Over the Edge (22 page)

'In other words, you're sure he's guilty.'

'Hell, yes,' he answered through a mouthful of ice.

The second drink arrived. As I watched him down it, I realised how worn out he looked.

'Speaking of walking off the case,' I said, 'why haven't you? Working with a couple of homophobes like White-head and Cash can't be a barrel of laughs.'

He laughed bitterly.

'Like I have a choice.'

'I thought you had flexibility in assignments.'

'That's the way it used to be, when Don Miller was in charge. But Miller died a couple of months ago.'

His face sagged, and he tried to hide it behind his glass. I knew he'd been fond of his captain, a tough but tolerant man who'd recognised his ability as a detective and hadn't let his homosexuality get in the way.

'What happened?'

'He keeled over on the twelfth hole at Rancho Park. Clogged arteries, probably had chest pains for a while but never told anyone.' He shook his head. 'Forty-eight years old, left a wife and five kids.'

'That's terrible. I'm sorry to hear it, Milo.'

'A lot of folks were sorry The man was a prince. Damned inconsiderate of him to check out early like that. The asshole they replaced him with is a piece of garbage by the name of Cyril Trapp. Used to be the biggest booze-hound, pillhead, and whore freak in Ramparts Division. Then he found Jesus and became one of those born again scrotes who think everyone who doesn't agree with him deserves the gas chamber. He's opined in public that faggots are moral sinners, so needless to say, he adores me.'

He tilted his head back and emptied the last drop of gin down his throat. When the waitress walked by, he flagged her and ordered a third.

'It wouldn't be that bad if he were blatant about it - good old honest hostility. I could quietly put in for a transfer on the basis of personality conflict and maybe squeak through. I like working West L.A., and it wouldn't do wonders for my personnel file, but I could handle it. But a transfer wouldn't satisfy Trapp. He wants me off the force, period. So he takes the subtle approach - psychological warfare. Puts on the polite act and uses the duty roster to make my life miserable.'

'Bad cases?'

'Faggot cases!' He raised his big fist and put it down hard on the table. The black couple looked over. I smiled, and they returned to their headphones.

'For the last two months,' he went on in a low voice, starting to slur, 'I've had nothing but gay cuttings, gay shootings, gay stompings, gay rapes. Faggot DOA, call Sturgis, captain's orders. It didn't take long to see the pattern, and I protested right away. Trapp put down his Bible, smiled, and said he understood how I felt but that my experience was too valuable to waste. That I was a specialist. End of discussion."

'It doesn't sound all that subtle,' I said. 'Why don't you file for transfer anyway?'

He twisted his lips into a frown.

'It's not that easy. Trapp's manipulated it so what I do

in bed would be the issue. Once he gets a piece of that, he won't let go, and I'd have to go public or keep eating it. No doubt the fucking ACLU would love to help me, but I don't wanna be a headline. It's not that I'm denying what I am - you know I worked that through a long time ago - but I've never been one for airing my skivvies in public.'

I thought back to what he'd once told me about his childhood, what it had been like to grow up as a shy, oversized, overweight boy in a working-class family in southern Indiana, son to a macho father, the youngest of five boisterous macho brothers. Though outwardly one of them, he knew he was different, had been terrifyingly aware of it since the age of six. The secret gnawed at him like a tapeworm, but when he heard his brothers joke contemptuously about fairies and queers, he knew that its release would mean disaster - perhaps, his young imagination suggested, even death. So he laughed at the jokes, went as far as cracking some of his own, churning inwardly but surviving. Learning early the value of privacy.

'I know that,' I said, 'but it doesn't sound like the alternative's any too good.'

'Yeah, that's what Rick says. He wants me to assert myself, to put up a fight. But first I have to get in touch with how I feel about the whole thing. To unburden myself. Which is therapy talk, right? He's been seeing a shrink; now he wants me to go with him. I've resisted, so it's a major issue between us.'

'If you're that unhappy,' I said, 'therapy could be helpful.'

The waitress came over with his drink. He took it from her before she had a chance to lay it down. The moment she walked away he began gulping, and when he lowered the glass, most of the drink was gone.

