by Kurt Douglas
“You’re a detective, more or less, Dr. Van. Do some detective work. You’ll find I’m credible.”
Frank leaned back in his chair and waited for her response. Amy looked him up and down as she pressed her glass to her lips, pushing hard enough to leave a little indentation on her chin as she pulled it away to speak.
“Okay, Mr. Black,” she said, “challenge accepted.”
She took the lime from the edge of her glass and squeezed it into the remaining bit of ginger ale, then swigged back the glass. Frank watched as the ice cubes slithered their way toward her lips, brushing them gently just before she tipped the glass back down and placed it on the table.
“Your father was a cop and so were you. You graduated top of your class, which to me says you were trying to prove something to someone. Since you went into the family business, I’d say you were clamoring for Daddy’s approval.”
She leaned forward in her seat, clasping her hands and leaning her chin upon them.
“But you couldn’t keep up with the job,” she said, “You started in on the bottle and couldn’t put it down. It was only a few years before that affected your work and they kicked you off the force.”
Frank shifted in his seat. From boots planted on the ground and hands at his side, Frank crossed his arms and threw one leg over the other.
“You couldn’t face your dad so you moved away,” she said, then realized, “but something brought you back.”
Frank perked up and stopped her by placing his hand on hers, pulling her support from her chin with a gentle tug.
“Not everything is in my file, Dr. Van,” Frank whispered. “You’re right about the bottle but you’re wrong about my reasons.”
Squeezing her hands in his, he said, “It’s the motives that are the true measure of a person—not their actions. The motives, Van, and you have mine all mixed up.”
“I drink to make things fair for everyone else,” he said. “Otherwise there’s no challenge. It’s no fun.”
He smiled, and with one more squeeze of her hands, he let go and leaned back, taking his glass and gulping down the last bit of his beer.
“What you won’t find in that file of yours is the three years I spent in Afghanistan, the wife that left me and the child that I’ll never see. The reason I’m back? I owe someone something. They tried. Damn hard, in fact, and I was too angry to see it. I missed it, but I’m here now and maybe that’ll count for something.”
You could tell Frank was getting lost in his thoughts and because of it, Amy had started to see a different side of him. At this point, he just needed her to go along with him. Her eyes softened away from that stone cold gaze she had always offered him, and she shot him a glance of warmth. A little bit of charm broke through Amy’s face as she tried not to smile. For a moment you could tell she was considering what it would be like to know Frank in more ways than this.
Then Frank said, “Shit. Look at me opening up like a tired whore.”
She narrowed her eyes. Her growing regard for Frank had ended just as suddenly as it had begun.
“My turn,” Frank said with a grin.
“Though, before I begin. I think I’d like another,” he said, shaking his empty bottle.
She did everything she could to keep herself from attacking him again for his drinking, though it did take thoughts of him further from her mind so she bit her tongue. Frank didn’t notice. He got up and headed toward the cashier. Pausing, he turned to face Amy and placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Can I get you another ginger ale?” he asked as he reached out his other hand.
“Sure,” she said, extending the empty glass to him.
After a moment, Frank returned with a bottle stacked in an empty glass and a refill of ginger ale with a slice of lime on the edge. He sat, handing the latter to Van.
As he tilted his glass and poured his beer, Frank said into the glass, “You choose your clothes for a sole purpose. Professional. Conservative but sexy. It’s your mission to demand respect, but you know you can use your body too. You walk like you’re on a march, anywhere you go, but you’re always holding that clipboard tight. It’s your bureaucratic shield; you guard yourself with it. You covet control and order, but you’re not always sure you’re doing the right thing. And even when you might be wrong, you wouldn’t dare lose that control. Not after it took you so long to get it.”
Finishing his pour, he set the bottle down, looked at her and said, “The way you are with the men around you. Like they’re all little boys. Dalton, the photographer, me. I’d say Daddy told you no one would ever love you right. So you’re alone. That and your work. But let’s be honest with ourselves, the work isn’t for you. It’s for Dad.”
