by John Decure
Hell, what’s the use? I stuck the suit back into the closet, then hesitated, and pulled it out again. I stood there a good long while, immobile, watching the first hint of sun find the sweat-beaded windowpanes, the growing light casting minute variations on a dozen shades of gray. My legs were tired from the jog up the wet sand following my surf. I sat down, wondering how I had brought myself to this point.
It had all begun with the urge to assist Dale Bleeker, a man I felt I knew, but honestly didn’t. Did I really give a shit about helping the man? Or was I merely trying to preserve a memory that was best left alone, like a crushed flower folded into the pages of a book whose petals turn to dust if you ever touch them again?
I was meddling with the past on several fronts these days. Straining to ensure the rehabilitation of a once great criminal prosecutor whose entire career had been scuttled by an inexplicable impulse to free Willy. Luring a violent old surfing buddy who’d long ago soured on the Life back into the water, then maybe—just maybe—seeing the results in the bloodied face of my future brother-in-law Holding fast to the notion that I was still the J. Shepard that Carmen had come to know and love, a guy defined in large part by what he did for others. Perhaps I hadn’t recognized in time that this approach had left me critically lacking in the self-definition department. I could see the frustration building in her eyes: How do you deal with an inaccessible so-called partner?
Time to make some decisions without looking back, I concluded. The black suit was first on the list.
Twenty minutes later Carmen knocked on my door. She was barefoot, in a white terry robe, her dark hair swept over and down her left shoulder.
“Hey, nice suit. The IRS auditing you today?” My inquisitor leaned against the door frame, arms folded.
“Very funny.” I finished fastening my wristwatch and straightened the knot of my tie in the mirror above the dresser. “Actually I’m just going to work. That is, if they still let me in the place. Might as well look sharp.”
Carmen slid behind me and hugged my shoulders. “Sort of like looking good at your own funeral, huh?” She let out a small giggle.
“Something like that.”
She squeezed me a bit tighter, sighing. “Sorry I ducked out on you last night. It was … rather crummy of me.”
“Forget it.”
“Let me make you a nice breakfast. Waffles, sausage, eggs, whatever you like.”
“Thanks, but I gotta roll in five minutes. I left a message with my union rep to meet me downstairs before I go up to the tenth floor and deal with my manager.”
“Wow. You think that’s necessary?”
I shrugged. “All I know is I’ve worked hard at this job. They’re not going to bend me over without a fight.”
“Promise me you’ll eat something when you get there.”
I told her I’d get something in the cafeteria. Carmen followed me downstairs to the door, watched me retrieve the fog-dampened Times from the front walk. When I handed her the newspaper, she rolled her eyes and said, “Least today I’ll get to do the crossword.”
“I don’t do the daily crossword,” I said. She looked at me funny. I figured Dale must have been knocking them out the last few days.
We kissed, and I held her and kissed her again. “I love you,” I said, surprising myself as much as her. Those words have never rolled from my tongue very naturally.
Carmen’s gaze was steady on me. I thought she waited way too long to say “I love you” back, but there it was. When I kissed her a final time, I saw a trace of regret in her eyes that I hoped was there because she knew that I might lose my job—not because she might be sensing I was losing her. I felt an urge to set down nry briefcase and tell her more, to make some needed reassurances. But the words didn’t exactly leap forth.
“Car.”
“Yes?”
“Nothing. I’ll call later.”
Still no more than a hint of sun lurking in the battleship gray sky, but I was blinking hard as I started down the walk.
The word was out before I stepped out of the elevator on the tenth floor. I’d barely made it down the long row of offices to my door when Honey Chavez got up from her desk and cut in front of me, said a shaky good morning, and apologized for having to tell me that my office door had been locked.
“I heard about the fire, J. You okay?”
I mustered a wafer-thin smile. “Never better.” Glancing about, I saw others going about their business but watching me at the same time. “She in her office?” I asked my secretary. Honey nodded yes.