'I doubt it,' he said, swallowing. 'All the talking in the world isn't going to change the facts: Being a cop and being gay don't mix in this millennium. I knew it would be tough when I joined the force, and I made a pact with myself that no matter what happened, I'd emerge with my dignity intact. And there was plenty to test my resolve -

fascist instructors, abusive shitheads like Radovic. Mostly it's been cold silence. Ten years of heavy-duty social isolation. The last few in Homicide were the best because Miller's attitude filtered down to the troops, and I got respect for doing the job well - which is all I care about. I couldn't give a good goddamn if they invited me to double-date. But since Trapp's been running things, it's let-the-dogs-out-on-Milo time.'

The third drink disappeared.

'The hell of it is' - he smiled, woozily - 'that down deep I'm a closet homophobe myself. Show me a guy in drag or all decked out like the May Queen, and my gut reaction is oh, no! You remember that gay solidarity march in West Hollywood last summer? Rick and I went and stood on the sidelines, too chicken to join the show. It was a goddamn freak show, Alex. Guys with tails glued to their butts, guys with half a dozen socks studded in their jocks or dildos hanging outside their pants, guys in cute little hot pants outfits and panty hose, guys with purple hair and green beards. Can you imagine the feminists or the blacks dressing up like morons to make a political point?'

He looked around for the waitress.

'And it's the same goddamn exhibitionism when it comes to homicide. When gays off each other, they've gotta do it freakier and bloodier than anyone else. I pulled one squeal where the body had a hundred and fifty-seven stab wounds. Think of that. There was maybe enough skin left to cover a postage stamp. The guy who did it weighed ninety-seven pounds and looked like Peter Pan. The victim was his lover, and he was sobbing like a baby 'cause he missed him. Then there was one where some joker took a handful of roofing nails, made a fist, shoved it up another guy's ass, let go, and twisted until the poor sucker ruptured and bled to death. There's plenty more I could tell you about, but you get the point. It's a goddamn toilet out there, and Trapp's been shoving my head into it without flushing, day after day.'

He caught the waitress's eye and waved her over.

'Another, sir?' she said doubtfully.

'No.' He smiled unevenly. 'I need vitamins. Bring me a double screwdriver.'

'Yes, sir. Still nothing for you, sir?'

'I'll have a cup of coffee.'

He waited until she was gone before continuing.

'The gospel according to Trapp is that I can relate to that toilet because I swim in it anyway. Even if he was sincere about it, it's total bullshit. As if the witnesses are supposed to know I like guys and open up to me. Right. When I walk in, they get that suspicious look in their eyes and clam up just like they would with any other cop. What am I supposed to do, start off an interview by announcing my sexual preference - slice myself open in the name of doing the goddamn job?'

The coffee and screwdriver came. I sipped, and he raised his glass. Before he put it to his lips, he looked at me guiltily.

'Yeah, I know. Not to mention the six-pack I put away for dinner.'

I was silent.

'What the hell, I'm a minority of one, I'm entitled. Cheers.'

By the time he finished the screwdriver his head was starting to loll. He called for another and threw it back in one shot. When he put down the glass, his hands were shaking and his eyes were shot through with scarlet threads.

'Come on,' I said, standing and dropping some bills on the table, 'let's get out of here while you can still walk.'

He resisted, claiming he'd only just begun, and began humming the tune of the same name, but I finally managed to steer him out of the Golden Eagle and into the night air. The parking lot was dark and smelled of jet fuel, but it was a welcome change from the boozy humidity of the lounge.

He walked with a drunk's exaggerated caution, and I worried he'd fall. The notion of hoisting and dragging 230 pounds of inebriated detective didn't thrill me, and I was thankful when we reached the Seville. Guiding him to the passenger side, I opened the door, and he stumbled in.

'Where to?' he asked, stretching out his legs and yawning.

'Let's take a drive.'

'Peachy.'

I opened the windows, started up the engine, and drove onto the 405 north. Traffic was light, and it didn't take long to connect to the 90, but by the time I exited at Marina Del Rey, he was asleep. I cruised along Mindanoa Way, passed a couple of upscale shopping centres, and hooked toward the harbour. The breeze was damp and saline and bore just a trace of stench. A flotilla of pleasure craft bobbed silently in the glossy black water, masts as plentiful as reeds in a marsh. The moon broke against the surface of the bay in cream-coloured fragments.

