When I walk in, they get that suspicious look in their eyes and clam up just like they would with any other cop. What am I supposed to do, start off an interview by announcing my sexual preference - slice myself open in the name of doing the goddamn job?'
The coffee and screwdriver came. I sipped, and he raised his glass. Before he put it to his lips, he looked at me guiltily.
'Yeah, I know. Not to mention the six-pack I put away for dinner.'
I was silent.
'What the hell, I'm a minority of one, I'm entitled. Cheers.'
By the time he finished the screwdriver his head was starting to loll. He called for another and threw it back in one shot. When he put down the glass, his hands were shaking and his eyes were shot through with scarlet threads.
'Come on,' I said, standing and dropping some bills on the table, 'let's get out of here while you can still walk.'
He resisted, claiming he'd only just begun, and began humming the tune of the same name, but I finally managed to steer him out of the Golden Eagle and into the night air. The parking lot was dark and smelled of jet fuel, but it was a welcome change from the boozy humidity of the lounge.
He walked with a drunk's exaggerated caution, and I worried he'd fall. The notion of hoisting and dragging 230 pounds of inebriated detective didn't thrill me, and I was thankful when we reached the Seville. Guiding him to the passenger side, I opened the door, and he stumbled in.
'Where to?' he asked, stretching out his legs and yawning.
'Let's take a drive.'
'Peachy.'
I opened the windows, started up the engine, and drove onto the 405 north. Traffic was light, and it didn't take long to connect to the 90, but by the time I exited at Marina Del Rey, he was asleep. I cruised along Mindanoa Way, passed a couple of upscale shopping centres, and hooked toward the harbour. The breeze was damp and saline and bore just a trace of stench. A flotilla of pleasure craft bobbed silently in the glossy black water, masts as plentiful as reeds in a marsh. The moon broke against the surface of the bay in cream-coloured fragments.
A sharp gust of wind blew into the car. Milo opened his eyes and straightened up, grunting. He looked out the window and turned to me, perplexed.
'Hey,' he said, in a voice still thickened by alcohol, 'I thought I told you to be careful.'
'What are you talking about?'
'This is Radovic country, pal. Fucker's got an old Chris Craft moored in one of the slips.'
'Oh, yeah,' I recalled, 'Souza mentioned something about that.'
He swayed closer, smelling of sweat and gin.
'And you just happened to coast down here, huh?'
'Don't get paranoid, Milo. I thought the sea breeze might clear your besotted brain.'
'Sorry,' he mumbled, closing his eyes again. 'I've got used to checking my back.'
' That' s a hell of a way to live.'
He managed a shrug, then suddenly retched. I glanced over and saw him doubled up with pain and holding his belly. Quickly I pulled onto the shoulder of the road and braked the Seville. Running around to the passenger side, I opened the door just in time. He sagged forward, lurched, heaved, and vomited repeatedly. I found a box of tissues in the glove compartment, grabbed a wad, and, when it looked as if he was through, wiped his face.
Exhausted and breathing hard, he pulled himself up, leaned his head back, and shivered. I closed the door and got back in the driver's seat.
'Did I sully your paint job?' he asked hoarsely.
'No, you missed. Feel any better?'
He groaned in response.
I turned the car around, found Lincoln Boulevard, and drove north through Venice and into Santa Monica. He coughed dryly, slumped down in the seat, and let his head drop to his chest. Within moments he was sleeping again, snoring through his mouth.
I drove slowly through streets slick with coastal fog, breathing in the ocean air and collecting my thoughts. It was after eleven, and except for drifters, derelicts, and Mexican dishwashers leaving darkened chophouses, the sidewalks were deserted. Turning right on Montana, I found an all-night doughnut stand embedded in an empty asphalt lot, glowing Edward Hopper yellow and reeking of sweetened lard. Pulling up close, I left Milo dozing, got out, and bought a jumbo cup of black coffee from a pimpled kid wearing a Walkman.
When I brought it back to the car, Milo was sitting up, hair dishevelled and eyelids drooping with fatigue. He took the cup, held it with both hands, and drank.
'Finish it,' I said. 'I want to get you back to Rick in one piece.'
He constructed a stoic facade, then let it collapse.
'Rick's in Acapulco,' he said. 'Been there for a couple of weeks.'
'Separate vacations?'
'Something like that. I've been acting like a son of a bitch and he needed to get away from me.'
'When's he coming back?'
Steam rose from the coffee in wisps and swirls, misting his face and obscuring his expression.
'It's open-ended. I haven't heard from him except for one postcard that talked about the weather. He's on leave from the ER and has plenty of bucks saved up, so theoretically it could be a long time.'
He lowered his face and sipped.
'I hope it works out,' I said.
'Yeah. Me, too.'
A gasoline truck rumbled by seismically, leaving silence in its wake. Behind the counter of the doughnut shop the acned kid checked the deep fryers while bobbing to his Walkman.
'If you ever need someone to talk to,' I said, 'be sure to call. No need to be a stranger again.'
He nodded.
'I appreciate that, Alex. I know I've been hibernating. But it's a funny thing about solitude - at first it hurts; then you acquire a taste for it. I get home from a day when everyone's been talking at me and the sound of another human voice is grating, and all I want is silence.'
'If I worked with Cash and Whitehead, I'd want silence, too.'
He laughed.
'The gruesome twosome? A couple of superstars.'
'They thought I was gay because I'm your friend.'
'Classical case of limited thinking. It's why neither of them will ever be worth much as a detective. Sorry if they hassled you.'
'They weren't that bad,' I said, 'more ineffectual than anything. I just don't see how you can work with them.'
'Like I said before, do I have a choice. No, actually it hasn't been as bad as it could've been. Whitehead's a dolt and antigay, but he's anti everything - Jews, blacks, women, conservationists, vegetarians, Mormons, the PTA - so it's hard to take it personally. On top of that he keeps his distance, probably worried about catching AIDS. Cash wouldn't be half bad if he gave a damn about anything other than chasing pussy and cultivating his tan.'
'Real workaholic, huh?'
'Dickie-poo? Oh, yeah. I don't know if you ever heard about it, but a couple of years ago Beverly Hills PD had this federally funded project to bust the coke dealers who were supplying the movie stars. Cash pulled undercover on that. They bought him a wardrobe from Giorgio, leased him an Excalibur and a place up in Trousdale, handed him a fat expense account, and set him up as King Shit, the independent producer. For six months he went to parties, balled starlets, and bought blow. At the end of if they busted a couple of small-timers, and even that was dismissed due to entrapment. A real triumph for law enforcement. When it was over, Cash got to keep the clothes, but everything else went. Coming back down to earth was traumatic. He'd had this taste of something sweet, and now it was yanked out of his mouth. Real work started to seem like a life sentence, so he dealt with it by becoming a goldbrick. Half the time the guy isn't even on the job. Supposedly he's interviewing sources, developing leads, but he always comes back a shade darker with the car full of sand, so we know about that, right? Even when he does
