him. His son had made something of himself, and Holman was goddamned proud of that.
Holman placed the picture flat into the bag, then covered it with the remaining clothes to keep it safe. He glanced around the room. It didn’t look so very different than it had an hour ago before he started.
He said, “Well, I guess that’s it.”
He told himself to leave, but didn’t. He sat on the side of the bed instead. It was a big day, but the weight of it left him feeling heavy. He was going to get settled in his new room, check in with his release supervisor, then try to find Donna. It had been two years since her last note, not that she had ever written all that much anyway, but the five letters he had written to her since had all been returned, no longer at this address. Holman figured she had gotten married, and the new guy probably didn’t want her convicted-felon boyfriend messing in their life. Holman didn’t blame her for that, either. They had never married, but they did have the boy together and that had to be worth something even if she hated him. Holman wanted to apologize and let her know he had changed. If she had a new life, he wanted to wish her well with it, then get on with his. Eight or nine years ago when he thought about this day he saw himself running out the goddamned door, but now he just sat on the bed. Holman was still sitting when Wally came back.
“Max?”
Wally stood in the door like he was scared to come in. His face was pale and he kept wetting his lips.
Holman said, “What’s wrong? Wally, you having a heart attack, what?”
Wally closed the door. He glanced at a little notepad like something was on it he didn’t have right. He was visibly shaken.
“Wally, what?”
“You have a son, right? Richie?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“What’s his full name?”
“Richard Dale Holman.”
Holman stood. He didn’t like the way Wally was fidgeting and licking his lips.
“You know I have a boy. You’ve seen his picture.”
“He’s a kid.”
“He’d be twenty-three now. He’s twenty-three. Why you want to know about this?”
“Max, listen, is he a police officer? Here in L.A.?”
“That’s right.”
Wally came over and touched Holman’s arm with fingers as light as a breath.
“It’s bad, Max. I have some bad news now and I want you to get ready for it.”
Wally searched Holman’s eyes as if he wanted a sign, so Holman nodded.
“Okay, Wally. What?”
“He was killed last night. I’m sorry, man. I’m really, really sorry.”
Holman heard the words; he saw the pain in Wally’s eyes and felt the concern in Wally’s touch, but Wally and the room and the world left Holman behind like one car pulling away from another on a flat desert highway, Holman hitting the brakes, Wally hitting the gas, Holman watching the world race away.
Then he caught up and fought down an empty, terrible ache.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know, Max. There was a call from the Bureau of Prisons when I went for your papers. They didn’t have much to say. They wasn’t even sure it was you or if you were still here.”
Holman sat down again and this time Wally sat beside him. Holman had wanted to look up his son after he spoke with Donna. That last time he saw the boy, just two months before Holman was pinched in the bank gig, the boy had told him to fuck off, running alongside the car as Holman drove away, eyes wet and bulging, screaming that Holman was a loser, screaming fuck off, you loser. Holman still dreamed about it. Now here they were and Holman was left with the empty sense that everything he had been moving to for the past ten years had come to a drifting stop like a ship that had lost its way.
Wally said, “You want to cry, it’s okay.”
Holman didn’t cry. He wanted to know who did it.
Dear Max,
I am writing because I want you to know that Richard has made something of himself despite your bad blood. Richard has joined the police department. This past Sunday he graduated at the police academy by Dodger stadium and it was really something. The mayor spoke and helicopters flew so low. Richard is now a police officer. He is strong and good and not like you. I am so proud of him. He looked so handsome. I think this is his way of proving there is no truth to that old saying “like father like son.”
Donna
This was the last letter Holman received, back when he was still at Lompoc. Holman remembered getting to the part where she wrote there was no truth about being like father like son, and what he felt when he read those words wasn’t embarrassment or shame; he felt relief. He remembered thinking, thank God, thank God.
He wrote back, but the letters were returned. He wrote to his son care of the Los Angeles Police Department, just a short note to congratulate the boy, but never received an answer. He didn’t know if Richie received the letter or not. He didn’t want to force himself on the boy. He had not written again.
2
“WHAT SHOULD I DO?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what to do about this. Is there someone I’m supposed to see? Something I’m supposed to do?”
Holman had served a total of nine months juvenile time before he was seventeen years old. His first adult time came when he was eighteen-six months for grand theft auto. This was followed by sixteen months of state time for burglary, then three years for a stacked count of robbery and breaking and entering. Altogether, Holman had spent one-third of his adult life in state and federal facilities. He was used to people telling him what to do and where to do it. Wally seemed to read his confusion.
“You go on with what you were doing, I guess. He was a policeman. Jesus, you never said he was a policeman. That’s intense.”
“What about the arrangements?”
“I don’t know. I guess the police do that.”
Holman tried to imagine what responsible people did at times like this, but he had no experience. His mother had died when he was young and his father had died when Holman was serving the first burglary stretch. He had nothing to do with burying them.
“They sure it’s the same Richie Holman?”
“You want to see one of the counselors? We could get someone in here.”
“I don’t need a counselor, Wally. I want to know what happened. You tell me my boy was killed, I want to know things. You can’t just tell a man his boy was killed and let it go with that. Jesus Christ.”
Wally made a patting gesture with his hands, trying to keep Holman calm, but Holman didn’t feel upset. He didn’t know what else to do or what to say or have anyone to say it to except Wally.
Holman said, “Jesus, Donna must be devastated. I’d better talk to her.”
“Okay. Can I help with that?”
“I don’t know. The police gotta know how to reach her. If they called me they would’ve called her.”
“Let me see what I can find out. I told Gail I’d get back to her after I saw you. She was the one got the call from the police.”
Gail Manelli was a businesslike young woman with no sense of humor, but Holman liked her.
“Okay, Wally,” Holman said. “Sure.”
