In the Night of the Heat (25 page)

We were meeting him cold, so he wasn't expecting us.

Dad's wheelchair was hell to push on the grass, but I hunkered down. We made a trail in the slightly overgrown stalks as we walked closer to Dwyer and his students. Luckily, he saw us coming. He signaled to one of his students and walked toward us. The kids played on.

Dwyer wore a white school shirt and blue shorts that looked exactly like the ones my high school P.E. teacher had worn. He was a bit heavy but had a remarkably youthful face for his age. Reaching us, he shielded his face from the sun with a clipboard.

“Help you?” he said.

“Coach, I'm sorry to surprise you at work. I'm Tennyson Hardwick, and this is my father—retired LAPD police captain Richard Hardwick.”

Dad once told me there are two kinds of people, when it comes to
the word
police:
those who grin, roll up their sleeves and say “How can I help you, Officer?” and those who don't. Dwyer was one of the latter. He stood like a statue in the hazy sunlight, waiting for the rest.

“You've heard about the death of T.D. Jackson…” I went on.

Dwyer nodded, lowering his clipboard so I could see his face more clearly. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were strikingly large, with an attentive quality that reminded me of Forest Whitaker. “Yes,” he said, nodding. His lips pinched out the word. “Tragedy.”

Like Dad, he wasn't long-winded. He glanced back over his shoulder at the kids, and I knew we wouldn't have his attention long. Three or four boys who weren't playing lingered nearby, sniggering, trying not to look like they were eavesdropping. The name T.D. Jackson had stopped them in their tracks. From their size, they might be from Dwyer's varsity team.

I chose the straightforward approach, keeping my voice low.

“I'm trying to do a favor for a friend,” I said.

“What friend?” Dwyer asked.

“I'm not at liberty to say. But I can tell you that I have nothing but the best intentions toward all the families and friends connected in this matter.”

Distantly, someone was practicing a tuba. Dwyer gazed at me, chewing at the side of his cheek…and then nodded. “Go on.”

“Unnamed sources in the police suggest suicide—but we want a few folks who knew T.D. to tell us what they think.”

Dwyer nodded. He understood; even seemed to approve. “I was surprised by that.”

I pulled my notebook out of my back pocket.

“I didn't know T.D. well,” he said. “I was invited to a couple social gatherings—his wedding, way back…” His voice cracked. “I knew his parents better. Long ago.”

“Are you close to the Jackson family?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn't say that. It's a long acquaintance, but not deep. I'll always care about Emory and Evangeline, so this news hurt my heart. Chantelle, too, of course. I can't imagine losing one of mine—a student, much less my own child.”

As Dwyer shifted and his shirtsleeve rode higher on his arm, I saw something that made me forget my next question: He had a keloid scar almost identical to T.D. Jackson's, but it was on his upper arm. Dwyer had branded himself, too. I remembered Carlyle's words on Saturday:
Two generations. Heat looks out for Heat. Always.

“You knew Emory Jackson from your days on the Spartans.” I said it like it was common knowledge. “The Heat.”

A long, slow shadow crept across Dwyer's face. Beside me, my father nudged the back of my leg, in case I'd missed it.

Dwyer crossed his arms, body language for
Back off
. “Yes,” he said, his voice tight again. “Been a while since I've seen them. Ten years? Maybe longer, since T.D.'s wedding.”

“That was an amazing team,” I said. “I'm a Spartan, too. My dad saw you play at Spartans Stadium.”

“That right?” For the first time, Dwyer gave a wistful smile as he glanced at Dad. Dwyer's arms stayed crossed, but he seemed to relax. However distant, we were family now.

“You were…magic,” Dad said. “Whole…team.”

“The Sunshine Bowl!” I said, patting Dwyer's shoulder. “Beautiful, man.”

Dwyer's smile grew boyish, part bashfulness and part pride. “We had a hell of a year,” he said. “Some of it was luck, but we had a hell of a year.”

“I saw that HBO thing on Blythewood,” I said. “What's up with that? He sounded like he played the game by himself. Where were the rest of ya'll?”

“Guess they can't call everybody,” Dwyer said dismissively.

“Same old…same old,” Dad said. “They used to think…black folks…couldn't…play.” Dad spoke as if he was giving a history lesson, and I guess he was. Aside from his doctors or therapists, I hadn't heard Dad speak at such length to a stranger since his stroke. Dad was pushing himself beyond his comfort zone to do the job. “These kids today…don't know. I 'member…they'd…bench the black players…for games…in the South. 'Member?”

