“That,” I said, “and he’s black.”
“And he’s black,” said Hanson.
“In an all white school,” I said.
“Yep.”
“Were his prints on the knife?”
“No.”
We were sitting in an outdoor cafe facing the beach. It was spring, and in southern California that’s as good as summer. Many underdressed women were roller-blading, jogging or walking their dogs on the narrow beach path. There were also some men, all finely chiseled, but they were not as interesting.
Detective Hanson was a big man, but not as big as me. He had neat brown hair parted down the middle. His thick mustache screamed cop. He wore slacks and a white shirt. He was sweating through his shirt. I was dressed in khaki shorts, a surfing T-shirt and white Vans. Coupled with my amazing tan and disarming smile, I was surprised I wasn’t more often confused with Jimmy Buffet. If Jimmy Buffet stood six foot four and weighed two hundred and twenty.
“You guys have anything else on the kid?” I asked.
“You know I can’t divulge that. Trial hasn’t even started. The info about the knife made it to the press long ago, so that’s a freebie for you. I can tell you this: the body was found at one a.m., although the ME places the time of death around seven p.m. the previous night.”
“Who found the body?”
“A neighbor.”
“Where were the victim’s parents?”
“Dinner and dancing. It was a Friday night.”
“Of course,” I said. “Who doesn’t go out and dance on a Friday night?”
“I don’t,” said Hanson.
“Me neither,” I said. “Does Derrick have an alibi?”
“This will cost you a tunacoda.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
I called the waitress over and put in our lunch orders.
“No alibi,” Hanson said when she had left, “but…” He let his voice trail off.
“But you believe the kid?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. He seems like a good kid. Says he was working out at the school gym at the time.”
“Schools have janitors, staff, students.”
“Yeah, well, it was late and no one saw him.”
“Or no one chose to see him.”
Hanson shrugged.
Our food arrived. A tunacoda for the detective. A half pound burger for me, with grilled onions and cheese, and a milkshake.
“You trying to commit suicide?” he asked.
“I’m bulking up,” I said.
“This is how you bulk up? Eating crap?”
“Only way I know how.”
“Why?”
“Thinking of trying out for San Diego,” I said.
“The Chargers?”
“Yeah.”
“What about your leg?”
“The leg’s going to be a problem.”
He thought about that, working his way through his tuna and avocado sandwich. He took a sip from his Coke.
“You wanna bash heads with other men and snap each other in the shower with jock straps, go right ahead.”
“It’s not as glamorous as that.”
“Suicide, I say. What’s your dad think?”
“He doesn’t know. You’re the first person I’ve told.”
“I’m honored.”
“You should be.”
“What’s Cindy going to say?”
I sipped my milkshake. “She won’t like it, but she will support me. She happens to think very highly of me and my decisions.”
He snorted and finished his sandwich, grabbed his Styrofoam cup.
“I can’t believe I was bribed with a shitty tuna sandwich and a Coke.”
“A simple man with simple needs.”
“I should resent that remark, if it wasn’t so true.” He stood. “I gotta run. Good luck with the kid, but I think it’s a lost cause. Kid even has a record.”
“What kind?”
“Vandalism, mostly. He’s a goner. Hear they’re gonna try him as an adult.”
Detective Hanson left with his Styrofoam cup. I noticed he wasn’t wearing socks. Even cops in Huntington Beach are cool.
3.
Cindy Darwin is an anthropology professor at UCI. Her expertise is in the anthropology of religion, which, she tells me, is an important aspect of anthropology. And, yes, she can trace her lineage back to Charles Darwin, which makes her a sort of icon in her field. She knows more things about anthropology than she probably should, and too few things about the real world. Maybe that’s why she keeps me around.
It was late and we were walking hand-in-hand along the Huntington Pier. From here we could see the lights of Catalina Island, where the reclusive sorts live and travel via ferry and plane. To the north, in the far distance, we could see Long Beach glittering away. The air was cool and windy and we were dressed in light jackets and jeans. Her jeans were much snugger and more form-fitting than mine. As they should be.
“I’m thinking of giving San Diego a call,” I said.
“Who’s in San Diego?” she asked. She had a slightly higher pitched voice than most women. I found it endlessly sexy. She said her voice made it easier to holler across an assembly hall. Gave it more range, or something.
I was silent. She put two and two together. She let go of my hand.
“They call you again?” she asked. “The Rams, right?”
“The Chargers. Christ, Cindy, your own brother plays on the team.”
“I think it’s all sort of silly. Football, I mean. And all those silly mascots, I just don’t get it.”
“The mascots help us boys tell the teams apart,” I said. “And, no, they didn’t call. But I’m thinking about their last offer.”
“Honey, that was two years ago.”
She was right. I turned them down two years ago. My leg hadn’t felt strong enough.
“The leg’s better now,” I said.
“Bullshit. You still limp.”
“Not as much. And when I workout, I feel the strength again.”
“But you still have metal pins it.”
“Lots of players play with pins.”
“Have you told Rob yet?” she asked. Rob was her brother, the Chargers fourth wide receiver. Rob had
