by John Ridley
"Who?"
Tashjian's head lolled."How old are you?"
"Twenty-seven. Just turned."
"And you don't know… You're serious." Tashjian's hands came out of his pocket, rubbed his forehead.
Soledad thought she was giving him a headache. Soledad smiled.
Tashjian: "Warhol was an artist. Painted soup cans."
Soledad went back to giving blank face.
"Trust me, he was big. Big for an artist anyway. So Solanas shoots him, trying to carve out her own little piece of history."
"She should've shot somebody more famous."
"Fifteen minutes."
"What's that?"
"In the future everyone will be famous, but for only fifteen minutes."
"I believe that."
"Warhol said it."
Soledad thought for a moment, considered, then quite plainly: "Looks like he was right."
Tashjian cut loose with a broad and appreciative grin."I like you, O'Roark."
"Like a snake likes a mouse."
"Like a mongoose likes a snake." He fed himself a stick of Big Red. Even over the stink of sweat, Soledad could catch the scent of its spice."Maybe you've got to go down, but you don't go down easy."
"Or maybe I won't go down at all."
"Nope. Not one bit easy." Tashjian flicked the heavy bag, not hard, but he made it move. Very little, but it did move."And I like that."
"By the way," Tashjian said as he walked toward the gym door,"I've met your lawyer, that Senna woman. Tough gal. And I mean that as a compliment."
"Sure you do."
On his way out: "Good luck to you, O'Roark. I'd miss you if you weren't around."
In the time he'd been her SLO, little as it was, Soledad had learned almost nothing about Bo, his civilian life. Cops tended to be private people. MTacs the most so. All Soledad'd learned about Bo came from watching the guy. Everybody knew to keep an eye on him because when you first hit the academy and people find out you wanted to put in for MTac, they'd tell you things. Things besides you're crazy and you'd better have good insurance. They'd tell you about certain BAMFs: cops you want to keep an eye on, learn from if you've got any desire to live past thirty. Bo had made it that far plus ten.
So Soledad looked for Bo, found him, watched him and got schooled.
She saw Bo on a target range, always sporting a Colt. 45. Always deadly accurate with it even at distances some would be off target with a scoped rifle. She learned: Take your time, don't rush a shot just to take a shot. Make every squeeze of the trigger count because with freaks, usually, one shot is all you get.
If.
She saw Bo with other officers: always cool, always in control. He projected authority. Easy to do when people looked up to you anyway; when the rest of the cops on the force think you're just shy of being a legend. But you don't get that kind of status for nothing. You buy it by putting down a total of twenty-three freaks. Putting them down and living to brag about it.
Except Bo didn't brag. He didn't much talk about the things he'd done. He was the polar opposite of Yarborough. Where Yar had a tale to tell about every call he'd ever been on, all Bo ever had to say in confirmation of any of his exploits was: "Well, now, I guess so."
And Soledad had seen Bo in action and under fire. Just once. Once was enough to confirm everything else she'd seen, heard about the man was real and true. He was strong and tough and confident. Just about impossible to kill. And he was there for Soledad when Soledad needed him the most. Life in the balance, she'd looked up and seen him standing with a smoking gun in his hand. A dead freak by her side.
She'd seen all that, but what she had not seen, what she never thought she would see-… when she followed a little sound—an odd, rapid, quivering breathing—to a corner by a towel Dumpster in the locker room, what she saw was Bo crying.
Bo looked up at Soledad. Three words he managed.
"Reese," Bo said,"is dead."
Just about the last person Ian expected to see when he opened his door—other than Elvis or Hitler—was Soledad. Since their antidate date they'd gone out a couple more times. Similar circumstances. Places where they could be together but not intimate. They'd talked on the phone. Infrequently. And rarely about anything specific to either of them. Only being very generous about things could they claim their relationship was moving—crawling— in a direction which could be considered forward.
Now here she was, just… showing up.
Not knowing what else to say, Ian said: "Hey."
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah. Come in."
