by Milk;Honey
“Deal.” Decker paused, then added, “I’ll just back it out of the garage for you.”
Rina broke into laughter.
9
MacPherson looked at Decker and said, “I hate fanatics.”
Decker didn’t respond. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the squad room’s urn.
“Though I suppose it’s not entirely your fault,” MacPherson continued. “You’re heavily under the influence of pussy.”
Decker sipped coffee and said, “Some itty-bitty thought is germinating in that feeble brain of yours, Paulie. Want to tell me what it is?” He added, “Are you able to articulate what it is?”
Hollander said, “I think he’s referring to your beany cap, Rabbi.”
Decker’s hand went to the crown of his head. He’d forgotten to take off his yarmulke. This morning, he’d recited all of Shacharit before he went to work. He’d even put on phylacteries for the first time in a month. Rina had seemed pleased, but Decker had wondered if he hadn’t acted hypocritically. On the drive over to the station, he’d decided that there was nothing wrong with keeping the peace in the home front—shalom bayis. Besides, after the incidents with her brother-in-law, Rina needed a little restoration of faith. Decker pocketed the skullcap.
“Converts are the worst fanatics,” MacPherson said. “Like reformed drunks, they have something to prove to themselves, so they have to prove it to everyone else.”
“Stow it, Paul,” Decker said. “I’m not in the mood for your dimestore philosophy.”
“Marge’ll be back in a minute,” Hollander said.
“Do you know if the bee commissioner called her back?”
“I think she spoke to someone about bees,” Hollander said.
“Pete,” MacPherson said, with a sigh, “one day, when the nookie’s worn off, you’ll rediscover your balls, look in the mirror, and come to grips with yourself. No matter who you fuck, what you do, what you eat, or what you wear, you can’t get away from the fact that you’re a six-foot-four, two-hundred-thirty-pound, gun-toting, mean-assed cop. You’re about as Jewish as ham and cheese. You’re a shiska, Decker. Admit it and be at peace with your soul.”
Decker said, “You mean shiksa, Paul, and that’s used for Gentile girls. The word you’re looking for is shaigetz. Or just plain goy will do.”
Technically, he wasn’t either, but MacPherson didn’t know that. None of them did.
“You know what I’m talking about,” MacPherson said.
“Paulie, if you weren’t so full of shit, you’d be white,” Decker said.
“Touché,” Hollander said.
MacPherson growled.
Decker poured himself another cup of coffee and fingered his yarmulke through his shirt pocket, contemplating for the hundredth time how he would have turned out had his Jewish biological mother kept and raised him. He would have been the same physically—chromosomes didn’t change—but all his life experiences, everything that made him the man he was today, would have been different.
Yet, forty-one years later, he was returning to his ancestral bloodline. Part of the reason was Rina; she wouldn’t marry him unless he was Jewish and religious. But there was more than just her love that kept it going. Something inside had pulled him to Judaism, kept him tethered even though it meant long hours of biblical studies and added restrictions to his already harried life. Ask him what it was and Decker couldn’t define it. Paul ribbed him about the transformation—all the guys at the station had at one time or another. They were baffled. How did you dismiss forty-one years of being a Gentile? Decker’s answer: You didn’t. He still considered himself the child of the parents who’d raised him, the offspring of a solid mother and a strong father who’d reared him Baptist.
He’d finished his second cup of coffee when Marge and a fifty-year-old pouchy-cheeked man walked into the squad room.
“Sergeant Decker,” she said, “this is Charlie Benko—the bounty hunter who thought that Baby Sally might have been the kid he was looking for. He’s going to look over our mug books and see if he can’t recognize the scumbag kidnapper husband amongst our finest.”
“Good idea,” Decker said. “How’s the mother doing?”
Charlie splayed the fingers of his right hand and rocked his wrist back and forth. “She’d be doing better with a better husband.”
“Number two is a creep also?” Marge asked. “Some women just seem to pick all the winners.”
“Ah, number two doesn’t beat her or drink or anything like that,” Benko said. “He just doesn’t give her much of a shoulder to cry on. What the hell, he figures, it ain’t his kid. But at least he should fake it better. Know what he told Dotty? Forget about this one, we’ll make our own.”