Then, feeling a lot of eyes on me, I casually retraced my steps, retreating through the security doors that lead to the elevators. George Burrows, my union rep, was there, right where I’d left him. George is about six-one and gangly as a giraffe, with thick prescription frames and a freckled face that makes you wonder if a ten-year-old is locked in that beanpole body. He’s also an outspoken gay rights advocate who spends more weekends than anyone I know walking and jogging and rallying to promote everything from breast cancer research to increased suicide-hotline funding. The man may not look like a tiger, but he’s got passion, which I suppose makes him an excellent members’ representative.
“You’re on, George,” I said with a nod, holding the door open for him. “She wants me in her office. Ready to boot some butt?”
George’s eyes were alive. “Let’s do it.” He seemed amped for a showdown.
Eloise barely knew what hit her. She started by trying to remove George, which only made him pop open his briefcase and cite Article 3, section 1 (a) in the state bar Memorandum of Understanding, reading straight from the employees bill of rights. I settled into a chair opposite my manager’s desk and let George get it on, enjoying her heightened state of distress. Good show, Eloise, I was thinking. You don’t want to kick off a meeting with George Burrows citing the MOU to you.
Half an hour later I was shaking the guy’s hand for ensuring that I would only be suspended with pay Eloise had failed even to write me up, which is a prerequisite to any official action, and had yet to gain the signed approval of Reginald Hewitt, the chief, to begin an inquiry. Apparently she was so overjoyed to have something on me that she hadn’t bothered with formalities, and George, sensing she would do anything to avoid having me return to work that day, brokered a most advantageous deal. Full pay and continued benefits, nothing placed in my employee file without a fair hearing, and confidential proceedings in keeping with the MOU. George also made sure I could collect my personal items from my office before I left. Eloise had her wide-body secretary, Monette, follow me with the express orders that I had five minutes to clear out and under no circumstances was I allowed to remove any state bar property, including files. When George and I stood up, he thanked her for her time, briskly offering his hand. I thought Eloise would bite the tips of his fingers off, but she held it in check, her lower lip quivering in anger. Noting an opportunity to further seal the deal, I flashed her the old reliable shit-eater on my way out the door.
Back in the elevator, that last order Eloise had leveled at Monette had me wondering. Despite the ample TV news scoop on my situation with Dale, it sounded like Eloise still didn’t really know what I’d been up to, since I knew there was nothing significant to be found in my workspace. Last night I’d assumed she’d been the one to tip off the press. Maybe I had been wrong. Maybe I’d underestimated the intensity of the woman’s long-standing dislike for me. Then again, perhaps she’d already searched my office and therefore knew there was no harm in allowing me back in there.
But she’d blown it this morning, probably guessing wrong that I’d show up alone, lose my cool when she tried to dictate what was what, and in so doing, hand her perfectly good cause to let me go. I might be suspended for now, and I was probably facing a termination proceeding in the near future, not to mention the blow to my career aspirations here at the bar. But thanks to my inept manager, at least now I had time to look into the law center and settle this thing with Dale an
d Rudy.
Honey Chavez had an empty file box ready for me. George stood sentry at the door as if to ward off any repeat incursions from Eloise. Monette had followed us back and was now standing two cubicles away, watching George. I was scooping up my picture frames, admiring the view of a clear blue winter morning over downtown L.A., when I heard George issue a brusque hello.
“I’d like to talk to J. Do you mind?”
Therese Rozypal.
George hiked his wristwatch and told me I had three minutes remaining by his count, rolling his eyes like a jealous girlfriend when Therese slid by him. She wore a navy cardigan sweater over a pleated knee-length plaid skirt and leather boots. Her hair was in a braided ponytail—the first time I’d seen it down. Those eyes matched the sky I’d just glimpsed out the window. Very fine.
She’d missed the news last night but heard plenty of gossip when she came in this morning. Had I been fired? I told her about my meeting with Eloise, and what had happened last night at the law center.
“What now?” she said.
“I go home. Look at this thing from a few different angles, hopefully sort it out.”
“What about me?”