Soledad did, then she and Ian stood around just inside the door of his apartment. Ian didn't press Soledad, he just let her stand there. Would've let her stand there until natural causes ended her life, if that's what she wanted. For Soledad, from Ian, anything.
When she was ready to talk, Soledad said: "A friend of mine died."
Ian delayed some, then said: "Oh."
Incredulous: "Oh? I tell you someone dies and you say 'Oh'?"
"I haven't seen you in how long? You show up, you tell me someone died. I don't know what this person—"
"She."
"I don't know what she," Ian adjusted,"means to you—"
"Meant. She's dead."
"Soledad!" A quick, exasperated flare, but exasperation would do
Ian no good. Patience. Compassion. As much of it as he could dig up: That's what he needed.
Taking Soledad by the hand, lightly, Ian led her into the living room and sat her down. A black leather couch, a big-screen TV, a coffee table that was used as a place to rest feet and beers. A drafting table where he did his… industrial design, Soledad made herself remember. Not much else. A very" guy" setup, if Soledad had been in a frame of mind to care.
Ian asked her if she wanted something to drink, water or stronger.
She shook her head.
Ian: "I don't know what to say. I know next to nothing about you. I know less about your friend. Why me? Why are you coming to me for…? Why not your friends, your parents?"
"I'm not much closer to my parents than I am to strangers. And… I don't have friends."
"Come on, you don't have—"
"People I know, acquaintances… I don't have friends."
Ian thought about their relationship to that point, about himself and how distant he liked to remain from people. Yeah. Probably Soledad didn't have friends.
"I've spent so much time pushing people off, there's no one left to let in."
"But the woman who died…"
"I looked up to her. I admired her. She saved my life, so I call her a friend."
"And me, I'm just around by default? I get to be your friend because no one else wants the job?"
"Because you'll sit and listen and won't ask questions, and maybe want to know more than I tell you, but won't press me to find out any more than just what I say. You care about me, Ian. You care enough to take what little I give you and leave the rest. I need someone like that in my life."
"What good is any of that for me?"
"You get someone who won't ask questions back. Much as you keep from me, isn't that how you want it?"
Ian felt as if he'd just been walked through a blueprint for disaster."It can't work. We can't make a relationship out of secrets."
"We might as well try. Other than that we're just two people keeping secrets alone."
It was Ian who needed the drink. The kitchen. All the liquor he had was some Jack Daniel's coolers. Two of them. He drank one, drank the other and he felt nothing more than a mild change in climate.
Ian went back to Soledad, sat with her. For a while they shared their special brand of nontalk.
A little way into that Ian said: "I've had a lot… not a lot, but too many friends who've died and most of them have died in not-too-nice ways."
He paused, gave Soledad the opportunity to ask about that; about his friends dying.
She didn't. She just accepted what he'd told her.
<
br /> For Ian, how their relationship of don't ask/don't tell might work came into focus a little.
Continuing: "The last time it happened I had to… I went to a psychologist. I thought I needed some help."
"What'd he tell you?"
"Basically I had to get over it. I had to forget. You dwell on the loss, and you can never put it behind you. The best thing to do is just put it all out of your mind."
Soledad didn't even take time to consider the advice."Sounds like bullshit."
Ian laughed a little."Yeah. That's what I thought. One visit to the guy: That's all I bothered with."
"My dad never thought much of therapy. I'm from Wisconsin, you know."
"No. I didn't."
"I am. My dad said therapy was for screwed-up city people. And white people. Black people weren't allowed to whine. And in Wisconsin you got a problem, you go out, you do yard work, you come back in and you're too tired to have problems anymore."
Ian laughed again and Soledad laughed too. Weakly and mostly to keep from crying. She lifted a hand to rub a tear from where it was starting to run down her face. When she lowered her hand, it came to rest close to Ian's, touching it just barely.
Ian didn't try to move his hand, to hold Soledad's. He just let it lie there next to hers. Touching it just barely.
"So what'd you do?" Soledad asked."How'd you get over it; your friends dying?"
"I didn't in a way. In a way I didn't want to. Someone's dead you don't just forget about them like they never existed.
