by Terri Nolan
“What makes you think I don’t require the same?”
“I know guys like you. You’re good looking, fit, smart, literate. You navigated my body like a master. You respected me and the boundaries I set. You have a charming aw-shucks demeanor that’s very attractive. I suspect you have no problem getting laid.”
“I get it. You think I’m a player. Look, I’ve spent twenty years in a military uniform working shows all over the world. I considered myself lucky if I caught the eye of some diplomat’s wife.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“Didn’t our lovemaking mean anything?”
“We didn’t make love. We had sex. There’s a difference.”
“You’re wrong.” He pointed his finger in an accusing way. “I saw it in your face. Felt it in the way you moved. You let go and were with me one hundred percent all the way. Slow, fast, everything in between. And now you’re shutting it down before we have a chance to see where it’ll take us.”
He was right. Birdie felt the heat of the truth in her core. But this was her modus operandi. She fulfilled the passion and moved on. There had been too many similar morning-after conversations. But this one hurt. The guilt of such an intense sexual interaction with a man so soon after the death of her love couldn’t be erased with Matt’s deception and the horrible events since his death. Too bad she wasn’t a Libra. Maybe then she might have the skills to balance her life. But she was an all-in woman—used to taking risks with every aspect of her life except her heart. She reserved it for a man who kept her close but not close enough. And now he was dead. She didn’t know how to behave.
“Life is lived but once,” said Ron low and deliberate. “I can’t change what’s happened in recent days and I understand what you’re saying and why you’re saying it.” Ron squatted in front of her. “You’ll pull the emergency brake no matter how compelling my argument. But I’m asking for a yield. Attach your fate to mine for the duration of this day and this night. Tomorrow morning I’ll drive away. Give you the space to do what you need.”
The tattooed former Marine had an expression of boyish hopefulness so endearing that Birdie caved. Despite her best efforts he managed to earn a reprieve. There was a small place in Birdie that wanted to see where this would go. Her beating heart pumped happy colors of pink and red to that very space.
But … it would end in ruin.
Of that she was certain.
And she dreaded the repeat of this conversation tomorrow.
twenty-one
Birdie and Ron arrived late. The procession had already lined up in the portico of St. Joseph. She pulled at Ron’s arm. “We’re going to use the vestibule off the nave. It’s a hidden way in. I used it to sneak out of Mass after communion when Father Frank wasn’t looking.”
“Such a rebel,” said Ron.
Birdie’s breath caught when they entered. She had never seen the sanctuary so full. St. Joseph wasn’t a large church, and it bulged at the seams. The stained glass depicting the Stations of the Cross bathed the congregation in colors. Dust shimmered in the light. It was breathtakingly beautiful and magical.
She covered her head with the lace mantilla, and they moved down the side aisle looking for a seat. Her family’s pews were full. So were the Whelan’s. Emmett, his wife Eileen, and their four children sat two rows behind the rest of his family. Eileen waved the pair over. Birdie knelt and crossed herself before entering the pew, forcing everyone in the pew to scoot and sit thigh-to-thigh. Ron rotated his wide shoulders sideways to fit his frame into the row.
Birdie leaned around Emmett to kiss Eileen. At the end of the row sat Linda. Matt’s ex-wife. She was more stunning now than when Birdie first met her. Birdie flicked her gaze back to Eileen and kept it there, ignoring the ex.
“Thanks for squeezing us in.”
“Nice dress,” said Eileen. “Who’s the handsome guy?”
“Ron Hughes. San Diego Sheriff Deputy.”
“Matt’s detective?” said Emmett.
Birdie nodded and pressed her back against the pew in order to make an introduction. Ron had to press his elbow into Birdie’s ribs to shake Emmett’s hand. He expressed his condolences, then gave Birdie’s knee a squeeze in apology.
Knowing that Emmett suffered with insomnia, she said, “You sleeping?”
