Hold of the Bone

by Baxter Clare Trautman

  “You’re really raising a little heathen.”

  “You think you can do a better job?”

  Frank laughs. “You know I can’t.”

  “Damn right,” he grumbles.

  “Give me a call,” she tells him. “Let me know how it goes.”

  “Will do.”

  She hangs up and Caroline asks without looking from her paper, “How’s Dez?”

  “Fine, I guess. Wearing bone necklaces and channeling her great-great grandmother.”

  “Again?”

  “Hey, you’re the one that told me it’s not uncommon for kids to have past-life memories. Recanting your testimony, Doctor?”

  “Not at all. I just find it fascinating she has so many.”

  Caroline nibbles her scone, catching the crumbs with her plate.

  “Can I have a bite?”

  She neatly breaks off a piece and is about to put it on a napkin but Frank guides Caroline’s hand to her mouth, taking the bite from her fingers and kissing them. Caroline is a delightful companion but lacks imagination in romance.

  She stands and kisses Caroline’s cheek. “I gotta go check on Tatum, drop off some paperwork. Pick the movie and let me know.”

  Frank kisses her again, on the mouth. She doesn’t care who sees.

  Chapter 3

  Frank takes the long way to the station, veering east to drop papers off at Headquarters. It isn’t a necessary detour, but a breeze from the ocean has cleared the air, cooled the heat, and made it far too nice to be inside. Frank smiles. It’s a good excuse and she almost believes it, but she’s been sober long enough to recognize her own shit when she’s stepping in it, and though the weather is great it has nothing to do with avoiding the station.

  Tapping the side panel in time to a Jay-Z rap, Frank pictures the retirement forms squared neatly on the corner of her desk. She filled the papers out once, then balled them into the trash. Now a fresh set beckons each time she walks into her office. Cop, detective, supervisor, bureaucrat—Frank is bored with it all. Not one aspect of the job excites her anymore. She can’t even justify that bad guys still need catching. For every one they get off the streets, another takes his place. That’s if they even get him off the street; handing the DA a live suspect and hard evidence never guarantees a conviction.

  Automatically monitoring the sidewalks while she waits at a light, she decides pride is the only motivation she has left. Thirty years ago, as punishment for being women on an all-male force, Frank and her first lover were dumped into the worst division in the LAPD. Determined not to cave to harassment and cold shoulders, she persistently, quietly worked her way up from boot to detective, then Sergeant to Lieutenant. Under her aegis, cops sent to Figueroa for disciplinary action became detectives that closed record numbers of uncloseable cases.

  But nowadays, except for Lewis, even her detectives bore her, the lot of them young and PC. She wouldn’t be surprised if Tatum filed a suit against her for harassment or brutality or some other goddamned candy-assed complaint. Along with the rest of his colleagues, he looked at Frank like she was the last, thank God, of a dying breed. Like Frank had looked at the old-timers when she was new.

  Frank sighs; she’s hung around long enough to become a good old boy. Spotting a parking space, she switches lanes. There is parking below Headquarters, but the thought of being in her car when the next big quake hits makes above-ground spaces more attractive. She locks her old Honda and heads for the slick new Police Administration Building.

  Thinking she’s outlived even the old HQ, Frank glances at a dark bird turning circles high in the rare clear sky. She absently watches the faraway flight, knowing in her heart of hearts it’s time to quit, yet each time she tries to fill out the papers she stumbles over the same old obstacle: being a cop is all she has ever been, done, or known. The job is wife, friend, mistress, mother, whore—and Frank isn’t ready to explore the mystery of who she’ll be without a badge.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Frank turns, shading her eyes. It isn’t until the woman lowers her sunglasses that Frank recognizes Darcy’s ex.

  With a laugh she reaches for the mambo’s hand. “Marguerite James. As I live and breathe. What brings you downtown on a Saturday?”

  “A conference.” Marguerite clasps her hand warmly. She tips her chin to the hotel beyond Frank. “I’m on my lunch break.”

  Keenly aware of the heat from the mambo’s hands, Frank flushes and deliberately keeps her gaze from Marguerite’s formidable cleavage. “I just talked to Darcy. Hear you’ve been asking about me.”

