by Jan Burke
“Yes, I suppose so.”
There was very little activity around us — a few joggers, a walker or two. It was prime surfing time, but the surfers were all down at the other major section of the beach, nearer the house. Here, though, there were no real waves. My father once told me that before the breakwater had been built, this section of beach was a surfer’s paradise. That was in the pre–Beach Blanket Bingo days, not long after World War II. Annette was still in mouse ears. Surfers weren’t so numerous or organized here then, and they lost this beach to harbors and marinas.
I heard someone coughing, a deep, barking cough, and some loud swearing in response. I looked up and down the beach, but couldn’t tell where the voices came from.
A Parks and Recreation Department tractor started up, and we watched it move out to clean up the sand. I glanced at one of the closed-up lifeguard towers and saw four tousled heads rise above the railings around it, then four faces scowling at the tractor in annoyance. Looked like Blue and a few of his best friends had tried to get out of the wind the night before.
“Is that your son?” I asked Edison, nodding toward the man I had been thinking of as Corky.
He gave a nervous smile. “Yes, that’s Joshua.”
Joshua saw us in the same moment. He lifted a hand in a stiff wave, then slowly made his way down the tower ladder. A fit of coughing stopped him part-way down. Didn’t seem to be doing too well. I figured that in addition to whatever was making him cough, he probably had a hangover.
I glanced at Edison and saw his mouth tighten.
Joshua Burrows carefully eased himself from the ladder to the sand. He rested his head against one of the rungs for a moment before turning toward us and beginning a slow trek across the beach. He was walking with a limp, holding his ribs on one side. Coughing. As he came closer, I could see that his face was bruised. His eyes were clear. Not hungover. Hurt.
“Hello, Dad,” he said in a raspy voice when he reached us, and then nodded toward me. Anticipating his father’s question, he said, “I got rolled a couple of nights ago.”
Edison looked down at his shoes, but his voice was calm, undemanding, when he asked, “Have you been to a doctor?”
“No, no. Not yet.” It seemed like he was worn out, out of breath. “Thinking of going, though. Maybe I’ll go later today.” He turned away as he started coughing again. When he stopped, he winced and shifted over to lean on the car.
“Ms. Kelly tells me you’ve met before?” Edison asked.
I felt like I had suddenly landed in a strange country where people have nothing left to live for but their manners, or think so. Sort of like the old movies where the aristocrats on safari stop in the middle of the jungle and have tea and crumpets, not realizing the local lions are planning a picnic, too.
Joshua nodded. “I’ve had the pleasure.” He seemed out of breath, and took a moment to add, “So what brings you here?”
“Something Lucas said in a note.” Edison started to reach inside his jacket, but paused and said, “Want to sit down? Out of the wind? We could sit in the car.”
“No, thanks,” he said, then looked at his father’s face. “Well, sure. Why not?”
“You two take the front,” I said.
“You take the front. I’ll get in back,” Joshua said.
Keep that distance, I thought.
When we were inside, the rank smell of Burrows the Younger’s clothes and body were nearly enough to make me want to go outside and try to read their lips through the windshield. He leaned back in the seat, glanced over at me, and smirked. “Better crack a window for Ms. Kelly, Dad. Her sense of smell is more acute than yours.”
Edison turned red.
“Forget it,” I said. “I’m fine.”
Joshua laughed and set off another coughing fit, this one doubling him over. “Hot,” he said, breathing in odd, quick and shallow breaths, holding his ribs. “Damn, it’s hot in here.” It was quite cool, but a sheen of perspiration was covering his face. With clumsy fingers, he began unbuttoning his fatigue jacket. Beneath it, his clothes were stained with sweat.
Edison exchanged a glance with me. There was no confidence anywhere on his face.
Joshua leaned his head back again and closed his eyes. “So, you got a note from the Prof?” Back to talking like his street pals.
Edison pulled out the letter Lucas had typed at his home and handed it over the seat to his son.
Joshua read it, stared at it a long time. “Stupid damn thing for him to say. He should have known better.”
“Never mind the part about coming home,” Edison said, reminding me of what Lucas had written. “Just help Ms. Kelly understand what her part means.”
His eyes didn’t look as clear as they had a few moments ago. He closed them and murmured, “Too late. He could never get that through that thick skull of his.” He had another coughing fit, then said wearily, “Too late for him. Too late for Las Piernas, and sure as hell too late for me.”
I’m not noted for having a long fuse, so maybe it was my temper that made me say, “Edison, I can’t take this. Either you drive him to the hospital, or you sit on this side and let me drive him there.”
Edison looked startled for a moment, then locked the car doors and put his key in the ignition. Hearing them lock, I had a moment of panic as my claustrophobia kicked in. I looked for and found a release on my side. I moved my fingers over it, but didn’t press it.
Joshua saw the gesture and smiled. “You sure you want to be locked in here with me and my B.O., Ms. Kelly?”
“No, but I’ll live. You, I’m not so sure about. Start the car, Edison,” I said. “Take him to the hospital.”
“I don’t need a fucking hospital.”
“Joshua Burrows!” Edison said, just like a father. It was about time, though I would have picked a different issue.
