“Ed,” said Bruce, “have you met our guest?”
“Hello there,” the Governor said with a smile, extending his hand.
“Hi,” Ed said, staring at the Governor’s hand in confusion for a moment before shaking it. “I’ve, ah, I’ve seen all your movies.” Bruce laughed. Berry scowled in a way that suggested Ed would soon be receiving a lecture on the perils of being an idiot.
The Governor bowed his head in a display of humble appreciation. “That’s wonderful, just wonderful.”
Bruce was beaming with pride. “Ed’s a terrific guy,” he bragged, with a pointed look at Berry. “Terrific guy.”
The Governor laughed again and patted Ed’s arm. “Well, son, I’m glad to see you’re doing great things here. Keep up the fine work.”
Ed swallowed. “Thanks,” he said, fighting off a sudden surge of guilt over what he’d just done. It was unusual for Ed to feel guilt lately—or to feel much of anything other than the near-constant dread that consumed him from the moment he woke up every morning until he managed to get to sleep at night. Berry and Dallman walked with the Governor down the hall, leaving Ed standing alone in the uncomfortably warm hallway. He pulled off his lab coat and sweater and went back to his little office.
Mookie was in there, reclining in his chair and strumming his ukulele. He looked slightly ridiculous, holding such a tiny instrument in his big hands, but if he was aware of how silly he looked, he didn’t seem to be bothered by it. “B-flat suspended fourth,” he declared proudly when Ed entered the room. He strummed a chord on his instrument. “What do you think of that?”
“It’s nice,” said Ed. It sounded similar to the D suspended fourth that Mookie had learned the previous week.
“Yeah,” agreed Mookie. He played the chord again, nodded approvingly at the sound, then moved one finger and tried it again. “And that’s a regular B-flat major.” He played the two chords several times for Ed’s benefit.
“Very nice,” Ed said again.
“I’m going to buy a machine and start recording myself,” said Mookie.
Ed slipped out as soon as he could without seeming impolite, and stopped at the office down the hall to look for Cliff Leonard, a disproportionately thin and slouchy man who worked in Narcotics. At work, Cliff and Ed spoke only a few words to each other now and then. They were acquaintances, nothing more. Outside of SID, their relationship was only a little more complicated. Ed gave Cliff money from time to time, and in return, Cliff gave Ed little paper envelopes he’d picked up during his day at the lab. Cliff’s paper envelopes, which he secreted about his person before leaving for the day, contained small amounts of the substances that Cliff encountered in his line of work. When you were the man who weighed the seized drugs, it wasn’t so hard to skim a few milligrams off the top in the process.
“Hi, Cliff,” said Ed. “I had to get away for a minute.”
“Is he playing the ukulele?” Leonard asked with a grin.
“I think he’s planning to make an album.”
Leonard laughed out loud. “But you’ve gotta love him. I don’t know how he plays it with those big fingers of his.”
“Work eased up any lately?” Ed asked. Leonard had always been on the skinny side, but the recent upswing in drug enforcement had hit his department hard, and he appeared to be missing meals.
Leonard’s smile vanished and he shook his head. “Dingleberry’s a monster. All he cares about is looking good on the reports that go up to Chief Reddin. Even if we all drop dead from exhaustion.”
“Wish I could help.”
Leonard’s expression lightened a little. “Feel like doing double duty for a while? We could use the help.”
“What would I get for it? Dingleberry’d probably hand me a shiny nickel and ask for change.” Ed had been the hardest worker in the place until a few months ago, when everything had changed. Since then, his ambition had taken the back seat to his constant desire to forget everything around him.
Leonard sighed. “Right on, man.” The smile that had almost returned to his face disappeared once more and was replaced by his deeply-worried-about-Ed face. Ed suddenly wished he could leave without having to listen to what was sure to follow. “Ed,” Cliff said, leaning forward in his chair, “You all right, pal? You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“I can always count on you for a compliment.”
Cliff lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned even closer. “I’m serious. If you don’t lay off the smack, it’ll kill you. It wouldn’t really bother me if you was just smoking dope or something, but this is serious stuff.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be underground,” Ed said. “Things aren’t so great up here, if you ask me.”
