“You admired him for doing that?”
“Sure did. We even dated for a while. You know, I once asked him why he did it, him being an Anglo and me a Mexican and all that. Only time I ever saw him get upset. He said he wasn’t Anglo, he was Irish, and his grandparents, or his great-grandparents, whatever, came over here after the potato famine. He told me hundreds of thousands of his people died in that famine and he was damned if he was going to stand by and watch someone made to suffer just because she came from another country for a better life, especially from a poor country.”
“What happened to him?”
“I don’t know. We lost touch.”
Just then, Mike Glover caught Maria’s attention and Arvo found himself leaning over the table trying to carry on a conversation about the prospects for the Rosebowl with Larry and Kelly. The din in the bar made it difficult. One particularly noisy group kept popping champagne corks and squealing with delight every time they sprayed half a bottle all over themselves. Elvis’s “Why Can’t Every Day Be Like Christmas?” gave way to John Lennon singing “Happy Xmas (War Is Over).”
For a moment, Arvo drifted away from the conversation, thinking about John Lennon, shot by the kind of person the TMU was trying to get some insight into. December 8, 1980. Arvo had been barely out his teens himself back then, but he had cried for John Lennon, listened to all those oldies they played on the radio all day: “In My Life,” “Working Class Hero,” “Mother.” Just a fucked-up working-class kid from Liverpool, or so Arvo’s Welsh father said, but a hell of a talent.
That December day in Detroit was wet, gray and chilling to the bone. Arvo remembered passing an empty playground where one of the swings was rocking gently back and forth in the wind, as if occupied by a ghost. He had his Walkman on and the radio station was playing “Jealous Guy.” It made Arvo feel inexplicably sad, that empty swing rocking back and forth on the gray day after John Lennon got shot. If Arvo had known then that one day he would be working on a special unit...
“Arvo?”
“Oh, sorry. What?”
It was Maria again, slipping on her herringbone jacket. “I’ve got to go now,” she said. “Long drive ahead.”
“Okay. Drive carefully and have a great time.” He knew she was going to spend Christmas with her family in San Diego.
She smiled, then leaned over suddenly and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. He could taste grapefruit juice, orange, salt, tequila and something else, maybe Maria herself. From the corner of his eye, he saw Kelly Norris raise her eyebrows. Maria gave his arm a squeeze and said, “Merry Christmas. Take care of yourself, Arvo,” then she turned to the group at large and waved. “Have a good one!” And before they knew it, she was gone.
“So what do you think?” Larry asked.
“What do I think about what?”
“Michigan. The Rosebowl. You got a bet on?”
“Oh... right... ”
Arvo chatted for as long as it took to drink a second beer then headed out himself, once again thanking Mike Glover for inviting him to Christmas dinner but pleading a prior engagement. A white lie.
As he drove home bumper to bumper in the constellation of lights along the Santa Monica Freeway, he could still taste Maria’s kiss, smell her perfume, and the memory of it stirred his loins. He turned off the freeway at Cloverfield and pulled up in the street outside his house around seven o’clock.
In his mailbox he found a card and small package postmarked Palo Alto. Inside, he first checked the answering machine for messages — none — then he kicked off his shoes and took off his gun and nylon holster. After pouring himself a stiff Scotch, he flipped on the television news, then he sat down, put his feet up and opened the card.
It showed a Breughel village scene. Tiny figures lost in the whiteness. Not a mention of Christmas. Typical Nyreen. Very politically correct when it came to religious sensitivity. So much so that she didn’t have any religion at all. The greeting read, “Sorry I’ve screwed things up. You know I’ll love you forever.” Arvo ripped up the card and put it in the garbage.
Just as he was on his way to the fridge to see if there was anything for dinner, his beeper went off. That could only mean work. He checked the number, saw it was Parker Center and went to the phone.
Joe Westinghouse picked it up at the other end on the third ring. “Arvo,” he said. “Merry Christmas. We put a rush on the John Heimar toxicology. Only way to get it done before the holiday. I just got the results back and I thought you might like to know that the kid had enough barbiturates in his system to kill half the state of California.”
“Come again?”
“I’m not just talking recreational drugs here, Arvo. Far too much for that. The kid was poisoned before he was chopped up.”
20
On Christmas Day, a cold wind buffeted Robin Hood’s Bay, smashing the sea in a frenzy of foam hard against the old stone wall and churning the dawn sky into a shifting pattern of ashes. Everyone woke early, and in no time, it seemed, Cathy and Jason were dashing down to open their presents and the day had begun.
Jason loved his Mighty Ducks jacket, and Cathy was ecstatic over the sweatshirt with Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Sylvester the Cat, Tweety Pie and other Warner Brothers cartoon characters on the front.
The Rodeo Drive blouse left Paula almost speechless (only almost: what she actually said was, “You shouldn’t have. When will I ever get a chance to wear something like this?”).
Sarah’s father thanked her for the watch, but she felt she had misjudged there. She noticed him fiddling unconsciously with the gold band all day, as if it were too tight. She had been cautious enough to avoid buying him something too ostentatiously expensive, like a Rolex, but it still seemed she was wrong. Perhaps it reminded him, too, of how quickly his time was ticking away? Sarah thought it might be a good idea at least to replace the band with a simple leather strap.
Most of the presents Sarah received consisted of some form of warm clothing — a scarf, gloves, a pullover — as if her family had expected her to come over from sunny California in a T-shirt and shorts. Paula had bought her a nice pair of earrings, though: hand-crafted silver inlaid with what looked like lapis lazuli.
While the children played with their toys and filled themselves with chocolates, Sarah helped Paula stuff the turkey and prepare the dressings.
They ate at three o’clock, and after dinner the children, who could contain themselves no longer, dashed off to show their American presents to their friends in the village. Arthur Bolton fell asleep in his wheelchair, wheezing and snoring, and Sarah and Paula shared the washing-up.
Most of the evening they sat around and watched television, sipping port and sherry until it was time for the children to go to bed. Arthur Bolton followed soon after.
“Let’s have another drink,” Sarah suggested when she and Paula were alone. “It’s been a long time since we last got tiddly together.”
A fire blazed in the hearth. It was only lava rocks heated by gas, but it looked and felt like a real fire, and it made Sarah remember the coal fire they used to have all winter when she was a child. With her father working at the pit, they got a coal allowance.
“I don’t know,” Paula said. “I shouldn’t. There’ll still be so much to do tomorrow.”
“Come on. It’s Christmas.”
“We can’t all live your easygoing lifestyle, you know. The kids will be needing me just as much tomorrow as they did today. Then there’s Dad to look after. And work.”
“Come on, let your hair down.”