End of Watch

by Baxter Clare

  “Yeah.”

  “Not quite. Tutelary is Latin. Tutelage, guardianship. The tutelary gods were lesser deities, spirits charged with protecting certain people and places. Python, he was the tutelary god of Delphi until Apollo slew him.”

  “I thought Apollo was Greek.”

  “He was. The Romans co-opted all the Greek gods and goddesses, then Judaism borrowed them, turning the spirits into seventy guardian angels that watched over the seventy nations. But at some point all the angels went bad. The only one to stand uncorrupted was Michael, the guardian angel of Israel.”

  “Who must have been adopted by Christianity,” Frank interjected, “because he’s the patron saint of cops.”

  “Correct.”

  “Alrighty then. Now that I’ve had my Sunday school lesson, may I take my leave, Professor? Me and my tutelary gods?”

  Darcy saluted.

  Frank saluted back. She was almost out the squad room door, but she had to ask. “Professor. If you were me, would you call Marguerite?”

  Darcy’s answer was almost wistful. “In a heartbeat.”

  Frank pursed her lips, leaving her cop with his paperwork and his past.

  CHAPTER 48

  Monday, 31 Jan 05—Work

  All right, all right. Got a little distracted over the weekend. Missed two days.

  I’ll make up for it. So here I am and what the hell, maybe there is a god. After this weekend I’ll believe just about damn near anything.

  Gail came over for dinner Saturday. Ended up spending the night. We made love. Fireworks, earthmoving—the whole shebang. No pun intended. All praise to Allah. I had to go in Sunday for a couple hours but then we had a picnic up in the San Gabriels, went for a hike, held hands. It was magic. Felt like I was under a spell—“that old black magic that you weave so well—thank you, Marguerite James, my favorite mambo, but this is the only hoodoo Tm interested in.

  Went back to her place to wash up before dinner—ended up in bed again. Sweet and slow and oh so lovely. Ate at Fox’s. Took her home, left her there after a hundred kisses good night. Wanted to stay but she had work to do and has an early day this morning.

  Life is good.

  Talked to Mary. She warned me not to get too excited. Says it’s nice that we’ve reconciled but sobriety has to remain my first priority. No sobriety, no Gail. Simple as that.

  Agreed.

  Went to the eight o’clock meeting last night. Bev led. She’s an AA Nazi but has a life too. Some of these people, that’s all they have is AA. They go to meetings all day and sit on panels at hospitals and institutions and that’s all they do. Which is fine for them but I want a fuller life. Like Bev. She’s great—gets to about five meetings a week, sponsors at least half a dozen women, works full time, has a husband and two kids…all that because she puts sobriety first. If she drinks again, sooner or later she’ll lose the home, the kids, the husband, the job, everything. Even herself. So why risk it, she said.

  Why indeed. I’ve been given a second chance. By who (whom?) I don’t know, but I’m grabbing it by the horns and running with it. I know where I’ll go if I drink. I don’t know where I’ll go if I stay sober. So far sober looks a whole lot better. Might go to the downtown meeting at lunchtime. Got to be down there anyway. Fubar had a fit about—

  CHAPTER 49

  A knock came on Frank’s door. She slid the journal into her drawer and answered, “Come in.”

  Bobby swung half his body in. “Sorry to bother you. Irie called. Said your statue’s ready. And I’m going for sandwiches. Want anything?”

  Frank checked her watch. “No, thanks. I’m heading out. I’ll be downtown.”

  She signed out and drove toward Slauson. In the stop-and-go traffic she indulged her inane fantasy about Irie, hoping his prints would come back soon and put an end to her wasteful and wishful thinking.

  He was hustling oranges on his usual corner and as she parked, Frank said, “That was fas’, mon.”

  “Irie need de money.” He produced an oily cloth bundle and gently unwrapped the dark Madonna inside.

  Frank picked it up. The wood was slick and heavy, fragranced with a spicy polish. It was a familiar smell but Frank couldn’t place it. She traced the Madonna’s delicate features, the fold and drape of her gown. “Jesus, Irie. This is beautiful.”

  “You like ‘er? She wha’ you want?”

  “Yeah. And then some. This is great work.”

  Irie exposed his remaining teeth, basking in the compliment.

  “Fifty, right?” He nodded and Frank gave him three twenties. “Call it good.”

