Orange County Noir

by Gary Phillips

  Fred hurried home, unlocked the front door, and looked for a letter, finding instead the visit application Angel had sent. Man, he could feel it now. It was really happening. No phone messages except for a gym manager returning his call. Parking the cordless phone on the toilet tank, he took a quick shower and changed into loose-knit pants and a comfy old Angels baseball shirt. He switched on the TV, grabbed a diet cherry soda from the fridge, and opened a cabinet to get some microwave popcorn-but then he heard the weird twangy intro music for Cold Case Files and hurried in to see if he could outguess the detectives.

  Somewhere, his cordless phone was ringing.

  Fred stared for a split second at the remote in the palm of his hand. He shook it and put it to his ear before he grasped the problem. Running down the hall to get it before it went to message, he snatched up the phone atop the toilet tank and, trying not to sound breathless, gasped, "Angel?"

  There was a pause, then a click. A mechanical voice said, This is the California State Department of Corrections with a collect call from-pause, and another voice saying, Angela May Winkler, then the machine again, Please choose from the following options ...

  The first option was to take the call and accept charges, so he waited no longer and pressed that number.

  Another pause. Then a real voice silky as butter dripping and slithering down between kernels of fresh popcorn: "Hey, Fred, this is Angel. Are you there?"

  He took a breath. "Oh, yeah, I'm really here. How's Daddy's little Angel girl?"

  Some weeks later, Angel sent Fred his approved visitor's permit. Even though the phone calls had given him a sense of what Angel would be like, he wanted to be face-to-face, touch her, feel her touching him.

  Mother's Day Sunday, Fred got up at dawn because he couldn't sleep. The prison had a whole load of restrictions on visitors, and he'd skimmed the booklet-but they were guide lines, not ironclad laws, right? Most sounded like they made sense-no medicine, even over-the-counter. No hats. No tobacco or alcohol. No food; you had to buy it from their vending machines. No chewing gum? That one made him wonder. You couldn't go in there dressed like an inmate, like in a movie he saw where two guys switched places. He laughed out loud at the rule that said women who set off the metal detectors with an underwire bra had to go in without it.

  Fred showered and weighed himself, proud to be ten pounds and one belt-notch smaller than before, and put on his new khakis, loose Hawaiian shirt, and Brand X huarachesthe finest sandals made in Mexico, according to Manny.

  Glad he started early, he joined the slow-moving line of cars leading into the prison, showed his pass at the gate, parked in the visitor area, and followed the obvious paththey weren't taking any chances on somebody wandering away. Everything was drab, institutional, painted government green, but the lawn and flower borders were surprisingly well tended, the windows spotless.

  The path ended in a slow-mo line of people and a sign that read:

  Inmate Visiting

  Friday, Saturday, Sunday

  8:00 a.m.-2:00 p.m.

  Reception

  Fred got in behind a granny with two little girls maybe four and six, who ran around on the cracked, dusty asphalt and ignored her yelling their names every few minutes. She finally gave up, peering down at what looked like birth certificates. Maybe she was embarrassed how they disobeyed her. He'd have suggested she pop them good once in a while instead of calling them, but he didn't know any Spanish. Amazing how often people could miss the obvious solution to their problem.

  Right behind him, someone did that ahem kind of throatclearing, so he turned around to see a grim-looking, scrawny, straight-lipped redneck nodding at the candy-shop bag Fred was carrying.

  "You must be a first-timer," the man announced. "They don't let anybody take in gifts like candy. Afraid of contraband."

  "I know," said Fred, trying not to sound defensive. "I read the guidelines, and it isn't candy. Thought maybe I'd take in a few women's magazines-Mother's Day and all."

  The man smiled, and his lined face-more sandblasted than chiseled-seemed surprisingly kind. "Mama's contraband is still contraband. If I was you, I'd go back to your car and send'em through channels, because those guards will just toss 'em." Know-it-all was still sort of smiling.

  "Well, maybe they will and maybe they won't," Fred muttered and turned away. Guy was probably right, but Fred wasn't about to lose his place in line.

