“Vickie, I love you and always have. Will you marry me?”
Their eyes met and she realized deep within herself it was more than just friendship she felt for the man, knew she wasn’t merely grasping at straws in an attempt to avoid the lonely chill of death, but rather had been offered a life-giving bouquet at the onset of a chill, desert winter.
“Yes, Mulroney. I also love you and will marry you.”
A thumping noise interrupted their psychic embrace--Kilkenney, infused with the scents of wetlands and dank concrete gateways to civility, was reacting with cattish vigor to the eternal promises offered by both.
Chapter 5
“Should we just do it?” Mulroney said, “or should we first draw up a catalog of precautionary measures?”
They were back in the Suburban.
“Marriage isn’t so simple as it used to be,” Vickie agreed. “For one thing, we’re both Catholic, so there’s the matter of finding a suitable priest. I should probably confess that I haven’t been a very good Catholic--I haven’t been to Mass in a ‘coons age--or should I say a Maine Coon’s age?”
This last remark was in deference to Kilkenney, who, de-caged, purred demurely in Vickie’s lap, much to her amazement and relief.
“I know a guy,” Mulroney said. “Father Larry, over at Our Lady of Grace on Ventura near White Oak. He owes me a few."
"A Catholic priest owes you a few? A Catholic priest?"
"Yeh. They're people like anybody else you know. We became friends when I was in the hospital after Jack and me rammed our unit into that porn palace on Lankershim. He’s got a special place in his heart for cops. I helped him out of a jam one time. Of course I can't tell you about it, what with him being a priest and all.”
“You have a long arm, Mulroney. And I remember him,” Vickie said. “He said the Mass for Jack’s funeral. But why do I all of a sudden feel the cold breath of reality breathing down my neck?”
“I can fix that,” he said. He hit the radio, seeking an oldie. He struck gold, The Beatles--She Loves You--the close harmonies and odd chords reviving their spirits. “That song will endure forever,” he said. “That was when Lennon and McCartney wrote everything together in a hotel room or a van. The edge of poverty--that’s the proper setting for an artist.”
“Spoken like a true Irishman,” she said. She turned toward him and took both of his big rough hands in her two tiny smooth ones.
“Let’s make it our song,” she said. “It fits. You think you lost your love--but--it’s you she’s thinking of. You never lost me. True, I had to love another man first, but now I understand it’s my destiny in life to love two great men before I die. So you never lost me, Mulroney--I was right in front of you all the time. It’s just that to every thing, there is a season. This is our season. And this is our song.”
“I love you, Vickie.”
“I love you, Mulroney.”
Their first kiss was soft, as each gave quietly of their earthly substance, each seeking to discover the mystery of the other, yet they found themselves still polite, like houseguests inspecting their new lodgings, moving forward and drawing back at the same time.
“Wow,” she said. “Soon we will be married, so I think we better cool it for now.”
His tears coursed the lines of his face, and the softening of his features revealed him to be more kind than savage, a trace of the leprechaun replacing the warlike grimace inherited from some ancient lineage of Irish Kings.
“I hate to bring this up,” Vickie said, “but in spite of our newfound delirium at having finally connected, if we’re going to be married, we both have our respective individual estates to consider--I have to warn you, I’ve got a ton salted away.”
“There’s probably a hotbed of tax issues if we marry our estates together,” Mulroney said. “I, too, have a ton. I recently sold three rentals I owned free and clear, which left me over five-hundred grand in the bank after taxes, and I have over five-hundred grand in my retirement account. I own my place in Santa Monica free and clear and despite the real estate collapse and all, it’s worth over six-hundred grand easy. The Lamplighter’s only a hobby with me, but it’s worth about a hundred and a half, with no note against it. Income-wise, I get a tidy sum from retirement, plus whatever I want to draw from the bar, which nets about sixty-thousand a year. Most months, I draw nothing, putting the profits against the note. So I guess I’m worth somewhere around a million-and-a-half, give or take, and it’s mostly liquid assets.”