“That is uncalled-for, Mr. Black,” Amy growled, holding the lime over her glass and twisting hard as she spoke. “You are way off base.”
“Am I?” he said. “Not Daddy then.”
“A boy,” Frank corrected. “A fiancé.”
Her eyes widened.
“You sure draw a lot out of nothing,” she said.
“It’s what I’m good at.”
Then Frank declared, “Recently engaged. Didn’t go well. That was him.”
He sipped his beer and continued, pressing the point, “Made you feel worthless? Left you at the altar, didn’t he?”
“That’s enough, Frank.”
He ignored her, continuing, “Your detest me for my smoking, but the way you sniff at the air around me, I’d say you recently quit. Probably just washed your last load of smoked-up laundry.”
Reaching his hand across the table and under her chin he said, “The way your foundation doesn’t blend evenly… looks like your mother left before she could teach you how to put it on.”
Frank swigged his beer and confessed, “Mine too. Means you also probably didn’t have aunts or sisters around in your life. And I’d suppose you didn’t buy much into the Glamour mags and beauty tips for teenage girls, but you’re naturally sexy so it worked out.”
She was beyond uncomfortable.
“Okay. Good job, Mr. Black. Do someone else now. Someone not sitting in front of us.”
“How ’bout your boss?” Frank offered as he leaned back in his seat.
“The nervous twitch of the jaw, the constant gnashing of the teeth, he’s probably on an amphetamine derivative. The gaunt cheeks and deep-set eyes, too many wakeful nights. The dried glue on his fingertips, a hands-on hobby at home, building something. The slight bend in his stance, the folding of the lower spine, recently hurt his back lifting something heavy. In his line of work, a body I’d assume.”
“How’d you see his hands?” Amy questioned as she leaned forward.
“Sniper, Doll,” Frank rebutted while raising his hand, answering the question like a self-righteous little kid in class.
Then he said, “Look. This has been a blast, but I got to get out of here before the old man goes to sleep.”
Frank placed the brown bag of pee back on the table and smiled.
“Seriously,” he said, “I bet you whatever’s in there is in Chad too.”
He flashed the manila folder once again, saying, “I keep copies of everything. Something that little brat didn’t count on. I’ll call you when I have what I need and I know where we can start looking. For now, test this.”
Chapter 15
He cut his headlights and killed the engine, coasting his boat-like Ambassador down the drive. His tires jumped into the wheel well with each pass over the swollen tiles that made up the ornate mosaic beneath his car. Ever since his dad got sick, no one was using this front entrance. The only people who came were service personnel and they all came to the back. Hell, the front half of this house was no more than a museum these days.
The drive wound and turned through a variety of trees, few of which were native to Southern California, most of which were imported from across the globe. Thousands of dollars sunk into a landscape that not even the old man was right enough to enjoy. Ahead we
re the bright yellow orbs that lined the front staircase. They sat well below a massive wood and concrete awning that sloped upward in parallel with the stairs, the type of awning you’d come across when checking in to a five-star hotel. You’d see the bellhop waiting for you, other patrons waiting for cabs and friends, lovers and family. The marquee overhead, traffic below. Maybe there’d be someone smoking next to the big brass ashtrays, watching and waiting, but not here. Here there were just the lamps, their hollow glow and the empty staircase that held them, waiting for Frank. Eight lights on either side, they sat in rows upon the edges of the stone steps. Their light shooting upward and outward, filling the awning that covered them with a righteous brightness that sparkled off the silicate deposits bound within the tiles and stones, glimmering as Frank rolled forward from the darkness. Frank eased the brake pedal into the floorboard as he rolled under the large oak timbers that supported the extravagant canopy, stopping his car at the base of the stairs.
