She was doing what needed to be done.
She was awake early, her mind filled with Abe Glitsky. She had wanted – needed – to call him before he went in to work. Then she was on one of her phones to her Washington office. On the private line the other calls had been steadily coming in: Donald from the mayor's office had called. The wire services. Alan Reston and Philip Mohandas. The whole world wanted her. Well, it would have to wait. She in turn waited until she thought Elaine would be downtown, then called her.
Her poor daughter was suffering badly, but that would pass. Suffering passed – she knew that from her own experience. She wanted to tell her – though of course never could – that she was much better off, that Chris Locke never intended to leave his wife and children, ever – not for Elaine, not for anybody. Loretta made it her business to know things, and this she knew with a certainty.
And then Elaine – the only truly precious thing in Loretta's world – her beautiful and sensitive daughter Elaine would find her spirit broken. She'd become what her mother was.
God knew, Loretta had made enough compromises in her life, but the one constant had always been preserving Elaine's – what was the word? – innocence? Idealism?
Loretta had lost hers long ago, maybe even before her four days in the Colombian jungle, thinking she was going to spend eternity there, clutching a suitcase full of the dollars that the Colombian businessman on the plane had carried aboard as hand baggage, contemplating the money's uselessness to her, living day and night with the lizards and bugs and decomposing bodies of five dead men. Now she was a pragmatist, what counted was what worked. She was a woman of stature and accomplishment, but the idealist she had once been – back, say, when she had been with Abe Glitsky in college – that person was gone forever. And God, how she missed her! How she wished she could return! But, of course, that was life, wasn't it? The taking of one road that foreclosed the possibility of taking any of the others ...
Well, now that part of it might not happen to Elaine. At least not because of Christopher Locke. It was a shame that it had to happen, but it wasn't the end of the world – her daughter would get over it.
She wished she felt worse about Locke, a powerful black leader cut down in his prime. But on the other hand, he had lived his allotted time and his death was going to save her daughter from a terrible trauma, whether she realized it now or not.
At first she thought Mohandas was expending useless energy on the Jerohm Reese matter, but on reflection realized that her daughter had unknowingly delivered a trump to their hands, and Mohandas was holding it. The problem was that Loretta wasn't sure Mohandas knew how to play it for the best effect. So she was going to do it for him and then tell him what she had done. And in exchange for...
Well, there was always that – Philip would have to be made to see that he'd have to deliver, too. Nothing was for free.
The passage of the increased reward on Shea was a sign that things were going her way. Once the river of appeasement started flowing, it tended to take on a life of its own. Even better was the fact that the mayor had come to focus on Philip Mohandas as the symbol of the outraged black community. It was a reaction she had helped engineer; she was playing Philip in her own game of chess.
But she had to remind herself not to underestimate the man – he was no mere pawn. In calmer times she knew that Mohandas managed to retain only a small following in the voting community. But when flare-ups occurred, when the general perception got to be that the essence of American black life itself was under threat from the white majority, even moderate blacks – her constituents – flocked to him in large numbers, significant numbers.
The blinds were drawn throughout the house. Dressed in a black woolen outfit suitable for mourning, Loretta sat at a cherry secretary in her small office at the back, looking out and down to the Presidio, the decommissioned army base that had recently been converted to a national park.
The last place of decommissioned and deserted prime real estate in San Francisco was the Hunter's Point Naval Reservation, and, waiting for Abe Glitsky's arrival, Loretta was putting in more phone time to Washington. Her idea had been percolating for months, and she had been patiently waiting for the time to set it in motion. And now that time had come. Whatever the outcome of this crisis, she was confident that her plan would deliver her nearly every African-American vote in the Bay Area.
He arrived in another unmarked Plymouth, parking in the circular driveway by the front door. Nervous, he had called fifteen minutes before from downtown, and she had been waiting for him, watching his car pull up, then the man himself get out, stretch his back, catch her looking in the window and break a small knowing smile.