  He was closer to the front now, everybody getting out their IDs, women carrying see-through plastic pouches instead of purses, watching what they said but trying to act friendly. Visitors with kids produced birth certificates. A few teen girls buttoned up their blouses, smoothed down their skirts, and covered their stomachs. Not because they respected good old Mom; it was the rules. He remembered Angel saying that whenever a guard didn't like what girls had on, they got to cover up in old baggy thrift store clothes, or leave. "This place, all they want to do is control everything you do. Everything. Even when it makes no sense-hell, 'specially then-just to show you how they can. Shit." He wished she wouldn't swear, but those words came straight from the heart.

  She'd added that having so few choices was why it was important to keep money in her canteen account since they couldn't have cash. "Thanks, sweetie," she'd said after he sent a couple-hundred transfer to her with the usual bureaucratic hurdles. "With a little canteen account, now I can get myself shampoo, deodorant, makeup-girly things. I'm so lucky to have you."

  Poor kid, so alone. His eyes had watered a little then. He knew what it was like to be lonesome. After numerous humiliating ordeals called "dates," Fred took his sex life private, getting along with toys and DVDs. Cheaper and safer.

  Fred went through a metal detector like at an airport, then finished the check-in routine at the desk, where a guard counted his money, stamped his wrist, looked closely at the pass and his ID, and confiscated the bag, saying, "Nothing from outside comes inside, nothing inside goes out."

  Inmate visiting was in a big boxy room with picnic tables, walls punctuated by vending machines behind heavy yellow stripes on the floor. Prisoners weren't allowed to handle money, he remembered. He sat, twisted sideways on the assigned bench, since his seat faced the back wall and he wanted to watch Angel come out. A guard unlocked a door and brought out a group of women, but none of them could be Angel, so he calmed down and waited.

  About fifteen minutes later, another group came out and he spotted her. She looked like her picture-a little shorter, maybe. She was dressed like a nurse, scrubs the same color as the tired green buildings, some painfully white new running shoes. He stood and watched as she approached. Angel didn't wait, just said, "Aloha, FRED!" threw her hands around his neck and kissed his cheek hard, saying in his ear, "Sorry I can't give you a lei." He didn't hesitate and kissed her on the mouth, carried away to another place, blissed out, breathless and trembling and ready to keep right on going where it led, and to hell with everyone else.

  Angel pulled back, whispering, "Guards don't like you to overdo it, even if I do. No matter how much we want to, we can't hug or kiss again until you leave." She looked up, beaming into his face. "Well, what did you bring me?"

  "Uh-well, I tried to bring something but they, I mean the guards, wouldn't let-" He gestured back the way he'd come.

  "I know that. Just a little joke. We have to sit across from each other. It's okay to hold hands on top of the table."

  They sat playing together with their hands; she smiled at him and he smiled back, but from time to time her eyes flicked to the side as someone came or went. Not paranoid, but vigilant.

  Fred thought it made her seem vulnerable, a good person stuck in a bad place. Finally he managed, "I knew you'd be just as beautiful and sexy as your picture."

  "Thank you-sure don't feel like it in these clothes."

  "Don't worry. I can get past your clothes."

  "I wish you could."

  He tried to picture her naked. He could tell she had a good body. Not perfect, nobody was perf
ect-but she was so pretty, even better than he'd hoped.

  The room had filled with visitors, the majority women with kids. Mothers, sisters, friends? Their own kids or the inmates'? Almost all of them looked poor. So what if the atmosphere wasn't romantic? This was a little bit of paradise with only two people in it. And the most intoxicating thing was that he could tell from everything Angel said and did that she felt exactly the same way. He couldn't get enough of that way she looked at him, like he was a big fat birthday present.

  He wanted to talk and said the first thing that came to mind. "Why don't they let you bring in chewing gum?"

  "I dunno. So you can't use it to stick things together and make a weapon?"

  "Amazing what people will think up, huh."

  She smiled indulgently. "What the fuck else they got to do with their time, squeezy bear?"

  Fred didn't want to talk yet about her cleaning up her mouth, so he asked if she wanted anything from the vending machines. "I don't want to ask for a Slim Jim. You might think I was ba-a-a-a-d," she said, tucking a bit of hair behind her ear. "Maybe some beef jerky. Surprise me."

