by Lee Goldberg
"How are you doing, kiddo?" Macklin whispered to Corinne, his eight-year-old daughter. Her blond hair was cut in what her classmates called "Olivia Newton-John style," and she wore a white sweater over her black dress. Her eyes were red, her puffy cheeks tear stained.
"Okay, I guess," she whispered, blinking back tears.
Macklin looked past Corinne to Brooke, his ex-wife. She caught his glance and smiled thinly. Stocker's an asshole, their eyes agreed. It was one of the few things they had agreed on for some time.
For a moment, it was easy for Macklin to see in Brooke the woman he had married. She still had the youthful face, the dark skin, and the slim, athletic body that had caught his attention a decade ago when they were in college. That wasn't it now, though. It was a sparkle, an almost guilty flash of sly cleverness and childish mischief, that flickered in her eyes for just a second.
In that instant, he felt his need for her again, the desperate ache in his chest. Then it passed, and the years and the barrier between Brooke and Brett fell between them like a shroud.
It was a different Brooke who had said "I do"—not the Brooke he had loved.
The magic was gone. The air between them never seemed to be clear of the debris from some argument or other. The fact that they stayed together for three years was a testament to their love for Corinne.
Macklin tightened his grip on Corinne's tiny shoulder. She leaned against him and sniffed. He scanned the faces in the crowd, ignoring Stocker's litany. There were several cops. Among them was Shaw, who stood solemnly with his live-in lover, Sunshine, her white gauze dress standing out like a flashing neon sign amongst all the black-clothed mourners.
Sunshine played nervously with her long hair or fingered the tassels at her neck, casting speculative glances at her sheepdog, Guess, who was panting happily inside their orange Volkswagen Bug parked fifty yards away. She always felt uncomfortable away from Guess.
Sunshine tried, as least superficially, to embody the flower children of Berkeley, circa 1967 (she bought Bob Dylan's last album out of respect and then broke it into pieces in a teary tirade when she discovered he'd "sold out to Jesus, goddamn it"). She seemed quite happy in this self-made time warp but managed to irritate the hell out of Macklin, who often wondered if she slept with Shaw just to be sixties hip.
Shaw, for his part, grudgingly put up with it out of love, loneliness, and a casual ambivalence. He even put up with his mother's frequent tirades about him "living in sin—with a white woman, no less!" She prayed he'd someday "stop playing cops 'n' robbers and sleeping with crazy white women" and help run his parents' fish market. After growing up around fish all his life, just thinking about the smell made him nauseous. When Shaw heard in junior high from Petey McGrew that pussy tasted like anchovy pizzas, he groaned, "Just my damn luck . . ."
Shaw met Macklin's gaze and smiled awkwardly, trying to be reassuring.
Macklin didn't seem to see him, his eyes searching the faces in the crowd.
The look in Macklin's eyes disturbed Shaw. It was as if Macklin was a cobra waiting to strike.
Macklin was seeking those faces he didn't recognize, those faces from the neighborhood his father had protected for so long. He looked at the short man with the basset-hound face, his yarmulke-capped head hung low. He looked at the fragile Mexican woman with the deep-set brown eyes and rock-hard face. He looked at the man shifting his weight, his hands plunged into the pockets of his wrinkled slacks. Macklin looked at each face, one by one. Behind one of those faces Macklin believed was the trail to his father's killer.
Stocker finished his remarks and glanced at Macklin with a sympathetic expression he'd picked up from Chad Everett in Medical Center.
Macklin didn't even notice.
Stocker stepped back among the mourners, sliding past a big bear of a man whose appearance caused a rustle in the press corps huddled a few yards away on the access road.
Lucas Breen was unmistakable. There wasn't a face anywhere like his.
His thick, blond eyebrows, sideburns, mustache, and beard were one, nearly hiding his bright, beady eyes and full-lipped mouth. At times, under a certain light, all you could see of his face was this mass of hair with a long, narrow piece of flesh sticking out of the middle. It was no wonder every reporter and underpaid city worker in town called him Prickface.
