By that point Schwartz had decided to get real quiet. Like a lamb, he climbed into the back seat of the police car. Maybe like a lamb saved from slaughter.
Mike waved to Schwartz as he was driven away. Then he turned to me.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s have it.”
“Jesus Christ, Michael Flint.” I opened up on him, standing right there in the middle of that peaceful street. “Of all the excessive uses of force I have ever seen, and I have covered my share, that was the single most reprehensible, unnecessary example of pure fascist-tactic police abuse I have ever encountered. What the hell were you trying to prove?”
Unremorseful, he put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “He crossed the line.”
“And what line was that?”
“My personal line. Think about it. Schwartz must have picked us up at the house this morning. Now he knows where your daughter goes to school. How does that make you feel?”
“I don’t like being followed,” I said. “But, my God, Mike, Schwartz isn’t a criminal. He works for the D.A.”
“So he says.”
That gave me pause.
“And so what if he works for the D.A.?” Mike went on. “We’re talking Baron Marovich, not Mother Teresa. I don’t trust Marovich as far as I can throw him, and he outweighs me by thirty pounds. The point is, no one comes near my family. Even the Mafia has rules about that. Capice?”
“I capice okay,” I said. “But I still say you went too far.”
“Never laid a hand on him. Did what I needed to do to control the scene, nothing more. Everything strictly within department guidelines. You have it all on film. Besides, fuck him.”
“Don’t try to snow me,” I said.
He smiled sheepishly. “You’re mad, huh?”
“Yes I’m mad. You scared the shit out of me. See this?” I tapped the little cut on my nose. “I got hurt.”
“Want me to kiss it?”
“Not yet. I’m still too upset. I’ve never seen this side of you. Is that the way you behave on duty?”
“When I need to. This time, I definitely needed to.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about it.”
“You’d better decide,” he said. He was not in any way repentant. In fact, he was cocky. “I figure I’ve given Marovich fair warning. If I ever see him around you or Casey or Michael again, I’ll shoot him.”
“Bull,” I said.
“No bull,” he said. Then he held out his arms to me. “Come here.”
I went over and put my arms around him because I needed to be reminded who he was, or who I thought he was. He still felt the same, had the same soft bristles at the back of his neck, the same little patch of missed whiskers on his chin. I had been feeling a little shaky ever since the cafeteria lunch at Casey’s school. It was nice to lean against something warm and solid. To lean against Mike. My mind was in turmoil, but at least my body was comforted.
I looked over Mike’s shoulder and saw the audience we had drawn, a group of five neighbors and one little dog that could be mistaken for a dust mop.
An elderly woman in bright walking togs, holding on to an elderly man in similar bright attire, called out, “Are you all right, dear?”
“We’re fine,” I said.
“Are you lost?”
I looked up at Mike and started to laugh. “We’re not lost,” I said. “We’re the new neighbors.”
Chapter 11
All the rest of Tuesday I felt unsettled. My outrage over being followed had been chilled by the cool, cocky expression on Mike’s face as he overpowered George Schwartz. It was some stranger who put the cuffs on Schwartz, not the Mike I knew.
Once we were home, I watched Mike’s every move for clues, hoping, I think, that some gesture or turn of phrase would reveal to me something essential about him that I had missed, or reassure me that I had not been wrong. Expose him, redeem him, I didn’t care which. I had to know.
My moodiness seemed to infect the household. Casey had come home hot, muscle-weary, suffering a rare crisis of faith in her own ability; the senior students had been magnificent, a tough standard to follow. Without saying much, and still in her dance clothes, hair hanging in damp strings, she had gone back out into the smoggiest part of the day to take Bowser for a walk.
Sitting close together in the cool gray living room, Mike and I went over the inventory of my stored furniture, discussing without much interest what we might want to ship down once we had decided on a house. Furniture was safe territory. I was afraid to bring up what was really on my mind, afraid of the outcome. Afraid that, if the answers weren’t right, the furniture would never come out of storage. It was a relief when Michael came home and brought a bells-and-whistles distraction with him: Sly.
Sly belonged to all of us, a ten-year-old urchin Mike and I had gathered in off the street the previous spring. While Michael put away his school things, I followed Sly around as he followed Mike around. I eavesdropped on their conversation, dropped in my two cents now and then.
When we first met Sly he was a foul-mouthed, underfed little delinquent with more tricks in his repertoire than most career criminals acquire in a lifetime. After five months in a decent group home in Reseda, with Michael as his Big Brother and mentor, and with Mike running interference with the authorities now and then, Sly’s sharp edges had noticeably softened. He was being transformed from a know-it-all old man into a vulnerable child. But he was still hungry all the time.
“This asswipe Fliegle’s always on my case,” Sly complained, slumped at the kitchen table while Mike made him a couple of predinner peanut butter sandwiches. “It’s harassment, Mike. I’m gonna sue him.”
“Fliegle’s the math teacher?” Mike cut the sandwiches and set them in front of Sly. I poured him a glass of milk as an excuse to be there. “Are you turning in your homework every day?”
“I just don’t get it. How’m I supposed to do those crapwad problems when I don’t get it?” Dejected, Sly picked up his sandwich. “Anyway, don’t matter what I do. Fliegle hates me.” He took a bite.
“Fliegle wants you to learn something. If he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t be on your case.” Mike sat down beside Sly, listened to his grievances, acknowledged his frustration-school was a whole new world for the boy. Then he sold the teacher to the kid, pushed him even. When I left the room to answer the front door, they were laughing about Fliegle’s weird mustache, agreeing that he was a good teacher.
Watching Mike with the child, I was moved. I was encouraged. Mike Flint would never coerce a kid to do something wrong; the charges were bullshit.
On my way out of the kitchen, I almost collided with Michael.
“I have tickets for the Dodger game,” he said, following me to answer the door. “Can you and Casey come?”
It was Casey at the door, with Bowser. “Forgot my key,” she said. She unhooked Bowser’s leash and followed him inside, both of them panting and hot.
“Michael has tickets for the Dodger game,” I said.
“Can’t,” she said. “Homework.”
I knew it was a lie, but I didn’t make an issue. For nearly four years it had been just her and me. As much as we liked Mike and Michael, it takes a while to get accustomed to living with new people. Casey and I both needed a time-out.
“You men go ahead,” I said to Michael. “Have fun.”
I thought Michael looked as relieved that we weren’t coming along as Casey did. I helped Mike find his binoculars and kissed everyone good-bye.
While Casey showered and dressed to go out to dinner with me, I took advantage of having a few minutes alone to make some calls.
I reached Baron Marovich’s office and asked to speak with George Schwartz, just to see what I could learn. After a round of telephonic leapfrog, and under the guise of a loan rep trying to verify the employment of an applicant-that is, Schwartz-I was put in touch with Marovich’s administrative assistant.