Stepping out of his car, he mashed a smoldering butt into the ground, smearing it with the heel of his boot. This side of the estate, the grounds were unused, cared for but unused. It was as though the front was in a perpetual state of open-house—inviting, touched up, maintained and planned out enough to lure you in, but too cold and empty to keep you there. His smeared ash and tobacco on the drive stood out, a black smear on the untraveled tile floor. Frank looked down on the black spot and shrugged as he slammed his door.
Pulling himself up the hand-carved banister, Frank moved up the stairs, skipping one with each step. His reflection twisted and distorted against the glass as he passed the mouth-blown spheres that lit his way. At the top, he reached for one of the cast-iron knockers, a gargoyle bolted to the center of each of the oversized oak doors. Before he could grab the ring between the monster’s teeth, the door pulled inward and away. Light spilled onto the veranda, trailed by a cold draft. In the light of the doorway stood a stout Filipino man in an orange and black mock turtleneck. His hospital green stretch pants undulated against the cool breeze coming from behind him, the hems flapping against the straps of his open-toed sandals and the heels of his gray and white athletic socks. He leaned heavily against the door, crossing one leg over the other and wrapping his arms over his distended belly.
“A bit late for a visit, isn’t it, Mr. Black?”
“Not here to see the old man,” Frank grumbled as he slipped inside.
The main foyer was about twice the size of Frank’s apartment. Spirals of tacky marble mosaic straight out of the ’80s made up the floors, sloping upward at the walls and meeting them with a slight curve. The walls were a textured white plaster with empty alcoves and built-in shelves that displayed nothing all around. Toward the back of the entryway, a massive staircase ran the length of one wall, terminating in a wide, loft-like balcony that looked down on the front door.
Wren glared, saying, “You should stop in and see him. You never showed up today and he’s upset now.”
“Bullshit, Wren,” Frank barked. “As if he would even remember. Besides, I don’t want to bother him. I just need in my office.”
“You mean my office,” Wren corrected with a pearly white grin. “Dean said it was my office.”
He whispered the reminder as he closed his lips into a frown, letting his arms grip his round stomach even tighter.
Frank narrowed his eyes at Wren and continued his way through the large foyer.
Turning around, he said, “You can close the door, Wren. You’re letting all of your hot air out.”
It took Frank about sixty steps to reach the end of the room. Passing the rows of empty nooks and shelves, Frank arrived at the hallway beneath the stairs.
Tipping his imaginary hat, he turned out of the entryway and into the massive circular hall that connected all the rooms. This hallway was decorated in stark contrast with the entrance. The walls were a deep wine red that nearly matched the brown of the deep shag carpet. The walls were littered in frames and shelves that were full of items. Here were all the photos, awards, medals, trophies and degrees that Frank’s father had acquired and loved over the years. A picture of Dean looking very much like Frank sat prominent above a shelf dedicated to his mother. He was in his captain’s uniform, receiving his Civil Disturbance Ribbon from Mayor Bradley after the riots in ’92. His collar was lined in stars and his chest was cluttered with the varying colors of medals and commendations beneath his badge. Below it, silver frames with the obvious luster of a daily polish stood in rows along a massive bookshelf. Frank paused at the shelves and looked over the images. Taking a photo of his mother and father embracing each other over wedding cake, he held it in both hands, inspecting it closely before setting it back and continuing through the hall, shrugging off the memories and hurrying his pace.
As he passed his dad’s room, the fifth door on the right, he heard his father shout out to him.
“Frankie,” he said, “I saw your mom today.”
He was surprised his old man had even spotted him. It’s not as though he was strolling through the hall. Frank stopped in the doorway. The old man sat in his wheelchair staring into the corner of the room where his two bookshelves met in a V. Dean Black, a strong man in his time, was now a captive in his palace, in his wheelchair, and in his mind seventy percent of the time. He still had a thick head of gray hair, but the poor man never got to enjoy the spoils of his wise investments. One doesn’t much remedy the other. His long chin and strong but sagging jaw swayed back and forth. His bare feet jerked up and down. His fingers curled and relaxed over and over, digging and gripping into the red flannel draped across his lap. He grasped and released the blanket repeatedly as he tapped his feet and gnashed his teeth.