“Hey, come on. I―” Cliff trailed off as Ed turned and walked out. Ed was sick to death of hearing the opinions of people who had no idea what he was going through. Which meant just about everyone.
Ed took a slow, refreshing breath of the evening smog as he left the building, thankful to be alone. Climbing into the Barracuda, he slammed the door hard and sat behind the wheel a moment to calm himself. Three months, and it hadn’t gotten even a little bit easier. If anything, everyone’s pitying looks and overwrought concern made it even more difficult. There were only two people in the world who seemed to understand that what he needed most were time and space, not people expressing their concern for him every time he turned around. Kajdas, who had supported him steadfastly during his ordeal, and Big John. Ed’s only remaining friend from his horrible teenage years—the one who had first convinced Ed to apply for a job at the police department—continued to treat Ed exactly as he always had: without a shred of compassion or sympathy. That was what Ed liked most about him. Big John was like a huge teddy bear, the kind of teddy bear that could rip you to pieces if you made it angry.
Ed’s anger subsided slowly—that seemed to take longer than ever these days—and after several minutes of slow, deep breathing, he finally felt like he could drive home without losing his mind and running over the pedestrians on purpose. As long as nothing else happened to upset him, he might just get through the evening without going insane. He took one more calming breath and turned the key in the ignition.
Nothing happened.
* * *
At a quarter after six, as Ed was leaning against his lifeless Barracuda and dejectedly smoking a cigarette, an LAPD squad car pulled up next to him. The driver, a muscular and extraordinarily hairy police officer, got out and walked over to him. His partner rolled down the passenger window for some air.
“Hey! Asshole!” the cop called as he came closer. John Visconti had pet names for all his friends. Asshole was what he sometimes called Ed. It was nothing personal; coming up with clever nicknames was just a hobby of his when he wasn’t on duty. In Big John’s book, you had to be held in high esteem to be called Asshole.
“Don’t piss me off,” Ed said, exhaling a lungful of smoke. “I’m having a bad day.”
John scratched at an old tattoo of an impossibly well-endowed woman on his forearm, a leftover from his biker days. He was only a little over six feet tall, but still had six or seven inches on Ed. “I’ll be careful, then,” John said. “Got here quick as I could. Think she’s done-for this time?” He whacked the Barracuda’s hood with his palm.
“They always get her running again. I’ve got a repair guy who’s pretty good. You on patrol tonight?”
Big John nodded. “You get the perp seat.”
“Been a while since I had a ride-along. I appreciate the lift.”
John dismissed Ed’s thanks with a wave of his hand. “I’m going towards your neighborhood anyway.” He opened the back door for Ed, who clambered in and made himself comfortable. There was no room on the floor of the back seat to put his feet, so he leaned his back against the door and stretched out sideways. John’s partner, Tony Sprague, grinned at him through the wire mesh that separated them.
A former Hell’s Angel, Big John now terrorized
the street thugs of Los Angeles with an enthusiasm only a former thug could muster for the task. If John in a leather jacket on his bike was an imposing figure, John in a policeman’s uniform was downright terrifying to the average criminal. When they had graduated high school together, John was a rabble-rouser who liked to drink and fight. Ed, the straight-laced one, had opted for college, and they had lost touch for a couple of years. When Ed had seen him again, John was a completely different person. A tour in Vietnam and a few years of experience had changed him.
“What’s got you down, guy?” John asked as he pulled out.
Ed sighed. “What do you think, John? Same thing as always.”
“Yeah,” said John, not unkindly, “I know.” He was quiet for a while as he drove into West Hollywood, but all at once he brightened and said, “Hey, Tony, look who’s doing business over there.”
Two men were talking on the sidewalk. One of them, a thin, young black man in a blindingly bright green three-piece suit with an orange tie, glanced at the approaching squad car and began to edge backward with very small steps.
“Yeah,” Tony said, squinting out the window. “That’s Willie, all right. He looks happy to see us. Want to go say hello?”
