Bleeding Hearts

by Teri White

  Standing on the front porch, which really wasn’t a porch at all, but just a four-foot square of concrete, Spaceman could hear a television blasting, as well as the steady hum of an air conditioner from inside. He pushed the bell.

  Raised voices in the house seemed to be debating the issue of who should respond to this obviously unwanted intrusion. After several moments, the door was opened by a middle-aged man wearing the uniform of a city bus driver. He eyed Spaceman warily. “Yeah?” he said.

  Although he hadn’t really planned to go official on this, there was something in the man’s tone that made Spaceman decide to play it differently. He pulled out his shield case and flashed it. “Mr. Fellows?”

  “That’s me. What do the cops want here?”

  “I’d like to talk to your son Roger, please.”

  A look of weary exasperation crossed the ruddy face. “What’s he done now?” There was a twang in his voice, the memory of someplace else. Maybe Missouri. Oklahoma. He was another seeker. When people in other places didn’t like the lives they had, they headed west. They kept moving until there was no more land and then they stopped and waited for the good things to start happening.

  Fellows looked like he was still waiting.

  “He hasn’t done anything, as far as I know,” Spaceman said. It was a familiar lament: ‘What’s he done now?’ Somehow tonight it seemed to ring louder than usual. “I’d just like to talk to him.”

  “Well, I guess you might as well come in.” Fellows moved aside just a little.

  Spaceman squeezed through the doorway and found himself in the living room. A plump woman dressed in shorts and a flowered blouse was sitting on the couch. One hand held a can of Tab and the other a paperback romance. On the table in front of the couch was a bottle of beer and a large bowl of potato chips.

  “What is it?” she asked, staring at Spaceman.

  “A cop,” her husband said in disgust. “Wants to see Roger.”

  “He’s been home all day,” she said quickly. “So whatever happened, he couldn’t of had anything to do with it.”

  “Nothing’s happened,” Spaceman said. “Can I talk to him?”

  “He’s in the backyard. I guess you can just go on through. Unless you need us to be there.” Fellows glanced at the television as he spoke. The ballgame was all tied up.

  “No, that’s all right.”

  Relieved, Fellows returned to his beer, his television.

  Spaceman walked down a short hallway and into the kitchen, a spotlessly clean room that smelled of lemon freshener, and more strongly, of an apple pie that was cooling on the table. The sight of the pie reminded Spaceman that he hadn’t had any supper.

  He opened the door and stepped out into the postage-stamp backyard. A boy, wearing only cut-offs, was stretched out on the ground, smoking what looked like a legal cigarette, and staring at the sky. “Roger?”

  A slow hand lifted to remove the cigarette, and the boy rolled on his side to gaze up at him. “Hey,” he said with a smile. “You’re a cop.” He spoke in the languid, spaced-out way the kids cultivated even when they weren’t stoned.

  “Right the first time,” Spaceman said.

  “Not hard.” He relaxed onto his back again. “You’ll never take me alive, copper,” he said in a lifeless Rich Little-doing-Cagney routine.

  “William Morris is looking for you, kid.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.” Spaceman lowered himself into a flimsy lawn chair that teetered dangerously under his weight, but held. “Let’s talk about Robbie Kowalski.”

  “Kowalski? Why? What’d he do?”

  “Nothing. I only want to know if you’ve seen him lately.”

  Roger blinked in his direction. “If he ain’t done nothing, why should I say anything to a cop? How do I know that what I’m saying won’t get a buddy into trouble?”

  “He a good friend of yours, is he?”

  “Rob’s okay. For a polack. He’s a little slow sometimes, but I figure that’s like genetic, right?”

  “By the way, I’m Detective Kowalski.”

  A chuckle. “His old man?”

  “Right again. You’re on a roll.”

  “Shit. No offense meant. It was a joke.”

  “Have you seen Robbie lately?”

  “What’s going on? He split or something?”