“Sorry, Ms. Kelly, Dad. But I still don’t need a hospital.” There was no fight in it.
Edison drove off. We were closer to St. Anne’s, but he was heading toward Las Piernas General. It only took me a minute to figure out why. Las Piernas General was closer to his house.
Joshua was staring at the letter. “I won’t tell you, you know.”
He was talking so low, I barely heard him.
“I don’t need you to tell me, you spoiled brat.”
That brought his head up. I glanced at Edison. He was smiling in spite of himself.
“Sure you do,” Joshua said. He was wearing down, still having difficulty breathing, and he started to speak in short sentences, halting to breathe between them. “It says right here… ‘PS23’… You don’t know what it means.”
“Yeah, well even though you look more like something out of the valley of death than my shepherd, I shall not want. I was supposed to go to Lucas’s Bible, open to Psalm 23, and find the note. I hope he told you what that scrawl on the note meant, because I never would have figured out that it said ‘cherubs’ without help.”
He closed his eyes.
“The bar in the Angelus, right?”
He swallowed hard, nodded.
“Look, Joshua—”
“Forget it. Lucas said… you were a quick study.” He kept his eyes closed, but a slow smile crept up on his face, making him suddenly seem about fifteen years younger. “Ironic hiding place… for a guy in AA.”
I smiled back, even though he didn’t see it. “Yes,” I said. “It fits his sense of humor, doesn’t it?”
He nodded, opened his eyes, watched me.
“Is there more to the message?” I asked.
He started coughing again. Each time, it seemed to take him longer to stop. Edison kept looking in the rearview mirror.
“Secret panel in the bar… Lucas figured it out… said it was from… Prohibition days.” He smiled again. “Couldn’t fool him.”
“Do you know what he hid there?”
“Papers.”
“What kind of papers?”
He shook his head. “Wouldn’t tell
me. He said it might not be safe to know… always watching out for me.”
He dozed most of the rest of the way.
“I think he has pneumonia!” Edison whispered to me. “I’m a terrible father.”
“This does some good?”
“No,” he said. “No.”
Joshua woke up when we were just a few minutes away from the hospital. When he stopped coughing long enough to speak, he said, “Don’t take me there. You can’t force me—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Edison said. “You’re going to the hospital and that’s that! Just because you won’t be able to drink for a few days—”
They started arguing loudly, saying pretty much the same thing over and over, with Joshua not sounding any better as it went on.
“You can keep tabs on a mutual friend,” I said quietly.
They both shut up.
“I’m assuming you know Roberta Benson?”
Joshua nodded. “We all do… runs the shelter.”
“She’s in Las Piernas General.”
“Why? She’s not sick, is she?”
I was expecting cynicism, some remark about her being a shrink — not this unabashed concern. “She’s in a coma. Someone bashed the back of her skull in.”
What little color he had beneath the bruises faded. He leaned his forehead against the window. “Why?”
“Walked in on someone robbing her office — that’s the official theory. But she knew Lucas, and saw him as a client. I think someone was looking for a file on him. Or just trying to make sure her mouth stayed shut.”
“Doesn’t keep files on people. Just shelter business. Her policy.” More coughing.
“She knew Lucas. You knew Lucas, too, and it’s no secret. You want to tell me who hurt you?”
“Doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He brooded for a moment, then said, “You don’t tell the cops?”
“No. That’s your business.”
He looked toward his dad and shook his head. “He’d tell.” But while Edison vehemently denied the accusation, Joshua held my attention, and very clearly held up two fingers, then pointed to the tip of one of his dirty running shoes.
Two Toes. My jaw dropped. Joshua was watching me. Watching me with bruises all over his face, maybe a few broken ribs, and God knows what else. Attacked in his sleep by the man who considered himself my guardian angel. “I thought Blue was going to protect you—”
“Blue wasn’t around,” Joshua said.
“I don’t know who attacked Roberta,” I said. “I don’t think it was — the one who attacked you, but I don’t know. I’m just trying to say that you and your dad need to watch each other’s backs — that’s too hard to do if you’re on the streets, Joshua. You’ll be safer here.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Maybe they can even help you get rid of that cough,” I said.
“Why should you care?”
“I owe somebody.”
“Lucas?”
“Yes.”
“You knew what the note meant… why’d you come looking for me?”
“Two reasons. I didn’t really know all of it, did I? And I’ve already told you the other reason.”
“You owe Lucas.”
“Right. So do you.”
“I’m so tired,” he said, but was completely docile after that.
31
NINA HOWELL, my pal in the Zoning Department, was delighted to be of help when I called her. Ray Aiken was acting city manager now, and her own boss was learning that administrative support personnel — which included secretaries — would be treated differently as long as Ray had anything to say about it. Nina’s work life wasn’t completely transformed but it had improved.
“How can I get in touch with Charlotte Brady?” I asked her.
“Allan Moffett’s former secretary?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Aiken asked her to come back. She’s one of his assistants now. Want me to transfer you to her?”
I said I did, and spent the next five minutes listening to Charlotte rave about her new boss. I was feeling a little impatient; I needed to get a story in on Moffett’s secret meetings, but I was also anxious to get back to following up on other matters.