“You did all that on a policeman’s salary?” she said.
“My dad taught me I’d get rich if I squirreled my money away,” he said. “So every month, I put everything I could into real estate and savings.”
“Who would ever guess you had such a pile?” she said.
“It wasn’t all real estate,” he said. “Being a cop helped some. I admit I ate lunch free every day while I was on the force. But I only ate where I was welcome, and it was mostly just taco joints or stir-fry places, nothing fancy, not like a Chicago politician or anything.”
“Okay, Mulroney,” she said. “You showed me yours, now I’ll show you mine. I’ve got a lot of money. When Jack died, he left me set for life. All the years we were married, we both worked. We lived off what he earned and put my paychecks in the market. Jack loved the technology stocks. We’ve quadrupled that money. When he died, there was an insurance policy that paid off our house, and a huge death benefit. I have to admit, I’ve spent some of the money to satisfy my two major vices--keeping my Z-28 alive, and nice clothes.”
“Nobody looks nicer than you, Vickie,” Mulroney said.
“I’ve spent way too much on my wardrobe,” she said, “but what can I say? I like the way I feel when I shop in an elegant store. While Jack was alive, we found most of our clothing at Ross, but since Jack died, I guess shopping for expensive outfits was my way of keeping sane--it was something I could do without having a man along. The truth is, shopping in the best shops gives me a feeling of being cared about--but now that I’m dying, I guess I can admit to a new perspective--I see all that shopping as a phony way I had to mask the loneliness I felt--to pretend I had friends. All those salespeople were nothing more than professional fawners. Anyway, to make a long story short--I’m rich. My accountant keeps wanting me to diversify, but I keep letting it roll over in the high yield sector. If I cashed out today, I’d probably come in likewise at around a couple of million or three.”
“Good grief,” Mulroney said. “I always figured you were barely making it. I was looking forward to showering you with my riches, and even showing off a little. I’m so cash-heavy right now, if I don’t do some tax-hedge-type investing, my exclusive Santa Monica accountant is threatening to downgrade me to one of the discount firms. Can you imagine a guy like me trying to explain my life to some weenie at Charles Schwab?”
“Mulroney, I’ve got a problem,” she said. “I’m worried about Dalk. He’s never been smart with money like me, and I won’t be around to take care of him. He’s got nothing but past due credit card bills and he’s almost 40. He blew his peak earning years in Japan learning how to tap into his spiritual essence or something, and as you may have guessed, they don’t pay a whole lot in this town for that kind of skill. Even his job with the Department is on a consultant basis--he’s not a for-real cop. I wish they’d at least make him a permanent employee so he could get a pension and health benefits.”
“Dalk really helps the officers he trains,” Mulroney said. “He helps them overcome the bad habits they’ve picked up which could get them killed. He deserves a secure position within the Department. His self-defense seminars have created a lot of respect for him. A couple of times, he’s pointed out better ways to do things which have gotten the old policies changed. I can call somebody inside the Department and secure him a position, if you’d like me to. I still have a few favors owed me.”
“I’d like that,” Vickie said, “But don’t tell me anybody owes you any favors. You’re a crusty old goat who
knows where all the bodies are buried in the Department.”
“It’s a tribal thing,” he said. “I came of age as a cop before the PD went PC. Most of the bodies that lie buried, I buried myself on behalf of someone else. It so happens that those someone else’s are running things now. My experience from the dinosaur days entitles me to lifetime pimping privileges among the Department higher-ups, never mind that mealy-mouthed sorry excuse of a Chief they brought in from out-of-state to pressure all the righteous cops into early retirements.”
“There’s one more thing,” Vickie said. “I’m not sure how you’re going to take this, but as far as my money goes, I plan to leave it all to Dalk. He’s all the family I’ve got left. I don’t think Dalk is capable of building any wealth on his own--he’s the type to donate everything to some Buddhist temple nobody’s ever heard of, where it somehow winds up in a politician's pockets.”
