An Evening at the Carnival with Mister Christian

"Have anything here?" she asked.

"Bagels, lox, cream cheese, that sort of thing."

"You're not Jewish, are you?"

"Non-Practicing agnostic, formerly of the Lutheran persuasion."

"And you keep bagels and lox around? What gives?"

"Sandy's mom was Jewish, her father was English, C of E. Devout, hard core Christian."

"You two didn't get along, I take it?"

"Oh, no, I liked the guy. Very literate. Enjoyed our conversations -- very much, as a matter of fact."

"What was her mother like?"

"Brilliant musician. Sexy as hell, but a troubled soul."

"Troubled?"

"Alcohol, sedatives. Very high strung, insecure about her looks."

"What did she play?"

"Piano, for the most part, but viola -- for the Philharmonic."

"Wow...here in LA?"

"Yup. She also played clubs, jazz mainly. She had one hell of a voice. There're a few pictures of her in the living room."

"Sexy, you said?"

"She was a knockout."

"And?"

"She came on to everyone, drove Ben out of his mind."

"Everyone? You too, I take it?"

"Once, in front of the whole family. Drunk, trying to get Ben riled up."

"Did it work?"

He shook his head. "Not a night I'd like to remember."

"Have they passed?"

"Ben did, years ago. Sydney lives out near Pasadena, in a home there."

"Did you see her, after Sandy passed?"

"Nope, she couldn't, well..."

"Couldn't?"

"Dementia. I'm not sure she knows what planet she's on these days."

"What about your parents?"

"My mom and sisters are up in Seattle."

"That's where you're from? All of you?"

"Yup. Dad was a pilot in the war, then worked for Boeing after, on the 707 and 747 programs. An engineer, but he smoked a lot."

"Cancer?"

"Yeah, a squamous cell carcinoma, in the gums. It spread to his tongue and the bone in his jaw, then went into the spine and it was off to the races after that. Painful, hard to watch."

"I've never been up to Seattle. Is it as pretty as everyone says?"

"I'm supposed to say no, but that would be a lie. It's gorgeous, not nearly as rainy as you think it is, and the Cascades are as pretty is any mountain range in Europe."

"So, why LA? Sandy?"

"Yup. This was where she wanted to raise her kids."

"That didn't happen?"

"Ovarian cancer when we were still, well, when we were starting out."

"Did you want kids?"

"I think it would have been fun, but I'd have rather lived on a farm up north than try that down here."

"A farm?"

"Yup...I always wanted to raise dairy cows. I think in the best of all possible worlds, that's what I would have done."

"So? Why don't you do that now?"

"Because I'm a cop. Through and through -- it's what I am now."

"And that's it? That's all there is?"

"It's who I am, Carol. That life shaped me into what you see."

"Crime shaped you?"

He chuckled. "In a way, I guess. Helping people, helping them through the consequences of crime, maybe, that's how I'd put that. But it's more than that."

"You almost make it sound like a noble endeavor."

"When you understand the job, what it really takes to do it well, you begin to understand human dignity through that lens, and human depravity too, in all it's disguises. And ugliness. But yes, I guess there is a bit of 'noble' in the things we do."

"There seems to be so much racism out there these days..."

"I got shot once," he said as he rolled over, pointing to a puckered scar just below his left kidney, "and I almost bled out before they got me to County-SC. I think they transfused four pints into me. Most of the blood they get down there comes from the homeless on skid-row, mainly blacks. Their blood is the same as mine. The nurses that took care of me down there were all black, and the care and knowledge they gave me, that they shared with me, was as good as any I've had anywhere else. I know racism exists, but I think that's the least noble thing there is about the human race. I wish we could move beyond it all."

"Did you ever see the movie Bulworth?"

"Hell yes. One of the best ever made, but that's Beatty. He's a class act."

"You know him?"

"In passing, once or twice."

"You meet a lot of interesting people out there?"

He laughed, thought about Smithfield this morning, and that Simpson kid. "Well, look, I've got to finish my report today, and do some chores too. So, breakfast?"

"Could we go over to the Farmer's Market? There's a place where I like to get breakfast on Sundays."

"Yeah, sure. Sounds good."

"And I'd like to stay with you today. I won't be a bother, and I can help with the..."

"That would be nice."

