Nocturnal: A Novel

“It’s only funny when I use it,” Pookie said. “Bri-Bri, I want to go on record that I am officially unhappy with this staffing decision.”

“Zou’s call,” Bryan said. “You know that means we have to accept it.” Pookie, of course, knew no such thing — he’d be angling for the case nonstop, no matter how exhausting that became to Bryan.

“Come on,” Bryan said. “We have to get to the Hall.”

Pookie adjusted his sunglasses and re-feathered his hair. “Fine by me, Bri-Bri. Can’t really tell which one of them stinks like piss, anyway.”

Bryan went down the steps first, that smell still tickling his nose. He was careful to keep a hand on the rail.

The Morning News

The buzz of an alarm clock brought Rex Deprovdechuk awake. He’d been dreaming a great dream that made him feel wonderful inside; he tried to capture it, to lock in the memory, but it slipped away. The nice feeling faded, replaced by the aches of his body and that pain in his chest.

Rex felt so sick. He just wanted to sleep. Wanting to sleep during the day was nothing new — he routinely dozed off during second-hour trig class — but this was different. He’d been hurting for days. His mother wouldn’t let him stay home. He dragged himself out of bed. He blew his nose on some crusty Kleenex he’d used the night before, then shuffled out of his tiny bedroom into the hall.

The hallway ran the length of the floor, a blank wall on the left, five doors on the right. The wall held old framed pictures from a time Rex barely remembered — pictures of his dad, of Rex when he’d been really little, even pictures of his mom, smiling. He was glad for those pictures, because he had never seen her smile in person.

Rex walked into the toilet room. The room was barely wider than the toilet tank itself. Wasn’t really a bathroom, because it just had the toilet and a sink. The next room down had the bath — and no toilet — so Rex called that the shower room.

He took care of his morning business and was headed back to his bedroom when he heard it.

From down the hall, a voice on the TV made him stop. Not the voice itself, but the name the voice had spoken — a name both from Rex’s unremembered dream and from his unforgettable past. He wiped his hand across his runny nose. He turned around and walked down the hall, past the shower room to the living room, which was just inside the front door.

He entered quietly. His mother, Roberta, was sitting in her chair that faced the television. The screen’s glow shone through her wiry hair, silhouetting her skull.

Rex stood there, waiting to hear the name again, because he’d just dreamed about that name, dreamed about that man. And he’d drawn a picture of that man just last night, before he went to bed — he had to have heard it wrong. But he hadn’t.

“… Maloney was a longtime priest at the Cathedral of St. Mary of the Assumption in San Francisco, until he was caught up in a sex-abuse scandal and removed from that post. Maloney served a year in jail and was on probation. San Francisco chief of police Amy Zou said in a press conference this morning that the force is working to gather information on Maloney’s murder, but that it’s too early to make assumptions about the killer’s motives.”

“Father Maloney’s dead?”

Rex said the words without thinking. Had he thought, he would have quietly walked away.

She turned, leaning over an armrest to look back at him. The television’s light played off her pockmarked face. A cigarette dangled from her skinny fingers. “What are you doing in the TV room?”

“Uh, I just … I heard Father Maloney’s name.”

She squinted. She did that when she was thinking. She nodded almost imperceptibly. “I remember the lies you told about him,” she said. “Dirty, filthy lies.”

Rex stood there, motionless, wondering if she’d get the belt.

“Finish getting ready for school,” she said. “You hear me talking to you?”

“Yes, Roberta.” She didn’t like it if he called her Mom or Mother. When he’d been little he’d called her those names, but sometime after his dad died she told him to stop using them.

Rex quickly walked out of the TV room before she could change her mind. Once out of her sight, he ran down the narrow hall to his bedroom. His room had a bed, a little TV with a video-game console, a dresser and a small desk with a stool — the sum total of his existence. He threw on his clothes and grabbed his backpack, remembering to get his notes for Freshman English off the floor as he did. No time for a shower; he had to get out of the house before Roberta thought of a reason to get mad at him. He hoped he didn’t smell like pee — some bum was using the alley outside Rex’s window as a bathroom. Not that it really mattered; sometimes Roberta wouldn’t let him shower at all.

Before Rex left, he picked up the drawing sitting on his desk, the one he’d made last night. The picture showed a much larger Rex, a Rex with muscle-bound arms and a big chest, using his bare hands to snap Father Paul Maloney’s left leg. Now Father Maloney was dead. The drawing made Rex feel funny. Funny, and wrong.

Rex put the drawing in the desk’s drawer. He closed it, then looked at it to make sure no part of the drawing stuck out.

Time for the long walk to school. Rex prayed he could avoid the BoyCo bullies.

Father Paul Maloney was dead, and that was awesome. Maybe, for once, Rex could make it to school and back without getting his ass kicked, and the day would just keep getting better.

All in the Family

The San Francisco Hall of Justice takes up two full city blocks. The long, featureless, seven-story gray building located at 850 Bryant Street houses most divisions of the San Francisco Police Department — Gang Task Force, Homicide, Narcotic/Vice, Fraud, Operations and, of course, Administration. SWAT and Missing Persons have offices elsewhere in the city, but by and large most cop-related things that don’t involve a local precinct happen at the Hall.

Bryan set his weapons and keys on the conveyor belt, then walked through the metal detector. He recognized the old uniform on the other side. Recognized the face, anyway — Bryan was shit with names.

“Clauser,” the white-hair said with a nod.

Bryan nodded back, then collected his gear. Pookie came through next.

“Chang,” the cop said.

“Lawrence,” Pookie said. “How’s that artificial hip treating you?”

“They think the screws on the ball part are coming loose,” the man said. “Feels like someone is scraping a knife in my hip every time I take a step.”

“Terrible,” Pookie said, shaking his head in sympathy. “You suing?”

“Naw,” Lawrence said. “I just want it fixed.”

Pookie gave the man’s shoulder a squeeze. “Good man. You change your mind, holla at your boy. I know some great lawyers. Oh, and happy anniversary. Tell Margaret I said congrats on number … is it twenty- three?”

Lawrence’s hard face split in a smile, which lasted only a few seconds until he turned to glare the next person through. Bryan and Pookie headed for the elevators.

“We gotta get you on Jeopardy,” Bryan said. “How the hell do you remember this crap?”

Pookie pushed the up button, then shrugged. “Not all of us are as antisocial as you, my black-clad little buddy.”

Teddy Ablamowicz had been one of the city’s financial golden boys. A heavy contributor to the San Francisco Opera, the ballet, GLBT charities and just about anything involving a park, Ablamowicz had been a well-known philanthropist, a mover and a shaker.