Split Images (1981) (5 page)

Mr. Randall said, "I'm sorry, Your Honor . . ."

Curtis Moore said, "They kick in the door."

Now Mr. Randall had to hobble a few steps to get his hands on Curtis's shoulders.

Bryan Hurd said, "We knocked several times.

We could hear movement inside, voices . . ."

"Look like some gang out on the porch," Curtis Moore said, Mr. Randall squeezing his shoulder blades. "They come dress like some gang, they ought'n to make house calls."

Beautiful. Angela was smiling as the judge told Mr.

Randall he'd be held in contempt, bad knee or no bad knee, if he wasn't able to control his clients.

She saw Bryan Hurd smiling, not giving it much, not enough to show his teeth, but smiling all the same. She saw him looking at her now, as though he were using the smile to bring them together. But as she smiled back she knew this was between the two of them and had nothing to do with anyone else or anything that was said. They continued to look at each other until Mr. Randall asked a question.

Bryan Hurd said, "I went over to one of the front windows. That was when Walter, Mr. Kouza, kicked in the door."

"Yeah, then what happened?"

"Well, we went in."

"How many of you?"

"Sergeant Malik, Mr. Kouza and myself."

"Where were the others, the other four?"

"On the sides and around in back."

Mr. Randall said, "It wouldn't seem anyone could slip out, make an escape then."

Bryan said, "It wouldn't seem anyone could escape from jail, but they do."

"Got to watch myself with you," Mr. Randall said. "Go on, tell the court what happened then.

Who was present in the house? You busted the people's door down, now you're in there."

Bryan nodded toward the plaintiff table. "Mrs.

Moore was coming down the stairs at the time.

Curtis was in the living room. Darius was in the dining room, directly behind the living room."

"What was he doing?"

"He started--it looked like he was going into the kitchen when Mr. Kouza yelled at him to stop."

"What did it appear he was doing when you arrived?" Mr. Randall asked. "In fact, the whole family. What were they doing?"

"I think they were getting ready to have something to eat. There was a pie and a bottle of Pepsi--

Cola on the dining-room table. One of those big plastic bottles."

"So Mr. Kouza, he yelled at Darius, uh? What did he say to him?"

"He called for him to remain where he was."

"Yeah, but what did he say exactly?"

"He said, 'Freeze, motherfucker. Don't move.' "

"Like that?"

"Somewhat louder."

"Then what happened?"

"Darius turned and started back."

"Toward the living room?"

"That's right. But he was still in the dining room when Mr. Kouza fired."

"I thought Darius was shot in the spine," Mr.

Randall said.

"He was," Bryan said. "From the front."

"Must have been a powerful weapon Mr. Kouza used."

Bryan didn't say anything.

"Was a Mag num," Curtis Moore said. He was standing now, Randall trying to get to him. "Was a big forty-four Mag num. Ask me what the motherfucker use. He want to shoot everybody, except this one"--pointing to Bryan Hurd on the witness stand--"stop him."

Mr. Randall had his hands on Curtis now, easing him down, saying, "Your Honor, please take into account this young man's emotional state, seeing his brother--" And stopped there.

Judge Solner said, "I've seen enough of Mr.

Moore today. He can leave on his own or the court officer will throw him out. Right now."

Angela watched Curtis Moore stroll out of the courtroom in his black leather jacket and tight maroon trousers. All he needed was the Bee Gees playing behind him, his drag-step pace right on the beat. She wondered if any magazine would go for an interview with Curtis. Outside of Easy Rider.

Bryan Hurd was looking at her. He wasn't smiling now but almost. She looked at him with the same expression. She couldn't be cool with him.

She didn't want to be. She wanted to make a face and see him smile, knowing he would. But the face would have to relate to something he would recognize. She knew him but she didn't know him.

Mr. Randall said, "I've only one more area to cover, Your Honor," and turned to Lieutenant Hurd again. "Was Darius, at the time he was shot, was he holding anything in his hand?"

"He was holding a knife," Bryan answered.

"What kind? Big butcher knife?"

"He was holding a silverware knife."

"Just a plain, ordinary silverware knife?"

"That's right," Bryan said. "With banana cream pie on it."

Twenty minutes later it was over. Angela watched Walter Kouza coming out, glancing back, blunt arms hanging rigid in his tight gray suit, buttoned, banging through the low gate to the aisle and glancing back again, livid, to say, "Thanks a lot, you son of a bitch."

Lieutenant Hurd was looking this way. He said, "Walter?"

But Walter was out the door.

Angela closed her notebook, slipped it into her canvas bag. As the homicide cop with the bandit mustache came through the gate she was ready.

She said, "Lieutenant? . . ." As he came over she said, "Bryan Hurd, is it?" Aloud for the first time, wanting to hear herself say his name. He was taller than she had expected. Younger looking, close.

He said, "Well, finally . . ."

They stared at each other.

He said, "You know how long I've been wanting to meet you?"

She said, "Wait a minute. How do you know who I am?"

He said, "I don't." Then said, making a statement, "You're not with one of the papers, are you?

You're from somewhere else?"

"I'm on my own."

"That's what I thought. So am I, for the next ten days." He seemed to want to say something else, prevent a silence. "Actually I'm not off till Monday, then I've got the ten days . . . But see, I'm off this weekend, so it's like I'm off now." The silence began and he said, "Just stay with me through this part. I don't want to sound dumb and blow it, but you try too hard that's what happens . . . What's funny?"

"Nothing."

They stared at each other.

She said, "I should've washed my hair."