Dwyer nodded, but he didn't uncross his arms. “Everyone had to be on their best behavior in those days. Like we were all Jackie Robinson.”

“Wouldn't give Jim Brown…the Heisman,” Dad said, and slapped his arm rest for effect. “Still burns me…to this day.” Brown had been a four-sport star in high school: Football, basketball, lacrosse, and track. I couldn't count the number of rants I'd heard about the injustice of his fifth-place ranking in the Heismans in 1956.

Dwyer nodded, his face clouding.

“Then comes the Sunshine Bowl in 1967,” I said, following Dad's lead. “So Cal State's black players
carried
that game. There was Emory Jackson…”

“Hankins,” Dad said, as if reminding me. He tried to snap his fingers. “Who…else?”

We both looked at Dwyer.

“Bear,” Dwyer said. “Nobody would have done nothin' that day without Wallace.”

“That's right! Wallace….” I angled for the full name.

Dwyer hesitated, but only an instant. “Wallace Rubens. Number six. He kept Blythewood off his ass all day. Gave him that pocket.” I had come across that name in the list of players for the bowl-winning team. The internet had said something about Florida.

“What happened? Why'd I never hear about him?”

His face clouded. “Injury. Never really came back from it.”

There was something fluttering around the periphery there. I had the odd sense that that was the edge of a truth…and if I pushed any further, I was going to get a lie.

“Was Wallace in the Heat, too?” I said, indicating the H-shaped scar on his upper arm. “And Hankins?”

Self-conscious, Dwyer pulled his sleeve down. His face tensed again. He would have worn long sleeves if he had known we were coming.

“It was a social club,” Dwyer said with a shrug, which I guessed meant
yes
. “A brotherhood, you might call it. Back then there never were but a few black players on any big college team, and it was tough.”

Dad nodded. “You right…about that. Tough…everywhere.”

“We called ourselves Heat,” Dwyer said. “Heat forges iron, that kind of thing. We made each other stronger. We knew some of the people watching those games wanted us to fail because of our skin color. Not every school would play teams from a segregated division, but SoCal State did.”

“Bet…ya'll…caught hell down there,” my father said. “In Florida. Wasn't just…orange trees and…beaches. Huh?”

Dwyer looked at my father as if he was seeing a ghost. He stood frozen for a full two seconds before he answered. “Wasn't so bad,” he said.

His first obvious lie, or a conveniently misplaced memory. The
New York Times
column had said the white Florida University fans jeered loudly, spewing racial filth from the stands. Dwyer looked back over his shoulder at his students on the field, who played with less vigor whenever his back was turned. “Julie!” Dwyer called sharply. “Do that snap again!”

When he turned back to us, he ran his hand across his close-cropped scalp. “Who did you say sent you here?”

“T.D.'s friends hired a lawyer,” I said. “The lawyer is a friend of mine.”

Dwyer nodded, but didn't speak. He didn't look satisfied. He glanced at his watch. Dwyer was about to say
Sorry, can't talk right now.
His desire to get clear of us was so strong that I could feel his aura pulling away. A light drizzle had begun, promising to get stronger.

“One last thing…” I said, and Dwyer looked at me, hopeful, his eyes weary. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill T.D. Jackson?”

Dwyer sighed, looking pained. “I can't speculate on that. Like I said, I wasn't close…”

“Do you know of a Roland or Ronald who might have worked for Senator Hankins? A big man with a name beginning with an R?” He looked at me blankly. I realized I'd always assumed the R name was a first name, but it might be a surname. Hearing my question aloud made me think of it: “Did Wallace Rubens ever work for Donald Hankins?”

Dwyer's eyes looked like they could sink from his face, a well of sadness. He took two steps away, walking backward. “I'm sorry if you drove a long way,” he said. “I'm really not the person you want to talk to.”

“Coach, I'm only—”

He cut me off. “I've lived in Ojai thirty years. I have a wife, two sons, and a quiet life. We win a few games, but I've never reached for those heights like Don and Emory. I coach high school football, that's all. I haven't kept up with my old team—just that wedding, like I said. I don't know how to help you. I wish you wouldn't come back here.”

“Coach,” I said gently. “What happened in 1967?”

