Peterson cried out, grabbed for his arm.
But I wasn’t done with him.
No, not by a long shot.
I went to work on him, and when it was finally over, when Sanchez finally pulled me off him, my knuckles were split and bloodied and I was gasping for breath.
37.
The MGD bottle slipped from my fingers and crashed to my cement balcony. Foam erupted among the broken glass shards.
Shit.
I considered grabbing another beer from the twenty-four pack at my feet, then decided to give it a rest for the night. Instead, I began drunkenly counting the empty glass bottles standing like sentries along the tabletop, lost count, started over, lost count again, then decided that I had drunk a shit-load of beer tonight.
I had murders, child molesters, broken arms, dead cats, suicides and death threats on my mind. And now perhaps new information about my mother. Enough to drive any man to drink. But then again I never needed much reason to drink.
Cindy was with her sister-in-law tonight, Francine. They got together once every other week and gossiped about their men, football and the nature of God in society since Francine was a religious studies instructor at Calabasas Junior College near San Diego.
That left me alone tonight. Just me and my beer.
I automatically reached down for another beer. Stopped halfway. Put my hands in my lap, and laced my fingers together.
Good boy.
The night was cool; a soft breeze swept over my balcony. Traffic was thick on PCH. I could smell exhaust and grilling hamburgers.
On its own accord, my hand reached down for another bottle. I stopped it just as it brushed a cold bottle cap.
The bone had snapped loud enough for birds to erupt in surprise.
My knuckles still ached from the beating I gave Peterson. The assemblyman’s solo vehicle accident had made the local papers. Neither I nor Sanchez were mentioned. After the beating, we had dragged Peterson’s limp body down the incline and stowed him in the driver’s seat. I placed a call via his cell phone to 911, pretending to be Peterson, gasping for pain. Hell of a performance. Sanchez was amused, although I noted he looked a little sick and pale.
A horn honked from below, along Main Street, followed by a short outburst of obscenities.
I would have killed Peterson if Sanchez hadn’t pulled me off him.
And, Lord help me, I was enjoying every minute of it.
I reached down and grabbed another beer. This time there was no stopping my hand. I twisted off the cap and drank from it. And it was good, so very, very good.
38.
“How’s the case going?” asked Cindy.
She had just sat down in front of me at the Trocadero, a Mexican place across the street from UCI. She was wearing a casual business suit, and her hair was down. She looked three years my junior, rather than the other way around. Her lipstick was bright red, which was good since I was color blind. Seriously. She wore the bright red for me.
“Other than the fact that I have no idea who killed Amanda, just swell.”
The waiter took our drink orders. An apple martini for Cindy and Coke for me.
“I called you last night,” she said. “Twice.”
“I know,” I said, “and I called you this morning when I got the messages.”
She let her unspoken question hang in the air: so why didn’t you pick up? I let it hang in the air as well. I still felt like shit from the night before. I had drunk the entire case. A new record for me.
“Are you feeling well?” she asked.
“Just great.”
“Bullshit. Your eyes are red and you look pale.” She opened her purse and removed the local edition of the Orange County Register. “Amanda Peterson’s father was in an accident. A bad accident. A broken arm. Three broken ribs. A broken collar bone. And a broken jaw. Jesus Christ, Jim.”
“Like they said, a bad accident.”
“It was no accident.”
“No,” I said, looking at her. “It wasn’t; it was a methodical beating that I gave to a son-of-a-bitch to reinforce the idea that he is to never, ever touch his family inappropriately again. The way I see it, he got off easy. His wounds will heal. The damage he inflicted may never heal.”
“Did your point hit home?” There might have been sarcasm in her voice.
“So far he’s sticking to the accident story. So he’s scared. As he should be.”
The waiter came around and took our order. Salmon for Cindy and two Super Mex chicken burritos for me, extra guacamole and sour cream.
“You’re going to kill yourself before your tryouts,” said Cindy. More sarcasm?
“I’m still about seven pounds from my target weight.”
“Isn’t there a healthier way to gain weight?”
“Is that an oxymoron?”
“I’m serious, Jim. I’m concerned about you. About us.”
She wouldn’t look me in the eye, and sipped her martini faster than normal. Her free hand played with the napkin, repeatedly wadding it and smoothing it out.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I can’t keep doing this.”
“You mean strangling your napkin?”
“No. I mean us.”
I let the air out of my lungs. We had had this conversation before.
“Last time, I convinced you to stay,” I said. “Talked until I was blue in the face. Do you remember what I told you I would do if you did this to me again?”
“Yes,” she said. “You said you wouldn’t try to stop me the next time.”
“Yes.”
The napkin was wasted, rendered perfectly useless. She pushed it aside and drank deeply from her martini. So deeply, in fact, that she finished it. I said nothing. There was nothing for me to say. I was not going to keep having this conversation with her. I loved Cindy with all of my heart, but I was not going to make her do something she did not want to do.
The waiter saw her empty glass and came over.
“Another?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
She still hadn’t looked me in the eye. I studied her closely. She was behaving very un-Cindy like. Small, jerky movements as she tapped on the now empty cardboard coaster. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
I said nothing.
“Jesus Christ, Jim, you beat the unholy shit out of another human being. Your life has been threatened by a hired killer. A dead cat shows up in your office. Cut in fucking two. And now you’re drinking again. It’s not that you’re drinking, really. It’s that you are getting drunk, and doing it in secret, which makes it dirty and dangerous and all-consuming. And, ultimately, sad. Very, very sad.”
I said nothing.
“You didn’t answer the phone last night because you were passed out.”
Her second apple martini came, followed by a second waiter bearing our food. The food was placed before us; it went ignored.
“And now you’re trying out for the Chargers in a few weeks. What if you make the team? I would never see you. I know that’s selfish of me, but it’s true. You would throw your whole life into it, like you do everything else, and the NFL would own your heart and soul. Would there be any room left for me?”
She drank her martini. Her eyes were wet. Hands shaking. She spilled some of the drink, and used the shredded napkin to clean up. The napkin only managed to smear the liquid.
“Christ, aren’t you going to say anything?”
I said nothing.
“And I love you so much, you big sonofabitch. You worked your way deep into my heart like a damn thorn. A thorn that hurts, but has so much love to give.”
I didn’t like the analogy, but said nothing.
“I worry so much about you. But you can take care of yourself. I’ve seen it. And you have Sanchez and your father to help you. The three of you are an amazingly formidable force. And you are so brutal and deadly, but moral and just, and so fucking hilarious. Shit.”
She stopped talking and picked at her salmon. She even went as far as to bring up a forkful, but then got distracted by her own thoughts, and set it down again.