  ” ‘Predate it, Off cer Frank.”

  “You should be havin’ shows, Irie. You got some serious talent.”

  “Shows.” He laughed. “Gull, listen at you.”

  “I’m serious. I ain’t no art critic for the Times but this is talented work, mon.” She inhaled the rich, citrus polish, then jerked her head up. “What kinda polish is this?”

  “Bee’wax and orange oil.”

  “Where do you get it?”

  “To de hardware store.”

  “No shit. Can you get it anywhere?”

  Irie shrugged. “I suspec’.”

  Frank tried a wild gambit. “I was in New York a couple weeks ago. Friend of mine had a cross—a crucifix I guess. I don’t know the difference—but it was dark like this and heavy. It was big, about eighteen inches long. Had a beautiful Jesus carved on it, real striking detail, you know—the suffering expression, the wrinkles in his skin, even had fingernails and toenails.” She grinned. “Not every day you see Jesus’s toenails. But it was a gorgeous piece, a lot like this. Smelled like this too. Belonged to a friend of mine, a priest. Nice guy. I told him it should be in a church somewhere, or a museum, like this one, but he said, ‘Oh, no.’ His brother made it for him for his birthday, a long time ago, then a couple years later he disappeared or something. Never saw him again. Real sad story. But that cross, it was beautiful. Just like this.”

  Irie slumped onto the plastic crate.

  Frank watched like a cat on a mouse. She casually asked, “You ever been to New York, Irie? It’s a beautiful city.”

  The old man shook his head, prodded a callous. “Dat priest,” he asked gravely. ” ‘Im white devil like you?”

  “No. Panamanian actually. Nice guy. His dad died when he was little—”

  Irie glanced at her.

  She concealed her excitement, blandly continuing, “His mama raised him alone. He had a sister, too. And two brothers. Until the one disappeared. I think he was a hype or something. Still rips my friend up to talk about him. Gets tears in his eyes even after all this time.”

  “And he neve’ ‘eard from ‘is brot’er again?”

  “Never. Figures he’s dead. The only reason he can think of that he wouldn’t have called or been in touch. He loved his brother. Thought his brother loved him.”

  “Sad.” Irie breathed. Then, “Wha’ you friend name?”

  “Roberto,” she answered slowly. “Roberto Cammayo.”

  Irie became as stiff as his statue. Frank crouched next to him. She didn’t believe this was happening. Was certain she’d wake up any second to sharp disappointment.

  “His brother’s name is Pablo,” she whispered. “Pablo Cammayo. Got into trouble and disappeared one night. Got into more trouble in Kansas. Did time in Leavenworth.” Frank guessed from here. “Got out and cleaned himself up. Moved to California. Got a new name, new life. Gets by talking to the police now and then, selling oranges, carving really good statues on the cheap. Doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. Turned his back on his family. They hope he’s alive but they think he’s dead. Probably junked out somewhere a long time ago. Else why wouldn’t he have called or come home? Sent a letter, a postcard. Something. Why do you think that would be?”

  “Don’ know.” Irie leapt from his crate. He grabbed his sacks of oranges.

  “Where you goin’, Pablo?”

  The old man sp
un. He sprayed spit, shouting “I ain’ Pablo!”

  “Jesus Christ.” Frank gaped, shaking her head. “Pablo Cammayo.”

  “Stop sayin’ dat! I tol’ you I ain’ him!”

  Irie pushed past Frank but she clutched his arm. “Where you gonna run to now, Pablo? Huh?”

  The old man stared, eyes wide and white, spit bracketing the corners of his mouth.

  “Remember that knife I dropped? You picked it up. Got your fingerprints all over it. I took it into the lab.” She lied, “Prints came back to a Pablo Cammayo. Now whaddaya got to say?”

  “Why?” he moaned. “Why you fuh do dis?”

  Frank stepped within inches of the haunted face, glorying in the moment and slightly repelled at the same time. She shook him. “Look at me. Do I remind you of anyone?”

  Irie shook his gray head. “No.”

  “Think back,” she ordered. “Way back. The night you left home. The night you shot my father. For three lousy fucking dollars.” She smiled. “I know you’re a new man. John-John Ro-may-oh. But still, you can’t forget that night. You’ll never forget that night. You dream about that night. You know how I know? Because I do, too.”

  She let that sink in. Irie continued shaking his head, as if he shook it long enough she’d disappear.