+++++

They sat at the counter in a little diner and drank fresh squeezed orange juice with their Eggs Benedict, and the more she talked the easier it became for him to listen, the more he enjoyed her company. She was effervescent, like champagne tickling his nose, while she talked about growing up back east, her narcissist sisters, then about the radical fringes at Brown and all the racial tension in Philly. She avoided almost all talk of work -- aside from the barbarity imposed on people by insurance companies -- and their endless bureaucracies.

It turned out she was fourteen years younger than he, and that she'd recently had it in mind to maybe try and have a kid, "but all this stuff about climate change and resource depletion has me thinking that's a selfish course of action..."

"Why's that?"

"Well, who wants to bring a kid into that kind of world?" she said.

"I think people were saying that in the 60s, about the bomb. And in the 30s, about the depression, and Hitler. The world's always been a fucked up place, but somehow life goes on. Having kids is a part of the process."

"Yeah, but these days they're talking about life not going on, about the climate changing so fast it won't sustain life. Not as we know it now, anyway..."

He shrugged. "Yeah, maybe that will happen, and maybe it won't, but if all the thinking people simply stop procreating? Then what? Who's going to think our way out of all these problems?"

"I was watching a report last week, some real cheery stuff about depleted water resources and ocean acidification, and sometime in this century, for life to go on, the population is going to have to drop to like a billion or so. If there are ten billion people by then, that means each and every one of us is going to have to bury nine people... Can you imagine such a world?"

"No, but who can? I doubt we'll need to, anyway."

"I'm beginning to see more and more patients who are being consumed with these thoughts. I'm not talking about bus drivers and waitresses, Ted, I'm talking researchers at UCLA and NASA. If it was once a week I'd shrug it off, but sometimes I hear this a couple of times a day, from otherwise pretty well-adjusted people who are getting scared..."

"Thank god for Zoloft, huh?"

"Nope. Drugs work for biochemical imbalances within the brain...maybe...sometimes. They can't do much for situational depression, unless an imbalance underlies the depression. That's simply not the case with most of these folks. They're scared, and they're worried. The one common denominator is they think it's happening a lot faster than anyone ever expected."

"Okay. So?"

"Do you worry about it?"

"What? Climate change?"

"Yes!"

"I hate to fall back on clichés, but try this one on for size. Worry about the things you can change, and forget about the stuff you can't."

"Isn't that just simple-minded denial. I mean..."

"I know what you mean. If society falls down around our ears, well, that's that. The strong will pick up the pieces and carry on, the weak will be swept aside. It's always been that way, and I guess that's the way it will be when, or IF that happens."

"So many of the people I talk to simply can't face that prospect. If civilization falls, they'll fall too."

"Okay. Are you going to be able to change that? Can you make a difference?"

"I don't know. I don't even know if I buy into all of this stuff..."

"Well, my guess is simply this. By the time we know one way or the other, if collapse seems likely it will be too late to do anything about it. People with the emotional wherewithal will get it together and do what they can do to survive. The rest won't. Personally, I'd rather to get on with living, whatever the circumstance."

"Goddamn, I've heard there are people out here like you, but you're the first one I've met."

"People like me?"

"Builders. Doers. Optimists. Just not with your kind of eternal optimism."

"Carol, you listen to people day in and day out with overwhelming emotional problems, and you help them figure out a way through the maze they've created for themselves. I deal with people day in and day out who are struggling through horrible, even savage emotional crises, only they don't have someone like you with them in their corner, helping them fight their way back to the light. Personally, I'm glad you're out there. In the end, you're going to do a lot more good than harm."

She was staring at him as he spoke, looking at his lips as they moved, and she felt herself struggling, fighting to hold back the tears. "Well, goddamn," she said at last. "Bang, just like that...I'm sorry, but I just totally fell in love with you."

He laughed a little, then looked at the look in her eyes. "Oh?"

"Yup. Totally. And I'm not kidding, either."

"Why would you be kidding?"

She shook her head slowly, bit her lower lip. "I think it hit me out there on that boat Friday night. I mean, in the classroom I was simply drooling when I looked at you..."

He grinned, chuckled at that...

"But the ethic, the real life ethic I see in your house, the work you do out there on the street, then, well, that you get me. You really get life, don't you?"

He shrugged...

