Bleeding Hearts

by Teri White

  Blue wasn’t sure, because he wasn’t really listening. There were grains of salt stuck along her upper lip, and she swiped at them absently with the tip of her tongue. Instead of paying attention to her words, Blue was thinking about how much he’d like to fuck her. He toyed with the idea of just throwing her down on the rug, ripping off the black denim skirt she was wearing, and going at it hot and heavy. Probably, if he were any other man within the ranks of L.A.P.D.’s macho finest, he would have done just that. She might even have liked it.

  But no matter how strong the urge, he just couldn’t picture Detective Second Blue Maguire, with his fancy master’s degree in criminology and his three-hundred dollar shoes, doing something like that. And maybe when all was said and done, or undone, that was the real problem.

  She was still talking, using her lecture room voice. “Maybe we just shouldn’t see one another for a while.”

  “How long a while?” he asked, mostly so that his end of the conversation would be held up.

  “I don’t know. A while. Time enough for both of us to try and understand who we are. What we want out of life. I think that would be a very good idea, don’t you?” Her mouth pursed thoughtfully. “A period of personal evaluation.”

  Blue pushed himself up from the chair and walked around the room for a moment. Then he turned to face her. “Pamela, if you want to split, just say so. Why do you always have to cloak everything in some kind of damned sociological garbage-speak?”

  “I’m sorry you think that’s what I’m doing,” she said stiffly. It was bad manners to dispute the professor.

  “It’s what you always do.”

  “Always is a very loaded word. An angry word. I wish you wouldn’t react this way.”

  “I always react with hostility when I’m in the process of getting dumped. Rejection is a real downer, you know?”

  “Let’s not take off on a self-pity kick. Those kinds of feelings are very counter-productive.”

  “Go to hell,” he muttered, stopping by the vast picture window that filled one entire wall of the room. He had a great view of the city from up here. It sometimes seemed as if all of L.A. belonged to him. No other cop he knew could afford to live this way. No honest cop, anyway.

  Of course, no other cop he knew had a daddy who made a fortune in the early days of computers and was then kind enough to drop dead, leaving only one son and heir.

  Pamela stood. “I think I’ll just get my things and leave. Obviously you’re not prepared to discuss this on any kind of rational level.”

  “Great. Fine. Leave. If I want to be irrational in my own damned house, I will be, thank you.”

  He followed her up the winding staircase to the bedroom and stood watching as she collected the residue of her time in his life. There wasn’t much to collect. A short white nightgown styled like a man’s shirt, a toothbrush, some make-up. A couple of impossibly thick textbooks and the new Cosmopolitan. Pamela was a modern woman who believed in traveling light. She didn’t seem to want much baggage, either real or emotional.

  She wasn’t alone, of course; it seemed as if he kept meeting women who liked to move on sooner than he’d been ready for them to. He probably should have been used to this scene by now.

  Just once he’d like to do the leaving.

  Pamela had all of her things together very quickly, shoving them into a large canvas tote bag from the UCLA bookstore. “We’ll talk,” she said. It wasn’t said with much conviction.

  “Sure.”

  “You sound so bitter.”

  He gave a soft laugh. “No, babe, not bitter. Just sort of resigned.”

  She sighed, hoisted the bag, and started out of the room.

  He let her get past him—she did it carefully, so they didn’t touch—and down the stairs before he spoke again. “Pamela?”

  “What?”

  He went down into the living room. Her hand was on the doorknob. “Does this have anything to do with—” He broke off, then said savagely, “Maybe I’m just not very good in bed. Is that what this is all about?”

  She looked at him for a long moment, then sighed and shook her head. “Oh, Blue. This is about a lot of things. Maybe mostly it’s about the fact that you feel as if you have to ask that question.” She looked as if there might be more to say, but then she only waved and left.

  It was too quiet after she had gone. Blue turned on the television, flipped around the dial a couple of times, and finally settled on the cable news station, just for the background noise it provided.

