by Zuri Day
7
“You must have gotten some this weekend.” Jansen’s partner, Alberto Gonzalez, delivered a playful jab before getting into the driver’s side of the patrol car.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jansen calmly replied, buckling his seatbelt and checking equipment.
“Sure you do. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“Like you’ve been sniffing pussy, and it smelled good.”
“Man, you crazy.”
“Yeah, but I’m right.” Alberto stole another look at his partner as the patrol car headed to their beat in the Baldwin Hills/Crenshaw area of Los Angeles. “You’ve been olor de gatito! Sniffing the coño . . . ha!”
Jansen joined in the laughter.
They rode a while in silence. “What, you gonna leave me hanging?”
There were few secrets between Jansen and Alberto. They’d been partners since Jansen had joined the force, and their relationship was not only professional, but one of mutual respect and deep friendship as well. Alberto had been a great impartial ear following Jansen’s divorce, allowing Jansen the catharsis of letting words and feelings flow freely. He’d also welcomed Jansen into his home, where Alberto’s wife, Delphia, had plied him with mouth-watering Mexican cuisine, and he was “Uncle Jansen” to their kids. Over time, the obvious love in the Gonzalez household, and the strength of their ten-year marriage, had helped wipe out the bitter taste divorce had left and opened Jansen’s heart to again believe in love.
“There is this little feline. . . .” Jansen finally said.
“Ha, I knew it!” Alberto made sniffing sounds.
“Stop it, fool! It’s not even like that. This is a girl from back in the day. Michael’s little sister. I’ve known her since she was a baby.”
“But she’s not a baby no more.”
“Not at all.”
“So . . . what’s up with it?”
“We’re hanging out for a minute. She’s staying at the house.”
“Damn, you got chicks hitting on you every other block, and now you get poontang delivered to your doorstep? You make me want to be single again.”
“Okay, you do my bid, and I’ll be the family man. Tuck in your babies every night and then crawl into bed with—”
“Careful, homey. You can have los niños for a minute, but don’t you mess with mi corazón.”
The dispatcher’s voice interrupted their camaraderie. “One-Adam 85, one-Adam 85, immediate assist on a four-five-nine now in the 3600-hundred block of La Brea Avenue. Two suspects believed to be still in the building: black male, approximately twenty to twenty-five years old, six feet, one hundred seventy-five pounds. Black male, same age range, five eight, one hundred fifty pounds. Suspects may be armed.”
Both men immediately went into the zone: Alberto flipped on the siren, Jansen reached for the radio. “This is Black Four responding. We’re in the vicinity, responding westbound on Martin Luther King Boulevard. . . .”
More sirens could be heard as Alberto made a sharp right into a strip mall. He zoomed to the end of the lot. Tires screeched as he rounded the corner to the back of the building. A black van, facing in their direction with its motor running, immediately raced past them. Both Jansen and Alberto noted that the driver, a light-skinned black male in his late teens to early twenties, was talking on his cell phone. A millisecond later, two young men exited the back of a clothing store carrying several large garbage bags. They immediately dropped the goods and ran in opposite directions.
Without a word passing between them, Jansen jumped out of a still rolling car and gave chase to the taller suspect with cell phone in hand who’d run south on La Brea toward Coliseum Street. As a rule, officers didn’t split up, but Jansen McKnight and Alberto Gonzalez hadn’t become one of the best special-teams units in burglary suppression by always following the rules. They relied more on instinct and the uncanny synchronicity that shaped their professional actions. Alberto whipped the squad car around, peeled out of the strip-mall parking lot, and barreled down La Brea to aid Jansen’s pursuit by blocking the suspect on the other side while simultaneously radioing information about the fleeing van to the coordinator of the tactical unit.
Jansen jumped a four-foot fence as the chase left La Brea and continued down Coliseum. Jansen knew the suspect was trying to get to an area known as the Jungle, a dense maze of apartment complexes long known as a drug and gang haven. The suspect lost a few precious seconds when he dared look back to see Jansen hot on his heels. He bolted over a car, knocked over two trash cans, crossed the street, and began running down a side street.
Shit. With his peripheral vision, Jansen saw a blur of black and white proceeding through the intersection. Stay with me, Alberto. Come on, man! He heard a screech of tires and knew Alberto had spun on a dime and was now on point, racing ahead of the suspect to block him in. More sirens blared as additional cars joined the chase, and residents came out of their houses to watch this real-life episode of Police on Your Ass. With increased speed, Jansen whipped through brush and under trees as the suspect cut into a residential area and began zigzagging between houses. Jansen knew the suspect was winded. That’s right, asshole. I’m in the kind of shape that can run with you all night long.
“Police! Freeze!” The suspect broke out into open space only to see Alberto kneeling behind the opened door of his squad car, his gun aimed squarely between the t and the l of a T-shirt that read THUG LIFE.
“Down on the ground, now!” Jansen yelled, drawing his weapon as he spoke. The suspect let out a string of expletives but immediately complied. Jansen handcuffed the suspect and dragged him to his feet. “The wrong day to go shopping before the store opens, son. You’re under arrest.”