  “I have.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  Marguerite lets go to check her watch. “I have some time before my next panel. Might we talk?”

  “About?” Frank hedges.

  “You, of course.” Marguerite flashes an uncharacteristic smile. “Come. There’s a seat over there.”

  She nods at a bench in the park across the street. Without waiting for agreement, she crosses to it. Frank waits for a car to pass. Marguerite has never told her anything she’s wanted to hear. She should wave and keep on walking. But curiosity impels her to follow. She sits next to Marguerite, who turns to face her.

  “I’ll wager you think this is complete coincidence, running into each other.”

  Frank admits, “The odds are long.” Remembering the mambo as stern and severe, she is puzzled by Marguerite’s second smile.

  “Tell me how you are, Lieutenant.”

  Frank’s brows shoot up. “I’m fine, but I don’t recall you being long on chitchat, Marguerite. What’s up?”

  The mambo tilts her head to study Frank. Her hair, pulled into a bun, is shot with silver now, like Frank’s, and the mambo has more wrinkles than she did at her daughter’s funeral—also like herself, Frank concedes—yet still she remains powerfully attractive. And though Marguerite has been unusually cordial, her eyes can’t hide her ferocity.

  “Darcy is right. I have been thinking of you lately. I can’t say why.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t, Lieutenant.”

  Frank smiles, touches the tips of her fingers to Marguerite’s bare arm. “Will you ever call me Frank?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Frank reluctantly moves her fingers. “So you’ve been thinking about me. Good or bad?”

  “Good, I should say. At least, I think it’s good, but I don’t know that you’d agree. Are you sure everything is quite alright?”

  “Far as I know. Do you think otherwise?” Frank braces for whatever the answer might be.

  “I’m not sure. You keep coming into my thoughts, and when you do I feel a great restlessness, like a building storm that hasn’t decided which way to blow.”

  Frank looks at the speck of bird still circling up in the blue. “I’ve got it all, Marguerite. The girl, the house, the job. I can even retire if I want.”

  “Do you want to?”

  Frank turns into Marguerite’s blunt gaze. It frightens her, but there’s never been any bullshit in it, and Frank appreciates that. “I’d love to. I know it’s time to move on, but I have no idea where to.”

  The heat in Marguerite’s eyes melts into compassion so raw and unexpected it forces Frank to look away, down at the strong, dark hand that unexpectedly grips hers. A wave of dizziness hits Frank. She shuts her eyes against it. When she opens them, Marguerite’s hand is old and wizened. Instead of the buffed French manicure, she sees broken fingernails rimed with dirt. Her hand is the extension of a gristly wrist poking from a grimy, ragged sleeve. Frank smells acrid smoke, like the chaparral above the city is on fire.

  She jerks her head up. Marguerite watches her. Frank looks back at the mambo’s hand. It is plump and brown, the nails round and shiny.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah.”

  Frank takes a furtive whiff of the city air. It smells of diesel and asphalt, not wildfire. She mashes her eyes, vowing to drink more water and cut back on the ca
ffeine. She probably should have had breakfast.

  “Do you know why I left Darcy?”

  According to him there had been a couple of reasons, but Frank shakes her head, unsure which one Marguerite means.

  “He had remarkable gifts, but he refused to use them—at least, to any purpose—and I always thought it was such a waste. I couldn’t abide it.”

  She gives Frank’s hand a little shake, and Frank glances to make sure she’s not holding the shriveled claw.

  “You have the same talent. I told you that once, do you remember?”

  Frank dredges up unwanted memories of the Mother Love case. Another priestess, but crazed with her own power, The Mother had taken to sacrificing enemies and dumping them in Frank’s jurisdiction. Darcy had brought his ex–wife in to calm a terrified witness convinced he’d been hexed by The Mother. After “cleansing” the witness, Marguerite had taken Frank aside.

  She had warned Frank that her powers were not to be ignored, but the plague of visions and déjà vus Frank experienced during the case had ended when Darcy killed Mother Love, and Frank conveniently relegated the entire episode to a dark corner of her memory.