  He stepped over the yellow line and bought the jerky, which came in a cellophane sleeve and looked about five-totwenty-five years past its pull date, and some peanut M&Ms. He wasn't hungry himself, so he got a cup of sour-smelling machine coffee and a bottle of water.

  Fred returned and tossed her the jerky lightly.

  She pointed at his other hand. "What else you got there, squeezy bear?"

  "Squeezy bear, huh? I kind of like that name."

  "I thought you might. That's how I always think about you, just a big of huggy squeezy bear."

  "I won't deny it. I don t need any other name for you, though, cause Angel fits just right. I got this for you too." As he held up the bag of chocolate candies, he couldn t help grinning.

  "Ooh, I'll take dessert first!"

  "Okay, but I get to feed 'em to you."

  "Uh-uh. We can't touch."

  "See, we won't be," he said like a spy setting up a meeting. "I'll give 'em to you one by one. I'll hold this side of the candy and you get the other side with your teeth."

  "Can't-a guard can terminate the visit for that kind of shit, and they do."

  He sighed. "Another rule. Okay." So much for the fantasy of watching her lick chocolate off his fingers.

  She ripped the bag open, tilted it to get a mouthful of candy, and wolfed it. Then she started on the jerky, chewing more thoughtfully, still glancing around. She looked like a sweet little puppy learning to guard her dish.

  He tried to ignore the helpless gesturing of the people around them, their crying diluted by quiet attempts to laugh, sing sweetly, or pray with confidence. Everyone tried desperately to have a private visit in an exposed public place. One table over, an inmate asked, "Don't you think I know what's going on?" The visitor said, "You don't know what it's like," and muttered about how hard he had it. When she whispered into his ear, he shot up out of his seat and said, not quite shouting, "You too, bitch!" He raised a hand swiftly, but it was to signal a guard.

  The whole room went silent, waiting, all the guards intent as one of them took the inmate away and another led the guy out. A few seconds later came several tentative whispers, shifting on benches, footsteps, the clinking of coins in machines.

  Fred looked across at Angel, softened inside when he saw how relieved she was, and swore he could hear his happily beating heart. Love lifted him to a different plane from other people.

  She smiled and said, "All it takes is one asshole to stop everyone's visit, but not this time."

  They chatted about Fred's job and his house and his plans to buy a new car, when a crackling loudspeaker announced that Inmate Visiting had filled to capacity and that the firstin, first-out policy would apply. Several pass numbers were called, none of them Fred's, and the guard broadcast, "Say goodbye to your inmate."

  Angel looked stricken.

  "Hey, it's okay," Fred said. "I don't have to go right now, do I? I was at least ten people from the front."

  "Not that-I wanted to tell you some good news. My counselor gave me a release date-"

  "When?"

  "June 1. Time off and early release to relieve overcrowding."

  "Great! You're saying-"

  "I'll be free. I go live my life again, report to my parole officer, and don't reoffend." Angel rolled her eyes. "As if I would."

  Fred stroked the palm of her hand. "Look, I've been wanting to ask how you got to be here ..."

  She answered in a whisper, leaning in. "Sure. I got nothing to hide. These two so-called friends-" she spat the word "-asked me to drive 'em someplace. Then they tell me to wait in this strip mall and they go in a jewelry store? So I wait, but then a few minutes later I hear like a lot of sirens, and I'm freaking, I'm panicked, I start the car and go."

  "You poor kid. And the cops?"

  "Busted'em. These guys, Mitch and Dan, tried to say I left them there on purpose and even that I set up the whole job. I didn't do anything, but you know the way things work. . ." She paused to wave at the surroundings. "I had to take a plea and testify against them. At least they're going to be down for a long time, and I only have two more weeks. Can't wait!"

  "Angel, honey," he said with concern. "Can you wait? Do you think you can handle it until you get out?"

  She laughed. "After a year and a half, I can do two weeks standing on my head."

  He squeezed her hand. "What then? Do you have family-"

  "My folks don't want me, squeezy bear. They pretty much disowned me. My brother Gordie would help if he could, but they've already got a full house. Anyway, don't worry about my problems. I'll be fine. At least I'll be free."