He shook his head and a few tears fell loose onto the hat of his Class A uniform that lay on his lap. Birdie never got a sense of innate sincerity from Emmett. After hearing Patrick’s tale of Emmett’s abuse toward Matt, she felt inclined to dislike him. But watching him cry for his brother, she had a little more compassion.
The music changed, signaling the congregation to rise for the procession’s entrance. A young acolyte—one of Matt’s nephews—held the processional cross followed by another gently swinging a gold vessel with burning frankincense.
The long line of solemn men and boys in ceremonial robes slowly shuffled up the middle aisle.
“Fascinating,” whispered Ron. “Do they always wear black?”
“This is a Requiem Mass. They wear black for the dead.”
At the foot of the altar, Father Frank blessed himself. “In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. I will go in to the altar of God. To God who gives joy to my youth. Our help is in the name of the Lord, who has made heaven and earth …”
_____
An LAPD color guard directed traffic into Holy Cross Cemetery—a green sanctuary surrounded by buildings of commerce and rows of houses. White-gloved uniforms directed the funeral procession around the cemetery in an orderly manner.
The limos transporting immediate family had already arrived and were parked on the street nearest the gravesite. As Ron slowly drove past, Birdie saw Frank Senior and Mary exit the first car. As Ron’s Audi snaked around the roadway, she was struck by the enormous number of people in attendance. There was even a KCLA news van and a small video crew standing discreetly off to the side. The last uniform waved them to the next parking space. Organized like Disneyland.
Ron reached into the back seat for his navy suit jacket and camera.
“Why the camera?” said Birdie.
“I’m a wannabe photojournalist. If it bothers you I’ll leave it behind.”
Cameras at funerals weren’t that unusual. She had taken photos at her Grandpa’s funeral that she later shared with distant family who couldn’t attend.
They picked through the soft grass toward the folding chairs set up in front of the casket.
“There’s Jacob,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll escort you to your seat and meet you after.”
Fine. She was surrounded by family and friends. After Mass she had spoken with the majority of them and introduced Ron. But she hadn’t seen Arthur and couldn’t find him now amid the multitudes of reverent police officers in dress blues with hats slung low over their eyes. Together they formed a sea of blue that overwhelmed the funeral black. She also scanned the crowd for Linda. Birdie became irritated that she’d allowed that woman to invade her attention.
Birdie sat at the end of a row next to her mom, Maggie. There were too many people. Birdie’s lungs clenched. They shouldn’t be at a cemetery. Matt shouldn’t be lying in the casket with a reproduction of his badge on the lid. Her breath rasped out quick gasps. This was a mistake. A misunderstanding. She leaned forward to stave off a panic attack. Maggie grabbed her daughter’s hand, a strong anchor that allowed Birdie to catch her breath.
Arthur and Matt’s partnership brought sociality to the two families and soon the two clans were linked by the brotherhood of copdom and shared heritage. Both patriarchs were Irish-born. There were five Keanes and now five Whelans currently working for the LAPD. In police circles, they were collectively known as the Irish Mob. They spanned all sworn personnel levels from patrol uniforms to two star politicos, with one civilian—Birdie’s mom.
Privately, Birdie took pride in the Irish Mob moniker. Being a cop was a tough job. Each member of her family, immediate and otherwise, relied on one another for emotional support and camaraderie. So it was today at the gravesite of one of their own. But in the cop bars and the suburban backyard barbeques of captains and commanders, it was a real force that was discussed. The Irish Mob had become a machine to be reckoned with.
The service ended when Frank chanted the words: “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace. Amen. May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace. Amen.”
All police radio frequencies were put on hold for an end-of-watch announcement. Birdie held onto Maggie. Gerard wasn’t close at hand to provide a hug to his girls. He stood with the rest of the mob and saluted. Afterward the Los Angeles Drum and Pipe Band played taps. The moaning, emotive quality of the bagpipes stabbed at Birdie’s heart. A pain caught in her throat. She felt the brace in her cheeks and couldn’t contain the loss. Her shoulders shook as she cried.