Breen had stepped out of his lair to pay his respects to a slain officer of the law. It was an expression of his deepest feelings, feelings he shared with his gubernatorial campaign manager, who figured a graveside appearance and some sympathetic words to the barbecued cop's family were good for a few headlines in the Los Angeles Times. If Breen brought along his starlet squeeze, the one whose acting abilities rested in her 38D cups, maybe a second or two on Entertainment Tonight.
California's regional golden bear flashed his famous smile, though a bit restrained under the circumstances, to the mourners and the Nikons. "The cruelty of the human soul knows no bounds." Breen's voice had a natural echo, rising deep out of a neck seemingly carved out of granite. "Sometimes it makes one wonder whether there is any goodness left . . ."
Macklin tightened up, unknowingly squeezing his daughter's shoulder until her aggravated squirming snapped him out of it.
". . . JD Macklin was a good man, an honest man, a man devoted to the happiness and well-being of his fellow man. JD Macklin made you believe in the power of goodwill and neighborly respect. The insidious disease which claimed his life . . ."
Insidious disease? Shaw groaned. He stole a glance at Macklin, the pilot's face an expressionless mask to everyone but the black detective, who knew Macklin well enough to see the anger struggling to break free.
Shaw wouldn't have been surprised if a hairline crack split the side of Macklin's head and a fanged, bloody dragon clawed its way out.
". . . can still be beaten. We need more men like JD, men with foresight and courage, men with a heart and vision. We need them on the streets and in the highest positions in the land. It's a battle JD Macklin fought every day, a battle that he dedicated his life to. If JD Macklin's death is to mean anything, we must carry on. We must win!"
Breen stared at the flag-draped coffin and then cast his face to the sky. "JD, we'll fight. And like you, we'll fight with everything we've got." Macklin saw tears stream down many of the faces he didn't recognize. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was vomit. Breen ambled aside for the reverend, who said a few words while two officers folded up the flag into a neat triangle and handed it to Corinne, who took the flag uncertainly, as if it held her grandfather's spirit.
Brooke stroked Corinne's hair and glanced at Macklin. He smiled reassuringly as the gunshot salute rang out behind them. The coffin slowly descended into the ground.
The mourners stood awkwardly around the grave, the echoes from the gunshots slowly fading. Then, in groups of two and three, the mourners began to dribble away towards the access road, where the press waited, hungry for quotes.
Stocker approached Macklin, reaching for his hand, "Your father was a damn good officer, Brett. We're going to feel the loss."
Macklin wanted to wrap his hands around Stocker's neck and squeeze it until the chief's eyes popped out. The funeral was a show and Macklin was being forced to play along, an unwilling actor in a mediocre melodrama staged to boost Stocker's image and Breen's gubernatorial chances. Stocker missed Brett's father like he missed contracting AIDS.
"Thanks," Macklin said, shaking Stocker's hand. Their eyes met, just long enough to establish contact and short enough to avoid acknowledging their insincerity.
Stocker shuffled away and Breen stomped up to Macklin. All the Nikons in the area were trained on him.
"You should be proud of your father, Mr. Macklin. He was a credit to the badge." Breen wrapped his paw around Macklin's hand. "If I can be of any help, just let me know."
He clapped Macklin on the shoulder and made a beeline for the press.
Macklin watched him, saw Breen feign avoidance, and then plunge right
in.
Brooke stepped up behind Macklin and slid her arm around his waist. It felt warm. "Are you coming home with us?"
Macklin spotted Shaw and Sunshine striding towards their Bug. "No, I don't think so. I've had enough of this for one day."
"Will we see you tonight, Dad?" Corinne asked, bravely fighting back the tears she'd felt all afternoon.
"Sure." He bent down and kissed the top of Corinne's head. Brooke looked at him, and meeting her gaze, he kissed her cheek. "I'll see you later, about eight."
Macklin lingered for a moment, smiled, and then headed toward the orange Bug.
Guess was running excitedly around the car, his big tongue lolling out as he bounded. For the first time all day, Sunshine didn't look fatally anemic.
"Ronny, could I talk to you a sec?" Macklin asked.
Sunshine came over to Macklin and touched his arm tenderly. "How are you feeling, Mac?"
Guess leaped up on Macklin, puffing and drooling all over his suit. "I'm doing fine, thanks." Macklin tried to push Guess away, looking to Shaw for help.
