Lorna's apartment was a block south of Wilshire near the Beverly Hills business district, and it was a perfect testament to her pride and competence; a neat, one-bedroom affair with subdued, expensive furnishings that reflected the things she held close—a sense of order and propriety, and a nonhysterical concern for the great unwashed. The place was a clearinghouse for her professional interests: the shelves were crammed with law texts and volumes and volumes of statute books for both California and the rest of the nation. There was a big cherry- wood desk placed diagonally into the corner of the living room that held her giant dictionary as well as scores of official-looking papers separated neatly into four piles.
The apartment was also a clearinghouse for wonder, and I tingled with pride as Lorna took me on a guided tour and gave me rundowns on the wonder-filled framed prints that hung on her walls. There was a Hieronymus Bosch painting that represented insanity—hysterical grotesque creatures in an undersea environment importuning God—or someone—for release from their madness. There was a Van Gogh job that featured flowery fields juxtaposed against brown grass and a somber sky. There was Edward Hopper's 'Nighthawks'—three lonely people sitting in an all-night diner, not talking. It was awesome and filled with lonely wonder.
I took Lorna's hand and kissed it. 'You know the wonder, Lorna,' I said.
'What's the wonder?'
'I don't know, just the wonderful elliptical, mysterious stuff that we're never going to know completely.'
Lorna nodded. She knew. 'And that's why you're a cop?'
'Exactly.'
'But I want justice. The wonder is for artists and writers and other creative people. Their vision gives us the compassion to face our own lives and treat other people decently, because we know how imperfect the world is. But I want justice. I want specifics. I want to be able to look at the people I send to court and say, 'He's guilty, let the will of the people reflect that guilt' or 'He's guilty with mitigating circumstances, let the will of the people reflect the mercy I recommend' or 'He's innocent, no grand jury trial for him.' I want to be able to see the results, not wonder.'
We moved to a large, floral-print couch and sat down. Lorna stroked my hair tentatively. 'Do you understand, Fred?'
'Yes, I do. Especially now. I want justice for Eddie Engels. He'll get it. But the grand jury system is predicated on people, and people are imperfect and wonder-driven; so justice is no kind of absolute—it's subservient to wonder.'
'Which is why I work so hard. Nothing is perfect, even the law.'
'Yeah, I know.' I paused and fished in my coat pocket for a large manila envelope. 'We're arresting Eddie Engels tomorrow, Lorna.' I handed her the sealed envelope. 'This is my report as the arresting officer.'
She looked into my eyes and squeezed my hand. 'You look worried,' she said.
'I'm not, really. But I need a favor.'
'What?'
'Don't open that envelope until I call you. Just forget about this case until I call you. And when Dudley Smith files with you, know this: my report is the truth. If there are discrepancies, see me.
Lorna hesitated. 'All right. You're putting yourself out on a big limb, Freddy.'
'I know.'
'And you want Engels more for your career than for justice.'
'Yes.' I said it almost apologetically.
'I don't care. I care about you, and Engels is guilty. You see to your career and I'll see to justice and we'll both get what we want.'
I laughed nervously at the imperfect logic of it. Lorna took my hand. 'And you're afraid of Dudley Smith.'
'He's out of his mind. He's got no business being a policeman.'
'Ha! The imperfection, the wonder, remember?'
'Touche, Lorna.'
'Where are you booking Engels?'
Lorna saw my face cloud over. 'I don't know,' I said.
We stared at each other, and I knew she knew. Her whole body stiffened and she painfully hoisted herself to her feet and said, 'I'll get dinner started.'
Lorna hopped the ten or so steps to the kitchen without her cane. I stayed on the couch. I heard the refrigerator door open and shut and the clatter of cooking utensils being pulled out of cupboards. There was a nervous silence, and when I couldn't take it any longer I went into the kitchen, where Lorna stood leaning against the sink, distractedly fingering a saucepan. I wrenched it out of her hands. She resisted, but I was stronger. I hurled it against the wall where it clattered and fell to the floor. Lorna threw herself at me in a fierce embrace. She pummeled my shoulders with her fists and moaned deeply. I pried her chin from my chest and kissed her, lifting her off her feet. She started to resist, banging my shoulders even harder, but then thought better of it and stopped. I carried her into the bedroom.
Afterward, after the coupling, sated and aware of a new beginning, I started to search for words to make the future right, to make it multiply endlessly on this moment. 'About Eddie En—' was all I got out before Lorna pressed gentle fingertips to my mouth to stop me.
'It's all right, Fred. It's all right.'
We held each other, and I played with Lorna's big, soft breasts. She held me there, wanting to play mother, but I had other ideas. I kissed my way down her stomach toward the scar tissue that covered her pelvis. Lorna pulled away from me. 'No, not there,' she said, 'next you'll be telling me how you love me for it, and how you love my bad leg. Please, Freddy, not that.'
'I just want to see it, sweetheart.'
'Why?!'
'Because it's part of you.'
Lorna twisted in the darkness. 'That's easy for you to say, because you're perfect. When I was a girl, all the boys who wanted to play with my big tits tried to get at them through my leg. It was very ugly. My leg is ugly and my stomach is ugly and I've got no uterus, so I can't have children.'
'And?'
'And I used to cover my stomach with a towel when I slept with men so they couldn't touch me there. If there was a way I could have covered my leg I would have done that, too.' Lorna started to cry. I kissed away her tears and bit at her neck until she started to laugh.
'Is it Freddy and Lorna now?' I whispered.
'If you want it to be,' Lorna said.
'I do.'
I got up from the bed and went into the living room. I found the phone and called Mike Breuning at his home. I told him not to pick me up in the morning, that I would meet everyone on Sunset and Horn at the specified time. He gave me an 'Oh, you kid' chuckle and hung up.
I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. I found a bag of ice in the freezer compartment and extracted a half-dozen cubes. I walked back to the bedroom. Lorna was lying on her stomach, very still. I approached the bed and dropped the ice cubes onto her shoulders. Lorna shrieked and threw herself backwards.
I leaped onto her, burying my head in the dead flesh of her abdomen. 'I love you,' I said. 'I love you, Lorna, I love you, I love you.'
Lorna squirmed and twisted to extricate herself. Her dead leg flopped uselessly in her efforts. I grabbed it and encircled it tightly with both my arms. 'I love you, Lorna. I love you, Lorna. I love you. I love you.'
Gradually, Lorna relinquished her fight and began to sob softly. 'Oh, Freddy. Oh, Freddy. Oh, Freddy.' Then she pressed both her hands to the back of my head and held me strongly to that part of herself she hated so terribly.
* * *