He seemed uncertain, or hopeful. Then began to smile and said, "You know what I'm talking about, don't you. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"You haven't really said anything yet."

"That's what I mean. I don't have to say anything. You know. And your hair's fine. It's perfect."

She said, "Then I'm all set." And seemed confident again in her long navy blue coat, her jeans and cowboy boots. But she felt the need to say, "Boy, I don't know . . ."

They stared at each other again until Bryan said, "Let's get a drink and talk for a few days."

Neither of them spoke in the elevator going down.

COMING OUT OF the City-County Building, walking east on Jefferson, they started over and spoke about the weather, looking off at the Ford Auditorium on the riverfront, the fountain misting in Hart Plaza, Bryan saying it was a little too nice, it wasn't like April, April in Detroit was miserable, wet and cold, with dirty snow left over from winter; Angela saying she lived in Arizona, Tucson, and didn't know much about weather, outside of weather in New York when you wanted a taxi; Bryan saying he thought that should about do it for weather, though he could tell her how muggy it got in the summer if she wanted.

Angela said, "Boy . . ." and shook her head in amazement.

"What?"

She said, "We know each other but we don't."

He said, "Maybe we're related. What do you think?"

She said, "I hope not." And was silent.

Bryan glanced at her. She was pulling in. But that was all right because she was still there. Her mouth and nose he had committed to memory and believed he could draw within a couple of tries with clean, simple lines. The awareness in her eyes . . .

"You have blue eyes, right?"

"Sort of blue."

"So're mine."

She said, "I know."

It made him feel good. Walter was a half-block ahead of them and he was pretty sure where Walter was going. Maybe he'd buy him a drink.

She said, "I think I'd like to do Curtis Moore sometime."

"I think Walter would too," Bryan said.

She looked at him now. "You know what I mean."

"I've interviewed him a few times," Bryan said.

He told her the only way to get his full attention was to talk about bikes. Curtis had a big trickedout scoot, a Harley, he kept in the house. He had a cane that telescoped out into a pool cue, with a grass pipe in the grip he smoked going sixty. Curtis painted a white girl brown one time and kept her a week.

Angela said, well, it was a thought.

He asked her how long she'd been writing. She said, making a living at it, just three years.

"You like to write?"

She looked at him. No one had ever asked her that before. She said, "I'm not sure. I've got a couple of problems. I don't know if I'm Oriana Fallaci or Studs Terkel. I'm serious. And I'm about to turn thirty and I'm having a little trouble with that, too."

He said, "I'll tell you how to handle the age thing. But why can't you be Angela Nolan?"

She said, "I don't know if pure Angela Nolan would sell."

He said, "Well, as long as you don't show off.

What do you write about?"

"I do interviews. Not the usual type with famous people. Bum Phillips is the only one even remotely famous."

Bryan stopped.

"But why did you say that about not showing off?" Now Angela stopped and had to turn to look up at him. "What's the matter?"

"I read it. It was in Playboy and your picture was in the front part, right? With all the pictures?"

"Yeah, in the November issue. You saw it?"

"I cut it out," Bryan said.

"The interview?"

"No, your picture." He held up thumb and index finger about an inch apart. "It's that big."

"Come on--" She was smiling, amazed. "All the naked girls in there, you cut out my picture?"

"I'll tell you something else," Bryan said. "It's the first time in my life I ever cut out a girl's picture, naked or otherwise."

"But why?"

He said, "Why do you think? Why do you think we're here, right now?"

She said, "It's getting scary."

He said, "It's not getting scary, it's been. Ever since I saw you." They started walking again.

She said, "It's funny--watching you in the courtroom, you reminded me of Bum Phillips."

He almost stopped again. "You think I look like him?"

"No, I mean something he said." She delivered the line with the hint of a Western drawl: " 'I make decisions according to what's right and what's wrong, not to keep my job' . . . Even the judge was surprised Randall called you."

Bryan said, "Kenneth Randall--you ever get in serious trouble, hire him. He spends most of his time in Recorders Court, that's the criminal stuff; so I see him about once a week."

Angela said, "You didn't give him anything, but you didn't hold back either. I mean considering Walter Kouza's a fellow police officer. Isn't there some kind of unwritten law, you don't tell on each other?"

Bryan said, "He's not my fellow police officer. I don't need any Walter Kouzas."

Angela said, "He's a bodyguard now."

"Good," Bryan said. "Is that what you're doing, interviewing bodyguards?"

"I was interviewing the body Walter's guarding," Angela said, "Mr. Robinson Daniels of Grosse Pointe and Palm Beach? Daniels Fasteners.

They make something for Chrysler."

"They make nuts and bolts," Bryan said. "Yeah, you see his picture a lot, Robbie Daniels. Or you see him at Lindell's with the jock sniffers. Every couple of years he offers to buy the Tigers and in between he buys 'em drinks. I hear he's a pretty nice guy."

Angela said, "That seems to be the word. At least from the gang down in Palm Beach. I haven't talked to anyone up here yet."

"What's he need a bodyguard for?"

"That's the first question I'm gonna ask, if we ever get back together."

"Did you ask Walter?"

"Walter says, 'Why you think? Rich guys need protection from the fucking kooks in the world.' "

"Well, it's not unusual," Bryan said. "Even if it's just for status. But, Robbie Daniels, he is pretty well known."

"I know, it's possible." Angela said. "Last week I was gonna drop the whole idea. It wasn't worth all the waiting around. Either waiting for Robbie or waiting to see one of his friends and then getting the same old shit. Rich people don't think, they just assume things. They assume everyone thinks the way they do."