The phone rang. Soledad's hand shot for it. Forcibly she pulled it back, let the phone chirp on. Shameful. At her age, and here she was playing schoolgirl games.
She answered the phone driving all expectation from her voice."Hello?"
It was only after Soledad was across the room grinding right fist into left palm that the memory of slamming down the phone caught up to her. She did a rewind: the phone ringing, her answering, a woman's voice saying hello, then asking: "Bullet?"
Again the phone rang. When it didn't ring itself out, Soledad crossed back over and picked it up saying nothing.
A woman's voice again. Same woman who'd just called a minute previous."Sorry. I should have said: May I speak with Soledad?"
There was a Chinese place in the Beverly Connection. Dollar for dollar, far as Soledad cared, it cooked up the best Chinese food, or Americanized version of Chinese food, in Los Angeles. And that was the thing: dollar for dollar. You could spend more, get better for your money spent, but Soledad was living on cop's pay—which, in LA, on MTac, wasn't as bad as the cliche'd lead you to think. But saving money was never a wrong idea. Soledad got her Chinese food in the Beverly Connection. She waited, ate the house fried rice, read the Daily News. Typical LA stories: gang shooting, bank robbery, actor beats up girlfriend. Harsh, dark, violent, but at least nothing like: the giggler nabs mister disaster or major force ends the liquidators' crime spree. The days of such headlines—laughable, except that the perps were deadly psychopaths—were thankfully done and over.
There was even a little good news buried in the pages. Six-year-old girl runs out into the street, gets hit, hit hard by a car and lives. A picture of mother and daughter and stunned onlookers at the scene. Mom: "It's a miracle."
Soledad flipped the paper aside, checked her watch. Eighteen minutes past the time she was supposed to meet Gayle.
It'd be another ten minutes before Gayle actually arrived.
Gayle Senna, the woman who'd phoned up Soledad the day prior, had done a workman job—in spite of making the mistake of calling her Bullet—of talking Soledad into taking a meeting. The Bullet thing Gayle apologized for as she sat.
"Sorry about the Bullet thing."
"I don't like," very firmly Soledad pointed out,"to be called that."
"Obviously. When I was asking around about you, some cops I—"
"I don't like to be called that."
A shrug. A nod. Gayle put the subject to bed and moved on."So let's talk about helping you."
"Except I don't need help."
The thing about the Beverly Connection: It's a series of shops and cafes built around one big parking garage. Sitting al fresco really meant sitting around while cars crept by looking for open spots and spewing fumes.
Gayle sucked carbon monoxide and tried to figure how long it was going to take to get to the heart of things with Soledad.
"Look, we started things wrong, and that was my fault. But let's not keep going wrong by slinging crap at each other. You need help, and if you didn't, you wouldn't be here."
"I came because me saying yes was the only way to get you off the phone."
"It pays to be persistent, Soledad." Gayle stressed the name, stressed her acquiescence. Stressed it to the point of nearly being snide."I'm tenacious like that. Good trait for a lawyer. Get it from my mother's side. Always stuck with things. Married six guys till she found one she could stand. Talk about not letting go." Gayle crossed her legs, which jutted from the skirt of a smart business suit. She had great legs, long and shaped by muscle. Even Soledad had to notice them. Gayle's great legs went with her great body, smooth skin and dark hair. She wasn't model beautiful, but she didn't miss the mark by much. That didn't give Soledad a lot of confidence in Gayle's legal abilities. In a city where good looks traded at a premium, Soledad figured the counselor never had to pay full freight for anything.
Helping Gayle get back on track: "What you were talking about was helping me."
"Yes. You're being investigated by IA. Potentially you could face disciplinary proceedings. I'll keep that from happening."
Soledad waited for more, but all that happened was Gayle flagged a waitress, ordered some potstickers.
"That's it?"
"Well, I can make you a media darling too, but I get the feeling it's not what you're looking for."
"Just like that you're going to get me out from under?"
Ignoring the question: "It's got to be eighty degrees. Are you warm at all with that turtleneck?"
Warm, yeah, but Soledad was getting used to it.
Ignoring the question: "You're going to keep me from being brought up on charges? How?"
"We're talking about the law. There's always a way around it. Provided you step carefully. The first mistake you made—"
"Didn't know I'd made any."
"Two. The first one is you're not even represented."
"I'm not on trial."
"Anytime an officer is under review by IA, or DAID, you're entitled to have an attorney present during questioning." Gayle waved away the exhaust from some kind of eighties version of Cadillac."Is there somewhere else we could—"
"You wanted to meet. Here's where we're meeting."
Letting it go, letting Soledad feel like she was running the show: "Your second mistake… let's just call it an error of judgment: You are on trial. Just because you're not staring down twelve of your peers, don't think otherwise." Gayle dug a pen, a legal pad from her bag, pushed aside the soy sauce to make room. Poised, ready to write: "So tell me what's going on."
"How about we slow things down for a second? How about you tell me about you. What do you… what…" Simplest way to put it: "Who are you?"
"I thought I was pretty clear on the phone—"
"How do you know about me? Does your firm—"
"I'm not with a firm."
And Soledad downgraded her assessment of Gayle. Good-looking, and couldn't get with a firm? Her skills have really got to be suspect.
"So how'd you find out I was… I'm having troubles?"
"I'm well connected."
Soledad laughed derisive.
"What?"
"You mean you sleep around."
"Sure. Because I happen to look good, and I get the job done, so, of course, I'm a whore."
"If you were a whore, you'd have landed a firm instead of having to make cold calls."
With her pen, Gayle drew a little box between the lines of her legal pad. Drew another. Drew another. She set the pen down."You know something? You and I are going to do good together. You've got an attitude that's as pleasant as a fist to the face. So do I. I modify it for work. Have to. But with you, I think I can relax and just be the difficult woman I am. So, no, I haven't landed a firm. Don't want to. I'm trying to build a rep, and it's not the kind most of those leather-couch establishments'll touch."
"What kind is that?"
"Defending the constitutional rights of metanormals."
And Soledad said: "Fuck you!"
And Gayle asked the waitress for hot mustard as she set down the potstickers.
"Fuck you!"
"I heard you the first time." Gayle looked over her plate of food. Six dumplings. All the same. Still, she inspected them carefully, finally settled on one and harpooned it with a chopstick.
"Those things don't have rights."
"Well…" Gayle talked around a mouthful of food."That's still being debated."
"You got a thing for muties."