  “It might not feel like it, but your life really is in order now, Lieu—Frank.”

  They share a short smile.

  “I believe all the work you’ve done up to this point has been foundation for this, the second half of your life. I think you’re finally ready to engage the real work, the work that matters here.” She presses a hand between Frank’s breasts.

  Frank closes her eyes against the solid heat. In a voice that sounds too small to be her own, she says, “I don’t know what that is.”

  “That’s alright. You don’t have to know right now. All you have to do is be open. It will come to you, I promise. It’s been waiting a long time.”

  “You keep saying ‘it.’ What’s ‘it’?”

  “Your life,” Marguerite answers.

  “What have I been doing the last fifty years?”

  The mambo smiles. “Preparing.”

  Frank studies the buildings across the street. “What about this talent? What’s that look like?”

  “I’m not sure. But you’ll know it as it begins to manifest. Which, I’m surprised it hasn’t already.”

  “Hm. Like porn? I can’t explain it, but I’ll know it when I see it?”

  “That’s a crude analogy, but yes.”

  Frank nods. “I hope it’s not going to manifest as traumatically as it did last time. I don’t know that I’ve got another Mother Love in me.”

  Marguerite cocks her head as if listening. “It doesn’t have to. You weren’t prepared for that. It was a shock.”

  “Understatement.”

  “But now you know better. I think it will go much easier if you accept this. The harder you resist, the more difficult you’ll make it.”

  “What if I just walk away, like Darcy?”

  Marguerite shakes her head. I don’t think you have that option. Even your latent ability is so much stronger than his.”

  “I hear you, Marguerite, I really do, but I’m not understanding a goddamned word.”

  “I know. I understand this is completely illogical, and irrational, but logic and reason will no longer serve you as they have. At this stage of your life, in this transition if you will, it is heart that matters most.”

  The mambo’s hand slides to Frank’s chest again. Warmth rises from Frank’s groin but spreads. It confounds her, coursing through her belly and torso, shooting down her arms and legs, tingling out toes and fingers.

  “You feel that?”

  Frank nods. Marguerite removes her hand, but the heat remains.

  “Trust that. Seek it. And when you find it, don’t ignore it. If you come from here,” she taps her knuckles on Frank’s forehead, “you will struggle and inevitably lose. But if you come from here,” she presses gently against Frank’s breastbone, “I promise the path will be clear.”

  The mambo digs in her purse and presents Frank a white business card. “Call me. I’ll help however I can.”

  Marguerite stands. Frank studies the familiar card.

  “Oh. One thing I am certain of, you will always have help along the way. It may not look like you expect it to or even want it to, but it will always be there.”

  Frank offers a wry smile. “Like you?”

  “Yes. Take close care, Lieutenant.”

  “Frank,” she reminds, but Marguerite is already crossing the street. She considers the card in her hand, thinks about leaving it on the bench. Instead, tucks it in the pocket over her heart. Above, a lone vulture circles the City of Angels.

  Chapter 4

  Frank walks back to her car but doesn’t go anywhere. She sits and stares down First Street. Two old Asian men argue past her. A black woman clicks by in heels, and a wino of indeterminate ancestry pokes through trashcans. She checks in with Lewis, who doesn’t need her, then Caroline. “Hey. It’s me.”

  “Hi,” Caroline answers. “Where are you?”

  “Headed to the station. You?”

  “I’m at the hospital. I got paged right after you left.”

  “Anything serious?”

  “I doubt it. Just a first-timer who’s read everything on the Internet about what can go wrong during delivery and nothing about how often it goes right.”

  Recalling Caroline’s steady presence throughout her labor, Frank says, “She’s lucky to have you.”

  “What sort of case did you get?”

  “Kid on an excavator dug up an old body. Not much to work with. Be a bitch to close. Plus Lewis’ partner’s an idiot.”

  “Tatum?”

  “Yeah. I’m on my way to check on him. It’s cops like Tatum that make me want to turn my badge in.”

  She considers telling Caroline about Marguerite but doesn’t know how to begin explaining what even she doesn’t understand.