  “He hasn’t been home for a couple days. His mother is concerned.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Nope.”

  “When was the last time you did see him?” Spaceman kept his voice level, although he wanted to grab the punk and give him a good shake. He hated working with juvies.

  “Couple weeks, I guess. Rob’s been a little weird lately.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Just … weird.”

  “He doing drugs?”

  “Hey, man, that’s getting a little personal, you know? Rob’s just into his own head trip right now. I guess he’ll come home when he’s ready. Tell the old lady to hang loose.”

  Spaceman wished he could smash his fist into the smiling face. Just once would make him feel a lot better. But he didn’t do it. “Rob might be in trouble,” he said quietly.

  “We’re all in trouble, sir. The whole fucking world. Haven’t you heard? I think it was in all the papers.”

  Spaceman was tired of him. He stood. “Do you know anyplace Rob might hang out?”

  Roger ground out the cigarette in the dry grass. One blade caught and smoldered a little. He quashed it with his thumb. “Try Fat Jack’s on Pacific Coast.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Right.” Rather than dance another round with the senior Fellowses, Spaceman walked up the driveway and back to his car.

  Chapter 14

  As Blue drove home, he listened to the latest news reports about the hill fires. Over 50,000 acres gone already. Four dead. A stable of expensive horses wiped out. The account of the disaster, recited in the cool measured tones of the female reporter, worried Blue. If the winds changed by even a couple miles, the flames would get pretty close.

  But then he pushed the worry aside. No sense getting himself into a panic about it; there wasn’t a damned thing that Blue Maguire could do about the wraths of nature.

  Once he was home, it was simple to relax a little. He poured a glass of Chateau Lafite ’69, and slid into the hot tub. Immediately, life started to look better. He directed his consciousness toward only two things: the rippling of the water in the tub, and the smooth taste of the wine.

  Sensual, tactile things.

  Back in college, Blue had made some visits (six, actually) to a shrink. Nobody ever knew about the therapy, but Blue felt as if it had helped. It was Foreman who taught him the ability to relax. The technique of clearing all the garbage out of his mind and centering on the simple. Like the feel of the hot water swirling through his toes and the soothing effect of the wine as it glided down.

  Originally, the exercise had been intended to rid him of the ubiquitous and destructive spectre of his father. And it worked to some degree. But more importantly, the ability to withdraw from the world temporarily helped save his life in the war. Blue was convinced of that.

  By the time thirty minutes had passed, he felt invincible. Forgetting a towel, he got out of the tub and padded wetly into the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed before he had a chance to think about it.

  Pamela answered on the first ring. “Oh, it’s you,” she said.

  “It’s me, yeah.”

  “What is it, Blue?”

  “Look, babe, I’ve been thinking. Do we really want to leave things the way we left them? I thought maybe we could get together, have some dinner, talk about it.”

  “It’s all been said.”

  “No, I don’t think so, Pamela. I mean—” He broke off and took a sip of wine.

  “Blue, let�
�s not stand around watching the death throes of this relationship.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “We’ve had some meaningful times, but it’s over. I’ve faced that fact; why can’t you?”

  Meaningful times? The broad was a walking compendium of triteness. “So that’s it then?” He was almost hoping she wouldn’t change her mind at the last moment.

  “Yes, that’s it and I’ve got to run.”

  Dispensing with good-byes, he hung up.

  Fuck her.

  He pulled the phone book from the shelf and thumbed the pages quickly, looking for the name he wanted. She might be married, for all he knew, or shacking up, but it was worth a try. The important thing was to move ahead, not to dwell on the end of still another relationship. Get right back on the old horse.

  Engels, S. That was probably it. An initial usually meant a woman living alone. He hoped. The address was in Los Angeles proper, on Wilshire.

  This time, he paused for just an instant before picking up the phone. But then he moved; what the hell. He had nothing to lose.

  She answered on the first ring, too.