"AND...you think I'm cute. I'm just as sorry as I can be, Ted, but you just turned my world upside down."

He reached across the table and took her hand. "Nothing to be sorry about," he sighed. "I'm having the best time with you...the best I've felt in years, really."

"And you've got to get home and get to work, don't you?"

"I need about four hours of desk time, finish up my laundry, do a little housework."

"And I'll start on that red cape."

"Please do. Make mine extra long. You need anything from your place?"

She shook her head. "I'll go home in the morning, if that's alright with you."

"Okay." He looked at the bill and pulled out some money.

"We're going dutch, okay?"

"Nope. I got this one, you get the next one. Works out in the end that way, and besides, I don't like all that 'accountant at the table' routine."

"Damn. Where have you been all my life...?"

"Out on the 405, waiting to write your ass a speeding ticket."

She burst out laughing as he stood and she took his hand. "I've gotten a few, too."

His work phone chirped and he sat back down, opened the connection: "Sherman."

"Ted? Grover Smithfield, got a minute?"

"Yes Mr President." He saw Carol's eyes go wide at that. "What can I do for you?"

"Are you working on the report yet?"

"Breakfast right now, sir. But I'll be on it all afternoon."

"Mind if I come over and look it over this afternoon? Say around five?"

"Can't really do that, sir. Not our protocol."

"Understood. You talk to Kingman, have her call me when she's done with you. I'll see you at five, your place."

The connection broke, and he looked down at his phone and scrunched up his nose.

"The President?" Carol asked.

"Smithfield."

"Ugh. What a creep."

He nodded while he hit Kingman's number, and listened to it ring until she picked up.

"Sherman?"

"Captain?"

"Cooperate. That comes direct, from the chief."

"He wants you to call him."

"Will do. You send the file to the main server, and a copy to me before he gets there. Got it?"

"Yes Captain."

"Ted, watch your six, just don't let him bully you. That's his MO, according to the chief."

"I've seen him on TV."

"Yeah... Bye."

He put the phone away. "Playtime's over. I've got to get to work."

She saw the expression on his face and decided against saying anything until they got to his truck. "Man, I hate to say this, but I love this thing," she said as she climbed up into the seat. "It's like a Cadillac that ate a bucket of testosterone for breakfast."

He laughed at that one. "Yup. That about sizes her up," he said as he slipped behind the wheel.

"And that moonroof! It's like stadium sized!"

"Want me to try the ejector seat now?"

When they got to the house he check tire pressures on the bike and plugged the battery charger into the socket, then went inside and straight to his desk. After his computer opened he plugged the EOS into it and pulled the images, then placed them into the report template. He went through the forms one by one, filled each out carefully, wrote out the narratives and supplemental reports, then he opened up a specialized spreadsheet program and began entering vehicle and environmental data, then skid-marks and all the displacement vectors he'd noted on his field diagram.

He whistled. 147 miles per hour, in a 35 zone. He formatted the information and put it into the primary report, then filed it on the main department server. No transmission errors, so he sent a copy to Kingman's departmental email account. Again, no errors, and a minute later she called.

"Okay. Got it. I'm printing a copy and putting it in my safe."

"Understood."

She was gone, and he knew she didn't have a safe, so it was going to an agreed upon file in records. Too many people were buying access to the department these days, and there was no telling what files might be scrubbed, or by whom. He burned copies to multiple flash drives and sealed them, then put them in his special places.

4:30 chimed on his phone; he shut the alarm, went to the kitchen and got a Diet Dr Pepper, then went to the bedroom.

"Smithfield will be here at five. You want to hang around back here, go to dinner after?"

"I feel like sushi."

He leaned close, took a sniff: "Funny...you don't smell like sushi?"

She snorted a laugh while shaking her head. "Goddamn, Sherman. You are quick."

"Gotta place in mind?"

"Oh yeah."

"Is that my shirt?" he said as he looked at her gray polo shirt.

"It's not too big, is it?"

"Not really. It'll sure cut down on clothing costs," he chuckled.

"Don't worry, I'll more than make up for it with shoes. I must have fifty pair in my closet."

"I suppose they're all nice and practical?"

"Nope. Sky high heels. When you're five foot one, every little bit helps."

"Until your feet are ruined, anyway."

"There is that."

The doorbell rang. "Okay, shut the door. I'll see you in a few."