  Blue wasn’t sure why he felt so bad. Pamela’s walking out didn’t come as any real surprise; he’d known for several days that it was coming. The signs had all been there. He walked over to the window again and leaned against the glass.

  Shit.

  What was it with him and broads? He couldn’t seem to keep one around long enough to get tired of. They all got tired first. Some of them couldn’t seem to handle the fact that he was a cop. The weird hours and broken dates made them crazy. At least, that was the excuse they offered. But maybe it was something else.

  Far below he could see the fast moving, flashing light of a squad car. Something was happening. Whatever it was had to be more interesting than a continued reflection on the sad saga of his love life.

  Blue straightened and crossed the room again. He lowered the volume on the television, leaving the picture flickering, and switched on the police radio, hoping to find out what was coming down.

  After turning off the lamp, he took the pitcher of margaritas and sat cross-legged on the floor. What was needed, he decided, was an attitude change. A shifting of his priorities. Nobody ever said he had to be his father’s son. The old bastard had been an electronics genius who made a bundle. True enough. He’d also had a cock that was famous in most of the civilized world. Horny Hank Maguire, the gossip columnists used to call him.

  Fine and good. When he died, there were a lot of unhappy women in the world. But that was Hank. Did that mean that Blue had to keep trying for stud of the year honors?

  No, damnit, it didn’t.

  Blue liked being a cop, and he was good at it. What else did he need? Not to keep on competing with his father, that was for sure. And not to have his gut kicked by another broad walking out. To hell with it. From now on, all his energies would be devoted to being a better cop. Hell, he’d be the best damned cop in the history of the department.

  And for the rest of it, he’d just buddy up to somebody in vice and find out where a man could get some of what he needed for cash on the line and no emotional investment.

  Blue sat for a long time in the dark apartment, watching the city below and listening to the police calls, as he finished off the warm tequila.

  Chapter 3

  Probably he should have been a whole lot smarter about it.

  After all, he was no dummy, no virgin, for Chrissake, to the realities of life on the street. He’d been on the hustle for almost two years now, ever since splitting from Wichita, and he knew the ropes as well as anyone, better than some.

  The gimmick was in learning how to read people, to spot the possible nutcases. More than once he’d thumbed a car to stop, then after getting a good look at the driver, moved on without getting in.

  Pete had a lot of smarts. He knew the rules, and he lived by them, knowing how bad it could be if he didn’t.

  But what the hell. Nobody made exactly the right moves all the time. It was a hot night. The city was smack in the middle of the hottest damned summer on record, and the weight of that heat hung over everything oppressively, like a too-heavy wool blanket. People were getting itchy. He had been standing on the same corner of Santa Monica Boulevard for almost an hour, his thumb stuck uselessly in the air. He took off his Who concert tee shirt and shoved it into the waistband of his cutoffs, but it didn’t seem to make him any cooler or to increase his desirability to the passing drivers.

  It pissed him off that nobody would stop. Pete wasn’t very good about keeping his temper. He tri
ed to be mellow, but it just didn’t work sometimes.

  When the truck pulled to a grinding halt just a few feet past the corner, Pete didn’t use all the brains and street smarts that he had.

  The truck itself should have given him his first warning. It was an old Ford, dirty grey-brown in color, with too many dents to count and what sounded like the beginnings of a bad muffler.

  But he ran up to the truck anyway, because he was so tired of standing on that corner, feeling like the fucking invisible man. He stepped onto the running board and peered into the cab. There were two men inside. That fact set off a small buzz way in the back of his mind. Usually he tried to avoid cars with more than one person inside. Not because he had anything against an orgy now and then, if he knew the others involved. What he didn’t like was being outnumbered by strangers.

  “Where you heading?” the passenger asked.

  “Downtown. The bus depot.”

  “’Kay. Get in.”

  The other guy, the driver, didn’t say anything. Pete balanced where he was, listening to the warning buzz that was telling him to skip this and wait for something better.