"C'mere, Guess, give Mac a break." Shaw pulled Guess away and followed Macklin down the access road away from everyone.
"Okay, Ronny, just how close are you to nailing the bastards who killed Dad?"
"We've got some leads and I've—"
"Oh, stop giving me this shit, Ronny. Just who the hell do you think you're talking to? C'mon, spare me the bullshit and give me the bottom line."
Shaw stopped and faced Macklin. "It's probably the Bounty Hunters. They were in the area that night and JD had some run-ins with them before."
"So what's stopping you? Why aren't these guys in cages?"
"No one will talk, Mac."
"Run that by me again."
Shaw signed. "No one will talk. Everyone on the street has suddenly developed laryngitis."
Macklin stared past Shaw to row after row of tombstones. "Well, Ronny, you'd better make them talk."
Shaw didn't like the sound of Macklin's voice. It was cold and distant, not the Brett Macklin he had grown up with.
"We're doing our best. "
"Just make them talk," barked Macklin, turning and walking away.
"Tell me, Mac, should I use a rubber hose or shove bamboo shoots under their fingernails?" Shaw yelled. Macklin kept walking. Guess bounded toward him but was stopped cold by Macklin's face, a gaze that even Guess knew meant "get near me and I'll rip your tongue out and strangle you with it."
Jacob Zimmer of the Herald Examiner wasn't as smart as Guess. A self-proclaimed asshole's asshole, he prided himself on his ability to out-son-of-a-bitch anybody with a press pass and a reporter's notebook. He wore his customary blue corduroy ensemble, his dirty canvas tennis shoes, and his have-I-got-a-Chevy-for-you smile.
Zimmer grabbed Macklin's forearm. "Can I have a word with you, Mr. Macklin?"
Macklin yanked his arm away without breaking his stride. "No."
"How do you feel about your father's death?" Zimmer chewed on his Wrigley's spearmint. He bought the stuff by the case.
Macklin turned. "Disappear, buddy. " He walked toward his black '59 Caddy.
"Has this shaken your faith in the law? In society? In your fellow man?"
Zimmer skirted around and headed off Macklin. "How is your daughter dealing with the killing?"
Macklin grabbed Zimmer by the neck and slammed him against the Caddy's dorsal fin.
"If you don't shut up and get out of my way, you're going to get an exclusive interview with my father." Zimmer gurgled on his gum wad. "End quote, got it?"
He pushed Zimmer away and left him gagging on the sidewalk. Macklin walked around the Batmobile, unlocked the door, and got in.
Zimmer pulled himself off the ground and pressed his face against the passenger window. "You'd feel a whole lot better if you talked with me, Macklin."
The car roared to life. Macklin shifted into drive, pressed the pedal to the floor, and left Zimmer to interview exhaust fumes.
CHAPTER THREE
The TV Guide crossword puzzle was only half-finished. It lay there beside JD's recliner, still missing 14 across (David Banner's 5-letter problem), 23 down (Book 'em, __________ ), 51 across (Napoleon Solo's boss), 3 down (Where Batman lived on his day off), and the corker, 27 across (It was Don Rickles last series).
Macklin picked it up and dropped it gently on the chair. The warm, three-room apartment still felt and smelled like his father. The nightly cigar. The leaking, whining, busted old Mr. Coffee. Cold Schlitz. The radio tuned to KNXT News radio. Georgia Montgomery's gourmet frozen dinners, the 11:45 p.m. fart (JD called it "The Big Gasser"), his buddy Jimbo and his Marlboros, Mennen antiperspirant.
The pain Macklin felt as he looked around his father's apartment was tangible, a dull, throbbing ache in his stomach and sickly, foul taste in his mouth.
Dad is dead.
Pictures of Macklin, his mother, Corinne, and JD crowded the dusty TV top. Macklin fingered them. There was the twelve-year-old picture of Macklin in his graduation attire, one of those self-assured jock smiles on his tan face. There was Corinne, sitting in JD's lap with a big grin on her face, wearing his LAPD hat and nearly disappearing inside of it. There was an old black-and-white shot of his mother, slender, pale, bright brown eyes flashing. She died slowly of bone cancer between Macklin's fifth and sixth birthdays.