A sharp gust of wind blew into the car. Milo opened his eyes and straightened up, grunting. He looked out the window and turned to me, perplexed.

'Hey,' he said, in a voice still thickened by alcohol, 'I thought I told you to be careful.'

'What are you talking about?'

'This is Radovic country, pal. Fucker's got an old Chris Craft moored in one of the slips.'

'Oh, yeah,' I recalled, 'Souza mentioned something about that.'

He swayed closer, smelling of sweat and gin.

'And you just happened to coast down here, huh?'

'Don't get paranoid, Milo. I thought the sea breeze might clear your besotted brain.'

'Sorry,' he mumbled, closing his eyes again. 'I've got used to checking my back.'

' That' s a hell of a way to live.'

He managed a shrug, then suddenly retched. I glanced over and saw him doubled up with pain and holding his belly. Quickly I pulled onto the shoulder of the road and braked the Seville. Running around to the passenger side, I opened the door just in time. He sagged forward, lurched, heaved, and vomited repeatedly. I found a box of tissues in the glove compartment, grabbed a wad, and, when it looked as if he was through, wiped his face.

Exhausted and breathing hard, he pulled himself up, leaned his head back, and shivered. I closed the door and got back in the driver's seat.

'Did I sully your paint job?' he asked hoarsely.

'No, you missed. Feel any better?'

He groaned in response.

I turned the car around, found Lincoln Boulevard, and drove north through Venice and into Santa Monica. He coughed dryly, slumped down in the seat, and let his head drop to his chest. Within moments he was sleeping again, snoring through his mouth.

I drove slowly through streets slick with coastal fog, breathing in the ocean air and collecting my thoughts. It was after eleven, and except for drifters, derelicts, and Mexican dishwashers leaving darkened chophouses, the sidewalks were deserted. Turning right on Montana, I found an all-night doughnut stand embedded in an empty asphalt lot, glowing Edward Hopper yellow and reeking of sweetened lard. Pulling up close, I left Milo dozing, got out, and bought a jumbo cup of black coffee from a pimpled kid wearing a Walkman.

When I brought it back to the car, Milo was sitting up, hair dishevelled and eyelids drooping with fatigue. He took the cup, held it with both hands, and drank.

'Finish it,' I said. 'I want to get you back to Rick in one piece.'

He constructed a stoic facade, then let it collapse.

'Rick's in Acapulco,' he said. 'Been there for a couple of weeks.'

'Separate vacations?'

'Something like that. I've been acting like a son of a bitch and he needed to get away from me.'

'When's he coming back?'

Steam rose from the coffee in wisps and swirls, misting his face and obscuring his expression.

'It's open-ended. I haven't heard from him except for one postcard that talked about the weather. He's on leave from the ER and has plenty of bucks saved up, so theoretically it could be a long time.'

He lowered his face and sipped.

'I hope it works out,' I said.

'Yeah. Me, too.'

A gasoline truck rumbled by seismically, leaving silence in its wake. Behind the counter of the doughnut shop the acned kid checked the deep fryers while bobbing to his Walkman.

'If you ever need someone to talk to,' I said, 'be sure to call. No need to be a stranger again.'

He nodded.

'I appreciate that, Alex. I know I've been hibernating. But it's a funny thing about solitude - at first it hurts; then you acquire a taste for it. I get home from a day when everyone's been talking at me and the sound of another human voice is grating, and all I want is silence.'

'If I worked with Cash and Whitehead, I'd want silence, too.'

He laughed.

'The gruesome twosome? A couple of superstars.'

'They thought I was gay because I'm your friend.'

'Classical case of limited thinking. It's why neither of them will ever be worth much as a detective. Sorry if they hassled you.'

'They weren't that bad,' I said, 'more ineffectual than anything. I just don't see how you can work with them.'

'Like I said before, do I have a choice. No, actually it hasn't been as bad as it could've been. Whitehead's a dolt and antigay, but he's anti everything - Jews, blacks, women, conservationists, vegetarians, Mormons, the PTA - so it's hard to take it personally. On top of that he keeps his distance, probably worried about catching AIDS. Cash wouldn't be half bad if he gave a damn about anything other than chasing pussy and cultivating his tan.'