An Evening at the Carnival with Mister Christian

"Gotta purse?" he says, looking at a purse in the back seat. It's too far away for her to get to easily, and he reaches for in for it and puts it up on the roof of the car. It's too heavy, and he steps back to keep an eye on it while he looks at her.

She seems confused, evasive. "I'm not sure I brought it."

"Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?"

"I'm not sure."

He turns to Simpson, nods his head and she walks over to get a paramedic.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"Kid...ran out in front of me. That's all I remember..."

"Any idea how fast you were going?"

"I don't know. Thirty, thirty five." Uh-huh, in a 20MPH school zone? Zero situational awareness.

He bends down again, smells something...alcohol? Medical alcohol? He sees a half dozen used alcohol swabs on the floorboard.

"Diabetico?"

"No way, man."

"Was anyone in the car with you?"

"No. I was just on my way to school." He looked around the interior again, couldn't see any books or a book bag, but he saw what looked like a fresh bloody scab forming on her neck, over her carotid.

The paramedic arrived and he turned to stop her. "A little woozy," he whispered. "My guess is heroin, maybe some other shit," he said as he walked over to the witnesses, two teachers and a bunch of kids, as well as the school's crossing guard. He interrupted the patrolman writing down names.

"Any of you see anyone else in the car with the driver? Maybe leave right after this happened?"

One of the teachers came forward, so did the crossing guard. "Two boys got out, wearing colors," the teacher said. "They took off that way," the guard said, pointing towards Saturn.

"How fast do you think she was going?"

"I don't know," the guard said. "Fast, like fifty or so, and she was talking on her phone."

"That's right," the teacher said, crying now as she looked at the little boy's motionless body. "I saw that too."

"Okay, if you can remember what those boys looked like, what they were wearing, give that information to the officer. I'll need to talk to each of you in more detail in a few minutes, but thanks for now." He turned, asked the patrolman to put out an APB if there was enough to go on, then he walked over to the boy, now face up on a gurney in the middle of the street. Looking at the impact injuries on his left side, the lacerations from the windshield on his back...but he had a good idea now what had happened.

He just had to prove it.

The paramedic walked over to him. "I'd say she shot up with H about fifteen minutes ago. Nystagmus is all over the place, she seems in the zone, getting worse."

He nodded his head. "Yup." He jotted down the medic's name and badge number, then walked over to the driver.

"So, who was with you? In the car?"

"I told you, man, weren't no one with me."

He knelt down beside her again. "Look at me."

She turned her head a little and looked at him while he watched her eyes.

"That boy over there is dead. See him? Can you see him?"

She looked away, straight down the street.

"He shoulda watch more where he was goin'."

"What's your name?"

She shook her head, looked away.

"I'll need you to step out of the car now, Ma'am."

The girl shook her head again, moved her right hand quickly towards the ignition -- and he literally jerked her out of the car and leaned her over the front of the car while he cuffed her.

Everyone was staring at the scene now, but Simpson was behind him now.

"Good call, sir," she said. "We just got an APB out, too."

He pulled out his voice recorder and placed it on the hood in front of her face and turned it on, then ran through the Miranda warning, asked the girl if she understood her rights.

Silence, blank stare.

"Okay, so who was in the car with you? You don't, like, want to change your story now, do you?"

"Fuck you, Pig."

"Music to my ears," Sherman thought. "Now, would you tell me your name?"

"Eat shit, mother-fucker."

He looked at Simpson and grinned while he shook his head.

"How much horse you shoot this morning?"

"Keep it up, Pig. My boys will find you and stick your fuckin' ass."

"Those the boys with you in the car?"

"Fuckin' right, Pig."

"Who's gonna hit me? Mario? Jose?"

"No way, pig-fucker. Julio and Benito gonna find you and stick yo ass. Tonight, too, fucker...get your wife and kids and your fuckin' dog, too."

He picked up the recorder and walked away, spoke his name and badge number into the mic, then the date, time and location -- then he shut it down. "Take her to county," he said to a nearby officer, "after you finish the inventory. Oh, that purse was in the back seat, let me know if you find a DL -- or anything interesting, like a gun." He went to the back of the Suburban and opened the Recon bag and dug out the camera, then walked around the scene shooting everything he needed, explaining what he was doing as Simpson walked along beside him.