  But it was so damned hot. And more important, if he didn’t get downtown pretty damned soon, Doc would be gone, taking his supply of rainbow-colored goodies with him. Pete was feeling wired; he needed some of what Doc had to offer. And broke as he was, Doc was his only hope for feeling better. It had been two weeks since the last time, and the fat pharmacist was undoubtedly horny again.

  “Make up your mind,” the man said impatiently.

  “Okay, sure,” Pete said, opening the door. The man shifted over a little to make room. “Thanks for stopping.”

  “No problem.”

  Although he was grateful for the ride, Pete still couldn’t relax. He sat as close to the door as he could get, ready to make a fast exit if it became necessary.

  After a few minutes, the silence in the truck became uncomfortable, so he cleared his throat. “I’m Pete.”

  “Nice to meet you, Pete,” the man next to him said. “I’m Tom, and this here is Jody.”

  “Terrific. Sure is hot, huh?”

  “Yeah, sure is.” Tom moved in the seat slightly so that he was a little closer. He stank of beer and sweat. “Kinda late to be out, ain’t it?”

  “I gotta meet a guy.”

  “Right away?”

  “Yeah, sort of.” Pete leaned forward so that he could see better through the grimy windshield. “I don’t think we’re going the right way.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But I’m in this hurry, see. If I don’t connect—” He shut up.

  “What’re you hoping to connect for, Pete?”

  He frowned. “Nothing, I guess.” He tried to judge the speed of the truck. Too fast; he’d break a fucking leg if he tried to jump out now. Maybe if he just waited until a red light. Could these pricks be narcs? Or maybe vice?

  Tom reached into the glove compartment and pulled something out.

  Pete waited for him to flash a badge, but when he looked all he saw was a plastic baggie filled with pills. “What’s that?” he asked, trying to sound as if it didn’t matter much.

  “A little bit of everything. You want some?”

  “Well, to be honest, Tom,” he hedged, “I’m a little short right now, cashwise.”

  Tom laughed and poked an elbow into the driver’s ribs. “Hell, Pete here thinks we wanna sell him some of this shit. He thinks we’re dealing. That’s a laugh, huh?”

  Jody glanced at Pete and smiled a little. He was a slightly younger edition of Tom, with the same lean, dark face and curly hair.

  “You think we’re dealing? No way, Petey.” Tom grinned and patted Pete’s bare knee. “We were thinking more of having a party. Just you and me and Jody here. You like the sound of that?”

  Pete swallowed, considering. Okay, so he’d miss Doc this time around. But maybe with these guys he could cop some joy medicine and pick up some bread at the same time. “Ten bucks extra for both of you,” he said, wanting to get things clear right up front.

  “Ten? That’s a little steep, don’t you think? Especially since we’re willing to share the goodies.”

  “Five extra, then. I got overhead to meet.”

  “That’s more like it. Sounds good to me. How’s that seem to you, Jody?”

  “Fine,” he said, speaking for the first time.

  “Great. So let’s get a move on. Time to party.”

  “Where are we going for this party?” Pete asked.

  “The park. Old Griffith Park. I haven’t been there in a long time. Years. That sounds like a good place to have a party, don’t you think?”

  “I guess so,” Pete said.

  He still wasn’t sure about this, but it was too late now. Besides, he thought, at least these guys weren’t fat and gross, like Doc. He looked at Tom and forced a smile to his lips. “We’ll have fun.”

  Tom stared at him for a moment. His eyes, startlingly pale blue in the dark face, held a hungry, fevered look. “Count on it, Pete,” he said. He reached out a hand and ruffled Pete’s sweaty hair.

  Pete was used to hungry eyes and eager hands. He leaned against the door and closed his eyes. He hoped to hell the creeps had the bread to pay him. He hoped the little baggie had some really high-powered shit in it. And mostly he hoped that the two of them weren’t kinky. It was too damned hot for any of the funny stuff.

  Chapter 4

  The phone rang.

  “Shut the hell up.”

  It rang again.

  “Gonna pull your fucking cord out.”