Smithfield came in with his Secret Service detail and another man, a lawyer, Sherman guessed.

"Finished up, son?"

"Yessir," Sherman said, handing the old man a complete copy of his report.

"You got pictures of the, uh, the wound, and the missing...?"

"Not in the primary report, sir. Those are in a supplement that can not be released without a FOIA request. I've included a copy there for your team to go over."

Smithfield and his lawyer exchanged looks, then the old man turned back to Sherman. "What about nature of the act itself. Is that in the report?"

"I didn't witness the act sir. Such speculative information is always in the supplemental report. That could, however, still come out in a civil trial."

"Oh, it will, it will. Well, I was most concerned about those two things, but I see you've handled the matter with discretion."

"Standard operating procedure, Mr President. We're not in the humiliation business...I just try to get to the truth of the matter."

"Well, I appreciate the way you've handled this whole thing. From this, to the way you dealt with the press out there at the scene. I've let your chief know, as well. If there's anything I can ever do for you, you just let me know. Okay?" The old man held out his hand and Sherman took it.

"Thank you, Mr President."

His team walked him out to the motorcade, yet his lawyer remained behind.

"Chief said you're the best they've got. I'm inclined to agree." The man handed him a card. "This is your 'get out of jail for free' card, Sherman. The old man wasn't just greasing the skids. You need help, you call me at this number, day or night, doesn't matter. The cavalry will come. Got it?"

"Yessir. Thank you, sir."

The man turned and left the house, and Sherman let out a long sigh as he turned and went back to the bedroom.

"Jesus H Christ," Carol said as he came into the room. "I heard every word...that was some heavy attitude coming down in there."

"How far away is this sushi place?"

"Close. Century City."

"Let's go. I want to be in bed by eight."

"Right. Can you drive? Your hands are shaking..."

"I'm tired. I mean a wasted kind of tired."

"I'll drive, then."

He handed her the keys. "No argument from me."

She smiled, accepting his trust, wanting to live up to it as they walked out to the Ford, and she drove easily up to Santa Monica and on to Century City. They were early enough to get a parking place, but not early enough to avoid a wait, but it was a short one and they were seated after only a few minutes...

A harried waitress came by, took their orders for mineral water and sliced lime and left on the run, leaving them to look at glossy pictures of raw fish.

"Feeling adventurous?" she asked.

"Sort of. Nothing with tentacles, or liver, and I try to keep an eye on the mercury level."

She laughed. "Got it. Mind if I order for both of us?"

He pushed his menu over to her. "It's all you, kiddo. I'm a salmon fanatic, though. Just so you know."

"Me too."

"I hear wedding bells in our future," he grinned.

"Do you?"

"I'm tired, and I know I'm going to regret saying this, but I feel so comfortable right now it's driving me silly."

"Hey, Vegas is only a five hour drive away!" she said, grinning.

"Now there's something to think about."

"You know, this is entirely too easy. Falling in love isn't supposed to be like this, especially for a Jewish chick...we need lots more guilt and drama. Know what I mean?"

"I could have a nervous breakdown, roll around on the floor and pull out my weenie? Would that help?"

She shook her head. "No, that's my job. You're supposed to sit there like Billy Crystal. You know, When Harry Met Sally, when she gets off in the deli?"

"If you do that to me tonight I'll will have a nervous breakdown, and I will roll around on the floor."

"Okay...okay...let me put my vibrator back in my purse."

"Did you bring a purse? I missed that."

"I don't own one."

"What? Fifty pairs of shoes and not even one purse? What gives."

"They're nasty. Every female patient I have brings one in. They're loaded with used tissues and full of filthy, rancid crap. You could start a plague with what's in your typical purse. The idea of sticking my hand in one gives me the creeps."

"Now I know I love you."

She ordered and he didn't pay attention; he leaned back and closed his eyes, tried to get the image of Smithfield's penis out of his mind's eye, the way it came out in the hemostat, the flesh a mottled purple, her mouth...

"Gah...!" He said, sitting bolt upright.

"What is it...? I thought you were falling asleep..."

"Oh, just something from last night, an image I can't get out of my mind."

She nodded. "If you ever want to talk about these things...?"

"No. I never want to. I'd like to push them out of my mind...forever..."

"So, Stanford? History? Tell me about that?"