He could barely point it, he was shaking so bad. And he's screaming at my father to give him his wallet. My father tried to calm him down. He pulled me behind him and he reached for his wallet. I felt it leave his pocket. I was watching the junkie. I was terrified, but I was fascinated, too. The junkie looked like a dog I saw some kids set on fire once. Desperate. Scared. He was Jonesing so bad. My father handed him the wallet and he grabbed for it. When he did, Dad dropped the groceries and lunged at him. I don't know why. He wouldn't have hurt us. He just wanted the money, but maybe my dad didn't want to give up his paycheck. He was a proud guy, stubborn. He worked hard for his money. I guess he thought he could take him. I don't know. The junkie's gun went off. My dad went down on his knee. He made a real heavy sound, then kinda toppled over onto the milk and frosted flakes and orange juice. The junkie took off. They never did find him. My Uncle Al was a cop. Handsome guy, like my father. Heavier, but it didn't matter when he was in his uniform. I though they looked like movie stars. Both of 'em. He drank himself to death. Got kicked off the force, drank all day. Blew his liver out at fifty-six. See, he was a cop. And someone killed his only brother and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.'
Frank paused for another sip.
'I was in the station all night. My mom too. But nothing I told them was good enough. They never caught the guy. My mom got worse after that. She was manic-depressive and there were a lot more lows than highs. When I was in sixth grade, I started reading every criminology and every true crime book I could get my hands on. Devoured 'em. I was gonna be a cop. A good one. One who caught bad guys. Got good grades. Got scholarships to three universities. Kissed my mother goodbye. I wasn't gonna go down with her, I couldn't, and out I came to sunny California. Land of milk and honey. Became a cop.
'That's all I ever wanted to do was be a cop. And I've been a good one. Yeah, I've bent the rules sometimes. In the long run you have to. I remember Joe saying, 'Law and justice ain't the same thing, kiddo.' And I didn't believe him. Didn't want to. I
Finches chirped in the oak over-hanging the yard. The faraway rush of cars sounded like surf. A couple yards over, kids voices rose and fell in play. Gail asked quietly, 'Do you know who shot him?'
Frank shifted her face toward the sun, closing her eyes against its burn. Trying to forget the spatter on Claudia Estrella's Buick, Frank marveled at the negative images playing against her eyelids. She thought maybe she'd like to take a photography class someday.
'Frank?'
Gail's hand was a command on her shoulder.
'No,' she said to the invisible sun. 'I don't know.'
About the Author
Baxter Clare lives on a ranch in Southern California with her longtime companion, numerous houseguests, wild animals, and domestic pets.