  That called for a definitive move. Fred sprinted to the edge of what could be a cliff and jumped off, saying, "You can stay with me, Angel. We can be together."

  He heard the loudspeaker again-his pass number with some others, then, "Say goodbye to your inmate."

  "I'll come back next weekend and-"

  "No, don't. Another rule, you know. We can go over all the details the next time we talk. Oh, I can't stand to let you go!" She stood up, popped the last of the beef jerky into her mouth, and then, laughing, spit it back into the wrapper it came in. "I know that's gross, honey, but there's just no damned way you can chew it but slow. Now come over here and say goodbye."

  It was a great kiss, even if it tasted bad.

  On the day of her release, Angel didn't want Fred to pick her up and said she'd stay with her brother Gordie Bacon's family until the weekend, and then she'd move over to Fred's for a while, if that was okay with him. Sure, he said.

  On Saturday morning, Gordie backed a small rental van into the driveway with the "few things" Angel mentioned. He jumped out of the driver's seat and opened the back. As Fred went outside, he looked at Gordie. Buff, but not too. Outdoor tan. The kind of guy who always looked like he needed a shave, which some women unaccountably found attractive.

  They shook, Fred saying, "Hey, good to meet you, man. Give you a hand?"

  "No need, but I tell you what. Angel's dying to show you her new hair," he warned, gesturing with his head.

  Fred trotted around to the passenger side, and out stepped the new Angel, with jet-black, straight, chin-length hair and a black-and-brown checked sundress. She flew straight into his arms. "Squeezy bear, I sure hope you like-"

  "There's nothing about you I don't like," he murmured into her new hair, which smelled like flowers, and confidently began their long and satisfying first real kiss. He heard the front screen door slam behind her brother. Fred, who had managed to lose another 2.7 pounds, was feeling pretty wonderful with Angel right there in his arms. He wasn't really into making out in public, but when he heard a mower switched off, by instinct he opened one eye, amused to see his cop pal Manny had stopped cutting his lawn across the street to openly gawk, grin, and give him a thumbs-up, which Fred stealthily returned behind Angel's back. One arm around her shoulde
rs, he steered her into her new home.

  Gordie had helped himself to a beer-at 9 a.m. He had one of the ESPN channels on. He could have asked or apologized, but instead said, "Either of you want one?" like he was the host and they were the strangers.

  When the beer ran out hours later, Fred did end up helping with the few boxes, which Angel said to leave in the garage because she couldn't deal with them yet. One was light like clothes, another dinky like dishes. There was also a rusty stationary bike and a hibachi with cobwebs on the grill. She'd brought a traveling bag with her for the first few days, she said.

  Gordie, with an exaggerated leer, wished the lovebirds goodnight.

  That night, Fred offered Angel the guest bedroom, not wanting to push too hard, but she let out a musical giggle and started to undress him. They made love, and it was amazing how she enjoyed it and came so much and had so many ways to keep him going. The next morning she insisted on preparing scrambled eggs and toast for him. She was bright and perky, but he was pleasantly spent, wanting to go back to bed, rest up, and start again. He knew she wanted that too.

  Over breakfast, he swallowed a big bite of eggs, wiped his mouth with the paper towel she'd put by his plate, and said, "Mind if I ask you a personal question?"

  "Oh, baby, I don't have any secrets from you. I'm fallin' in love with you. That's my secret, and now you know."

  Fred forgot what he'd meant to ask and sat frozen, amazed, the paper towel hanging from his hand.

  Fred took ten days off that first month, and nobody at work bothered him with calls or e-mail. He'd never felt better.

  Things were still good with Angel, even if it was tough sometimes to train her where to put things away, do cleaning in the correct order, or understand that energy-conscious people turned out lights when they left rooms and set their thermostats at seventy-eight degrees. Though the summer sun beat down and the nights were warm, Angel didn't like going outside, day or night. Backyard barbecue was fine, but no walks or errands. At first he thought great sex had turned her into a homebody, but one evening when they were watching TV, a car backed into the driveway to turn around, and instantly she was very still, like she'd been on Mother's Day. A morning or two later, she'd gone into the bedroom when the UPS guy came.