There was a picture of Brett and Shaw in Macklin's shiny new Corvair. It was the summer before Brett headed to UCLA on a track scholarship. Both Shaw and Brett had been tall, gangly, and thin. Awkward and horny and ready to conquer the world.
Macklin remembered the picture well. That night Shaw and his girlfriend, Georgette, who was trying hard to be Diana Ross, and Brett and his girlfriend, Stacy, a dentist's daughter with the world's straightest teeth, went to the drive-in to see a horror double feature.
Shaw and Georgette left to get popcorn at intermission and never came back. Macklin and Stacy left in the middle of the second show. Driving up to Mulholland Drive to fog up the windows. Macklin desperately hoped to celebrate getting his new car by convincing Stacy to let their hands wander below the belt. He kissed her with big expectations.
When Stacy, in the midst of their fervent groping, unzipped his pants without coercion and dropped her head between his legs, Macklin almost fainted with surprise and anxiety. He had never expected her to do that, not in his wildest fantasies. When he opened his eyes afterwards, he expected to see powder burns on Stacy's face, a hole in the Corvair's ceiling, and a contrail in the night sky.
Brett Macklin grinned at the memory. Stacy now weighed 347 pounds and was married to a guy with a chain of Culver City Laundromats. Georgette, last he heard, was a backup singer for Diana Ross. Then suddenly his grin disappeared. His father was dead and all his mind wanted to do was think of almost anything else in the world. It made him feel guilty.
Macklin put the picture down and walked into JD's bedroom. The bed was neatly made, the sheets tucked in tight. Everything was crisp and clean, like a bunk at Camp Pendleton. Brett resisted the urge to toss a quarter on the cover to see how high it would bounce. Macklin never understood his father's compulsion for orderly, clean bedrooms and his tolerance of casually sloppy kitchens and living rooms. It was strange. But then, so was being a cop, so was being JD Macklin.
There were two pictures on the nightstand beside JD's bed. One was a picture of JD and his wife with their newborn son. JD was a big man even then, but his physical threat was tempered by a gentle, childlike face that the years would turn hard, lined, and rough. His mother had a fragility and innocence that was unabashedly sensual and eyes that said she knew more than she was telling.
Macklin never remembered his mother the way she became when the cancer began gnawing on her bones, only the way she was then, in that picture, before he ever really knew her.
The other picture was taken on Brett Macklin's wedding day. He stood beside Brooke, both of them smiling the happy, naive smiles of two people who see nothin
g but love songs, dances, sunshine, and sweet candy in their future. Two people who are looking at life as one long honeymoon in the same neighborhood with the Cleavers and the Nelsons.
Shit, he wished it could have been that way.
He sighed, touched the picture frame gently, and then knelt beside his father's bed, reaching under the mattress until his cheek pressed against the bedspread. His hand found what it was seeking and pulled it out.
His father's insurance: a short-barrel, Colt Python .357 Magnum. It was cold and heavy in Macklin's hand. Black and mean, it was the Cadillac of handguns.
Macklin shoved the gun under his waistband, pulled his jacket over it, and walked out.
# # # # # #
It was dark by the time Brett Macklin pulled up outside Brooke's apartment building, a new three-story brick structure designed to look like a colonial townhouse and located just two blocks south of the posh, multimillion-dollar condominiums that made up the Wilshire corridor.
Macklin sat in the car for a moment, letting the engine hum, and glanced up at Brooke's window with mixed emotions. As much as he wanted to see Corinne, he hated having to face Brooke to do it. He always left the apartment feeling empty, mentally torturing himself with dreams of what might have been and could never be, the family life he craved but didn't have.
However, his need to be with people right now, to avoid the loneliness that would only stoke his grief, outweighed his trepidation. He switched off the ignition and stepped out, walking around the car and across the street with long, easy strides. Macklin's brisk stride was a source of irritation to his friends, most of whom found it hard to keep up and assumed the former track star was running some personal marathon.
Macklin quickly picked up the door key and let himself in, crossing the small, mailbox-lined lobby to the elevator in two steps. He slapped the button, surprising himself with the loud smack his hand made against the steel.
