“That’s what you want, you got it.”
Holman went next door to the convenience store for a
Sergeant Mike Fowler, a twenty-six-year veteran, had been the senior officer at the scene. He was survived by a wife and four children. Officers Patrick Mellon and Charles Wallace Ash had eight and six years on the job, respectively. Mellon was survived by a wife and two small children; Ash was unmarried. Holman studied their pictures. Fowler had a thin face and papery skin. Mellon was a dark man with a wide brow and heavy features who looked like he enjoyed kicking ass. Ash was his opposite with chipmunk cheeks, wispy hair so blond it was almost white, and nervous eyes. The last of the officers pictured was Richie. Holman had never seen an adult picture of his son. The boy had Holman’s lean face and thin mouth. Holman realized his son had the same hardened expression he had seen on jailbirds who had lived ragged lives that left them burned at the edges. Holman suddenly felt angry and responsible. He folded the page to hide his son’s face, then continued reading.
The article described the crime scene much as Levy described it, but contained little information beyond that. Holman was disappointed. He could tell the reporters had rushed to file their story before press time.
The officers had been parked in the L.A. River channel beneath the Fourth Street Bridge and had apparently been ambushed. Levy told Holman that all four officers had holstered weapons, but the paper reported that Officer Mellon’s weapon had been drawn, though not fired. A police spokesman confirmed that the senior officer present-Fowler-had radioed to announce he was taking a coffee break, but was not heard from again. Holman made a soft whistle-four trained police officers had been hammered so quickly that they hadn’t been able to return fire or even take cover to call for assistance. The article contained no information about the number of shots fired or how many times the officers were hit, but Holman guessed at least two shooters were involved. It would be difficult for one man to take out four officers so quickly they didn’t have time to react.
Holman was wondering why the officers were under the bridge when he read that a police spokesman denied that an open six-pack of beer had been found on one of the police cars. Holman concluded that the officers had been down there drinking, but wondered why they had chosen the riverbed for their party. Back in the day, Holman had ridden motorcycles down in the river, hanging out with dope addicts and scumbags. The concrete channel was off limits to the public, so he had climbed the fence or broken through gates with bolt-cutters. Holman thought the police might have had a passkey, but he wondered why they had gone to so much trouble just for a quiet place to drink.
Holman finished the article, then tore out Richie’s picture. His wallet was the same wallet that had been in his possession when he was arrested for the bank jobs. They returned it when Holman was transferred to the CCC, but by then everything in it was out of date. Holman had thrown away all the old stuff to make room for new. He put Richie’s picture into the wallet and walked back upstairs to his room.
Holman sat by his phone again, thinking, then finally dialed information.
“City and state, please?”
“Ah, Los Angeles. That’s in California.”
“Listing?”
“Donna Banik, B-A-N-I-K.”
“Sorry, sir. I don’t show anyone by that name.”
If Donna had married and taken another name, he didn’t know. If she had moved to another city, he didn’t know that, either.
“Let me try someone else. How about Richard Holman?”
“Sorry, sir.”
Holman thought what else he might try.
“When you say Los Angeles, is that just in the three-ten and two-one-three area codes?”
“Yes, sir. And the three-two-three.”
Holman had never even heard of the 323. He wondered how many other area codes had been added while he was away.
“Okay, how about up in Chatsworth? What is that, eight-one-eight?”
“Sorry, I show no listing in Chatsworth by that name, or anywhere else in those area codes.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Holman put down the phone, feeling irritated and anxious. He went back into his bathroom and washed his face again, then walked over to his window where he stood in front of the air conditioner. He wondered if the water from its drain was falling on anyone. He took out his wallet again. His remaining savings were tucked in the billfold. He was supposed to open savings and checking accounts to demonstrate his return to the normal world, but Gail had told him anytime in the next couple of weeks would be fine. He fished through the bills and found the corner of the envelope he had torn from Donna’s last letter. It was the address where he had written her only to have his letters returned. He studied it, then slipped it back between the bills.
When he left his room this time, he remembered to lock the deadbolt.
Perry nodded at him when he reached the bottom of the stairs.
“There you go. I heard you shoot the lock this time.”
“Perry, listen, I need to get over to the DMV and I’m running way late. You got a car I could borrow?”
Perry’s smile faded to a frown.
“You don’t even have a license.”
“I know, but I’m running late, man. You know what those lines are like. It’s almost noon.”
“Have you gone stupid already? What would you do if you got stopped? What you think Gail’s gonna say?”
“I won’t get stopped and I won’t say you loaned me a car.”
“I don’t loan shit to anyone.”
Holman watched Perry frowning, and knew he was considering it.
“I just need something for a few hours. Just to get over to the DMV. Once I start my job tomorrow it’ll be hard to get away. You know that.”
“That’s true.”
“Maybe I could work something out with one of the other tenants.”
“So you’re in a jam and you want a favor?”
“I just need the wheels.”
“I did you a favor like this, it couldn’t get back to Gail.”
“Come on, man, look at me.”
Holman spread his hands. Look at me.
Perry tipped forward in his chair, and opened the center drawer.
“Yeah, I got an old beater I’ll let you use, a Mercury. It ain’t pretty, but it’ll run. Cost is twenty, and you gotta bring it back full.”
“Jesus, that’s steep. Twenty bucks for a couple of hours?”
“Twenty. And if you get fancy and don’t bring it back, I’ll say you stole it.”
Holman passed over the twenty. He had been officially on supervised release for only four hours. It was his first violation.
4
PERRY’S MERCURY looked like a turd on wheels. It blew smoke from bad rings and had a nasty case of engine knock, so Holman spent most of the drive worried that some enterprising cop might tag him for a smog violation.
Donna’s address led to a pink stucco garden apartment in Jefferson Park, south of the Santa Monica Freeway and dead center in the flat plain of the city. It was an ugly two-story building with a parched skin bleached by an unrelenting sun. Holman felt depressed when he saw the blistered eaves and spotty shrubs. He had imagined Donna would live in a nicer place; not Brentwood or Santa Monica nice, but at least something hopeful and