She must have noticed me swallowing hard. “I mean,” she added quickly, “isn’t there anything I can do to help you? Silver was my case, after all.”
“If I need you, I’ll ring you up.”
Therese handed me a business card. “My home number’s on the back. Call me anytime.”
My knees felt weak all over again. “I will. And thanks for stopping by.”
We lingered behind the door as if caught in a magnetic field. “Bye, J.,” she said. “Don’t be a stranger.”
George Burrows looked at me after he watched Therese pass by
“What?” I said, feeling a rush of guilt.
“Nothing.”
“Say it, George.”
“Well, I’ve always heard practicing law is a pretty stodgy affair.” He glared at Monette, who had crept closer and was now taking momentary refuge in Honey’s cubicle, her big bottom resting on a patch of desktop. Monette scowled right back at George. “Not with you,” George said to me. “With you, boy, it’s never a dull moment.”
“Thanks, George.”
“You’re an original, J.”
“You should talk.”
Then I thanked him properly for negotiating so well earlier. “Next time you march for money, I’ll fill the cookie jar,” I said.
He smiled as if he was about to thank me back, but said, “I know.”
I reached back into my office and shut off the lights. George motioned me to follow him, hissing at Monette, “Move it, sister. Coming through.”
Fifteen
The line inside the bakery wasn’t bad for midmorning. A security guard ordering a birthday cake for pickup tomorrow. A pair of old ladies, their hair wrapped with black scarves, selected their bread by committee, in Spanish. Just ahead of me, a smiling, bearded priest who looked like a pastry-counter regular danced back and forth before the glass display case, pointing—two of these, three of those—as a helper filled a white cardboard box, hustling to keep up.
It’s too early for lunch, I thought, but when I got to the counter, I ordered two Cuban sandwiches and a coffee anyway. At least when I got home I could tell Carmen I’d eaten.
When I asked for the owner, the woman seated on a stool behind the register gave me the stink-eye she probably reserved for bill collectors and shirtless patrons. “Esteban!” she bellowed.
His name was Esteban Carpio. He was thin for a bakery proprietor, with a medium gray long-sleeved silk shirt, untucked, and a gaudy gold bracelet. He smelled faintly of flour, which I suppose comes with the territory. Stopping to pass on tiny greetings as more customers trickled in. He answered yes, in heavily accented English, he recognized me from last night. Then he wanted to know, suddenly dead serious, what brought me here.
I took out a Franklin and handed it to him, told him I wanted to pay for the chair I’d used to break the law center’s window. He pushed the money back at me, shaking his head.
“No, my friend, the chair is insured, and besides, it was used to save a life.”
I decided not to tell him that by the time I tossed that stool through the glass in front, Bobby Silver had been brained so hard that he was probably dead already. A gold tooth flashed inside his mouth as he recounted a blaze I’d witnessed firsthand.
Esteban Carpio leaned in. “Maybe the fire, it was an act of God. Maybe, my friend, He hear our prayers.”
My sandwiches were ready. Carpio had them brought to a small table near the counter and sat me down. Then he got himself a coffee and joined me. I ate the first sandwich in four bites. The pickle and mustard made me sweat, it was that good. I asked what he meant about the act of God.
“Miriam,” he called. “Bring me the flyers from the legal office that burn down.”
The cashier frowned and cursed quietly in Spanish. Sliding off her perch, she hobbled through the swinging metal door into the back. We sipped our coffees. “What kind of people, eh?” he asked. “It should not happen in America.” His face was full of pain.
I nodded dumbly.
Miriam the cashier appeared again, dropping a manila folder on her boss’s side of the table. He held her up, asking if I wanted a coffee refill. Miriam stood over me, flicking daggers at me with her eyes. I passed.
Carpio spread several letter-size advertisements on the white Formica between us. The ads were announcements for investment seminars, hosted by the law center, the most recent event dating a few months back, another flyer from last July. Educate yourself! Learn to beat Uncle Sam at his own game! Tax shelters for retirees! Estate-planning advantages you can’t afford to miss out on! Why pay expensive attorney fees when you can plan your own future? Each flyer plugged a free seminar. Absolutely no obligation! Drawings for door prizes! A week on Maui! Romantic Puerto Vallarta! A Jamaican adventure!