  “You can’ be,” he stammered. “You can’ be dat lil gull.”

  A wild, improbable laughter took Frank. “Oh, man.” She cackled. “What are the fuckin’ odds, Irie? Huh? What are the, fucking odds?”

  She laughed again, feeling slightly hysterical, the laughter veering closely to tears.

  “Oh, man,” she gasped, wiping at her eyes. “Wha’ hoppnin’, mon? Irie, ‘im look like he seen duppy.”

  “You duppy,” he agreed, his face ashen. “You mus’ fuh to be ghost. Can’ be ‘er. Can’ be.”

  “Can be her. Am her. Touch me.” She held her arm out. Irie scuttled back. The scary laughter bubbled out of her again. “Jesus, Irie. Of all the dumb fuckin’ luck. How the hell did you end up snitchin’ for the daughter of the man you killed? Huh? Can you tell me that, mon? Huh? Can you explain that?”

  He stepped backward. Frank followed.

  “Can’ be,” he whined over and over. “Can’ be.”

  “Wouldn’t think so, would you? I’ve spent most of my life wondering who the hell you were … I waited so long I gave up. Then I went to New York, visited my father’s grave—first time since he died—and who’s there but your brother. Berto—Bobo—”

  “No.” Irie sobbed.

  “Yeah.” Frank nodded. “Bobo. He’s a priest. Was always gonna be one. Well, he is. Still has that cross you made him. For his thirteenth birthday, right? Was that it? Hmm?”

  Irie stabbed a finger at her. “You lyin’! Why he at you fat’er’s grave?”

  “Excellent question, Irie. Pablo. Whatever the hell your name is. And I’ll tell you, he goes to pray. To get inspiration. And to remember you. He says a prayer for you every time. Every time for the last thirty-six years. And what have you done for him? Nothing. Broke his heart. Broke your mama’s heart. You ran like a baby. Like a coward. Like a weak, gutless lrwoy.”

  245

  “No.” Irie cried, tears dribbling over scars and wrinkles. “You can’ say dat! You don’ know wha’ it take to stay away, fuh to try and forget and never forget. You can’ know.”

  “You asshole!” Frank twisted the cloth at his neck. Irie dropped his crate and oranges. “You’re telling me I can’t know? You have the fucking balls to tell me I don’t know what it’s like to try and forget my father and never forget him? You have the fucking nerve? I oughta make you eat this fucking sidewalk, asswipe. I oughta make you eat until it comes out the other side of you.”

  She whirled him around. Dropping a hand to pin his wrist against his back, she propelled him toward the Honda. She yanked the door open and fumbled for her cuffs. Slamming them onto his wrists, she shoved him in.

  Pulling into traffic she almost hit a truck. The driver leaned on his horn while she glared at Irie in the rearview. He sat slumped and quiet, breathing through his mouth, his corrugated face shiny with snot and tears.

  Frank was suddenly sick. She stamped the brakes and threw the door open in time to puke onto the street. Behind her, the guy in the truck repeated his honking, adding obscenities screamed from his window. Frank threw up again before closing the door and continuing onto a side street. Weak and trembly, she got out to pace, gulping shallow breaths until she could get back into the car.

  Irie stared dully out the window. They rode in silence until he muttered, “I can’ fuh believe you dat lil gull.”

  “I can’t fuh believe you dat fuckin’ junkie.”

  “I ain’ ‘im no more. You know dat. I been clean long time. I no dat bwoy no more.”

  Frank caught Irie’s reproving stare in the mirror.

  ‘“Im die one mornin’ on a prison floor. Dat bwoy gwan. Pablo Cammayo gwan. When he wakes up, John-John Romeo done took his place.”

  Frank glowered into the mirror. “Yeah. If only it were that fuckin’ easy.”

  Irie shook his old gray skull. “Not easy. Never sayed it was easy.”

  Neither spoke again until they got to the station.

  CHAPTER 50

  Frank put Irie in one of the interview rooms while she collected statement forms and a tape. Jill and Diego were in the squad room. She told them not to interrupt her.

  “What’d he do?” Diego asked.

  “Don’t ask. If anybody’s looking for me, take a message. I’ll get back to ‘em.”

  Opening the interview room door, she changed her mind. She came back a minute later with two Cokes. She pushed one to Irie, popped the tab on the other. Took a long swallow, pretending it was beer.

