Good Morning, Killer

Andrew ripped the lid off a garbage can and tried to throw it, but it was chained and the whole damn thing fell over, lobster shells and all kinds of crap, and just as ridiculously I pointed my finger at him as if lightning could shoot from it, threatening: “Stay away from me.”

It took a long drive around the Marina just to stop trembling. I pulled into the Ralph’s and stared into the lighted mirror on the visor, wiping mascara from the blackened crevices underneath my swollen eyes. Drawn to the lights and somnambulant figures beyond the windows of the anonymous market, I took a cart and walked the dead-cold aisles. Regular, bright rows of products put me in a trance.

I had carried the bags up from the garage, unlocked the door and placed them on the counter. It was ten o’clock. I went into the bedroom to change into sweats before putting the groceries away. I had just walked into the room and turned on the light when I noticed some movement in the mirror. I turned around and there was Andrew Berringer, standing in the doorway.

Fear curled inside my gut.

“What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”

“Did you ever hear of knocking?”

My first thought was that my duty weapon was in my bag where I had thrown it on the bed.

“The door was open.”

“It was not.”

My heart was racing.

“How do you think I got in here?” But then he waved the whole thing off in disgust. He saw the picture of Ray Brennan on the open bathroom door. “What is that sorry son of a bitch doing there?”

“Just to keep it alive.”

“One sick puppy.”

“Him,” I joked, “or me?”

He went into the living room and sat down on the love seat and turned on the TV. My respiration calmed. I knew this man, his smells, the baseball cap collection, each one hanging on a hook above the dark wood bureau in his father’s home, an empty bachelor shrine to his dad, in Sunset Park. He had come here to talk, he said.

“Want something to drink?”

“No thanks.” He didn’t look at me. “I need safe passage.”

“You have safe passage.”

“Okay.” He swallowed. “We both know, from everything that’s happened, that it’s time to end it. I’ll pay you back the money in installments.”

“What am I, a credit card?” I tried to keep it light because I was going to cry all over again.

“I told you I was no good in the relationship department.”

“Oberbeck I can understand. Sort of. At least she’s got tits. But Margaret Forrester?”

“Good old Margaret.” His teeth were clenched. “Always stirring the pot.”

“Tell me the truth and we’ll be clean. Look me in the eyes and tell me. Be warned: I’ll know if you’re lying. I’ve been trained.”

He looked at me. He had gotten up and was leaning against the wall near the kitchen. I was standing near the fireplace.

“I didn’t sleep with Margaret Forrester.”

He held my gaze, but that doesn’t mean a thing. The only way to quantify deception is with a polygraph machine. He knew that. It was a standoff.

“She’s a ganja head,” he added after a little while. “Gets stoned two and three times a day. It’s a ‘spiritual practice.’”

“And nobody knows this at the department?”

“Let’s not get off on Margaret.”

“She said you were applying for a job in Fresno.”

“That’s right,” he said. “Don’t you ever think of getting out?”

“Are you?”

“How the hell do I know?” Then, viciously, “The Black Widow. Drove the Hat to death. I’m telling you, she’s death.”

“Like at this point I care.”

He stood up so resolutely that tears sprang to my eyes and I cried out, “Don’t go,” like a child.

“Pride is important to me,” he said sternly. “You keep beating me up.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“In front of my supervisor, my friends — I don’t know, is this a thing you have for men?”

“I love men. Is this a thing you have about women?”

He shook his head and laughed bitterly. Another impasse.

“Pride is important to me, too.” I took a step forward. “I’m sorry about the thing in the bar, I was just so hurt—”

“You’ve got to leave me alone,” he said almost desperately.

“I want safe passage, too.”

I was pleading.

“Go ahead.”

Then I didn’t know how to say it. “You’ve changed since we started going out, but especially the past few weeks. Something’s different, something’s weighing on you and it’s not just work. I never know what you’re really thinking. You’re always holding back.” “That’s what my second ex-wife used to say.”

“Why?” I replied stupidly. “Is this a pattern?”

I wanted to prolong it, know more, have another chance — I did not want to be discarded like the others — but he was picking up his keys.

“Do me a favor. Whatever you think of her, don’t blame Sylvia Oberbeck.”

“Sylvia?”

“Sylvia’s going through a bad time.”

He should not have said her name. He should not have defended her, out loud, in my house, at that moment, to me. Like some rajah he seemed to believe all the wives and girlfriends should know the score and be grateful to be poked by him.

“What do you see in that dumb blonde jock?”

“What is it with blonde? They all want to be blonde. Can’t decide which half?” He gripped the hair at the side of my head and for a moment we were face-to-face. “Dark is good, baby. Mamacita.” Then he let go. I was beyond furious.

“My grandfather was right.”

“The racist was right?”

“Yeah, he was right when he said, ‘Don’t tell anyone you’re mixed race. You can pass for white, so pass. Because when you get into a fight, the first thing your husband’s going to say is, he’ll call you a filthy little spic.’” Andrew looked hurt. “I’m not calling you a spic,” he protested. “I never use that word. That’s not what I said—”

“You’re right. You should leave.”

“I’m leaving.” He was gentle now, and soothing, as he had been with the distraught bank tellers. I had seen more sides of him than a carousel. “Just so we’re straight.”

“Straight on what?”

“What we have … is a working relationship.”

“Right,” I snorted. “I wish. Unfortunately, the Santa Monica kidnapping is not the only thing we’re working on.”

He gestured, confused. What was I talking about?

“Mission Impossible,” I replied with contempt, as if he were the dumbest fuck on earth.

“That will go away. Barry already forgot about it.”