“I think it’s beautiful that you’re going to take care of your baby brother,” Mulroney said. “That’s what families are for. As far as us getting hitched, I’ll sign a prenup. That way there won’t be any cloud over Dalk’s inheritance.”
“You’d do that for me?” she said. “You’d sign a prenup?”
“I love you,” he said. “It’s not about money. If you owed a million, I’d pay it to have you.”
She laughed softly at his concern. “You’re a knight in shining armor, Mulroney,” she said. “You’re well-documented proof that cops have never evolved beyond the archaic traditions and social standards set up all those thousands of years ago, when everything important was set in stone.”
“No,” he said. “Don’t judge me harshly. Even though I have made a couple of attempts in the past to find the Holy Grail, I’m still very much a millennial man. When it comes to relationships with the opposite sex, I’m very flexible--I consider myself very modern. You might even call me a feminist’s dream.”
“To set the record straight,” Vickie said, “you’re every feminist’s nightmare--but I love you anyway. I want you to look before you leap, because a few days from now, when I waft down the aisle in my virginal-white gown, pledging a lifetime of devotion and love to you, there’ll be no need for a prenup because I’ll already be flat broke.”
“Come again?”
“I’ll explain on the way. Right now, I want you to re-cage this family-style pet of yours and start the car. Second, when you hit the bottom of the hill, turn south on Sepulveda towards the beach.”
“South? But I thought we were taking you to see the Virgin Mary lady.”
“C’mon, Mulroney,” she said. “The tumor’s probably already spread. It’s past time to be working on the cure. I’ve decided not to fight it. I want to enjoy what little time I have left. That’s why you’re turning south. We’re going to spend the day in Santa Monica.”
“Santa Monica?” he said. “What for?”
“What do you think? Santa Monica is the New Beverly Hills. We’re going to spend my million dollars.”
“On what?”
“On Dalk.”
“Explain, please.”
“Dalk may be the master of the armed felon building search,” she said, “but he’s a fool when it comes to money. I have no intention of leaving him a million in cash. The vultures would pick him clean in a year. And this is The City of Angels. Before I die, I’m going to be his guardian angel and buy Dalk a piece of heaven right here on earth.”
Chapter 6
“You got anything to drink?” Vickie said. “I need something to settle my stomach.”
“There’s a short dog of Schnapps in the glove box,” Mulroney replied.
They were moving slowly through the Mulholland tunnel, located in the heart of the pass which provided north-south access from the Valley to West Los Angeles and regions south. The morning commuter traffic poured like a slow-falling steel waterfall from the tunnel mouth down the side of the Santa Monica National Park System, the world’s largest urban national park, and the only park in the world with a mission to preserve the city’s “air shed”, that is, to act as a natural filter for the smoggy secretions which passed for air among the citizens.
Vickie popped open the glove box. Alongside a large-bore revolver, she found a pint bottle of Peppermint Schnapps and something else--a prescription vial of tiny white nitro pills.
“What’s this?” she said.
“You weren’t supposed to see those,” he said. “Pass the Schnapps.” He took a sip and passed it back.
“What’s wrong with you?” she said.
“My heart,” he said. “It’s a big, nasty mess from all those doughnuts and coffee. I can’t walk ten feet without a pain. The ghouls want to open my chest, but I won’t let them. To tell you the truth, I think my surgical risk is in the same category as Ron Goldman’s impromptu surgery at the black-gloved hands of Dr. O.J.”
“My, we’re a pair,” she said. “We’re both dodging the doctor’s silver bullet. I hope you don’t croak before our wedding.”
“Just for the record,” he said, “if God calls for me in the next few days, tell Him I’m out.”
“I want to buy the dress today,” she said, “but I’m concerned about the fit. For some reason, the last few days, my stomach’s starting to swell--Oh! Ooooooh!”
At that very instant, the back pain, which for weeks had reserved itself to a somewhat constant level of burning pain, decided to escape its boundaries and expand throughout her upper abdomen, as though an electric eagle were raking a white hot talon through her guts.