"I had this one friend… Did I tell you about the time… She loved Mexican food, and it was about two in the morn— No. Of course I didn't tell you. Anyway, when she died… she had this cut of 'Tiny Dancer. ' Elton John, you know?"
Soledad shrugged."Peter Frampton's about as far as I ever went in that direction, but I know the song."
"Yeah, so, she had a single. A forty-five, not a CD, and it had this little scratch at the intro over the piano part. But it made the record sound like no other version of the song. Sometimes, when we were both feeling mellow, we'd smoke a little, she'd play the single and we would sit and talk and…"
"Did you love her?" Soledad asked.
"Of course I did."
"I don't mean 'fellow human being' loved her. Did you love her?"
Ian said nothing. Same as if the question had never been asked, he went on with: "After she died her family let me have the single. Every once in a while I put it on, I hear that little scratch that's not on any other copy of 'Tiny Dancer, ' and I remember. And long as you remember, as long as every now and then you keep someone alive in your heart and in your mind…"
Ian didn't finish the thought. Didn't need to. And for the next seventy-six minutes, except to ask Soledad if she wanted anything to drink yet, to which she replied,"No," Ian said nothing else.
I'll try to explain this best I can, as simply as I can. A wood door, a steel slab, a windowpane: They're all solid objects. They seem solid. But they're really just molecules held together by cohesion. That's like a… think of it like an energy glue. The glue is stronger with steel than, you know, water, but between the molecules is space. Reality is, nothing's really solid. So if you could manipulate your own molecular cohesion, alter the space between your molecules, you could lower your density."
"You could make yourself intangible."
Whitaker nodded. Vin was getting it.
Maybe Whitaker had a way of coming off as Mr. Eager to Please, but by nature he was a guy who knew there was a way to handle every situation. For some MTacs, for most, handling a situation meant figuring which was the biggest, baddest gun to tote after a mutie. For MTacs like Whitaker, knowing your muties was the first order of business.
Whitaker tried to bring Vin around to that way of thinking.
Bo just read the sports section. He'd already learned plenty about freaks, firsthand, from ten-plus years of going against them. From seeing too many good cops like Reese get put down.
Vin asked: "You ever seen one, an intangible?"
"No. Saw some video of cops chasing one in Tampa. Chasing. The thing was walking away from the cops. Nothing they could do to stop it."
"Jesus, Bo. You hear this."
"Yeah. A guy can change his density. You want to explain something, explain why the Dodgers can't take a three-game home stand."
"Know what's scary about intangibles?" Whitaker went on."I've heard, and I don't think anybody's sure, but there's evidence they can manipulate the density of other things same as they can their own."
Vin wasn't sure what Whitaker was getting at.
Whitaker: "Okay, well, to me that counts as a secondary ability."
"Freaks don't have secondary abilities."
"What about that freak Soledad put down? It could do whatever it did with that sinkhole and fly."
"Yeah, but we don't… nobody knows what happened with the sinkhole. Not for sure." Vin, trying to be optimistic about a negative matter."So maybe all it could do was fly."
"If that thing could do what it did and fly," Whitaker went on, objective with the facts,"if intangibles can extend their abilities, could be we're starting to look at the next step in the next wave of freaks."
"Fuuhhhhk."
"Yes. Fuck. Muties that can fly and breathe fire, or triple their size and shoot electricity."
Vin, again: "Fuck."
"If that's what's waiting for us, we're going to look back on these days as the good old days."
Bo acted like he was still just reading the sports section. Really he was hearing every word Whitaker was saying.
Yarborough walked into the ready room.
"Hey, Yar."
"What's goin' on, boys?"
"Whitaker's telling ghost stories."
"I'm just talking about the freak population, telling it like it is."
"Here's how it is: I see a freak…" With his hand and fingers Yarborough made a gun, pulled the trigger."There's your freak population."
Bo took himself from the sports long enough to wonder to Yar: "That a new jacket? It's nice."
"Yeah? Like it?"
"What'd I say? Said it's nice. What is that? It looks like—"
"It's Pleather."
"What?"
"It's a Pleather coat."
