“Well, what happened when you went to class the next day? Did you say anything to her?”
“No, because I didn’t go back. I never went back to that school, because I knew that’s how it was going to be. So that’s a big part of why a week later I joined the cops. The department was full of military vets, and a lot had been over there in Southeast Asia. So I knew there would be people like me and I could be accepted. It was like somebody coming out of prison and going to a halfway house first. I wasn’t inside anymore, but I was with people like me.”
His daughter seemed to have forgotten about killing a flight attendant. Bosch was glad for that but wasn’t too happy about pushing his own memory buttons.
He suddenly smiled.
“What?” Maddie asked.
“Nothing, I just sort of jumped to another memory from back then. A crazy thing.”
“Well, tell me. You just told me a super-sad story, so tell me the crazy story.”
He waited while the waitress put down their food. She had been working there since Bosch had been a cadet nearly forty years before.
“Thanks, Margie,” Bosch said.
“You’re welcome, Harry.”
Madeline put ketchup on her Bratton Burger, and they took a few bites of food before Bosch began his story.
“Well, when I graduated and got my badge and was put out on the street, it was sort of the same thing all over again. You know, counterculture, the war-protest movement, crazy stuff like that going on.”
He pointed to the framed front page on the wall next to them.
“The police were viewed by a lot of people out there as maybe just a slight level above the baby killers coming back from Vietnam. You know what I mean?”
“I guess.”
“So my first job out on the street as a slick sleeve was to walk—”
“What’s that, a ‘slick sleeve’?”
“A rookie, a boot. No stripes on my sleeves yet.”
“Okay.”
“My first assignment out of the academy was a foot beat on Hollywood Boulevard. And back then it was pretty grim on the boulevard. Really run down.”
“It’s still pretty sketchy in some parts.”
“That’s true. But anyway, I was assigned to a partner who was an old guy named Pepin, and he was my training officer. I remember everybody called him the French Dip because on the beat he stopped every day for an ice cream at this place called Dips near Hollywood and Vine. Like clockwork. Every day. Anyway, Pepin had been around a long time, and I walked the beat with him. We’d do the same routine. Walk up Wilcox from the station, go right on Hollywood till we got to Bronson, then turn around and walk all the way down to La Brea and then back to the station. The French Dip had a built-in clock, and he knew just what pace to keep so that we were back at the station by end of watch.”
“Sounds boring.”
“It was, unless we got a call or something. But even then it was all small-time shit—I mean, stuff. Shoplifting, prostitution, drug dealing—little stuff. Anyway, almost every day we’d get yelled at by somebody passing in a car. You know, they’d call us fascists and pigs and other stuff. And the French Dip hated being called a pig. You could call him a fascist or a Nazi or almost anything else, but he hated being called a pig. So, what he would do when a car went by and they called us pigs was he’d get the make and model and plate number off the car and he’d pull out his ticket book and write the car up for a parking violation. Then he’d tear out the copy you were supposed to leave under the windshield wiper and he’d just crumple it up and throw it away.”
Bosch laughed again as he took a bite of his grilled cheese with tomato and onion.
“I don’t get it,” Maddie said. “Why is that so funny?”
“Well, he would turn in his copy of the ticket, and, of course, the car owner wouldn’t know anything about it and the ticket would go unpaid and then to warrant. So the guy who called us pigs would eventually someday get stopped and there’d be a warrant for his arrest, and that was the French Dip’s way of getting the last laugh.”
He ate a French fry before finishing.
“What I was laughing about was the first time I was on the beat with him when he did it. I said, ‘What are you doing?’ and he told me. And I said, ‘That’s not in policy, is it?’ and he said, ‘It’s in
Bosch laughed again but his daughter only shook her head. Harry decided the story was funny only to him and went back to finishing his sandwich. He soon got down to telling her what he had been putting off all weekend.
“So listen, I have to go out of town for a few days. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Where to?”
“Just up to the Central Valley, the Modesto area, to talk to some people on a case. I’ll be back either Tuesday night or maybe have to stay till Wednesday. I won’t know until I get there.”
“Okay.”
He braced himself.
“And so I want Hannah to stay with you.”
“Dad, no one has to stay with me. I’m sixteen and I have a gun. I’m fine.”
“I know that but I want her to stay. It will just make me feel better. Can you do that for me?”
She shook her head but agreed halfheartedly.
“I guess. I just don’t—”
“She’s very excited about staying. And she won’t get in your way or tell you when to go to bed or anything like that. I already talked to her about all of that.”
She put her half-eaten hamburger down in a manner that Bosch had come to learn meant that she was finished with her meal.
“How come she never stays over when you’re there?”
“I don’t know. But that’s not what we’re talking about.”
“Like last night. We had a great time and then you dropped her off at her house.”
“Maddie . . . that stuff’s private.”
“Whatever.”
All such conversations universally ended with
“Why did you suddenly ask me before why I became a cop?”
She shrugged.
“I don’t know. I just wanted to know.”
He thought about that for a moment before responding.
“You know, if you’re thinking about whether it’s the right choice for you, you’ve got plenty of time.”
“I know. It’s not that.”
“And you know that I want you to do whatever you want to do in life. I want you happy and that will make me happy. Never think you have to do this for me or follow in my footsteps. It’s not about that.”
“I know, Dad. I just asked you a question, that’s all.”
He nodded.
“Okay, then. But for what it’s worth, I already know you would be a damn good cop and a damn good detective. It’s not about how you shoot, it’s about how you think and your basic understanding of fairness. You got what it takes, Mads. You just have to decide if it’s what you want. Either way, I got your back.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“And just getting back to the simulator for a second, I’m really proud of you. Not just because of the shooting. I’m talking about how cool you were, how confident you were with your commands. It was all good.”
She seemed to take the encouragement well, and then he watched the line of her mouth turn down in a frown.
“Tell that to the flight attendant,” she said.