“Oh! Help me!” Vickie screamed.
Mulroney swerved over to a stop. “It’s okay,” he said. “Try to breathe. Just try to breathe.”
An unearthly shriek from deep inside her sought to shake the pain loose, but it dug in deeper, pushing her limbs into an awkward dance of senseless writhing.
“Mulroney!” she shrieked.
The pain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, retreating to its base camp fire in her lower back. But it’s probe to further regions of her body had proved successful, thoroughly dehumanizing and demoralizing her, leaving in its wake the chill of death blanketed over her still-twitching limbs.
Mulroney whipped out his phone. “I’m calling for help,” he said.
“No,” she whispered.
“You need help,” he said.
“No, Mulroney. Don’t call anybody. I’m not going back to the hospital. Take me into the mountains. Take me back to the canyons. I want to see the waterfalls and hear the peacocks one more time. Tell me you love me and leave me there beside the waterfall to die in peace. Promise me, you’ll never let me die in a hospital. Never.”
“Okay,” he said. “I promise.” He rummaged in her purse. “Where’s your pain pills?” he said.
“I don’t have any,” she said. “We forgot to fill the prescription this morning, what with all the excitement about our wedding plans.”
“Well I can fix that,” he said. He rummaged in a cargo compartment and came up with a large white-capped vial full of pills, from which he shook out a couple of capsules. The white-and-green specked caps sparkled authoritatively in his palm.
“Dr. Bienenfeld warned me not to self-medicate,” she said.
“To which I say a big So What!”
“I won’t even ask what these are,” she said. She opened her mouth and he placed the unholy communion on her tongue, which she then swallowed, following this with a long swallow of the Schnapps.
“They’re Policeman’s Specials,” he said. “I’ve been on them ever since I got that brick in the shoulder during the Rodney King aftermath.”
“My doctor prescribed something,” she said.
"He didn't give you anything like this. My special’s will keep you pain-free for awhile longer. If those give out, we’ll get you something stronger.”
“Do you have enough to last me?” she said.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I can get all you need without a prescription.”
He p
ut the big SUV in gear and bullied his way through the dense traffic down the hill while Vickie nursed the Schnapps, feeling a welcome warmth suffuse her bones and skin.
“I’m being slowly cut off from life,” she said. “All my life, I’ve always thought that death would walk up to me one day and tap me on the shoulder--now I realize that death is like a bullfight. We’re like poor dumb animals on display in a ring where the evil Toreador of Death puts in the lance while we're still alive, while all the world is watching and mocking us as we grow weaker and weaker. We can fight back, of course, but we’ll only wind up with our noses in the wind, smelling the stench of our own blood as it drains into the earth.”
Ten miles later, the relief from the synthetic narcotics and the Schnapps was surging through her body like an incoming Pacific tide, each wave pushing her higher and higher. By the time they hit the storybook Montana Shopping District in Santa Monica--said by some to be second only to Beverly Hills’ Rodeo Drive--Vickie was ready to shop.
“Where to?” Mulroney said.
“Where else?” she replied. “The Montclair Collection--they’ve got a rack of bridal gowns from around the world.”
“I get to buy the dress,” Mulroney said. “And I want the most expensive one in the joint.”
“It doesn’t have to be expensive,” Vickie said, “just perfect--the perfect dress for our perfect day--but if it’s perfect and expensive, that’s okay, too.”
“I think we’re starting a tradition, here,” he said. “I’ll bring the Schnapps.”
“Oh no you won’t,” she said. “You’re not coming in to my elegant boutique dressed like that. You’re staying in the car with Kilkenney. There’s a Starbucks back down the street. You can go have your coffee and donuts while I pick out my dress.”
“I’ll leave you the Schnapps,” he said.
“Get real,” she said. “This is Santa Monica. They’ll be serving champagne.”
Chapter 7
“If it’s a second marriage,” Dee said, “tradition dictates we work with something beige, or even another color entirely.”
A Small Matter Page 3