'The last thing I want to do is argue with you.'
Somehow, an hour had passed.
Glitsky, dressed again, sat with her at her breakfast nook, drinking a mug of Constant Comment tea with extra lemon. There was an island separating the nook from the kitchen, and, her bare feet swinging slightly, Loretta sat up on it, wearing her dark skirt and blouse.
'Disagreeing isn't arguing.'
'Come visit the Senate sometime. The two are kissin' cousins, sometimes twins.'
'Not now.'
'All right, not now.' She slipped off the island, pulled a chair up next to him. 'But right at this minute I don't even want to disagree, okay?'
She was right there, next to him, and he was surprised that she seemed almost timid, afraid to touch him now that the fires had been banked for a while. To some degree, he found himself relieved about it. He couldn't say why, but a casual touch from her – right at this moment – would have struck him as inappropriate, something she might do with almost anyone to drive home a point. He didn't want her to use that trick. Or any other trick.
But, this close, he had to touch her. He reached a hand out and rested it on her forearm. 'My agenda is different than yours, Loretta, that's all I'm saying. Your job is politics. Mine is homicide. I want to find who killed Arthur Wade.'
She spoke quietly. 'We know who did that, Abe. We've got a picture of it.'
'I'm not denying Kevin Shea—'
"Then you've got to get comfortable with us using him ...'
'But we know for a fact that there were others, we don't know if Shea was the leader of anything, what he was doing there at all.'
'I think it's clear he was doing enough.'
Glitsky was silent.
'Abe, listen. Doesn't this make sense if you think about it? Forget police procedures. You've said my job is politics, and this is political. It's trying to get to some consensus, get people thinking some solution – it almost doesn't matter which one – is going to work. To stop this thing before it destroys the whole city, maybe the country.'
Glitsky swallowed some tea. 'And you honestly think arresting Kevin Shea ...?'
'I think as a symbol, that could end it, yes.'
Glitsky searched her eyes and discovered something he recognized as crucial – at least Loretta believed it.
'So what about Jerohm?'
Loretta sighed. 'That might be a blessing in disguise if we can get the right spin on it.'
Glitsky, a thin humor. 'I don't know from spin.'
'Jerohm appeases the angry whites, Kevin appeases our angry brothers and sisters.'
'Half-brothers and sisters,' Glitsky corrected her, 'if you want to get technical.'
Loretta took that in. 'One drop of blood,' she said.
'What's that?'
'That's the law of our land, Abe. If you've got one drop of black blood, you're black.'
'If you say so ...' But he didn't want to fight, he didn't want to have a discussion. He was moving his hand up and down her arm, and she leaned her head down and kissed it. 'You know,' he said, 'it may be different with the people you deal with, but I don't think about my color all the time, about where we're going as a people ... it's more everybody, the world...'
'Going down the tubes together?'
'Fast enough. And choosi
ng up sides over who we're gonna hate doesn't seem to be making it any better.'
'Why, Abe Glitsky, you're still an idealist, aren't you, in that heart of yours?' He had to laugh ... he considered himself the greatest skeptic he knew. She moved up, closer to him. 'Maybe it'll get better.'
'Does it seem like it's getting better?' he asked.
'On any given day, maybe not. Today, certainly not. But sometimes ... sometimes ... I mean, somebody like me, twenty years ago a black woman was not a U.S. senator. I've got to think that in the long view things have changed for the better. It must mean something.'
'It might mean that people believe you, Loretta. It might be just you, who you are, what you give people.'
This brought her up short. She bit her lip, straightening, then put her arm around Glitsky and held herself against him. 'How did I ever let you go?' she whispered.
He got beeped and found that his father had succeeded in cajoling Rabbi Blume's reluctant witness to the riot – Rachel from one of the former Soviet republics – into talking to him. He wasn't fifteen blocks away, he could be there in ten minutes.