  “This is Blue Maguire,” he said. “We met today.”

  “Maguire?”

  “I was with Kowalski.” And I must have made a great impression, he reflected glumly.

  “Oh, sure, Spaceman’s partner. What can I do for you?” Her voice was brusque and businesslike, but not unfriendly. “Do you have a question about the post today?”

  “No, this doesn’t have anything to do with that. I was just wondering if you’d have dinner with me.” He swore at himself for the bluntness of the invitation.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I guess I could take the frozen pizza out of the oven,” she said finally, sounding amused.

  “Forty-five minutes?”

  “Fine.”

  Blue hung up. Invincible, that was the word.

  Sharon Engels lived in a middle-aged apartment building that was equipped with a doorman. She was waiting in the lobby, talking to the uniformed old man when Blue arrived. He watched her walk across the room. The light summer dress did a lot more for her body than had the white lab coat, and now wild curls fell to her shoulders.

  Blue was glad he’d worn the new suit.

  There was an awkward silence as they walked from the building to the curb. She admired the car, then indicated the squawk box. “Always in touch?”

  “Only when I want to be.” Which was almost always, but he didn’t say that. “I made a reservation at Jimmy’s,” was what he did say. “That okay?”

  She nodded, looking mildly impressed.

  Blue wondered about that. Sometimes maybe he tried too hard. Usually, probably. He had to work on that, maybe once in a while suggest Taco Town.

  At the restaurant, they each had a cocktail while studying the menu. When the waiter returned, Sharon chose veal à l’orange, and Blue picked the poached salmon. The mechanics of decision provided a topic for some conversation, but once the order was placed and another round of drinks served, silence fell again. She seemed very interested in the decor.

  “Well,” he said finally and unoriginally, “do you like your job?”

  “Yes. Very much. Do you find that bizarre?”

  “Should I?”

  “Some men do.” She tasted the vodka tonic. “Of course, there are also some men who get turned on by the idea. Death as an aphrodisiac.”

  “I don’t think I belong in either category.”

  “Oh?” She sounded skeptical.

  “I just think a job should be enjoyable.”

  “Do you enjoy yours?” She smiled. “I ask, because obviously you’re not in it for the money.”

  “I like it.” Again he could have said a lot more, but didn’t.

  “How do you get along with Spaceman?”

  “Kowalski? Well, it’s only been one day. But he’s definitely different.”

  “One of a kind.” Her face grew serious, and Blue wondered just what the relationship was between Sharon and his new partner. “I’ve seen him work. He’s very good.”

  Blue nodded. “Yes, I think maybe he is.” Even if he didn’t give a flying fuck about having a good working relationship. Maybe he just hadn’t heard about that great sense of camaraderie cops were supposed to have.

  Sharon played with the thin plastic stir stick. “You two have anything on the twenty-seven thirty-four?”

  “What?”

  “The boy who was killed.”

  “Peter Lowe? Nothing yet.”

  And with that, they reached an unspoken agreement not to talk about work anymore. They talked about themselves instead. College—her time at UCLA, his at Harvard. He told her something of his time in Nam. She gave him a fast rundown on her brief marriage to a brilliant but troubled young surgeon.

  Over the baked Alaska, Blue decided that he liked Sharon Engels. A lot. The realization made him nervous. If there was some way to screw up a relationship, he’d find it.

  They lingered over coffee and brandy, until she remembered an early appointment. He thought she was sincere about that, not just making an excuse to end the evening.

  He hoped so anyway.

  Chapter 15

  The chinese diner had yellow plastic tablecloths and a jukebox with music left over from the Fifties. They had chow mein and egg rolls and listened to Gogi Grant. They both ate too much, even finishing off the fortune cookies that always tasted like cardboard to Tom. His fortune said, “Be diligent and you will prevail.” He liked that.

  Jody read his fortune, frowned, and threw the tiny slip of paper into the ashtray without telling Tom what it said. “Let’s go,” he said instead.