“Sensitive man,” Marge said.
“Yeah, like the kid was a baseball lost in the bushes, lose one, buy another. Well, Charlie Benko finds all the fucking baseballs, even if he has to get down on his hands and knees and crawl through the bush himself, know what I’m talkin’ about? That’s why I’m givin’ Dotty a hundred and ten percent. Hell, I’m not even charging her for half my time. In the end, it pays off. I can sleep at night, and if I need a future referral, Dotty’s gonna tell them that Charlie Benko ran the extra mile for her.”
“Here are the mug books,” Marge said. “You can sit at my desk.”
“I’ll find that sunnabitch one way or t’other,” Benko said. “Little Heather ain’t gonna wind up another lost baseball, I’ll tell you that.”
“You want some coffee, Charlie?” Marge asked.
“Sure. Milk and three teaspoons of sugar. I used to drink it black, but life’s too short. The big C took my wife three years ago. Since then, I say what the hell.” He paused for a moment, shook his head, then opened the first mug book.
“You going to be around, Detective Hollander?” Marge asked.
“Why?”
“If Charlie finds the scumbag, he’ll need someone to punch him into the computer.”
“No problem,” Hollander said. “I’ve got to take a quick run down to the nuthouse, but I should be back in an hour.”
“Nuthouse?” Benko said. “You work with them psychos, Detective? Boy, I’ve met more than a few psychos in my time.”
MacPherson said, “The nuthouse is San Fernando Valley Juvenile Hall. The building’s located on Filbert Street.”
“Filbert—ah, nuthouse, I get it,” Benko said. “I like that.”
“While Detective Hollander is absent, I’ll be happy to help out Mr. Benko in any manner deemed necessary,” MacPherson said.
“A rare burst of altruism from Detective MacPherson,” Decker said.
“Yeah, thanks a lot, pal,” Benko said. He turned another page.
Marge pulled out her notes and said to Decker, “This is what I’ve got. Mitch Appleman, the bee commissioner, gave me some addresses of apiaries in the neighborhood. The big commercial ones are off the Antelope Valley Freeway near Canyon Country. A little far for Baby Sally to walk.”
“About five miles too far.”
“But,” Marge said, “there’s an area, a small valley called Sagebrush Canyon, right outside our jurisdiction. It runs between the mountains, starts right above Hansen Dam and Lakeview Terrace, and curves above the new Manfred development. Lots of pastures—alfalfa and clover fields. Appleman says there are a couple of independent bee farmers out there. I think that’s our best bet.”
“Who has jurisdiction?”
“It’s an independent city in L.A. County. I wasn’t able to find out if they have any local law. Maybe they import in time of need.”
Decker said, “Let’s take a look.”
Marge steered the unmarked onto Foothill Boulevard, the division’s main thoroughfare that hugged the base of the San Gabriel Mountains. The sun had burned away the smog and a dry wind was whipping through the air. The two-lane street had no sidewalks and was lined with an odd mixture of the industrial and agricultural—ramshackle ranches stuffed between two blocks’ wo
rth of building-supply wholesalers, brickyards next to specimen-tree nurseries. Marge drove past rows of potted trees laid out like tombstones, past a large stretch of dried-up spillway floored with smooth, chalky-gray boulders. A shirtless cowboy was riding a horse along the arid bed, one hand on the reins, the other gripping a leash attached to a black Labrador retriever.
The road crossed over the spillway, and a moment later, they whizzed past parkland. A half-dozen teenage boys were playing basketball on an asphalt court radiating heat waves. Off to the side was a shaded playground. Mothers, wearing short-sleeved shirts and pleated shorts, were pushing toddlers in swings, fanning themselves with the palms of their hands. Opposite the park were a K mart and a sheet-metal plant.
A TV jingle played through Marge’s brain, an ad for a supermarket that claimed to cater to Middle America. She sang, “‘Don’t have a big, foreign car…’”
Decker looked at her.
“‘Don’t have a mansion on a hill…’”
“You could have fooled me,” Decker said.
“‘But I’m an Amerricann…’”
Decker said, “Know what I see when I look at those ersatz good old folks commercials? Card-carrying members of SAG, making union scale, hoping that the commercial’s aired a hundred times a day so they can have a big, foreign car or a mansion on a hill.”