At the door he told Loretta that he wasn't going to get in her way over Kevin Shea. That was her bailiwick. It wasn't his habit, and it wasn't in his job description, to go public with his investigations. Actually he had few if any substantive doubts about Shea's involvement. But he did want to get the whole picture, a verifiable sequence of events so that when the time came any charges brought against Shea would stick.
'And you know,' he said finally, 'you might want to talk to your daughter.'
'What about Elaine?'
'From her perspective what counts is to prove Shea guilty. If we arrest him and she can't prove he did it, she's going to take the fall for it. If I were you, that would be a concern right now. That she gets it right.'
Glitsky was starting to walk to his car but Loretta held his arm. 'Abe?'
He stopped.
'Would you help her, too? Not let her get hurt?'
He nodded. 'I'll try,'he said. 'It's my job.'
39
What Glitsky 's father Nat had not told him was that he had picked up the boys – all three of them – and was taking them first out to Tommy's Joynt for sandwiches and then down the coast, maybe to Monterey, where there weren't any riots, see the Aquarium, do something constructive with their summer.
It was ridiculous to keep them cooped up the house all day every day. What did Abe think he was doing, being a good father?
'I'm trying to protect them, Dad. I don't want them hurt.'
Father and son were in Rabbi Blume's office, the boys visible outside the window shooting some hoops in the synagogue's playground, which was otherwise deserted. Blume and Rachel were waiting in the attached residence, and Abe was not in any hurry to see them until this got settled with his father, who was not exactly breaking down in the face of his son's wrath – 'What's going to hurt them, tell me that?'
'How can you even ask that? You look around lately? You see what's happening?'
Nat Glitsky shrugged. 'I drove downtown to see you. I drove back to Rachel's. We walk together here, on the street, from her house. Nobody bothers us. Nobody's out.'
'You might want to ask yourself why that is.'
'I know why that is, Abraham. Sit down, would you? You're overreacting.'
'I don't want to sit down. I'm not overreacting! These are my children and my responsibility and I'm not exposing them to ... to this. I'm not going to lose any more of my family.'
In spite of saying he didn't want to, Abe sat heavily. Nat hesitated by the rabbi's desk, then walked across the room and pulled up a chair next to his son.
'You can lose them this way, too. Holding on too tight, Abraham.'
'I'm trying to protect them, I'm trying to do what's best.'
Nat nodded. 'Always. I know this. But I called this morning, trying to get you, and Jake answers the phone. I never hear him talk about you like this. .. "Dad's losing it, Pops. He doesn't have a clue." This kind of talk. And from Jacob, who you know worships the ground under you. It worries me.'
'It worries you ...?' Glitsky barked a laugh, cut short.
'I know, I know, it worries you, too. Hey, who doesn't worry a little? And you, since Flo – '
'It's not me.' His voice was sharp. 'It's not my fault this is going on here. And it's not about Flo. It's me and them. Flo's not part of this.'
Nat put a hand on his son's knee. 'Flo is the whole thing, Abraham. Don't be kidding yourself.'
'That's bullshit, Dad.' Then, more strongly. 'That's pure bullshit!' He swatted the hand away, standing, striding across to the window, breathing hard, his face set.
'I think this is the first time you swear at your old man, huh?'
Abe tried to focus on his sons, the game outside. They were doing precision drills, the two older boys taking rebounds and feeding lay-up shots in to Orel. The patter was barely audible, though clearly loose and playful. 'I can't lose any more, Dad. I can't.'
Again, Nat crossed the room to his son. He stood behind Abe, much shorter, seeing the boys outside. 'We cannot hold onto anything, Abraham. It is not in our power and that is God's truth.'
Glitsky turned. 'All right, but what if—?'
Nat cut him off. 'That is what you are thinking and it doesn't mean anything.' Putting a hand on his son's arm, he went on. 'Abraham, think. What if they are locked in at home all day and someone decides to start a fire on your street? This is not in your control, none of this. There is nothing you can do here except second guess yourself to death. Let me take them. We go have some fun, come back when this is over.'