“Old buddy of ours,” John explained to Ed. “Willie James, the man with two first names. Pimp and drug dealer. Sit tight, we’re going to have a word with him.”
The man in the green suit turned around and walked away briskly, leaving the other one looking after him with a confused expression. “Is he breaking the law right now?” asked Ed. “I didn’t see him taking money or―”
Big John laughed. “Hell, I bet the guy’s got a bag of grass on him right now. What do you want to bet, Tony?” Tony didn’t take the bet.
John pulled over to the curb, and as he did so, the man in green broke into a run. John and Tony got out and ran after him, and to Ed’s surprise, John almost caught up with him less than a block away. For his size, he was impressively fast. The two officers took the pimp by each arm and walked him out of sight around the corner while Ed waited in the back seat. Ed tried the door handle; it didn’t open. The back doors only opened from the outside, he recalled. There was nowhere he could go until John or Tony came back.
Through Tony’s open window he heard the sound of shouting from around the corner—John’s voice. This was followed by a moment of silence, after which Ed distinctly heard the sound of someone being beaten up. The beating continued for several minutes, until a man’s high-pitched voice began crying and begging. Not long after this, John and Tony came back around the corner, John dragging the pimp by his shirt collar. He kicked feebly as his feet dragged along the sidewalk. His suit was now rumpled and stained.
The pimp regained his footing, and John ushered him over to the vehicle. Ed frowned, suddenly alarmed. They’re not putting him in the car. Are they?
John opened the rear door on the passenger side and said, “Hold this.” He held out a little Ruger .22 semi-automatic pistol, which Ed surmised had belonged to Willie James until a few minutes ago. Ed took the gun and held it uncertainly in his lap.
“This here’s Willie,” John said. “Willie, this is my buddy Ed. Ed’s going to keep an eye on you back here and make sure you don’t pull anything.” He motioned toward the weapon in Ed’s hand. “Ed, better put that away or he’ll try and grab it from you. Don’t trust those handcuffs.” Ed straightened as best he could in the confined space and stuck the barrel of the gun into the waistband of his pants, being careful to point the business end away from his valuables.
The pimp, whose face was a swollen, bloody mess, looked longingly at the gun until it was out of sight. Then he looked at Ed, smiling as best he could with a split lip. Ed smiled back uncertainly as John shut the door and locked the two of them in the back seat together. Willie sat awkwardly, his hands cuffed behind his back.
He looked over at Ed, who was trying his best not to look too bewildered. “You arrested too?” Willie asked.
“Don’t talk to Ed,” Big John told him. “He’s out of his mind. One wrong word and he’ll chew your nose off. Ed’s a crazy son of a bitch.”
Willie’s mouth snapped shut and watched Ed warily. “You a crazy son of a bitch?” he asked.
“Do I look crazy to you?” Ed replied.
Willie James looked into Ed’s eyes. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “you a crazy son of a bitch, all right.” He shifted his weight on the seat and turned to look out the window. “Craaa-zy,” he said again, shaking his head.
* * *
“Starter was disconnected,” the mechanic said, leaning in to point at a piece of equipment under the hood. “I just had to hook it back up again. You been fiddling with it?”
“Me? No.” Ed looked where the mechanic was pointing and frowned. “Does it look like it’s been fiddled with?”
The mechanic shrugged noncommittally. “Dunno. It’s not something that usually comes unhooked, is all. You wanna keep an eye on it.”
Ed wasn’t sure how exactly he should keep an eye on it, but there was no sense in making the mechanic feel all superior by asking the question. “I’ll do that,” he said.
7
X-Ray Vision
The metal door squeaked open, briefly letting in the glare of early afternoon sunlight. The shop was in the basement of an old building on Elizabeth Street in Manhattan, eight steps down from street level. Danny Chan blinked away a purple afterimage until he could make out two young men and a girl who had all stopped just inside the entrance and were looking around while their eyes adjusted to the dimness. White people. The girl took her time examining the wooden trinkets and miniature jade sculptures that covered the shelves along the walls of the narrow shop. The taller of the two men, a broad-shouldered fellow with red hair and expensive clothes, had his arm around the girl. Rich kids, Danny thought. Red-Head was sharing some kind of private joke with his friend, who was slighter of build with light hair, a large nose, and pockmarks from a past battle with acne. Danny waited until they noticed him standing at the back of the room and then greeted them in an exaggerated accent with the script he saved for lofahn, white people.