I asked where he’d gotten them. Carpio pointed to a small bulletin board behind the double doors facing Brand.
“They put them up there. Right under my nose.”
Two of the flyers had “Homeowners Fidelity Trust Presents …” in bold print across the top. The flyer with the July date was nearly identical, but listed “Capitol Consolidators Presents …” as the event’s sponsor.
I’d seen the names before, on Bobby Silver’s petition-forreinstatement application. He’d claimed to be a hazily defined “consultant” with both companies.
“What did you mean about this not happening in America?”
His face was red now, his eyes wet. “My friend, you should have let the place burn all the way to the ground.”
“You going to tell him, you fool?” the cashier growled at Mr. Carpio. I realized then that she was his wife.
“Yes, I going to tell him,” Carpio said. “So be quiet, huh?”
“Oh, fine, why not?” she muttered, ringing up another purchase—the priest with his box of pastries. “Why not?”
Carpio had attended the seminar in July, heard the speaker, an “estate-planning specialist.” Sounded good. They had a way you could beat the estate tax when you die and your children inherit. Carpio liked the idea.
I asked him how it worked.
He twirled a plastic spoon in his cup of coffee. “You have to understand, it sound so good. I work hard all my life. In Cuba, the government there take everything, give the people nothing. I don’t want that to happen here, too.”
Carpio exchanged pleasantries with the departing cleric. Then his wife the cashier approached our table, told him in Spanish that he was needed in back, urgentemente. I got after my second Cuban sandwich, this time savoring it in five bites, my chest aching. Nothing like a midmorning carbo hit big enough to pop a pant seam.
I could hear the man and his wife arguing in back, a little about what he’d just told me, and a lot about the fact that he’d gone and told me at all. They sounded like they were going to be at it aw
hile, so I went out to the street, bought the Times from a rack, and brought it back to my table. The place had emptied out. I sipped my coffee, enjoying a warm slant of sunshine across my back, and started reading a feature about a hot-guy screenwriter who’d written a novel about power and greed and sex and couture—apparently in that order—on the Left Coast. The author, who’d grown up somewhere in the vicinity of Bumfuck, Iowa, came here five years ago and was now a self-appointed cultural expert on this city and its denizens. The hard-hitting tone of the reprinted passages from the book made for some unintentional hoots. Evil valets lurking among the Beemers and Benzes like gators in a swamp. A mysterious Euro-boy hairstylist with leather pants and lethal scissors. Snarling French poodles. Gorgeous Amazons toting derringers in their Louis Vuitton bags. Heavy product placement. People drinking rum and Pepsi, for Christ’s sake. Beverly Hills noir, they were calling it. Make-believe snapshots of the dark side of the soul. Oh please, I thought, you shouldn’t have to strain so hard to make this shit up. The good and bad is all around us, all the time.
Carpio returned to my table, apologizing for the delay. “Before we talk more, my friend, I like to … wonder if, can you help me get my money back?” His wife was watching me closely from behind the register.
I told him I didn’t know if I could, but I’d spoken with the Glendale police about problems associated with the law center and they were looking into it. I’d see what I could do.
Never mind that I was a murder suspect and had been suspended from my job.
His eyes were teary again, but he nodded to his wife, who’d perched herself back on her stool behind the register. In short, he told me he’d done well with the bakery the last twenty-four years since he bought it, built it up into a local gathering place of sorts, each year yielding a few percent more profits than the last. He had paid off his home a few years ago, a small but nice Craftsman a few blocks off Pacific Avenue north of the freeway. Had a few slow-growth investments, some safe stuff like Public Storage and GE stock. About ten years ago he’d bought a distressed apartment building nearby, eight units. Sunk thirty grand into repairs, but saved a lot by doing most of the work himself. Now it was worth half a million, yielding about thirty thousand a year in income after expenses. Not bad for a baker from Havana.