The Irish Mob was down one man. Birdie was down the best man she ever knew.
twenty-two
Birdie expected Matt’s wake to be a classy affair to match the Whelan family sensibility. What their money bought was a giant block party with a fair-like atmosphere. Sweet smoke from ribs, hamburgers, hot dogs, and sausages floated in the air. Row upon row of tables were laden with food. There were plenty of tables and chairs for eating. The bar tents located at either end of the street already had long lines.
The Mulligans played on a stage at the north side of the street accompanied by a troupe of girls in traditional Irish dress that performed various jigs in front of a large dance floor. A balloon archway marked the entrance to a tent laid out with couches in front of a huge movie screen on which Matt’s life played out in home movies and photos. It was right next to the jump house. Potted hedges were brought in to hide the long row of porta potties.
Ron whistled at the spectacle. “Is this a wake or what?”
“Or what,” moaned Birdie, in no mood for a crushing party that wouldn’t end ’till dawn. “I can’t be here. I feel claustrophobic.”
“Frank Senior wanted to meet with me first thing. If you can hold on for a little while I’ll take you home right after.”
Birdie thought she could so they wove their way toward the house located mid-block. A flash of blond hair caught her eye.
“Ron, look. Over there.”
“Who is that?”
“That’s Linda.” Birdie paused for emphasis. “Matt’s ex-wife.”
Linda held the hand of a mini, five-year-old version of herself. She turned and caught Birdie and Ron starring. She boldly walked over and gave Birdie an awkward embrace. They exchanged shallow hellos and nice to see yous, then Birdie introduced Ron.
“This is my daughter,” said Linda, caressing the girl’s head. “April, say hello to Birdie.”
The eyes that looked up at her were shamrock green. Just like Matt’s. Birdie stared with astonishment into the little girl’s eyes then up to Linda’s blue ones, smug with satisfaction. Birdie was familiar with enough Whelan grandchildren to know she was looking at one. Birdie felt threatened and off balance. Angry even. Her left hand began to shake and Ron slid his into it and held tight. Now she knew why Reidy had made a point to say that Linda had no rights. Linda held Matt’s heart in her hands long before Birdie, and Matt loved Linda in a way he never loved Birdie. Now Linda had a part of him that would outlive them all.
“You have a funny name,” said April.
“Yes. I do.”
“You’re pretty.”
“Not as pretty as you.” Birdie poked the girl in the belly and she squealed with delight.
“We’ve got to go. It was nice to see you, Linda.” She’d be damned if she’d allow Linda to see her discomfort.
“Birdie—” Linda halted as if contemplating, “would you like to have lunch sometime? To talk?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What the hell was that?” said Ron as Birdie led him away.
“Matt was married to her when he met me.”
“You said you hadn’t slept with Matt.”
“I didn’t. But wives know when their men fall for someone else. She wouldn’t forgive him the emotional indiscretion.”
“Can you blame her?”
“Of course not. But I won’t sit through lunch and listen to her self-righteous gloating.”
“What do you mean?”
“Forget it.” She suspected April to be Matt’s daughter and she just couldn’t go there.
They found Frank Senior on the front porch leaning down and speaking to his eldest son, Frank Junior, who sat on a porch bench.
“Frank,” she said, as they approached. “This is Ron Hughes.”
“Ah, yes,” said Frank Senior. He shook Ron’s hand. “I’m glad you found me straight away. Let’s get this nasty business over with. Join me in the study for a brandy and cigar.”
“Thank you, sir.” As Ron disappeared into the house he turned and mouthed at Birdie, You okay?
Birdie gave him a thumbs-up and sat down next to Father Frank. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” said Frank. He put his arm around her shoulder. She leaned into her confidant, her compass, her priest, and together—the sinner and the pious—watched the festivities from the porch. Frank sighed. “Matt is in a good place, but I miss him terribly.”
“Me, too, but that didn’t stop me from having sex with Ron last night.”
“I have to say, Bird, that of all my parishioners you sure are the fastest confessor.” He kissed her head. “But I already knew. I’m not blind. I see the afterglow.”