The officer who was going to transport the girl walked over and handed him her license, then showed him the purse. Several dime bags of heroin, two bundles of new insulin syringes in their packaging, rubber banded together -- and a .32 caliber Saturday night special. He photographed these and wrote down the officer's name and badge number.

"Surprised they left that," he said to Simpson. "Got a service number yet?"

She read it off to him, then said "Got it?" to the transporting officer.

They cleared the scene almost two hours later and drove over to a burger shack by the freeway, then they walked up and ordered from the window before sitting at a shaded picnic table.

"So, first impressions?"

She shook her head. "Pretty cut and dried, skids were all after the impact."

"How fast do you think she was going?"

"Forties, my guess."

He nodded his head. "Mine too. So. What's with your husband? "

"We're splitting up, says he just can't take it. The hours. What he calls my 'attitude' -- all of that shit."

"Your attitude? What do you think he means be that?"

"I don't know, Ted. He gets all up tight on me, all the time."

"My wife had the same issue. Turns out I was having a hard time turning off my street personality when I got home at night."

She looked away. "Yeah," she said. "He said that to me once."

"Think he might have a point?"

"Yeah, maybe, but he's been disrespectin' me, and the department, like all the time."

"What's he do?"

"Mechanic, at a Ford dealer in he valley. He was in the Navy for a while, a machinist."

"Ever have trouble with the law?"

"When he was a kid, yeah."

He sighed. "And you come home one day wearing a gun and a badge. Probably freaked him out a little, huh?"

"Yup."

"So, is he filing, or are you going to?"

"He is."

"Gotta place to stay?"

"My grand-mom's."

He went over and got their burgers, and they sat and talked about the accident scene for a while. This girl was depressed, he saw. She'd been picking her fingernails all morning, yet even so, she was attentive and focused when she needed to be. If she could keep it together during the divorce she might make it in the department, but so far she lacked the initiative to do traffic. 'Maybe first day jitters...' he told himself.

They sat in the Suburban under a shady tree and she wrote out their report, and when she finished the last narrative he filed it on the department server and forwarded a copy to Kingman, then sent her a quick email. "So far so good," he wrote, and he got a quick "Thnx" in reply.

They worked radar out on Venice Boulevard the last hour of their shift, then drove back to the station. When everything was turned in and they'd changed, he said he'd see her in the morning and started to leave, but she followed him out to his truck.

"You doin' anything now?" she asked when she caught up with him.

"Grocery store, cook dinner, wait for my girlfriend to come over."

"I don't have a car now."

"Taking the bus?"

She nodded her head.

"Where you hangin'? Your grandmother's, you said?"

"Pico and Normandie."

"Maybe you should hang around, have some grub with us?"

She smiled, but looked down at the ground.

"Yup, you're coming with me. You look like you need a beer or three."

She put her gym bag in the back and hopped in, then they drove over to a grocery store near his house and picked-up some grub for dinner -- three nice looking steaks and a pile of tiger prawns, then they drove over to his place and went inside. He fired off a quick heads-up to Carol then showed her around the house.

"Cool place," she said. "I always liked bungalows. Cozy, like a home ought to be." She looked wistfully at pictures on the wall in his study, stopped at several from his navy days. "You were a pilot?"

"Yup."

"So, how come you're a cop? I mean..."

"Beats working for a living."

She laughed at that one. "Man...you're nuts."

"You want a brew?"

"Sure."

They walked into the kitchen and he heard Carol's Subaru pull into the drive, watched her read his text before she got out of the car -- still wearing her lab coat, too, he saw, and those sky-high heels of hers.

"Hi!" Carol said as she came in. "And you must be Officer Simpson?"

"Lu, please."

"Carol. So, how was your first day together?"

Simpson looked from Ted to Carol and back again.

"No secrets in this house, kiddo," he said. "Get used to it."

Simpson smiled. "You're a doc?"

"Yup."

"What kind?"

"Psychiatry."

"Oh, shit," she whispered.

He laughed, then Carol did too. Simpson looked betrayed -- until he handed her an Oly and a pat on the back. "Let's go light a fire," he said as he led her to the patio. He poured charcoal into his funnel and lit it, then he watched and made sure the flame settled in while she looked around the narrow yard.

"Man...you're living with a shrink?" she finally said. "What's that like?"

"Yeah, keeps me on my toes. If she finds my snuff-porn stash, I'm toast."

