She said, “Want any breakfast?”
“Nope. You?”
She shook her head. “How about a rain check, then? I’m a pretty good breakfast cook- nothing Cordon Bleu, just down-home integrity and high quantity.”
“I look forward to making you prove it.”
Her smile was sudden, white, dazzling.
We touched hands. I drove her home.
During the drive she looked out the window a lot and I sensed more pulling away- a reaffirmation of her ability to take care of herself. So I dropped her off in front of her building, told her I’d see her at eleven, put gas in the Seville, and used a pay phone at the station to call my service for the messages I’d neglected to pick up yesterday. Just one, from Mahlon Burden, reminding me to call his son and reiterating Howard Burden’s business number.
Just after nine I called Encino.
A female voice said, “Pierce, Sloan, and Marder.”
“Howard Burden, please.”
Her tone became guarded. “One moment.”
Another female voice, louder and nasal: “Howard Burden’s office.”
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Burden.”
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
“Dr. Delaware.”
“May I ask what this is about, Doctor?”
“A personal matter. I was referred by Mr. Burden’s father.”
Hesitation. “One moment.”
She was gone for what seemed like a long time. Then: “I’m sorry. Mr. Burden’s in a meeting.”
“Any idea when he’ll be free?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’ll give you my number. Please ask him to call me.”
“I’ll deliver the message.” Frosty tone. Letting me know a call-back was about as likely as world peace. I thought I understood her protectiveness.
“I’m not with the press,” I said. “His father is pretty eager for me to talk with him. You can call Mr. Burden Senior and confirm that.”
“I’ll give him the message, sir.”
Another roadblock at the entrance to Ocean Heights. When I saw the pair of squad cars, my hands went clammy.
But this was a smaller police presence than on the day of the sniping- just two black-and-whites, an equal number of uniformed cops standing in the middle of the street, chatting with each other, looking relaxed.
They refused to answer my questions and had a few of their own. I spent a long time explaining who I was, waiting for them to call the school and verify it with Linda. She couldn’t be reached. Finally, after showing them my psych license and med school faculty card and tossing in Milo’s name, I was allowed through.
Before I walked back to my car I tried again. “So what’s going on?”
The cops looked amused and annoyed at the same time.
One of them said, “Show time, sir.” The other hooked his thumb toward the Seville and said, “Better be getting going.”
I drove off, speeding up Esperanza. The school was ringed with vehicles and I had to park more than a block away. More cop cars, along with bland-looking sedans that might have been unmarkeds, media vans, at least three white ultrastretch Mercedes. And spectators- a few of the locals, standing in front of their homes. Some looked sour- the put-upon resignation of picnickers invaded by ants. But others seemed pleased, as if waiting for a parade.
I walked on, wondering what had brought them out. What “show time” meant. Then I heard it, as I got closer to the school grounds. A relentless drumbeat. Synthesizer trills over a walking bass run.
Carnival sounds. A rock-and-roll carnival. I wondered why Linda hadn’t mentioned anything to me.
Directly across from the school entrance, a local stood blocking the sidewalk. Thickset older man in plaid madras pants and white Ban-Lon golf shirt, smoking a cigarette and flicking ashes onto the sidewalk. Flicking in the direction of the school. As I approached, he stopped and stared. Dry-ice squint, raw-pork complexion.
“Morning,” I said. “What’s all the hubbub?”
He peered at me, flicked, and said, “Some
“Which one?”
“Who knows?” He took a drag. “First they force themselves on us; then they bring in their jungle music.”
He gave me a challenging look. I walked around him and crossed the street. His cigarette flew by me, landed on the macadam, throwing off sparks.
The fence around the schoolyard was laced with orange and silver streamers, hung so densely I couldn’t see inside. The gate was locked. A school policeman was at the front door to the school building, along with a husky black man with Rasta dreadlocks and a patchy, blemishlike beard. The black man wore white sweat pants and an orange T-shirt that said THE CHILLER TOUR! MEGA-PLATINUM! in metallic letters. He held a clipboard in one hand, a set of gold-plated keys in the other. As I got closer, the school cop retreated.
Dreadlocks said, “Name.”
“Dr. Delaware. Alex Delaware. I work at the school.”
He looked at the clipboard, ran his finger down a page. “How do you spell thot, mon?” His enunciation was precise.
I told him. He turned a page and his brows compressed, pulling forward several twists of hair. “Delaware. As in the state?”
“Exactly.”
“Sorry, mon, I don’t see anything like thot.”
Before I could reply, the door swung open. Linda stormed out. She’d changed into a cheerful-looking yellow dress but didn’t look happy.
“Stop hassling this man!”
The school cop and Dread turned to stare at her. She came down the steps, took my arm, pulled me past them. Dread said, “Mo’om-”
She held up a warning finger. “Uh-uh, don’t say a word! This man works here. He’s a famous doctor! He has a job to do and you’re getting in the way!”
Dread pulled at a lock and grinned. “Sorry, mo’om. I was just looking for his name- no offense intended.”
“No
Dread smiled again and shrugged. “Sorry.”
“What the heck do you think this is anyway? Some disco club?” She glared at the school cop: “And what about you! What the heck are you
Before either of them could answer, we were inside. She slammed the door behind us.
“Jesus! I just knew that was going to happen!” She was still gripping my arm as we speed-walked down the corridor.
I said, “What’s going on?”