  “I’ma tape this, Irie.” She paused. “Or Pablo? What do you want me to call you?”

  His face screwed up. “It gwan be strange but call me Pablo.”

  Pablo repeated the name as she got the tape ready. For the record she described the time and location, her name and rank, Pablo’s various names and the reason for the interview. She read him his rights.

  “You understand you don’t have to talk to me?”

  He nodded.

  Frank pointed at the recorder.

  “I unnerstan’.”

  “Let’s start on February twelfth, nineteen sixty-nine. What happened that night?”

  Pablo wobbled his head. “I can still see it, like it happen one night ago.”

  He told the story just as Frank remembered it. When he was done he put it to paper. She checked the statement, got his signature and concluded the interview.

  She pushed back from the table but didn’t get up. “Couple things. Off the record.

  “Why him? You saw us coming out of Cal’s. You knew it was a cop bar. Why jack a cop?”

  “You remember? It was cold dat night? Wunt a lot of people out wit’ money in dey pockets. I seen a white guy, lil gull, t’ink he make easy pigeon. I wunt gonna kill him. Just wan’ed his wallet. T’ought he’d hand it over easy like, ‘cause a the gull. ‘Cause a you. Den you go inside dat deli, and I t’ought, ‘Damn, I fuh fool!’ Shoulda got money befuh ‘im spend it. But it cold. You bot’ walkin’ fast. I had hard time fuh keep up.”

  “It was cold,” Frank agreed. “So you bounced around after Leavenworth, but how’d you end up here?”

  “Warm, fa’ away. Sunny like I imagine Panama to be. Nobody know me.”

  “No, I mean why Figueroa? Why South Central?”

  “Met a Dominican lady lived here. I stayed wit’ ‘er a couple mont’, t’ree maybe. ‘Ere I was jus’ anot’er poor nigger. No one see me.

  “Then why snitch? Doesn’t make sense if you were trying to be invisible.”

  “No,” he admitted. “But I do it once or twicet. For money. No bad trouble come. So Irie keep his eye and ear open, mout’ shut. Money come easy for jus’ payin’ attention.”

  “Jesus.” Frank shook her head. “And yo
u had no idea who I was?”

  “How could I?” Irie asked. “You suppose’ be in New York, not here like me.”

  Frank collected her tape and statement. Irie watched her. “A detective’s gonna come and book you.”

  “Off’cer Frank,” he implored. “You gotta fuh do dis?”

  “I have to.”

  “You known me long time …”

  She nodded.

  Palms wide, he appealed, “Maybe for dat… ?”

  “Can’t.”

  He slumped farther into his chair, dropping chin to chest. Frank stared at him. She tried to conjure hate, even anger, but all she could dredge was sorrow.

  “Romeo,” she mused. “For your father?”

  “Fuh ‘im. I try, but I couln’ fuh to give ever’tin’ up.”

  “Why John-John?”

  A sad smile deepened his wrinkles.

  “Fuh John-John Kennedy. I see ‘im fuh standin’ dere, doin’ dat salute like a brave lil sol’juh. I ne’er forgettin’ dat. ‘Im lose ‘is daddy, jus’ like me.” He paused. “Jus’ like you.”

  Frank hardened her stare as Irie leaned toward her.

  “I di’ not mean fuh to kill you daddy. I jus’ nee’ed to fix. I jus’ wanna money. No dead daddies.” He sucked his teeth and sat back. “Too many a dem already. Too many.”

  Frank opened the door.

  Behind her he accused, “Dat was a lie, dat Berto’s you frien’.”

  “That was a lie,” Frank agreed, turning. “But the rest was true. He’s a priest. He ministers to prisoners. Hoped maybe someday he’d find you that way. Your mother—”

  “You saw ‘er?” Irie cried.

  “I talked to her.” Irie asked how she was before Frank could explain, “She’s fine. Edmundo’s a mechanic. Got three kids. You’re an uncle. Your sister, Flora, she’s pretty strung out on crack.”

  “No-o-o,” Irie moaned. “No-o. She a sweet gull.”

  “Not no more,” Frank said. “Ain’t none of us sweet no more.”

  She trudged back to her office, bone tired and desperate for a drink. She gave Jill quick instructions, then looked up a number in her office. She dialed, finally got connected.