Private Eyes

implied wisdom and experience.”

“He back on duty?”

“Nooo. Seems Kenny-poo’s stress level is still pretty high, he’s taking a long recuperation. But he’ll be back, eventually. Kicked upstairs, where he can screw up on a higher level and do systematic damage.”

“He’s the assistant chief’s son-in-law, Milo. You’re lucky to still be on the force.”

He put down the carton and glared. “Don’t you think if they could have shafted me, they would have? They’re in a one-down position and they know it- that’s why they’re going the weasel route.”

He slammed his big hand down on the counter. “Asshole used me for fucking bait. The lawyer Rick had me talk to told me I had grounds for a major-league civil suit, could have taken it to the papers and kept it there for months. He would have loved it- the shyster. Big contingency fee. Rick wanted me to do it, too. On principle. But I refused because that wasn’t what it was about- bunch of goddam shysters quibbling about technicalities for ten years. This was one-on-one; it needed to be handled one-on-one. Going the TV route was my extra insurance- couple of million witnesses, so no one could say it didn’t happen the way it did. That’s why I hit him after he said what a great hero I was and gave me the commendation. So no one could say it was sour grapes. The department owes me, Alex. They should be grateful all I did was mess up his face. And if Frisk is smart, he’ll be grateful, too- stay out of my face. Permanently. Fuck his family connections. He’s lucky I didn’t rip his lungs out and toss them at the cameras.”

His eyes had cleared and his complexion had deepened to hot pink. With his hair over his forehead and thick lips, he resembled a disgruntled gorilla.

I applauded.

He rose a few inches, stared at me, then started laughing. “Ah, nothing like adrenaline to make the day take on a rosy glow. Sure you don’t want to golf?”

“Sorry. I really have to get the paper done and there’s a patient coming at noon. And, frankly, knocking balls around the green isn’t my idea of recreation, Milo.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “No aerobic benefit. Bet your triglycerides are just peachy.”

I shrugged. The coffee was done. I poured two cups, gave one to him.

“So,” I said, “what else have you been doing to fill the time?”

He gave an expansive gesture and put on a brogue: “Oh, it’s been just grand, lad. Needlepoint, papier-mAchE, decoupage, crocheting. Little schooners and yachts made of ice-cream sticks and glitter- there’s a wonderful world of crafts out there just waiting to be explored.” He drank coffee. “It’s been shit. Worse than a desk job. At first I thought I’d get into gardening- grab some sun, a little exercise. Back to the earth- to my roots, praise Hibernia.”

“Planning to grow potatoes?”

He chuckled. “Planning to raise anything I could, other than hell. Only problem was, Rick brought in this landscape designer last year, redid the whole yard with all this southwestern shit- cactus, succulents, low-moisture ground cover. So we could cut our water usage, be ecologically sound. So much for Farmer Spud. So okay, scratch that, I figured I’d tinker around the house- fix everything that needed fixing. I used to be handy- when I worked construction in college I learned all the trades. And when I lived by myself I used to do all of it: plumbing, wiring, whatever. The landlord loved me. Only problem with that plan is, there’s nothing to fix. I hadn’t been around the house long enough to realize it, but after nagging me for a year or so, Rick finally took care of everything. Seems he found this handyman- fellow from Fiji, former patient. Cut himself with a power saw, nearly lost a couple of fingers. Rick sewed him up in the E.R., saved the fingers, and purchased eternal gratitude: The guy works for us basically for free, on call twenty-four hours a day. So unless he slips with the saw again, my expertise is not in demand. Scratch Mr. Fixit. What does that leave? Shopping? Cooking? Between the E.R. and the Free Clinic, Rick’s never home to eat, so I grab whatever and stuff my face. Once in a while I go out to a civilian range in Culver City and shoot. I’ve been through my record collection twice and read more bad books than I ever want to think about.”

“What about volunteer work?”

He clapped his hands over his ears and grimaced. When he removed them, I said, “What?”

“Heard it before. Every day, from the altruistic Dr. Silverman. The Free Clinic AIDS group, homeless kids, Skid Row Mission, whatever. Find a cause, Milo, and stick with it. Only problem is, I feel too goddam mean. Coiled. Like someone better not say the wrong thing to me or they’re gonna end up sucking the sidewalk. This… hot feeling in my gut- sometimes I wake up with it; sometimes it just comes on. And don’t tell me it’s post-traumatic stress syndrome, ’cause giving it a name doesn’t do squat. I’ve been there before- after the war- and I know nothing but time is gonna bleed it out of me. Meantime, I don’t want to be around too many people- especially people with heavy-duty misery. I’ve got no sympathy to give. I’d end up telling them to shape up and get their goddam lives in order.”

“Time heals,” I said, “but time can be sped along.”

He gave me an incredulous look. “What? Counseling?”

“There are worse things.”

He slapped his chest with both hands. “Okay, here I am. Counsel me.”

I was silent.

“Right,” he said, and looked at the wall clock. “Anyway, I’m gone. Gonna hit little white balls and pretend they’re something else.”

He began barreling out of the kitchen. I held out an arm and he stopped.

“How about dinner,” I said. “Tonight. I should be free by seven or so.”

He said, “Charity meals are for soup kitchens.”

“You’re a charmer,” I said, and lowered my arm.

“What, no date tonight?”

“No date.”

“What about Linda?”

“Linda’s still in Texas.”

“Oh. Thought she was due back last week.”

“She was. The stay’s been extended. Her father.”

“The heart?”

I nodded. “He’s gotten worse. Bad enough to keep her there indefinitely.”

“Sorry to hear it. When you talk to her, give her my best. Tell her I hope he mends.” His anger had given way to sympathy. I wasn’t sure that was an improvement.

“Will do,” I said. “Have fun at Rancho.”

He took a step, stopped. “Okay, so this hasn’t been party-time for you either. Sorry.”

“I’m doing fine, Milo. And the offer wasn’t charity. God knows why, but I thought dinner would be nice. Two guys shooting the bull, all that buddy stuff, like in the beer commercials.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Dinner. Okay, I can always eat.” He patted his gut. “And if you’re still struggling with your term paper by tonight, bring a draft along. Uncle Milo will render sage editorial input.”

“Fine,” I said, “but in the meantime why don’t you think about getting yourself a real hobby?”

7

After he left I sat down to write. For no apparent reason it went more smoothly than ever before, and noon arrived quickly, heralded by the second doorbell ring of the day.

This time I squinted through the peephole. What looked back at me was the face of a stranger, but not foreign: remnants of the child I’d once known merging with a photo from a twenty-year-old newspaper clipping. I realized that at the time of the attack her mother hadn’t been that much older than Melissa was now.

I opened the door and said, “Hello, Melissa.”

She seemed startled, then smiled. “Dr. Delaware! You haven’t changed at all!”