the line.

  “Captain, it’s Max Holman.”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t have anything new to report.”

  “Okay, well, I have another number I’d like you to have. I don’t have an answering machine yet, so if something comes up during the day you can reach me at work.”

  Holman read off the work number.

  “One other thing. Did you have a chance to talk with Richie’s wife?”

  “I spoke with her, Mr. Holman.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you gave her this number, too. If she tries to call me here at the motel I’m not sure I’ll get the message.”

  Levy answered slowly.

  “I’ll give her your work num
ber.”

  “And please tell her again that I’d like to speak with her as soon as possible.”

  Holman wondered why Levy hesitated, and was about to ask if there was a problem when Levy interrupted.

  “Mr. Holman, I’ll pass along this message, but I’m going to be direct with you about this situation, and you won’t like what I’m about to say.”

  Levy plowed on as if it was going to be just as difficult for him to say it as for Holman to hear it.

  “I was Richard’s commanding officer. I want to respect his wishes and the wishes of his widow, but I’m also a father—it wouldn’t be right to leave you waiting for something that isn’t going to happen. Richard wanted nothing to do with you. His wife, well, her world has been turned upside down. I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for her to call. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “I don’t understand. You told me she’s the one who told you about me. That’s why you called the Bureau of Prisons.”

  “She thought you should know, but that doesn’t change how Richard felt. I don’t like being in this position, but there it is. Whatever was between you and your son is none of my business, but I am going to respect his wishes and that means I’m going to respect whatever his widow wants to do. I’m not a family counselor in this matter. Are we clear on that?”

  Holman stared at his hand. It lay in his lap like a crab on its back, flexing to right itself.

  “I stopped expecting anything a long time ago.”

  “Just so you understand. I’ll pass along this new number, but I’m not going to push her. As far as you go, I am here to answer your questions about the investigation if I can and I’ll call to update you when we have something to report.”