Time Bomb

costumes, athletic team mascots dressed as hyperthyroid animals.

She said, “He’s a beloved man. Twenty-eight years representing this district.”

It sounded like a warning.

We made a sharp left turn, came to a door marked PRIVATE. She rapped once, opened it, stepped back, and ushered me in. When the door closed she was gone.

The office was small and beige, borderline-shabby. Massengil sat behind a plain, scuffed walnut desk. A gray suit jacket was draped over a gray metal file cabinet. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt and tie. The desk top was protected by a sheet of glass and bare except for two phones, a legal pad, and a bell jar of cellophane-wrapped hard candies. On the wall behind him were more photos and a diploma- a forty-year-old degree in engineering from a state college in the Central Valley.

Perpendicular to the desk was a hard brown sofa with wooden legs. A man sat on it, portly, white-bearded. Loose face, ruddy complexion. Santa Claus with indigestion. Just like on TV. Another vested suit, this one lead- heavy loden green, bunched up around the shoulders. Shiny gold watch chain and fob, which he toyed with. A fly- straining melon of belly protruded beneath the points of the vest. His shirt was yellow with a starched spread collar; his tie, a green paisley fastened in an enormous Windsor knot. He kept playing with the chain, avoiding my eyes.

Massengil stood. “Dr. Delaware, Sam Massengil. Appreciate your dropping by.” His voice was thin as charity soup, louder than it had to be.

We shook hands. His was large, hard with callus, and he squeezed my fingers a bit too tightly for the camaraderie he was trying to fake. A man prone to excess, though that didn’t apply to fashion. His shirt was wash- and-wear out of the sale bin, his tie a riot of powder-blue eagles soaring across a beige polyester sky. The short sleeves revealed arms too long even for his protracted body, scrawny but knotted with muscle and coiled with white hairs. Arms lathed by manual labor. A face sun-spotted and wrinkled as dried fruit. One side of the white toothbrush mustache was longer than the other, as if he’d shaved with his eyes closed. He looked every day of his age, but hard and fit. Rail-splitting? I couldn’t see him jogging with the yogurt crowd.

He sat back down, continued to look me over.

I said, “I didn’t realize there were going to be three of us, Assemblyman.”

“Yes, yes. This is a distinguished colleague of yours, Dr. Lance Dobbs. Dr. Dobbs, Dr. Delaware.”

“I’ve seen Dr. Dobbs on television.”

Dobbs gave a faint smile and nodded, made no effort to rise or shake hands.

I said, “What can I do for you, Assemblyman?”

Massengil and Dobbs exchanged glances. “Have a seat, won’t you?”

I took a chair facing the desk. Dobbs shifted position, the better to study me, and the brown couch squeaked.

Massengil held up the bell jar. “Candy?”

“No thanks.” No sign of the promised coffee.

“How ’bout you, Lance?”

Dobbs took the jar, palmed some candy, unwrapped a green one, and put it between his lips. He made wet noises, turning it between tongue and lips. Gazing past me, over at Massengil. Expectant. I thought of a soft, spoiled kid used to parental protection.

As if cued, Massengil cleared his throat and said, “We appreciate your coming down on such short notice, Doctor.”

“All in the interests of good government, Assemblyman.”

He frowned, exchanged another look with Dobbs. Dobbs ate another candy and made a lateral move with his eyes- some kind of signal. I began to wonder about their relationship. Who was the parent.

Massengil said, “Well, no sense shilly-shallying. Obviously, this is about the tragedy at the school. It’s been some couple of days, hasn’t it, Doctor?”

“Yes, it has, Assemblyman.”

“Now we know you’ve been working with those kids. Which is fine, as it stands, absolutely fine.” A smile that looked as if it hurt. “Now, exactly how did you get involved?”

“The police asked me to get involved.”

“The police.” Another smile. Photo-opportunity caliber. I put a black frame around it. “I see, I see. Wasn’t aware the police did that kind of thing.”

“What kind of thing is that, Assemblyman?”

“Referring to specialists. Getting involved in social welfare issues. Are you on some kind of official police referral list?”

“No. One of the detectives is a friend of mine. I’ve worked with traumatized children before. He thought-”

“One of the detectives,” said Massengil. “I’m a great friend of the police, you know. Best friend they have in Sacramento, in fact. Crime bill needs pushing, I’m the first one the police chief comes to. County sheriff too.”

He turned to Dobbs, was prompted again by a small nod. “So. A detective referred you. Which detective might that be?”

“Detective Sturgis. Milo Sturgis. He’s the new D-Three- the new supervising detective at Westside Robbery- Homicide.”

“Sturgis,” he said, contemplative. “Ah, yes, the big, heavy fellow with the bad skin. They didn’t let him in when they conducted the interrogation.” Throat clear. Another exchange of glances. Pause. “He’s homasexual, I’m told, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him.”

He waited for an explanation. When I offered none, Dobbs made a small, satisfied sound, as if I’d behaved predictably.

“Well,” said Massengil, “is he?”

“Is he what?”

“Homasexual.”

“Assemblyman, I don’t think Detective Sturgis’ sex life is-”

“No need to shilly-shally. Sturgis’ sex life is common knowledge in the Police Department. Quite a bit of resentment, too- colleague-wise- regarding his promotion. His being in the Department in the first place, what with all the diseases and related hazards.”

My nails were digging into the arms of my chair. “Is there anything else, Assemblyman? I’ve got to be getting over to the school.”

“Ah, the school. How’s it going with those youngsters?”

“Fine.”

“That’s good.” He leaned forward, put his hands on the desk, fingers blunt and splayed, yellow-nailed. “Let me ask you this point-blank. You one too?”

“One what?”

“Homasexual.”

“Assemblyman, I don’t-”

“The thing is, Doctor, everything’s a real mess, societally speaking. I think we can all agree on that, right? My responsibility is to make sure things don’t get any messier than they’ve already gotten. It’s a crazy world we’re living in- punks shooting at elected public servants, big government forcing alternative life-styles down people’s throats, moving children around like truck produce. Pushing ivory tower theories not backed up by real life experiences. Making no one happy at either end- not the people or the youngsters. You, being in your line of work, should know all about that, though I’ve got to tell you it seems to me more often than not that people in your line of work forget all about reality, push for this’n that, quick fix here, quick fix there. Causing more erosion.”

He picked up the bell jar, caressed it, said, “Erosion. That’s an important word- the soil’s got a lot to teach us. ’Cause when you boil it all down, we’re talking erosion of standards. Boundaries. Gradual but severely deleterious, just like it is when the soil erodes. Everything boils down to that. Preservation or erosion- what stays; what goes. This is my district, son, my responsibility. For close to thirty years it’s been my responsibility. I fly up and down between here and Sacramento three times a week, using airplanes the way other people use cars, because this world we live in’s a big one, this district is the part of that world that’s my responsibility, and I’ve got to