The bartender asked if I wanted a drink and when I told him I only wanted to find Mike Flint, he made himself scarce.
I went through to the first room, small tables and a few chairs, a lot of standing room and all of it filled-men and women in about equal numbers. The smell of liquor, perfume, people in close quarters on a hot night, could have been bottled and sold under the label “Lookin’ for Love.”
I was looking for Mike. And I hadn’t found him.
There was a second room in the back, on the far side of the bank of lockers the management gave to women customers for their purses. I had to wedge my way through the passageway, dodging hands that grabbed my rear, smiling off lines that represented damn good effort and years of practice. I appreciated the effort. I appreciated the attention. But all I wanted to do was find Mike and get the hell out.
The back room was as full as the first, noisier and smokier because it was smaller. There was a pool table in the middle of the room, but there wasn’t enough available space for anyone to play. I recognized Mike’s group off in the far corner by their grubby work clothes, and began making my way back toward them.
Finally, I saw Mike. He was sitting on the banquette at the far side, talking with a cluster of maybe half a dozen of the guys. I knew that he had been drinking, knew that drink explained why he found all the jokes so funny. Drink probably also explained the sweet young thing sitting on his lap.
Mike has a soft spot for chicanas, especially chicanas in short, flippy skirts. He says they have an assertive way about them that he likes. The one on his lap was being assertive about nuzzling my favorite soft spot on his neck. His focus, blurred as it was, seemed to be the guy gang and he was holding her as a matter of form, to keep her from falling onto the floor. Holding her like a habit.
Once again, I wished for the automatic he had locked away in the closet.
I heard my name pass through the crowd, and then I lost sight of Mike because everyone stood up and faced me. I was grabbed from behind and boosted up onto the pool table. I was confused at first, thinking these were ridiculous lengths to go to protect a brother officer from being caught dirty. When I had regained my balance and was standing on the table, I saw Mike’s face beaming up at me as he joined the others in applause. The little dear was still clinging to him, more like a fungus than a friend.
Someone yelled, “Speech,” and I finally realized that this was an accolade because of the news broadcast. As the vanquisher of a common enemy, I made a deep bow. Then I climbed down and went over to Mike.
Through the din, I yelled, “Who’s your friend?”
“Olga,” he beamed, and patted the arm wrapped around his middle. “Olga, meet the love of my life.”
Olga hissed.
Hector was at my elbow. I smelled beer on him and his eyes had the same dreamy glaze that Mike’s had.
“It was great what you did, Maggie.” Hector pulled me into an embrace and planted a sloppy kiss on me. He was weaving. I knew that if I let go of him he would fall on his face.
I caught a glimpse of Mike watching us. His eyes had cleared. Actually, they flashed. Elaborately, I paid no attention to him, or to the female attached to him. He reached through the mob to put a hand on Hector’s shoulder.
Gazing up into Hector’s face, I said, “What’s with Mike? He looks cranky.”
“I don’t know what it is. Ever since I fucked Charlene we haven’t been really close.”
That was the first time in my life I wished I was as drunk as everyone else.
“He doesn’t blame me,” Hector was saying. “Not like it’s my fault. She came on to me. She’s so-o beautiful, what’s a poor sucker to do?”
I disentangled myself and propped Hector on the broad shoulders next to us. Mike was weaving some himself. Olga seemed to be getting mad that she had lost his attention. When I smiled at her she mouthed, “Bitch.” To Mike she snapped, “You said you wasn’t married,” and flounced off to try her luck elsewhere.
When Mike listed precariously to the left, I righted him. I said, “Ready to go home?”
“That was one hell of a piece of work you did.” His words slurred. “We watched it three times. Three times all the way through.”
“Good thing it only lasted a minute,” I said, taking his arm. “You smell like una noche de amor, amigo. Let’s go get you cleaned up.”
He draped an arm around my shoulders and let me forge the path of least resistance through the standing crowd. Besides beer and cigarette smoke and sweet young thing, he smelled like a hard day’s work. I liked it.
The fresh air outside made him reel. I hadn’t a clue where his car might be, so we headed toward mine. I said, “If you’re going to throw up, I’d rather you do it here than in my car.”
“Me?” Shocked offense. “You think I’m drunk?”
“I hope you are,” I said.
“You’re pissed about Olga.”
“No.”
“Damn.” He seemed dejected. “It would be easier if you were pissed. Go ahead and yell at me. I’ll feel better.”
“What’s the point? You’re so drunk, in the morning you won’t remember anything I said. Like yelling at an amnesiac. Why waste the effort?”
We passed a new set of lovers in the dry cleaner’s doorway. He said, “How can I make it up to you?”
“Make love to me right here, right now.”
His step faltered as he thought over the proposition. Then he stopped, appealed to me with tears in his eyes. “Sorry, baby. I don’t think I can.”
“Exactly,” I said.
I woke up early Saturday morning, sorted my arms and legs from Mike’s, and took the cotton out of my ears-he’s a ferocious snorer when he drinks. The air conditioner had been set too low and I felt a little chilled. The chill disinclined me from swimming laps, so I slipped into running things and headed down the hill toward Ventura Boulevard.
Some fog had drifted into the Valley, a cool, moist, gray in- fusion into the rising heat. For the first mile, I ran stiff and heavy-footed. But I found my stride at about mile two and ran easily among the residential streets north of the boulevard, falling into place among the mass of weekend runners.
Because I didn’t know the area, hadn’t clocked the streets, I couldn’t set a distance goal. Instead, I timed myself. If I didn’t get lost, I figured to arrive home at just about the same time the coffee was set to be ready.
I didn’t push myself, so I beat both the paper boy and Mr. Espresso by about two minutes. I was listening to telephone messages from the day before when I heard the paper thunk against the garage door.
I paused the answering machine, bored with it. In one way or another, every caller had offered me something: a job, an interview, sudden painful death. I had been through it all before and wanted none of it.
It was nice to have the house to myself for a while. Even Bowser was gone-Mike left him locked happily into the yard at the South Pasadena house, with food and water, he promised. I traded my hot running shoes for the ratty moccasins Mike keeps by the back door and slogged out for the paper.
Maggie MacGowen had made page one, part one, column right. I spread the paper open on the kitchen table and glanced at the lead paragraph while I heated some milk with the little steam chingow on the espresso maker, made myself a big cup of caf6 au lait. When I sat down, I was ready to concentrate.
The “dark and stormy night” school of journalism is very tiresome. I wanted straight news. What I got was a clumsy metaphor using the heated-up weather to define the heated up D.A.‘s race, and then Maggie MacGowen came and threw a cold bucket on the leader, Baron Marovich. I managed to sort out the essentials.