“Here I was, all of twenty, lonely, scared about what I’d gotten myself into, unable- and unwilling- to go back to Daddy. So I swallowed my pride, put up with whatever Mondo wanted- which really wasn’t much. He was hardly ever around. Then, early in February, he traipsed in, the middle of the night, dirty and smelly, woke me up and announced he was moving out. Something really big, a new assignment- he’d be gone for at least a month, maybe longer. I started crying, tried to get him to tell me what was going on, but he said it was the job, I didn’t need to know- for my sake I shouldn’t know. Then he kissed my cheek- a passionless kiss, as if we were brother and sister- and left. It was the last time I saw him. Two days later he got caught in a dope burn and was gunned down, along with another rookie. The other guy survived but was a vegetable. Mondo was the lucky one- dead before he hit the floor. It was a big screw-up- dealers and junkies, and cops dressed as dealers and junkies, waging war at this dope factory out in the barrio. Four bad guys were killed too. The papers called it a slaughterhouse, made a big deal about how poorly prepared the two of them had been for the assignment. Lambs to the slaughter.”
She hugged herself, sat down on a corner of the bed, out of reach.
“After that, I fell apart, crying for days, not eating or sleeping. And there came good old Dad to the rescue, carrying me- literally- back home. Sitting me in the parlor, playing his old seventy-eights and fiddling for his little girl, just like old times. But I couldn’t deal with that, and I got really hostile to him, snappish, fresh-mouthed. In the old days he never would have tolerated it- he’d have taken a switch to me, even at my age. But he just sat there and took it, docile. That scared me. But mostly I was angry. Enraged at life. Insulted by God. And then the question marks started bugging me. Why had Mondo been thrown into something he wasn’t equipped to handle?
“The funeral made it worse- all those gun salutes and rah-rah speeches about valor. I rode to the grave site in the same car as Mondo’s commander and demanded to know what had happened. The bastard was an old friend of Dad’s, still considered me a child, and he patronized me. But when I showed up at his office the next day and got pushy, he lost patience- just like a father would- and told me since Mondo and I had never been legally married, just cohabitating, I had no rights to any information or anything else, shouldn’t start thinking I could put in a claim on Mondo’s pension.
“I went home sobbing. Daddy listened, got all indignant and protective, and told me he’d take care of that S.O.B. Next day, the commander came calling, Whitman’s Sampler tucked under his arm for me, bottle of Wild Turkey for Daddy. All apologetic, calling me Miss Linda and Pretty One- Daddy’s pet name for me when I was little. Sitting in the parlor and going on about how the strain of the tragedy was getting to all of us, what a great guy Mondo had been. Daddy nodding as if he and Mondo had been best friends. Then the commander handed me an envelope. Inside were ten one-hundred-dollar bills- money the other cops had collected for me. Letting me know without saying it that even if I didn’t legally have rights, he was granting them to me. I told him I didn’t want money, just the truth. Then he and Daddy looked at each other and started talking in low, soothing tones about the dangers of the job, how Mondo’d been a true hero. The commander saying Mondo’d been picked for undercover because he was top-notch, had great recommendations. If only there were some way to turn back the clock. Daddy joining in, telling me about all the close calls he’d had, how scared and brave Mama had been when she was alive. How I had to be brave, go on and live my life.
“After a while it started to work. I softened up, thanked the commander for coming. Began to let my feelings out- to grieve. Started to finally be able to lay it to rest. Concentrate on what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Everything seemed to be going as well as could be expected until, about a month later, I got a call from Rudy- one of the other guys in the band- asking me to meet him at a restaurant out in the suburbs near Hill Country. He sounded uptight, wouldn’t tell me what it was about, just that it was important. When I got there he looked terrible- drained, pale. He’d lost a lot of weight. He said he was quitting the Department, moving the hell out of state- to New Mexico or Arizona. I asked him why. He said it was too dangerous sticking around, that after what had been done to Mondo, he’d never trust anyone in the fucking Department. I said what the heck are you talking about. He looked around- he was really jumpy, as if he was scared of being watched. Then he said, ‘I know this will blow you away, Linda, but you were his lady. You’ve got a right to know.” Then he told me he’d found out Mondo hadn’t been pulled off patrol because of his excellent performance. The opposite was true: He had a bad record- demerits for subordination, the long hair, borderline probation, low competence ratings. He’d been given dangerous assignments as a favor to someone.”
She stopped, touched her gut. “Lord, even after all these years it gets to me.”
“Your dad.”
Dull nod. “He and his old buddy, the commander. They set him up, put him in a situation they knew he couldn’t handle. Like throwing a new recruit into the jungle- sooner or later, you know what’s going to happen. Lamb to the slaughter. Damned close to premeditated murder, said Rudy, but nothing anyone could ever prove. Just knowing it put him in jeopardy, which was why he was getting the hell out of town.
“He left the coffee shop, looking over his shoulder all the while. I drove away at about ninety per- feeling out of my body, numb, like a player in my own nightmare. When I got home Daddy was sitting in the parlor. Fiddling. Grinning. After one look at my face, he put his bow down- he knew. I started screaming at him, hitting him. He reacted very calmly. He said, ‘Pretty One, what’s done is done. No sense fretting.’ I just looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Feeling nauseated, wanting to throw up, but determined he wouldn’t see me weak. I snatched the fiddle out of his hands- an old Czechoslovakian one that he really loved. He’d been buying and trading them for years until he’d found a keeper. He tried to grab it but I was too fast for him. I held it by the peg head and smashed it against the mantelpiece. Kept smashing until it was splinters. Then I ran from that house and never returned. Haven’t spoken to him since, though a couple of years ago we started exchanging Christmas cards again. He’s remarried- one of those men who needs a woman around. Some bimbo from Houston, half his age. She’ll get his pension, and the house I grew up in, and she’ll be the one tending his old bones.”
She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Cops and guitars.”
I said, “A long time ago.”
She shook her head. “Nine years. God. Haven’t had much of a taste for music for a long time- don’t even own a phonograph- and here I am humming to you and playing geisha and I barely know you.”
Before I could answer, she said, “Haven’t had anything to do with cops, either, till this mess.”
But I remembered that she’d mentioned being a Ranger’s daughter to Milo. Pushing the door open a crack.
“Maybe the time’s ripe for change, Linda.”
A tear made its way down her cheek. I moved closer to be able to hold her.
15
After a while she got up and said, “There’re some things I have to take care of. Boring stuff- shopping, cleaning. Been putting it off for too long.”
“What are you planning to do for transportation?”
“I’ll manage.” Restless. Embarrassed by it.
I said, “I’ve got some things to take care of too. The glories of the single life.”