  Caroline says, “I think a movie’s out, but I shouldn’t be too late, if you want to spend the night. We could at least have the morning together.”

  The offer isn’t wildly tempting, but with nothing better to do Frank agrees. After she hangs up she calls Lewis back.

  “Damn, LT, what up? You gonna check in every ten minutes, you may as well come out and babysit the coroner your own self.”

  “Easy, girl. It’s gonna be a long night and I was gonna send Sleeping Beauty back with some food. What do you want?”

  “Ah, you sweet,” Lewis relents, “but I ain’t hungry.”

  “What?” Frank tries to think if she’s ever heard Cheryl refuse food. “I was gonna have him get you a wet burrito.”

  “Nah, I’m good. But you know what? Tell him go by Takami’s and pick me up a miso soup and side a rice. Tell him don’t forget the damn spoon.”

  Frank teases, “You on a diet, girl?”

  “Nah. Just not that hungry.”

  Frank shakes her head, surprised at the first. She pulls into the Figueroa parking lot and takes the steps to the squad room two at a time. Tatum actually appears to be working and she asks over his shoulder, “Whatcha got?”

  They peer at tax rolls on his monitor.

  “The address goes back to 1968. It’s changed hands four times since then.”

  Frank grunts. “Ain’t no longevity in the ’hood.”

  She fishes money from the wallet in her pocket. “Run over to Takami’s and get Lewis some miso soup and a side of rice. Bring me the change. And don’t forget the spoon.”

  “What about me?”

  Walking into her office, she asks over her shoulder, “What about you?”

  Tatum doesn’t answer and she figures he is either waving his middle finger or juggling his crotch at her. Frank stands next to her scarred old desk, the retirement forms squared primly on the corner. She rests a hand on them, listening to Tatum stomp out. She returns to the quiet squad room and pauses at his desk. It was Bobby’s before he promoted out to West Hollywood. She looks around the fusty room. Ghosts waft
in the air like dust motes.

  Noah, her best friend, best partner. Dead way too soon.

  Gough. Nook. Taquito. Good old boys, all retired.

  Murderous Ike Zabbo. Dead, too. No loss there.

  Jill Denton, “Fire Truck.” Red hair, chronically late, always screaming around the corner like she was on her way to a three-alarm.

  Belligerent, drunken Johnnie Briggs. There were only three ways out for a hopeless alcoholic like Johnnie—hospitals, institutions, or death. Johnnie had chosen the latter, wrapping his car around an abutment on the 101. She always wondered if it had been deliberate.

  Then there was Darcy. Demoted to Frank’s squad for decking his last captain, he became not only an invaluable detective but friend as well.

  She wishes he were here. He’d know what Marguerite was talking about. She thinks about calling, but doesn’t want to bother him. She checks that the coffee pot is emptied and clean, studies wanted sheets posted on the bulletin board. Faces of Latino men, a couple black males, one woman, peek between administrative memos, posters for sexual harassment, workplace violence, influenza. The board is sterile, completely professional; there’s not one badly printed sign announcing in bold letters, “WHEN YOU CHECK OUT, WE CHECK IN” or a bloody smiley face instructing “HAVE A GREAT DAY—IT MIGHT BE YOUR LAST!”. There are no photos of Lewis superimposed over Brandi Chastain’s classic victory pose. No pictures of departmental brass sprouting red horns and forked tails. Not even a crude hot sheet of one of the squad members, wanted for a lewd and lascivious, or worse, an “LOA” implying a detective wasn’t working a case hard enough.

  She considers making a “lack of activity” poster with Lewis’ picture of Tatum, but surely someone will be offended and kick a complaint up the ladder. In the old days Frank wouldn’t have cared, it would have been worth it for the morale of the squad. Now the squad finds its morale at home with family and kids, instead of at work with hijinks and after-hour highballs.

  Back in her office she rummages in her top drawer and finds a crinkled pack of cigarettes. She shakes one loose and settles into her hard, wooden chair. She’s had it so long the seat has worn into the shape of her ass. Every couple years an ergonomics expert comes along and tries to throw the chair away, and every couple years she hides it until the new chair arrives and they leave her alone.