“Welcome to Mrs. Chan’s House of Fortune. I am Tien-Ming. You want souvenir? Or fortune telling? Mrs. Chan is best palm reader in Chinatown. Can I interest you in reading?” Fortunes carried a higher profit margin than souvenirs, so he pushed the fortunes hard. Most white people who came in here were either looking for a toilet or had gone the wrong way looking for the restaurant upstairs—though Danny wondered what kind of restaurant would have a giant hand and the words “Palm Reading” painted on its sign—so he had several more rehearsed lines ready in case the newcomers showed signs of wanting to leave. He’d been working in his mother’s shop since he was nine years old. Ten years of experience had been enough to teach him how to reel the customers in.
Red-Head mumbled something to his large-nosed friend, who laughed and whispered something back. The girl glanced over at Red-Head with an irritated look on her face. Red-Head said, “Okay, why not? If she’s wrong, we get our money back, right?”
Danny didn’t like the looks of this guy. “Two dollar each for basic fortune, three for palm reading.” The palm readings cost more because Danny’s mother didn’t like touching the customers’ hands. The prices were all higher for bok goy, naturally; they never could have charged the Chinese locals so much. “If you all want reading, I get her to do all three for discount. Three palm reading, eight dollar.”
“How ’bout she does mine and we see how it goes,” said Red-Head. “And you don’t get any money if she turns out to be a crock.”
Danny nodded, hoping his ever-friendly smile didn’t look too artificial. The light was probably too dim for these people to tell a grin from a sneer. “Three palm reading? Good. You come back first, then.” He started toward the door in the back.
“Why don’t we all go together,” said Red-Head. “God knows what you people would do with one of us back there. I know what kinds of
things you all serve in your restaurants.” His buddy laughed at that, but the girl didn’t seem to think it was funny. The pockmarked one started toward the back room behind Red-Head, and the girl followed with some reluctance.
“Ah, you caught us,” said Danny, widening his smile. He had been working hard on the skill of keeping cool while being made fun of by assholes. Half the people who came in here were assholes, but money was money. Danny could see that Pockmark, at least, had no intention of waiting in the front room, so he said, “Yeah, sure, you all come back. We talk about private things during reading, though.”
“Don’t worry about it, Hop Sing.” The three followed Danny through a curtained doorway into the tiny back room, which felt crowded enough with only one customer back there. Danny’s mother was sitting in a chair with a Chinese newspaper spread out across a small table. Sticks of incense smoldered in the corners of the room where they had been stuck into the crack between linoleum and baseboard. A red-shaded lamp provided a little light. Above the table, a fat ceramic Buddha looked down at them jovially from a high shelf. Mrs. Chan folded her newspaper when they came in, giving the strangers a disapproving stare.
“Aiya! Nei mou wa bei koy dei tze yat goa yat goa yap lai?” Didn’t you tell them one at a time? Danny’s mother didn’t think highly of people who disregarded her rules.
“Yow-ah,” Danny said. “Bok goy jong yee jo mat jow jo mat.” I told them. White people just do what they want.
“Bok goy,” she said. The customers didn’t seem to recognize the slur.
“Please,” Danny said to Red-Head, “Mrs. Chan ask you to sit so she can get started.” Red-Head turned the other chair around and straddled it. The girl turned to examine a calendar on the wall, which was from the restaurant upstairs. Every month had a picture of a different Chinese dish on it. This month it was abalone in a brown sauce.
“This one looks stupid,” Danny’s mother continued in Chinese. “Tell him he’s going to grow fat and even uglier.”
Forest of the Mind (The Book of Terwilliger 1) Page 6