“I’m glowing?”
“No. Ron is. That man is too dang happy.”
“I feel bad about my lusty desires at this terrible time.”
“Oh, child, do you honestly believe Matt would begrudge you a small measure of happiness? He wouldn’t want you to stop the forward momentum of your life to wallow in the misery of his loss. Me, I’m less happy with you. I’m obliged to give you a lecture about pre-marital sex. You remember how it goes. Don’t forget to say your penance.”
She couldn’t help smile. That’s what she loved about Frank. He understood her, yet accepted and loved her anyway.
“And remember that shame and guilt are powerful toxins,” he added.
Emmett approached, followed closely by Arthur and Thom. “Hey, Bird. Hey, Frank, nice service,” said Thom. He leaned down to kiss Birdie and dropped the Sig he had claimed from Wilshire Station into her lap.
Arthur gave her a kiss as well and then squeezed Emmett’s shoulder. “Have a minute?” he said.
“Sure,” said Emmett, wincing under Arthur’s strong grip. “Let’s go inside.”
Frank and Birdie were alone once again.
“Have you met April?” said Birdie. “Linda’s daughter?”
“I haven’t. She quit coming to church after the annulment. Why do you ask?”
“She’s here. She was at Mass, too.”
Frank frowned. “Let us hope that Mother doesn’t cross her path. I’m afraid her Christian charity doesn’t extend to her ex-daughter-in-law.”
Ron exited the house in a shroud of richly perfumed smoke. Frank gave Birdie a quick hug and excused himself, denying Birdie an opportunity to press him about Mary and Linda. Ron eyed the handgun.
“It’s mine from the other night. My purse isn’t big enough. Do you mind?” Ron did a quick press check, then slid it between his belt and waistband. He smoothed the jacket over the bulge.
He handed her a cigar. She examined the band. In the center was Matt’s image. His birth and death date were on the left side. On the right, a police shield, and the words rest in peace.
“That is a premium cigar from the Dominican Republic. Probably made from tobacco stock imported after the U.S. embargo of Cuba. Very nice. This one—” he discretely lifted it from his breast pocket—“is a genuine Cuban. Not a counterfeit.”
“What a clever idea,” she said, handing it back. “Did you like his brandy?”
“Oh, yeah. So this is how the really rich live.”
“He’s satisfied with the specifics of Matt’s death?”
“As much as a man who lost a son can be. You ready to go now?”
“More than anything.”
twenty-three
Friday, January 13
The day woke to the promise of renewal and hopefulness. The rain had washed away the smog and cleaned the streets of grime. The trees were a bright, shiny green, the grass thick with new growth. Birdie’s visitors had departed and the phone wasn’t ringing. It should’ve been a good day. There were no distractions to prevent her from digesting the disastrous week and working on Matt’s secret.
Except thoughts of Ron.
They said goodbye in the pale glow of dawn. She didn’t have to repeat the previous day’s I’m not ready for a relationship talk. Instead, he held her a long time, kissed her tenderly, and asked her to call him when she was ready. Then he was gone; headed back to a life in a city far away. It made her miserable.
Taking her morning coffee into the office she ripped a page off the wall. 245. She flicked on the television, the volume muted, and powered up the computer. An e-mail pinged for her attention. Narciso Alejo, head of the Paige Street taskforce, agreed to meet her tomorrow. She sent a confirming response and then sent a thank you to Ralph Soto for arranging the meet.
Images of Ron kept inserting themselves into her thoughts like
a stubborn virus: his nervous smile, the strength of his touch—the way his hands stilled hers, his attentive nature. She didn’t want to remember the soft, fleecy prick of his hair on her fingertips, the glistening tattoos, or the way he moaned when he came, or the jaw stubble scratching the delicate soft spots between her legs. And she certainly couldn’t avoid the leftover smell of latex mingled with his musky smell on her skin. She didn’t want to remember the feel of his muscles under her fingertips. She didn’t want to remember that he was a fine specimen of a man.
