when I first got in to work-that was a bone that would hold the editorial wolves at bay for a while, give me more leeway to pursue the stories that interested me more avidly: stories of misrepresentation in redevelopment studies, suicidal bankers, and murdered friends.
IT WAS CHILLY AND GRAY OUT, the beginning of spring weather on the southern California coast: cloudy in the early morning clearing to hazy sunshine in the afternoon. Sometimes better, sometimes worse, mostly little changed. It made the drive to Blue’s section of the beach a cold one; I spent most of the trip trying to figure out when I was going to find time to have the window repaired.
Edison Burrows was waiting in the parking lot, leaning against the hood of a white Taurus station wagon. He was staring toward the ocean until he heard my car.
“Haven’t seen any sign of him,” he said, pulling his jacket up against the brisk breeze.
“It’s pretty early.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
There was very little activity around us-a few joggers, a walker or two. It was prime surfing time, but the surfers were all down at the other major section of the beach, nearer the house. Here, though, there were no real waves. My father once told me that before the breakwater had been built, this section of beach was a surfer’s paradise. That was in the pre-
I heard someone coughing, a deep, barking cough, and some loud swearing in response. I looked up and down the beach, but couldn’t tell where the voices came from.
A Parks and Recreation Department tractor started up, and we watched it move out to clean up the sand. I glanced at one of the closed-up lifeguard towers and saw four tousled heads rise above the railings around it, then four faces scowling at the tractor in annoyance. Looked like Blue and a few of his best friends had tried to get out of the wind the night before.
“Is that your son?” I asked Edison, nodding toward the man I had been thinking of as Corky.
He gave a nervous smile. “Yes, that’s Joshua.”
Joshua saw us in the same moment. He lifted a hand in a stiff wave, then slowly made his way down the tower ladder. A fit of coughing stopped him part-way down. Didn’t seem to be doing too well. I figured that in addition to whatever was making him cough, he probably had a hangover.
I glanced at Edison and saw his mouth tighten.
Joshua Burrows carefully eased himself from the ladder to the sand. He rested his head against one of the rungs for a moment before turning toward us and beginning a slow trek across the beach. He was walking with a limp, holding his ribs on one side. Coughing. As he came closer, I could see that his face was bruised. His eyes were clear. Not hungover. Hurt.
“Hello, Dad,” he said in a raspy voice when he reached us, and then nodded toward me. Anticipating his father’s question, he said, “I got rolled a couple of nights ago.”
Edison looked down at his shoes, but his voice was calm, undemanding, when he asked, “Have you been to a doctor?”
“No, no. Not yet.” It seemed like he was worn out, out of breath. “Thinking of going, though. Maybe I’ll go later today.” He turned away as he started coughing again. When he stopped, he winced and shifted over to lean on the car.
“Ms. Kelly tells me you’ve met before?” Edison asked.
I felt like I had suddenly landed in a strange country where people have nothing left to live for but their manners, or think so. Sort of like the old movies where the aristocrats on safari stop in the middle of the jungle and have tea and crumpets, not realizing the local lions are planning a picnic, too.
Joshua nodded. “I’ve had the pleasure.” He seemed out of breath, and took a moment to add, “So what brings you here?”
“Something Lucas said in a note.” Edison started to reach inside his jacket, but paused and said, “Want to sit down? Out of the wind? We could sit in the car.”
“No, thanks,” he said, then looked at his father’s face. “Well, sure. Why not?”
“You two take the front,” I said.
“You take the front. I’ll get in back,” Joshua said.
Keep that distance, I thought.
When we were inside, the rank smell of Burrows the Younger’s clothes and body were nearly enough to make me want to go outside and try to read their lips through the windshield. He leaned back in the seat, glanced over at me, and smirked. “Better crack a window for Ms. Kelly, Dad. Her sense of smell is more acute than yours.”
Edison turned red.
“Forget it,” I said. “I’m fine.”
Joshua laughed and set off another coughing fit, this one doubling him over. “Hot,” he said, breathing in odd, quick and shallow breaths, holding his ribs. “Damn, it’s hot in here.” It was quite cool, but a sheen of perspiration was covering his face. With clumsy fingers, he began unbuttoning his fatigue jacket. Beneath it, his clothes were stained with sweat.
Edison exchanged a glance with me. There was no confidence anywhere on his face.
Joshua leaned his head back again and closed his eyes. “So, you got a note from the Prof?” Back to talking like his street pals.
Edison pulled out the letter Lucas had typed at his home and handed it over the seat to his son.
Joshua read it, stared at it a long time. “Stupid damn thing for him to say. He should have known better.”
“Never mind the part about coming home,” Edison said, reminding me of what Lucas had written. “Just help Ms. Kelly understand what her part means.”
His eyes didn’t look as clear as they had a few moments ago. He closed them and murmured, “Too late. He could never get that through that thick skull of his.” He had another coughing fit, then said wearily, “Too late for him. Too late for Las Piernas, and sure as hell too late for me.”
I’m not noted for having a long fuse, so maybe it was my temper that made me say, “Edison, I can’t take this. Either you drive him to the hospital, or you sit on this side and let me drive him there.”
Edison looked startled for a moment, then locked the car doors and put his key in the ignition. Hearing them lock, I had a moment of panic as my claustrophobia kicked in. I looked for and found a release on my side. I moved my fingers over it, but didn’t press it.
Joshua saw the gesture and smiled. “You sure you want to be locked in here with me and my B.O., Ms. Kelly?”
“No, but I’ll live. You, I’m not so sure about. Start the car, Edison,” I said. “Take him to the hospital.”
“I don’t need a fucking hospital.”
“Joshua Burrows!” Edison said, just like a father. It was about time, though I would have picked a different issue.
“Sorry, Ms. Kelly, Dad. But I still don’t need a hospital.” There was no fight in it.
Edison drove off. We were closer to St. Anne’s, but he was heading toward Las Piernas General. It only took me a minute to figure out why. Las Piernas General was closer to his house.
Joshua was staring at the letter. “I won’t tell you, you know.”
He was talking so low, I barely heard him.
“I don’t need you to tell me, you spoiled brat.”
That brought his head up. I glanced at Edison. He was smiling in spite of himself.
“Sure you do,” Joshua said. He was wearing down, still having difficulty breathing, and he started to speak in short sentences, halting to breathe between them. “It says right here…‘PS23’…You don’t know what it means.”
“Yeah, well even though you look more like something out of the valley of death than my shepherd, I shall not want. I was supposed to go to Lucas’s Bible, open to Psalm 23, and find the note. I hope he told you what that scrawl on the note meant, because I never would have figured out that it said ‘cherubs’ without help.”
He closed his eyes.
“The bar in the Angelus, right?”