“Ray Aiken always did all the real work around here anyway,” Charlotte said in what I hoped was conclusion.
“Workhorses don’t always make the best administrators,” I said. “I’m glad Ray is doing so well.”
“He’s great. Now what can I do for you?”
“I wondered if you might verify a few items for me.” I read off some of the information I had gathered from Ben’s calendar.
“So what you want to know is, did Allan Moffett call these meetings in defiance of the Brown Act?”
Can’t put anything over on Charlotte Brady. “That’s what I want to independently verify,” I said. “I already know it.”
“Until I talk to Mr. Aiken about this — hmmm. You know nothing will come of it, right? I mean, even under the terms of the Brown Act, there won’t be much you can do?”
“Of course not. In the first place, the law only concerns legislative bodies and their committees, not the city manager himself. But those meetings were held illegally, and Allan was the one who put them together. The public has a right to know that the man they entrusted over all those years abused that trust.”
“He’d never make a comeback, would he?”
“It would be doubtful at best.”
“Oh, I am so tempted! Tell you what. Off the record? You are right on target. That little bastard had more secret meetings than J. Edgar Hoover and his dressmaker.”
“Now, Charlotte…”
“But I can give you the name and number of someone who would probably love to verify it on the record.”
“Who might that be?”
“Why, Allan’s ex-wife.”
“I don’t know—”
“Are you kidding? Double check with whoever gave you those names in the first place. Nancy went to half of those meetings. She was a looker, and Allan liked to show her off.”
I called Claire first.
“Irene! I just read about Roberta in this morning’s paper!”
I talked to her about the events of the prior evening, then said, “I talked to Becky this morning. She told me Roberta’s color is better today, but otherwise there’s no change.”
“I should call Becky. Maybe I can help her somehow, make it easier for her to spend time with Roberta when she’s off duty.”
“She’d probably appreciate that. I have a favor to ask, too. Do you know who ‘N.M.’ is in Ben’s calendars?”
“Sure. Nancy Moffett. Allan’s ex-wife. He used to bring her everywhere. Boy, was he ever nasty to her in the divorce. Nancy and I are friends. Do you need her number?”
I called Nancy Moffett, and got an earful.
When I called a few of the other attendees at these secret meetings, I was able to truthfully say, “I’ve verified this from three different sources…” and ask if they had anything to add, or say in their own defense.
People will talk, especially if they think others are talking about them. I had everything in place on one side of the story. Moffett’s turn.
He surprised me by answering his phone. Every other time I had called in the past week, I got a machine, and though I had left messages, my calls were not returned.
“Mr. Moffett, this is Irene Kelly. I’ve talked to several people today who will go on record as saying that while you were city manager, you asked them to attend meetings which — as you were fully aware — were in violation of the Brown Act. I wanted to give you an opportunity to respond to these allegations.”
He let me list a few of the meetings before he said, “Well, Ms. Kelly — off the record, which is the only way I’ll talk to you — if you know your Brown Act so goddamn well, you know that the worst you could do would be to demand the reversal of some of
the decisions made in those meetings, which is not likely, since they almost all fall under protected categories. And you also know that I can’t be held personally responsible for those violations. You know that my position was not subject to the Brown Act, but that even if I had been a council member, you’d have to sue the city, not me. So screw you.”
“Now, Allan, that’s a little hostile. I don’t even know how I find it within me to do this, but I’ll ask again, and for your own sake, this should be on the record, Allan. Do you have a response to the allegations?”
“No comment.”
“Okay, well, that takes care of that. I suppose I should mention that I completely understand that you probably can’t be jailed or sued for being underhanded, and no one I know wants to bother suing the city over the acts of a — well, over someone like you — and it is too late to undo most of the damage you’ve done. Still, the public will not be pleased to learn you spent the last twenty years sneaking around in clandestine meetings, privately deciding how to spend their tax dollars. They may have suspected something like this all along, but once it hits print, it’s sort of a declaration that you’ve made them out to be fools. It’s a mistake, Allan, to underestimate just how cranky the local citizenry may feel when that happens.”
“You miss the point, Kelly. I don’t plan to return to public life, and one of the best things about being a private citizen will be to tell you — you and your friends at the Express — to fuck off.”
Thank goodness he told me to fuck off. It conveyed more than how he wished to say good-bye. Hearing that phrase, I knew he was nervous, maybe even scared. Moffett never uses ye old f-word unless he’s afraid. He’s fairly foul-mouthed as public servants go, and he’ll say all kinds of other nasty things, but Allan never uses that one unless he’s feeling rabbity. Sort of a “best defense is offensiveness” philosophy.
Well, as far as I’m concerned, Allan can say “fuck” every fifteen seconds if he wants to. What mattered to me was knowing he doesn’t say it so often; he says it only when he’s close to freaking out. I make it my business to know things like this about Moffett and other officials. In his case, I learned these habits of speech because I’ve listened to him for a dozen years — in meetings and interviews — and during that time had so little cooperation from him, I had to learn to read whatever clues his habits gave me.