She laughed, but still looked unsure of herself.

"Kingman told me you're interested in motors."

She looked at him. "Not too many female motorjocks around, are there?"

"Nope. Ever ridden bikes before?"

"Nope. Horses, but no motorcycles."

"Oh? You like horses?"

"No...I love horses."

"Not many places to ride around here...where'd you...?"

"A teacher. Middle school. She got me into it, and I worked as a wrangler over at the park in college."

"Good trails up there. Too many snakes for me, though."

"There are a few..."

Carol came out and sat down with a glass of wine, and he excused himself to get the steaks and shrimp ready, leaving them to talk. He whipped up a homemade caesar salad and seasoned the steaks, then carried the steaks out and set them near the flames, looking at his watch as he sat back down. He took a slug from his bottle of Perrier and looked at Carol...still decked out in her five inch heels...and he shook his head. They were talking about horses and riding in Sequoia National Park and Lu was already opening up, cutting loose. He went in and got her another beer and turned the steaks, then put on the shrimp and seasoned everything with ginger, lime-butter and soy.

"'Bout five more minutes," he said to Carol, and they all went in and got plates and utensils -- while Lu carried out the salad, and he dropped steaks and shrimp on plates and sat down, sighing to be off his feet for a while.

"This is unreal," Simpson said. "The shrimp are so good..."

"Gotta keep your strength up," he said. "Steak, twice a week. Salmon at least once a week, then just veggies and salad. Yogurt til your eyeballs turn green and pop out your head."

"We eat a lot of Big Macs," Simpson said, grinning.

"You'll stroke out at fifty," he said, and she nodded. "So, you want to try the motorcycle class? Next two weekends. I've got room for you."

She nodded her head. "Yessir, I think I'd like to give it a try."

"Okay. Beer holding up?"

"Yessir."

He shook his head. "Look, Lu. No uniform, no sir. Makes me nervous, okay?"

She grinned. "Sorry, sir -- uh -- Ted." She helped them clean up and he poured her three fingers of rum in a small glass of Coke, then left her with Carol while he went through his email. She was loopy when he walked her out to the truck, and he drove her to her grandmother's house.

"I'll pick you up at 6:45," he said as she oozed out the truck, and she shot him a thumb's up as she stumbled into the house. "Well, Mission Accomplished..." he said as he drove home.

"That kid's wound tighter than a drum," Carol told him when he walked in the door. "You trust her?"

"Lu? Yeah, she had a rough day. She's had a rough life, too."

"So I gathered. I'd put her on anti-depressants if she was mine. She's flat. Flat as a pancake."

"Ninety percent of the force ought to be on those goddamn things, but then no one would be able to shoot worth a damn."

"That wouldn't be such a bad thing, would it?"

"Only if you wouldn't mind burying a few thousand cops a year," he smiled.

She was beginning to understand that particular smile. "My feet hurt," she said.

"You know, those shoes probably make a lot of guys horny, but you're going to ruin your feet. Here," he said as he sat down on the bed, "give 'em to me."

She sat down and lay them across his lap, and after he peeled her stockings off he put lotion on them and started working her tendons and facia.

"Oh my gawd..." she moaned. "Don't stop...please don't stop..."

He laughed. "You know you're getting old when the woman you're with says stuff like that to a foot rub, instead of a..."

"Oh, that's next on my list," she said, almost purring. "Want me to put those shoes back on?"

He sighed, shook his head. "Do you really think men are so predictable?"

"Yup. I do."

+++++

By Friday morning she had their routine was down. He picked her up, they talked all the way to the station and almost as soon as they checked in-service they were dispatched to a major accident -- usually in or near a school zone, and more often than not with some kid hit in a crosswalk.

They walked out to the Suburban after briefing and checked their bags, and as soon as they checked-in dispatch called.

"841, go ahead."

"841, 10 unknown, possible signal 1, vicinity of Cielo and Benedict Canyon. This is a patrol request for an AI and additional backup. They request code 1, possible suspects still in the area."

"841, show us code 1."

"What the fuck?" Lu said. "An unknown accident with a possible murder? And is this in-progress?"

"That's the way I read it," he said as he raced for Olympic. The morning traffic was still heavy -- and he busted a few packed intersections under lights and siren, but he continued silent all the way to Santa Monica, picking up speed after they crossed Sunset Boulevard.