“But look at this natural beauty, Pete,” Marge said, pointing to a gravel yard. “Now would you really give this all up if…say, you hit the big spin in the lottery?”
Decker let go with a full laugh.
Marge said, “And what would you do with all of that free time on your hands?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Lots of things come to mind,” Decker said. He thought, Most of them have to do with Rina and a bedroom.
As if she read his thoughts, Marge asked, “How’s Rina?”
“Hanging in there,” Decker said. “She’s moving back.”
“No shit,” Marge said. “What prompted that?”
“My prowess.”
Marge smiled. “I’m happy for you, Pete.”
“Thanks,” Decker said. “I’m really happy myself.”
“You two going to do it?”
“If she doesn’t change her mind again, yes.”
“You’re not nervous about it?”
“No,” Decker said. “Not at all.”
“I’m petrified of marriage,” Marge said. “What if it’s the wrong one? Charlie Benko’s right about one thing. People aren’t baseballs. I’m not the type to just throw the bum out. Even if I realized I made a very baaaad mistake.”
Decker said, “You know, Margie, the job dampens us emotionally. Has to be that way—otherwise, we’d be crying in our beer all the time. So the few times I react with my heart instead of my head, I don’t really think about the consequences. I just enjoy the pleasure of feeling.”
Marge furrowed her brow. “Know what I’m going to do? I’m gonna think like that.”
Decker smiled, then stared out the window.
Turning left, Marge hooked the Plymouth behind a velvet green golf course and followed a small, winding road chiseled into the mountains. The foothills were mounds of sand-colored rock dotted with withered shrubbery, and tall grass parched straw yellow in the dazzling sunlight. Specks of color sprouted through the gravel—tiny blooms of white-purple, lemon-hued dandelions, orange poppies, giraffe-necked sunflowers. The unmarked’s transmission bucked as the car ascended and as they reached the top of the first hill, a huge crater of stone and steel came into view. The concrete bowl had once been filled with millions of gallons of water. But deemed old and unsafe, Hansen Dam had been drained in the early eighties. Marge looked at the empty shell and sighed.
“Every time I see it, I can’t help but think of the millions of dollars and work hours…just gone.”
“It’s rumored that Manfred wants the land,” Decker said.
“You’re kidding. I didn’t hear that one.”
“I think Mike told me,” Decker said. “He’s up on that kind of thing. Be nice if they filled it again. We could take our boats out here instead of going to Lake Castaic.”
“Knowing Manfred, they’ll probably fill it with toxic waste,” Marge said. “There’s going to be a big meeting at the municipal courthouse about their newest plans for a seven-story office building. On the twenty-seventh of this month. The ranchers are going to try to put a freeze on buildings over two stories. Interested?”
“Not really.”
“What are you going to do? Wait until they invade your neighborhood?” Marge shook her head. “They’re building right behind my house, beautiful piece of land that used to be cornfields. You know, I could accept the fact that maybe L.A. needs more houses than corn, but they haven’t even sold out their last two developments. They’re turning this place into tract-o-land.”
Decker said, “Watch the curves, Marge.”
“I see them.” She mopped her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand. “All those tracts don’t bother you?”
“I’d prefer to leave things status quo,” Decker said. “But I’m not losing any sleep over it.”
“Until they build behind you.”
“No,” Decker said, “I wouldn’t like that.”
Marge braked suddenly as she entered the next curve. Directly below lay the verdant floor of Sagebrush Canyon. She shifted the automatic into low gear as they descended into the valley. Thick red-adobe rocks and boulders framed long stretches of pink-white clover, lavender alfalfa, and the silvery-gray leaves of purple sagebrush. The fields had been recently irrigated, the water droplets still clinging to the flora, sparkling like shattered glass in the sunlight. The air seemed a bit cooler, but the winds were still warm and strong. The sky was iridescent blue.
Decker said, “Right around the corner and I never knew this place existed.”
“Neither did I.”