Without looking, he said with a hiss, “Your grades, Frankie. We need to talk about your grades.”
“Dad,” Frank replied from the doorway. He leaned his body against the jamb, poking his head into the room. He spoke to the old man’s back in as gentle a tone as a rough man could muster, “Mom’s been gone a long time.”
“That’s right. Sorry,” the old man sputtered, planting his feet on the carpet. His fingers dug into the blanket, calming him as though in some way the grip could hold him still. His knuckles turned white.
“Now I remember. I was the one who found her,” the old man said into the corner.
That was enough to make Frank engage with the old man for a few moments longer. He walked into the room. It was small compared to the cavernous hallway and the rest of the house. The short red carpet and dark wood shelves only made it look smaller.
“What did you just say?” Frank asked.
His dad turned to face him. Crooking his neck, the old man peered over at Frank. He looked so frail compared to the burly man who used to rough him up as a kid. His dad turned back to his desk and hung his head in his hands.
“Don’t you remember, Stephen?” he said into the mahogany. “The river. That was the last time we saw Diana. I found her.”
He had to be referring to the L.A. River, but it made no sense. Frank’s dad often mistook him for Stephen, his uncle, and more often than not Frank would correct him in a flash. He’d spent too many nights getting sucked into conversations that looped around, tales that went nowhere, stories that made no sense. It’s tough to get sucked into a conversation about stamps or playing cards—or forestry or real estate or fishing—especially when the person on the other end changes your face, your history, your skills and know-how, your personality and backstory, with every change of subject. When the person on the other end isn’t really sure who you are or where he is. But, this time, Frank went with it.
He nodded.
“Of course I remember,” Frank said. “How could I forget?”
At that, his dad turned to face him once again. He swirled his chair around and planting his boney feet on the ground, stopping himself in place. His frail feet looked to just about snap in half under the momentum of the chair, but they didn’t. He grimaced for a moment.
&n
bsp; Looking at Frank, his grimace transformed into a vague grin and he said, “Oh—hello, Frank.”
Frank belted it out without realizing it. “No!”
Frank corrected himself, calming his voice, “It’s Stephen, your brother. Remember? You were telling me about Diana in the river.”
“Don’t screw around, Frank. I know it’s you.”
The old man’s convulsions returned as his smile faded. He stared into Frank as his fingers returned to their work on the blanket and his feet once again bounced up and down through the knees.
“No,” Frank echoed. “You said the last time you saw her was in the river. You told me she left us.”
“Frank?” the old man asked, bewildered.
“You just said you found mom in the river.”
“I said no such thing,” his dad growled.
His hands started to shake even more and the corners of his eyes filled with water. His twitching intensified beneath his flannel. He twisted his cracked lips in a frown and glared at Frank through his teary eyes.
“I said no such thing,” he repeated.
“Fuck,” Frank whispered to himself, “I don’t have time for this.”
He gave up trying to pry open his old man, seeing the pain in his body, and eased the conversation toward better things. Though he knew there was something there, it would have to wait. He couldn’t just leave his father like this.
“But you stopped drinking, Dad,” Frank said. “Remember? You kicked the bottle while I was enlisted. I wasn’t there, but you told me about it in your letters. Remember all the letters you sent me while I was away? Before you got sick? You remember, don’t you?”
His dad could tell what Frank wanted to hear, so he said it.
“Sure,” his dad feigned.
“That’s right, dad,” Frank agreed. “I’ve got to go to work now.”
His dad only mumbled into his lap, saying over and over, “Frankie Frankie Frankie. Frankie Frankie Frankie.”
The words were almost inaudible even to Frank, who was only standing a few feet away. He watched as his father slipped away again. The old man’s chin dipped into his chest as his head seemed to lurch forward, his neck letting go and hunching the old man into a slump. All the while, his fingers continued kneading the red fabric draped across his lap.