"841, be advised air units on the way, tactical callout requested by units on scene."

"41."

"Well, there goes the element of surprise..." she said.

"This smells like trouble," he said as he took a left on Cielo. "Oh, fuck," he said as he looked at the houses in the neighborhood. "This is same area where the Manson/Tate murders went down."

"The what?"

He looked at her as he stopped behind three parked squad cars. "You ever heard of Charles Manson?"

"Fuck!"

"Get the AR out of the back, and the extra clips."

"Yessir."

"Keep your eyes open..." he said as he stepped out of the Suburban, just as a barrage of heavy automatic weapons fire cut loose up the hill. "Fuck!" he said as he ran to the back to the truck. He opened the doors and hauled out the AR-15, then pulled three clips out of the bag; he handed these to Lu and she took off into the trees. He pulled an ancient Remington 870 pump out and double-checked the tube, and racked the slide enough to see a chambered round. He counted ten rounds total -- just as another round of heavy weapons fire erupted.

But...nothing on the radio...

What the fuck...

This was an ambush...

He dove into the front seat and got on the radio.

"841!"

"841, go ahead."

"841, I think this is an ambush. Two bursts of heavy automatic weapons fire, and I'm not picking up anything on the radio..."

Another burst of fire, this time close by, and this time the windshield overhead exploded, raining shards down all over the seats, and all over his back.

"841, signal 33 shots fired, heavy weapons, air unit caution, need immediate backup!" He scrambled across the floorboard and out the passenger door and into the bushes; he saw Simpson laying face down in the dirt and grabbed the AR by her side -- and checked the safety. He heard running, two to three people running down the street, and he pulled himself through the dense brush over to a steep, rock-walled ravine -- and he tried to get a view of the other patrol cars ahead of their Suburban.

He heard an impossible number of sirens coming up Benedict Canyon, then another burst of fire -- and he looked up to see a helicopter taking fire, smoke pouring out the rear. He saw the shooter across the street, waiting in the bushes, and he brought the Colt's sights up to his eyes and let off a three round burst. He jumped and scrambled through the brush as bullets slammed into the trees where he just had shot from, and he heard people speaking, but not in English. He saw a van racing down Cielo, heard it braking hard, saw three men running for the van -- as he sighted in on them -- he fired a three round burst -- then another. Two down, the third looking for him -- he fired into the driver's door then felt something hit his shoulder. He was on fire, but now he saw the third guy running his way, his gun coming up...

Then the man stopped, began ejecting the clip from his weapon and Sherman stood up with the 870 pump and fired four rounds of double-00 buckshot at the man, at least two hitting the man in the face. The man staggered backwards and fell to the ground, just as the first of several dozen patrol cars screamed into view. He staggered down out of the bushes, pointed at the hillside across the street and officers began fanning out. He stumbled over to the Suburban and got on the radio.

"841, multiple officers down, get EMS and medevac aircraft up here code 3. Notify 100, CID and call the FBI."

He slumped over the seat, then fell backwards onto the street. He put a hand out, tried to steady himself, but he felt light-headed, almost weightless as the sky started spinning.

"This isn't so bad," he said as he suddenly felt himself floating on a sea of warm light. "Nope, not too bad at all...I thought it would hurt a lot more than this..." He was looking up at the sky again, at a cloud passing on a warm breeze, and he was aware -- for a moment -- that it was getting hard to breathe, and he smiled for a moment, then closed his eyes.

+++++

She was sitting at a desk, re-reading an email, looking at the satellite imagery attached when a colonel in the Mossad came into the room.

He didn't speak, didn't dare interrupt her, but she looked up at him. "Yes?" she said, and the colonel had the impression a very old owl had just spoken to him.

"There has been trouble. In Los Angeles."

"My brother?"

"He has been shot, there are reports he has been killed."

She turned away, put her face in her hands and rubbed her eyes. "Find out what you can," she whispered, then she turned to him and the fury he saw in her eyes was a fascinating, if dreadful thing to behold. "Minimal involvement," she seethed. "See to it yourself. Find out who was behind it."

When the man was gone she looked around the room, this little monastic cell of her own creation, and she cursed her body once again, cursed it for turning against her now. She turned the chair and motored out to the patio, looked out over the little village of Tarum to the vineyards beyond, then she cursed the day she'd been born -- again.