Glitsky's shoulders slumped as he let himself down onto the corner of the desk. 'When's life going to start feeling real again, Dad? I don't know what the hell I'm doing.'
'I know. When Emma ... well, you remember.'
'You never changed.'
A short laugh. 'Abraham, I don't think I ever changed back. What I tried not to do was change how I treated you, how I acted. I kept up the motions, the habits, so how I was feeling wouldn't affect you, that's all. You had lost your mother. That was enough for you to deal with.'
Glitsky motioned outside. 'Like them now. That's the message, right?'
His father nodded. 'There are similarities. So now, you do your job, you keep at it, things get to feel normal in a new way maybe. It never does go back to the way it was. That's over.' He paused. 'And that's the hard part to accept. It isn't going back. So what is it going to be now?'
Glitsky brought a hand to his eyes and rubbed them. He stood again, walked a few steps, looked outside. 'If you go to Monterey, stop by the pier and pick me up some saltwater taffy, would you? I love that stuff.'
40
'You guys again?'
Ridley Banks stood grinning on Peter McKay's stoop. 'You know, Peter, you're hurting my feelings, that kind of talk. This is my partner, Marcel Lanier. Say you're glad to meet him, would you? He's sensitive.'
'Yeah, glad to meet you.'
Banks turned half-around. 'What did I tell you? You ask nice, you get a response. This is the kind of witness we should get to interview every day, makes life sweet. What do you say?'
'What do you guys want this time?'
'We want to talk to you a couple of minutes, discuss your statement of the other day.'
'Who's that, Petey?' A young woman with lank blonde hair appeared behind McKay in the doorway. A worn, flesh-colored tank top barely concealed boyish breasts. Skinny white legs under cut-off jeans, white socks and tennis shoes.
'Oh, excuse us,' Banks said. 'I didn't realize you were entertaining.'
McKay backed up a step. This is my wife, Patsy.'
'Your wife? I didn't know ... how do you do, ma'am? How's the arm, by the way, Pete?'
McKay twisted his wrist, flexed his fingers. He was wearing a flannel shirt with long sleeves. 'Better every day,' he said.
'Bandage off?'
'Not yet. Couple more days.'
'Is Petey in trouble?' Patsy asked. She had a smoker's voice.
She'd moved forward a step into the light – Banks didn't think she looked fifteen. But, he noticed, there was a gold band on her finger.
'No, ma'am, not now. We're just double-checking a few things he said last time he talked to us.'
'Like what?' She got in front of her husband.
Marcel Lanier spoke from behind Banks, over his shoulder. 'Like how he hurt his arm, for example?'
'He cut it on a door,' she said. 'The glass broke.'
'Well, that's what he told us.' Marcel was jockeying for position on the stoop, stepping up now behind Banks. 'But the thing is, we went back – well, actually, my partner Ridley here did – he is kind of thorough, kind of like Colombo, remember him? Always that "uh, just one more thing." Drives us all crazy sometimes but there you go. Anyway, how the arm got cut... You mind if we come in? It is definitely not warm, and you look a little chilly yourself.'
Accompanied as it was by a glance downward, Lanier was being more antagonistic than he sounded – Patsy McKay's nipples were protruding like gumdrops, poking at the thin fabric of the tank top.
'Why don't you go put on a shirt, hon,' McKay said. 'You guys got a warrant or we can talk right here. What about my arm?'
But Patsy didn't leave, so Banks spoke over her. 'About your arm is that your cousin Brandon Mullen said you both cut yours falling through your sliding back door and when I was by here yesterday I happened to notice that the door isn't broken. You get it fixed right up? Got a receipt for the repair?'
But Patsy was shaking her head. "That was at Brandon's, not here.'
Banks half-turned, glanced at Lanier. 'Brandon said clear as a bell that you both came back here to have your own private wake for Mike Mullen. To Petey's, is what he said.'
Glitsky 01 - Certain Justice, A Page 18