  Before getting into the car, they walked across San Pedro to a mom-and-pop store for a six-pack. The interior of the Ford was so hot that even rolling down every damned window didn’t help; all it accomplished was to blast them in a continuous stream of oven-baked air. They each popped open a beer immediately and headed out Wilshire.

  With no real destination in mind, Jody simply guided the car up and down the traffic-clogged streets of Hollywood according to Tom’s whim. The sticky night had brought out a lot of whores, creeps, and hustlers. Nobody seemed to have much energy, though. It was as if the continuing hot spell weighed them down, so they were just going through the motions of high-speed life.

  They cruised for a long time. Tom was enjoying the hunt and didn’t want to rush. As they searched, he allowed himself to wonder, fleetingly, what was going to happen this time. But then he pushed the thought aside quickly.

  “How about him?” Jody asked finally, motioning with one hand.

  The boy he’d indicated was standing alone in front of a gay movie. He was slender, fair, wearing tight white pants and a red silk shirt. “Maybe,” Tom said, staring at him. He chewed his lower lip. “Yeah, maybe.”

  But as they watched, a tall skinny black in a purple jumpsuit appeared. He greeted the boy with a hug and they both went into the movie.

  “Shit,” Tom said. Then he shrugged. Plenty more where that one came from.

  It was almost ten minutes before Tom saw him, the one he wanted for sure, standing on the corner of Hollywood and Vine, of all places. “Stop,” he ordered Jody.

  Jody managed to pull to the curb, squeezing in next to an old VW bug. “Which one, Tommy?”

  Tom pointed. “Him.”

  The chosen one had light brown hair that just covered his ears, and was wearing blue jeans with a plain white tee shirt. His face was arranged to display perfect and exquisite boredom as he leaned against a sign post and took long lazy drags on a cigarette. There was something about him that seemed to glow, that made all the others seem shabby by comparison.

  “Yeah,” Jody said. “I like him.” His voice sounded strangely tight.

  Tom looked at him sharply, then nodded. “Okay. Go get him.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. Bring him over here.”

 
; Jody took a deep breath. He pounded both hands lightly against the steering wheel, then quickly opened the door and slid out.

  Tom leaned forward a little so that he could watch as Jody walked to the corner and spoke to the boy. The boy smiled and nodded in return. It was weird, but just watching the two of them talk was giving Tom a warm itch inside. He ran one hand across the front of his jeans, then pulled it away quickly. “Not yet,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Not yet, damnit.”

  After a time that seemed endless, Jody and the hustler came over to the car. Jody opened the door and the boy slid in. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Chris.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Tom.”

  Close-up, Chris smelled of lime aftershave. “Jody here said you wanted to have a little party. Just us three.”

  “Right. Does that sound like a good idea to you?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Why not?” Tom reached over the seat and pulled out another can of beer. He offered it to Chris. “Hot tonight.”

  “For sure. You were lucky to catch me here, you know? I was invited out to this big bash in Malibu. A bigshot TV producer asked me to come, but I decided it was too hot for the hassle.”

  “We were lucky,” Tom said.

  Chris took a long gulp of beer, then smacked his lips together. “Good shit. Anyway, this producer, he’s thinking about using me in a new series. I’m an actor,” he added.

  “No kidding?” Tom fished out another beer and opened it. “You done something I might’ve seen?”

  Chris frowned. “Well, I haven’t actually done anything yet. But I go to a lot of auditions. And once I even got a callback. But then that part went to some creep who was related to the producer.”

  “That’s life, I guess.”

  “Yeah. But something’s gonna break for me soon.”

  Jody was quiet, just listening to them talk as he guided the car through the clogged streets.

  Chris swallowed more beer. “Where’s this party gonna be, anyway?”

  Tom thought about that for a moment, then shrugged. “I like Griffith Park,” he said. “There might even be a breeze around.”