The Plymouth reached the mouth of the canyon and turned left. The first landmark they saw was a roofless barn, fronted with haystacks in the middle of a field of jersey cows. Five minutes later, they passed a one-story whitewashed house. Tacked atop the doorway was a hand-painted red-lettered sign, reading SAGEBRUSH CANYON GENERAL STORE. A half-mile farther was a stucco diner with an EATS signpost carved in the shape of an arrow. Across the road was an old-fashioned two-pump gas station, a phone booth, and a wooden shack. The strong smell of uric acid assaulted their nostrils.
“Something’s cookin’,” Decker said. “And it ain’t moonshine.”
Marge said, “Only one thing smells like that.”
“Two things,” Decker said. “You forgot about piss.”
Marge laughed. “We got meth. Now where are the bikers?”
“Close,” Decker said. “I guarantee you that.”
The valley once again turned into glistening fields—cow and sheep pastures. A mile later was a large wooden indoor-outdoor structure shaded by tall eucalyptus and thick-trunked olive trees. Souped-up Harleys, Honda GSMs, and BMW choppers were chained to posts on a side gravel lot. The front part of the building was an open patio set up with tables and chairs. Dozens of tattooed, shirtless bikers slumped lazily in their seats, shooting the breeze while they smoked cigarettes and joints, and guzzled beer. Some were completely naked from the waist up, others were shirtless but had donned leather vests. Most had oversized bellies and hair falling down their backs, the long strands tied away from their foreheads with red bandannas. A few of the men held skin-and-bone women on their laps, the girls looping stringy arms around their fat men’s necks.
“Our illustrious chemists,” Decker said.
“Meth,” Marge said. “Some things just go together—love and marriages…horses and carriages…bikers and uppers.”
Decker said, “I know the song, but I missed that verse.”
Marge said, “Just your old-fashioned cottage industry.”
Decker said, “If this were a movie, you and I would storm the place, crack open some heads, and demand
some answers.”
Marge said, “Well, that’s the difference between Hollywood and reality. For one thing, Hollywood doesn’t concern itself with the ACLU and search-and-seizure laws. Not to mention the fact that these beer-drinking gentlemen are packing.”
“Don’t tell me you’re wary of a few motorcycle enthusiasts.”
“I?” Marge replied. “Bite your tongue. But you know how these hick lawmen are. We go in and do their dirty work, they get all pissed off at us big-time dicks.”
“True, true.”
“So we’ll let the bikers go this time.”
“Just this once,” Decker said.
“Of course,” Marge said. “Next week, that shed’s still standing, I’m going in and busting some chops.”
Copses of eucalyptus lined the road, darkening the asphalt. The air-conditioning sucked in the scent of menthol. Riding another mile, the trees disappeared and they came upon open fields once more—acres and acres of purple alfalfa bloom filled with grazing livestock. In the middle of the area, a green signpost pointed to a dirt road. It read, TO L.A., ORANGE BLOSSOM DEVELOPMENTS.
“That’s the official name of the Manfred tract,” Decker said. “Someone wants to dump Sally, he takes a quick ride over the mountain and he’s in civilization—somewhat.”
“Well, it’s better than leaving the kid at the biker bar. Did you catch its name?”
“Hell’s Heaven,” Decker said, turning the air-conditioning fan down a notch. “Cute.”
They rode another mile. Marge nudged Decker in the ribs.
“Look up ahead,” she said.
A burnt-wood sign read: HOWARD’S HONEY FARM—ROAD TO OFFICE ONE MILE DOWN. The turnoff was a loose gravel lane that wreaked havoc on the unmarked’s tires, the office a greenpainted lean-to. Marge parked in front of the shack, and they both got out and stretched. The shed was surrounded by acres of sweet-smelling clover. In the distance was a two-story redwood farmhouse.
Decker knocked on the door to the office. When no one answered, he took out a glove, slipped it on his right hand, and turned the unlocked handle. Inside were a metal desk piled high with graph paper, a swivel chair, and a file cabinet. On the wall behind the desk were pinups—a blonde with her rear in the air and a brunette with the finger of her right hand in her mouth, the fingers on her left pulling up the lips of her vagina. Other wall decor included an out-of-date calendar from an auto-parts store, and a battery clock that said five after five. Decker checked his own watch. It was around eleven-thirty. A half-eaten pizza was falling out of a garbage can, flies covering the cheese like a topping of raisins. The air smelled rancid—garlicky and hot.