  Again.

  One hand reached out, groping, searching for the offending instrument. The damned thing wasn’t there. It kept ringing, but it wasn’t there.

  Spaceman Kowalski yanked the pillow from over his head, grunting as an explosion of daylight crashed against him. He blinked and then stared. The ceiling above was pale blue. With little silver stars painted all over it. Most definitely not his ceiling.

  The other occupant of the bed finally answered the phone, which happened to be on her side of the room. The same goddamned thing happened everytime he spent the night here. He never got used to either the ceiling or to having the phone in the wrong place.

  “Hello,” she said. Perkily. She sounded perky at the frigging crack of dawn. Like Sandra Dee in some old movie. There really was no justice in the world.

  And what the hell had ever happened to Sandra Dee?

  Spaceman shrugged away that momentous question and managed to focus on his Timex. Seven-thirty. Almost time for work, anyway.

  Mandy held the receiver out toward him. “It’s for you,” she said. The voice now held only disappointment, and he knew it was because the call wasn’t from her agent.

  He took the phone and sat up. “Yeah?” The taste in his mouth reminded him vaguely of the smell hovering over a garbage dump where he’d once spent three days looking for a body. He belched into the receiver.

  “Detective Kowalski?”

  “No, it’s fucking Princess Di. Whattaya want?”

  “The lieutenant wants you should go over to Griffith Park.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe he wants to have a picnic.” The voice was end-of-the-shift snippy.

  Spaceman watched as Mandy got out of bed and walked, naked, across the room. She had great tits. They bounced just enough. “Why does McGannon want me to go to the park at seven-thirty in the morning?” he asked pleasantly, proud of his restraint. He was determined that the word “surly” wouldn’t appear anywhere in his next fitness report.

  “Somebody found a stiff. You’re still working homicide, right? Maybe, just maybe, that’s why McGannon wants you there.”

  He wished he could put a name to the voice, but Los Angeles could freeze over before he’d ask. “Wonderful,” he said instead. “That’s just what I need this morning.” He was hung-over and had gas, but did the killers of this city care? Fat chance. He belched again and as
ked just where in the park the picnic was happening.

  The voice told him.

  He hung up without saying good-bye.

  Mandy came out of the bathroom and, still naked, started her exercises. “What’s up?”

  He thought about saying something real clever, like “I am, and what’re you gonna do about it?” But a quick check under the sheet revealed the dismal truth. It was hell to be thirty-eight. What would life be like after forty? It didn’t even bear thinking of. So he told her about the stiff in the park that he had to go see.

  In the middle of a leg lift, she made a face. “Gross,” she said. “Before breakfast, even?”

  He watched the exercise routine for a moment, then realized that unless he got out of the bed immediately, even his aging flesh would start to react.

  And he had a picnic to go to.

  He got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. “Make some coffee,” he ordered.

  Even the lukewarm water the old pipes churned up felt good as it washed away the sweat and sticky wine from his chest. As he scrubbed with a bar of lime green glycerine soap, Spaceman wasn’t thinking about what might have happened in the park. He was wondering, not for the first time, why the devil anybody would put the Big Dipper on her bedroom ceiling.

  She had instant coffee made and some frozen orange juice about half-thawed by the time he came out, trying to smooth the wrinkles from his old brown suit. It was a fairly hopeless task.

  He swallowed the lumpy juice in one gulp and started on the coffee. As he drank, he worked on his tie with a damp paper towel. Mandy had donned an old sweatshirt and a pair of white panties. She sat in a chair, watching him and eating a bagel that dripped strawberry jam. “You want something to eat?”

  His stomach did a flip-flop. “No time,” was all he said to her. Couldn’t let the twenty-year-old know that middle age took some things harder than did youth.

  One of these days, he thought, giving up on the tie, I’ll find a woman my own age.

  The young stuff was going to kill him off before his time. How many late night parties with cheap wine, pepperoni pizza, and pot could a man of his age take before the damage got serious?