After spending more than four hours investigating the suspect and his potential link to the Baldwin Hill burglaries or other crimes in the area, Jansen’s body was tired and his heart heavy as he drove home. He thought about the young man he’d arrested—a boy, really, as it turned out, barely seventeen—who reminded him so much of himself at that age—cocky, angry, and feeling invincible. If not for sports, the love of his grandmother, and his uncle’s firm hand, Jansen’s road could have been much different. He had lost his dad to cancer when he was fourteen and become an angry young man, blaming the world for his loss. For a while he mixed with the wrong crowd, participated in petty crimes, smoked his share of weed. But one day his uncle Jeff showed up at the front door with more swagger in his big toe than young Jansen possessed in his whole body. They’d gotten into a heated debate after Jansen had talked back to his mother.
“You’re not my daddy, old man. You can’t tell me what to do.” He’d found himself against the wall with a large, strong hand around his neck before he could blink.
“I may not be your daddy,” Uncle Jeff had calmly whispered, “but after the ass whoopin’ that happens if you disrespect your mama again, you’ll think I am.”
Uncle Jeff had eased his hand away from Jansen’s neck after that but stared him down as they’d remained toe-to-toe. From them on, Uncle Jeff quietly and unobtrusively became Jansen’s role model, attending sporting events, inviting him on male-bonding outings such as fishing and golf, giving him “the talk” about women—the ones to respect and the ones to avoid. Jansen’s begrudging respect grew into open admiration. They remained close to this day.
That young blood sitting in jail tonight doesn’t have an Uncle Jeff. He might not have anybody at all. Jansen released a sigh as he entered Baldwin Hills. This was one of the tough parts of the job, staying emotionally detached from his professional duties. He tried to do his part in the community: handed out turkeys at Christmas; participated in the LAPD EXPLORE program, which was designed to mentor youth interested in law enforcement; and headed a basketball clinic held twice a year. But he was only one man, and with 70 percent of black children being born to single mothers, he knew there were thousands, if not millions, of hardheads needing a firm, guiding hand . .
. and not getting one.
Jansen pulled into the driveway, behind Eden’s Acura. Unconsciously, his shoulders relaxed, and the knot in his gut began unraveling. She’s a diversion, nothing more. A way to pass the time for two weeks. Jansen had thought about it and knew there was no way he’d get away with casually screwing his best friend’s sister unless she was totally down with it herself. The very best position for him would be if she initiated the act. “Yeah, good luck with that happening, brothah,” he mumbled as he exited the car and pushed the lock button. Still, nothing beats a failure but a try. Jansen bounded up the steps with renewed energy, unlocked the door, stepped inside, and announced, “Honey, I’m home!”
8
After their tense discussion about the military, Eden had sworn she’d keep her pro-peace opinions to herself. But it was hard to do because she was in the dining room sorting out almost a month’s worth of unopened mail, and Jansen had the living room television world news blaring like he needed a hearing aid.
He’s just pissed off because I didn’t respond to his flirting. “Can you please turn that down!” Eden yelled.
Jansen lowered the volume.
“Can you turn it down a little more?” So that I can’t hear about every murder, accident, and police chase that occurred over the last twelve hours? Or that the entire world is going to hell in a handbasket behind wars, economic collapse, and global warming? Eden attacked a large envelope with a letter opener; then, angry that a piece of thick tape was impeding her progress, ripped the paper with her bare hands.
Seconds later, Jansen entered the dining room. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, I just . . . don’t like to watch the news.”
“You weren’t watching it. I was.”
“I don’t like to hear it, either.”
“What are you, like the three monkeys—hear, see, speak no evil?”
Eden gave Jansen a look. “Let’s not get into it, okay?”
“Why not? You can’t formulate your opinion into words?”
Eden resisted the urge to growl. This man can be so exasperating! She rose to her full five feet six inches and took a deep, calming breath. “I don’t watch the news, because I believe that thoughts become things and that the more one thinks about something, the more likely it is to happen or continue happening. So when one fills their mind with negative situations and circumstances, more of the same is perpetuated. Likewise, when one focuses on the positive, with what is going right in one’s life, or the world, more of that is generated.”
Jansen adopted his familiar, wide-legged stance and crossed his arms. “So you’re saying that if everybody just turned off the TV, ate tofu, and practiced yoga, the world would become a big kumbaya?”
“I’m saying there are plenty of good things that happen every day, and I think society would be better served hearing about those good things.”
“Look, bad things happen. That’s just a fact of life. It’s not going to change because you close your mind and act like it doesn’t exist.”
Eden eyed Jansen for a moment and then began gathering her papers. “I’m not going to get into this with you.”
“It’s best not to. Because it’s an argument you won’t win. I’m on the streets every day, baby. I see how it goes down.”
Eden almost bit her tongue off to keep from responding. When Jansen wanted to, he could be as stubborn as an ox and, when it came to his opinion, as immovable as an oak tree. She haphazardly stacked up the bills and other correspondence she’d just meticulously separated and headed for the stairs.