He looked at me as if I'd just broken a promise. When he spoke again, his voice was flat and lifeless. “We won a game,” he said.

Dwyer turned and left us. His eavesdropping students trotted af
ter him, as if they were a protection detail. The kids gave us wary glances over their shoulders; they'd seen the change in Dwyer, too, and they didn't like it. Walking away, Dwyer never looked back. He blew his whistle to rally his kids, and they flocked around him, some of them sitting at his feet. Dwyer was beloved at his school.

“Good call,” Dad said, as I turned his wheelchair around in the grass.

“You got him to say more than he wanted to,” I said. “You opened him right up.”

We were a mutual admiration society.

I wrote down the name
Wallace Rubens,
then
Heat,
and underlined the words three times. I had found gold in Ojai.

Now I just had to mine it.

I PICKED UP TWO TUNA SANDWICHES
with bean sprouts at a local health-food deli, and we started the drive back toward home. By the time we left downtown Ojai, it was raining hard.

As soon as I made it back to Casitas Vista Road, Dad started dozing. Half his sandwich lay uneaten in the plastic box in his lap. I'd hoped to pick his brain on the Sunshine Bowl, especially with his perspective on history, but Dad's energy faded fast because of his medications. So much for my Crockett and Tubbs fantasy.

Instead, I picked up my cell phone to track down one hunch while it was fresh.

“Burnside,” the reporter's voice answered. He sounded harried. One of us had a bad cell signal, so his voice phased in and out.

“It's April's friend, Tennyson Hardwick. I won't keep you, but I have a question.”

“I'm in a meeting, but you're April's friend, so I'm listening.”

For the first time, I wondered exactly how deep Burnside's fondness for April was. Would he make a move now that she was available? I knew nothing about the man, but my tide of thoughts almost
made me forget why I'd called.
So this is what it feels like to be jealous.
The feeling was brand-new, and I didn't like it.

“The thug you think worked for Senator Hankins…the big guy?” I said. “Could his name have been Rubens?”

“
Rubens
. Yeah. Walter or Wallace,” Burnside said. “That's the name.”

I blinked, surprised by his certainty. “You said it was Roland or Ronald.”

“I was wrong,” he said. “It was Rubens. I have an uncle named Rubin, and I remember it now. What do you have on him?” I heard the familiar reporter's hunger in his voice, but I had promised April the story.

“Nothing yet,” I said. “They played some football together, that's all.”

I mentioned football in case Burnside knew anything about the Sunshine Bowl, but he didn't take the bait. Or, maybe his generosity in the information trade only went as far as mine.

“If you find anything worth knowing, don't forget my number,” Burnside said. “I'd love to know if this has any legs before Hankins announces his governor's run.”

You and me both,
I thought.

I clicked off the phone. With the rain, cliffs, and mountains to lull me, my mind sorted through the pieces: Wallace Rubens had been part of a Heat brotherhood that tied together Jackson, Hankins, and Dwyer. No one in the 1967 Heat liked to talk about their team, or their association. Why? According to the reporter, Rubens had been arrested twelve years before for trespassing against one of Hankins's political foes. Two years later, Rubens was possibly implicated in the brake-tampering death of another Hankins opponent.

Maybe Rubens was his old friend's hammer.

“Dad?” I modulated my voice so that I would only wake him if he was dozing lightly.

My father's eyes snapped open. He was tired, but on alert. “Hnh?” He took a bite out of his sandwich as if he hadn't been sleeping for ten minutes.

“You remember that case involving Donald Hankins? The trespassing thing?”

Dad shook his head. “Not much. I 'member…a car accident.”

“Right. But a reporter told me the name Wallace Rubens came up in a trespassing case a couple years before that. Let's say this same Rubens tampered with brakes and got somebody killed, all in service to his old friend, Hankins. Is Hankins ambitious enough for that?”

“You…never know,” Dad said. “Folks…said it. Rumors.”

“How hard did the chief's office work to keep car accident quiet?”

“We got…a couple calls,” he said. “One call's…enough.”

“So that incident was never fully investigated.”

Dad sighed. “I never thought so.”

There was an elegance to the idea. It brimmed with possibilities. I was worried about sounding silly to Dad's seasoned ear, but I went on. “You know Judge Jackson from the NAACP. What does he think of Hankins?”

“Never has…much…to say. Damning…with faint praise.”