Vin was the first to start laughing, but Whitaker, I-want-to-get-along-with-everybody Whitaker, laughed loudest.
"Every time," Yar said with a front of mock indignance, but harboring a little of the real thing,"I buy something you all've gotta make fun of it."
"Well, now, that's because every time you buy something you buy something like, Pleather. What is that, plastic leather?"
"Quality material's what it is."
"Sure." Vin, getting into things."Comes from some of the finest Pleather on the planet. Remind me, Pleather: flora or fauna?"
Yar made a show of carefully taking off his jacket as he swapped his civvies for Nomex."Twice as durable as leather, half the price."
"Half the cost and twice the laughs."
"Yeah, man. Sorry, but Pleather sounds like something that went out of style about the same time as KG and the Sunshine Band." Whitaker had some humor to him when he felt like using it.
"What you all thinks not hardly my concern. Chicks dig Pleather."
Another round of laughing started up.
Vin: "Yar, you don't seem to be aware of the fact that chicks don't dig being called chicks, so how are you going to tell us they dig Pleather?"
"Hey, as a cop who's remained notoriously single through three divisions, I don't think you should be schooling me on what chicks dig."
"Being the married one," Bo weighing in,"I gotta go with Vin on this. Traditional ladies don't really shine to being lumped in with barnyard animals. Cute and yellow and fluffy as they might be."
"That's what I'm saying; I'm not really trying to attract a traditional girl. I like 'em, what's the word? Atypical."
Vin, smiling but shaking his head: "I can't wait to meet th
e girl who turns you out. Man, she is going to drag your ass by your heart."
The girl.
It was really hard for Yar to say if she had been the one or not. She was pretty, plenty pretty, and that was—right, wrong, chauvinistic or not—Yar's first consideration. She was tough too. Not just take-a-punch tough, but take-what-life-gives-you-and-deal-with-it tough. Good with a gun, and that, well, c'mon, that makes any woman sexy. And sometimes Yar would catch her smiling. Smiling for no reason when she thought no one was looking. She was cute when she smiled. It planed her edge. And sometimes she would wink at Yar. Not flirting. Joking. Like: Hey, I'm thinking something, and wouldn't you like to know what I'm thinking? And maybe she was just a woman, and nothing more or less special than that, not nearly all that Yar recalled. But she was also dead, and that made Yar think of Reese and think, maybe, one time, instead of just staring at her smile he should've asked her out for a drink or to a movie. Or short of that, just told her, Reese, you're all right and I'm glad you've got my back. And Yar missed her. Whether he would have ever dated her or not, if it ever would've worked out or not, he missed Reese; missed what she was about, felt guilt for never having taken the thirty seconds out of a day to get to know her a little better. And he wanted to tell Bo and Whitaker and Vin that he missed Reese and that he hurt from missing her and wished he could go back and tell her he loved her, or at least liked her a whole lot. She shouldn't've died wondering if she was loved, or at least well liked.
None of them should.
He wanted to share all that with the guys…
Yarborough wanted to…
But the laughing… they'd just laugh if he said all that.
Wouldn't they?
So Yarborough said, instead, giving the people the Yar they thought they knew so well: "God ain't invented the girl that can own me. When He does, I guess I'll just cross her bridge when I get to it."
Bo was going to make a crack, keep ragging on Yar 'cause Yar was good to rag on and could take a well-thrown joke. Before he got a chance Tac-1 crackled with a call out from Command to Fifth and Flower. A patrol reporting a metanormal.
The radio hadn't even gone quiet and all four MTacs, weapons in hand, were moving from the ready room for the APC.
When D Platoon, LAPD's SWAT unit, rolled on a call, they hit the scene in modified GMC Suburbans. Doesn't sound real menacing, traveling same as your average soccer mom. But you see a couple of the vehicles—armor-plated, dark black or deep blue—you see guys sporting MP5s or CAR-15s piling out of them, that'll get your menace up. Unless you're a metanormal. You're a metanormal, maybe all you'll do is use your telekinetic abilities to send the Suburban flipping into the side of a building from a block away.