“Is that why you’re moving to Santa Monica? Because you think it’s an oasis from the real world? Think if you get out of the hood you’ll flee danger? Well, I’ve got a news flash for you. Crime is everywhere.”
“According to you,” Eden snarled, spinning around to face him. “But thank God yours is not the paradigm in which I operate. For your information, Mr. Know-It-All, I’m not moving to Santa Monica to escape anything. I’m moving there because it has a vibe that makes me feel good. It’s clean and vibrant, and the people are friendly. I can ride my bike to the beach and walk to vegetarian restaurants and, yes, yoga studios. Is there some rule book that says all people of color have to live in the same place, and if we don’t, we’re ‘escaping’?” Eden used air quotes to emphasize the word. “That’s pretty narrow-minded, Jansen. Even for someone like you.”
“Someone like me? What the hell does that mean?”
Eden narrowed her eyes and hissed through gritted teeth. “Figure it out.”
“Oh, I get it,” Jansen said as Eden stomped up the stairs. “I’m not in your class, huh? I represent the common folk, regular joe, the masses. You can drop the bougie act because at the end of the day you’re just an ex-hood weed looking for a safe place to grow. And there ain’t none!”
The sound of a slamming door resounded throughout the house.
“Ooh, that sounded pretty violent, Eden!” Jansen shouted, sure he could be heard through the wooden door upstairs or, at the very least, through the floor vents in Michael’s room. “Where’s the kumbaya now? Where’s that warm, fuzzy Kodak view of the world? Uh-huh,” he continued, mumbling to himself. “I thought so.”
Eden tossed the pile of mail on the bed and grabbed her cell phone. She was more furious at herself than at Jansen. He’d gotten under her last nerve since they were kids, knew just how to push her buttons, and was known to argue just because he could. Still, how dare he question my integrity, love of community, or where I want to live? Eden’s temper rose another degree. “I’m going to go back down there and give homeboy a piece of my mind!”
The cell phone vibrated in her hand and stopped Eden in her tracks. She looked down at the caller ID. “Hi, Mom,” she said with a hint of attitude, pushing over the pile of papers and plopping down on the bed.
“Who peed in your cornflakes?”
“Jansen, who else? I can’t stand him!”
Phyllis chuckled. “Don’t tell me y’all have picked up where you left off almost twenty years ago.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You tell Jansen don’t make me come up there.”
Eden smiled and let her shoulders relax. Only now did she realize how tense they were. “I will.”
“You heard from Michael?”
“Yes, last night. He finally sent a quick e-mail saying he was fine and would be in touch soon. Sorry I didn’t call you,” Eden rushed on, effectively cutting off her mother’s retort. “But I told Michael he needed to phone home. He promised to call you today.”
“How’s he doing?”
While the convo between mother and daughter continued upstairs, the home phone rang. Jansen checked out the caller ID; his face broke in a smile.
“Big Mike!”
“J-Dog, what’s poppin’!”
“You’re the world traveler, brothah, you tell me!”
“Oh, it’s all good. Getting ready to make this dirty money, son.”
“Big ballah!”
“How’s things at the house? You holding it down?”
“Things are cool. Except I just pissed your sister off.”
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Jansen laughed.
“Y’all always did get along like oil and water,” Michael continued. “But like I told Eden, y’all should be able to act civil to each other until her place is ready.”
“Truth be told, I think it’s all just an excuse for her to hang around. You know how irresistible I am when it comes to the ladies.”
“Uh, do I have to remind you that this is my little sister we’re talking about? The one I love and would guard with my life?”
“No, man, you don’t have to remind me.”
“I’m serious, Jansen. Don’t play with Eden’s emotions. She’s been through enough.”
Jansen paused at those words. “What do you mean?”
“If you find out, Eden will be the one to tell you. But I’ll s
ay this. She doesn’t need to be dealing with any bullshit. Especially from you.”
9
Eden turned down the soothing sounds of Jennifer Lindsay, the Enya-style singer with an angel’s voice she’d stumbled upon online. She felt much better, thanks to thirty minutes of yoga and meditation, her second set of the day. There it was again, the sound she’d ignored earlier—Jansen knocking at her door.
Go away! They’d argued more than an hour ago, and while she’d calmed down, Jansen’s comments had reminded Eden of things she’d rather forget.
“Little garden, can I come in?” Jansen’s voice was soft, gentle.
She softened a bit at one of the nicer childhood nicknames he’d given her. “I’m busy.”
“Come on, Eden. I’ve got something for you.”
Silence.
“Can I come in?”
Eden walked to the door and cracked it open. Jansen pushed inside a single, perfectly formed red rose. Its fragrance wafted up to Eden’s nostrils so strongly it was as if the scent had been sprayed on artificially.
“I’m sorry for being a jerk,” Jansen said, his voice dripping with sincerity. “I had a hard day, but that’s no excuse.”
Eden reached out and took the rose. “Apology accepted.”
Jansen blocked the door when Eden would have closed it. “Are you hungry?”
“I’m fine.”
“I cooked dinner. Some vegetarian stuff.”
Skepticism was written all over Eden’s face. “What kind of stuff?”