“Jackson, a judge, might have thought Hankins was too dirty,” I said. “Maybe even violent. I'm sure they talked about that car accident. Their children were married, so they were stuck in social circles. But bring up their football days, and they all shut down.”

My theory didn't explain the look on Dwyer's face when Dad asked him about Florida. I didn't have everything yet. But I had enough to fire up our imaginations.

“Then…” Dad began. “T.D. Jackson…kills…Chantelle Hankins.”

I had him. Dad's mind was gnawing it over.

“And gets acquitted. Maybe that drives Hankins to ask his old friend to fix another problem. Would Wallace Rubens kill the son of a teammate?”

“Depends on…the reason.”

“Hankins and Rubens figured T.D.'s acquittal was a hell of a good reason. And maybe Dwyer knows, or at least suspects. That's why he clammed up so fast about the Heat.”

Wallace Rubens was beginning to feel like a viable suspect.
Maybe Carlyle helped T.D. kill Chantelle, but he's in the clear for T.D.'s murder.

That's exactly what I was thinking when the black SUV roared behind me on a road that had been deserted an instant before. I saw the SUV before I heard it. The brights were on behind me, the massive grill bearing down.

“Hold o—”

That was all I had time to say to Dad before the violent jolt and a crash from my rear bumper. The tires skated on the slick road beneath us, but my hands grasped the wheel and held fast, so my car never strayed from my lane. The ridge yawned beyond the barrier, only a lane away; close to a thirty-foot plunge.

“Shit,”
I said. “Who the fuck—” Was it a drunk driver?

I gunned my accelerator, but my eyes couldn't leave the twisting road. Dad grabbed his safety bar and checked his side mirror. “Carlyle,” Dad said. “I see 'im.”

I risked a quick glance at my rearview mirror, and Dad was right: There were two men riding high behind us in the SUV's berth, but the driver was Carlyle Simms. The passenger might be Lee or Brandon. Had they been in Ojai, or had they followed us?

“Saw him…in Pomona,” Dad said. “Wasn't sure.”

I groaned. “We have
got
to work on our communication.”

As I rounded a curve at eighty and gaining speed, the Jeep Cherokee charged after us, its massive tires screaming on the damp roadway. The seclusion was suddenly anything but tranquil. There were occasional farmhouses in view from a distance, but no other cars were visible in either direction. And not a single person in sight. As the SUV rode my bumper and tried to overtake me, there was no one else to tell the tale.

Carlyle's Cherokee was twice the size of my Beemer. Another well-placed tap with his thirty-five-hundred-pound monster could send us flying. If we didn't land in the ravine on one side, we would smash against a rocky cliff on the other. I was boxed in. Between the isolation and the sudden rainfall, Carlyle had chosen his time well.

“Dad, hold on,” I said. “And I mean
tight.
This asshole's trying to kill us.”

“No shit,” Dad said, craning to look over his shoulder.

I suddenly wished we hadn't banished Susie to the trunk.

The Jeep roared, ramming us from behind again. This time, my hands were so steady on the wheel that I barely swerved, instinctively compensating for the sudden impact. My training in Colorado was about to pay off. Thanks, Alice.

But I hated the sound of my taillights crunching and trunk crumpling. Totaled already, and I'd just had my car painted two months before. Damn, I loved that car. Maybe that shouldn't have been going through my mind right then—but let me tell you, it was.

My heart was in overdrive, but by then I was pissed.

The ravine looked like a longer drop to a rocky grave every time I glanced at it, and the barrier would only slow us down long enough to realize we were about to die. If we rolled, we were done. The convert
ible top would give us no more protection than an eggshell. And air bags wouldn't be much help.

“We gotta…shake 'im, Ten” Dad said.

“No shit, Dad.”

We rounded another curve, the two vehicles' tires whining in harmony. Clear, empty roadway stretched another forty yards before the next curve ahead. Carlyle gave up trying to hit us from behind. His Cherokee let out a guttural snarl as he steered into the empty traffic lane to pull alongside me. BMW 325i's aren't slow, but neither is the Jeep Cherokee SRT-8. For a big vehicle, it was supernaturally fast.

We were in a race.

I glanced at the passenger side in time to see the Jeep take a clumsy swerve toward us as Carlyle tested himself. A practice swerve, working up his nerve. He wanted to hit me, but he didn't want to roll over in the process. I could almost hear him thinking.

“Shit, shit, shit…” I whispered through gritted teeth.

I couldn't look over at Carlyle. If I blinked, we might crash.

While Carlyle seemed to hesitate, slowing slightly, I pressed harder on the accelerator, hugging the rock face on my side as close as I could. Pebbles churned beneath my tires. Through my side window, blades of grass growing on the cliff were close enough to touch, just inches away. A large jutting branch squealed against my car's body on the driver's side, and I let out a frustrated yell. Anything I did to evade Carlyle might only kill us faster. On the other hand, if I could tempt him into a pursuit at velocities beyond his command…physics might do my job for me.

Carlyle crept neck and neck with me as if it was effortless. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the large black blur of his Jeep inching closer to Dad's side, making another run at us. Dad saw it too: He folded himself into a defensive position, his arms cradling his head.
He's an old man, you cold-ass motherfucker
, I thought, trying to bargain with Carlyle telepathically.

Some moments are life's last snapshot, and that one looked like ours.

I couldn't pull ahead. Instead, I jammed on my brakes and said a prayer.

The tires held their traction on the road. One prayer answered. I slipped back from Carlyle, but not quite fast enough. He clipped my hood, and my car shook as my entire driver's side scraped against the rocks, so hard I was sure the body would puncture and my window would break. Stones
pinged
against the windshield.

Please don't let me lose one of the tires.
I clung to the steering wheel like the lifeline it was, my foot still planted on the brakes. I held it rock-steady, fighting against what felt like the full weight of Carlyle's vehicle. My teeth were gritted so hard that my molars hurt. When a few inches finally opened up between us, I jerked my steering wheel toward the Jeep to give Carlyle something to think about.

As I'd hoped, a hard
thunk
was enough to jar Carlyle's concentration. He veered back into his lane, toward the barrier. I hoped he had a nice view of the ravine. Carlyle's brakes screamed as he skidded on the road. For an instant, I was sure he was going to tumble over the ravine himself—prayed for it, really—but he regained control and aimed his nose back at me. While he recovered, he'd fallen fifteen yards behind.

We turned a corner around a curve, with another curve and an empty road waiting ahead. I calculated the distance and my speed, ready for an experiment in physics.

“Dad…I have to do something crazy.” What I meant was,
Dad, I'm gonna get our asses killed.
No time to clarify. “Just trust me.”

“Do it…fast.”

Adrenaline turned my thoughts into a blizzard, but I gunned the accelerator. My car jolted forward like a bronco, snapping our necks back.

“Come on, come on, come on…” I whispered to my car.

We sped. The speedometer passed ninety-five.

I glanced in my rearview mirror. We'd pulled so far ahead that the curve in the road had taken Carlyle out of sight, but it would have been a fool's prayer to believe we had lost him. Carlyle was coming.

Now or never,
I told myself.

I turned the steering wheel, hit the brakes, and wanted to close my eyes.

My brakes cried out as if they were heralding our deaths. The damp road sent my tires into a spin, but I controlled it. Just barely. This time, I couldn't shout or curse. No time. The world narrowed to my windshield: I saw us pulling clear of the rocks as we spun, but we were sliding toward the barrier and its long drop. I pumped the brakes gently and fought the instinct to oversteer; instead, I nudged my wheel.
Come on, come on, come on…

My rear bumper crashed into the barrier, and the rear tires bumped off of the road. Another foot back, and we would be airborne.

Instead, we rocked to a stop. We were facing the opposite direction, just in time to see Carlyle rounding the corner straight toward us.

I hit the gas, and my back tires spat mud before they climbed back to the road. I sped straight toward Carlyle's headlights.

“You wanna play, asshole?” I said. “Let's play.”

Dad folded himself up again, bracing for impact. “Shit,” he said.

Carlyle Simms had probably believed since junior high school that he was the baddest motherfucker he knew, but his face through the windshield told a different story. Carlyle was slack-jawed and shocked. He hadn't expected me to come back for him.

I grinned at him and floored it.

Sometimes a moment gets hewed down to such essentials that fear and worry vanish into a whirlpool of pure intention. I wasn't feeling, only thinking: If he swerved right, I would swerve left. If he swerved left, I would swerve right. My imagination painted my pathways in bright gold.

As I roared toward Carlyle's Jeep, I felt like I was charging an elephant. In a battle between an SUV and a convertible, the odds in size are depressing.