Widows' Watch (11 page)

Friday, October 1, 2:05 P.M.

“Who are those people out there?” demanded Captain Stollinger, head of the Criminal Investigations Division.

“I think half of them are from the media,” replied Sergeant Mosson of Community Relations. “The protesters, according to their signs, are poets, gays, people from H.H.U., and bicycle racers.”

“You're kidding.” Captain Stollinger peered out the front door. He was six three with short gray hair and a hawk nose upon which were perched large rectangular bifocals framed in dull silver.

“They're all supporting Lance Potemkin, the guy C.A.P. thinks murdered his father,” added Mosson.

Stollinger glowered through the door. “Get Beltran out here.”

With so many factions milling around, Harmony despaired of a well-organized demonstration. She decided to deal with the senior citizens first, since she had got them together after the funeral, drilled them in safe-protest practices, and set them to work making signs that said things like “Protect Golden Agers,” “Senior Citizens Aren't Safe,” and “Criminals are Killing Us.” Unfortunately, many of the sign carriers were resting on the front steps. Granted, their presence impeded foot traffic into Police Headquarters, but Harmony had been hoping for a more active participation. The only senior citizen actually walking up and down was Lydia Beeman. Although Harmony didn't care much for the woman, Lydia was physically active, so Harmony approached her.

“Could you organize the Socorro Heights group into a picket line?” she asked.

“Do they look as if they're up to walking around?” retorted Lydia. “I had them bring lawn chairs for just that reason. As soon as they get their second wind, they'll be putting up the chairs.”

“Wonderful!” said Harmony, willing to compromise. “Form a lawn-chair barricade so the police cars can't get in and out.”

Lydia looked as if she were about to refuse, then nodded briskly and marshaled her forces. Harmony could hear various elderly ladies wondering if they might not be run down. “Of course not!” snapped Lydia. “Do you really think the police are going to kill someone's grandmother? They may ignore our problems, but they know better than to injure us.”

The lawn-chair blockade formed up nicely, those without arthritis marching behind with the signs. Dimitra sat in her walker, while T. Bob Tyler stood behind her protectively. Harmony thought they made a charming couple. Satisfied with the senior citizens, she turned her attention to Hoke Mitchell, president of the bicycle racers. They were carrying signs that said “Let Lance Ride,” “Los Santos Athletes Support Lance,” and “We Want A Win In New Mexico.” They'd come on their bicycles.

“Could you ride in some sort of close-order pattern and stop traffic on Raynor and Montana?” she asked.

Hoke agreed and strode off through the bicycle racers, calling out orders like a drill sergeant.

“What about us?” asked Orion, who had watched Harmony's organizing tactics. His group carried signs that said, “LSPD Harasses Gays,” “Los Santos Lesbians for Lance,” “Cease and Desist, LSPD Homophobes,” and “Stop Gay Bashing.”

“Form a human chain in the public parking lot,” Harmony suggested. The gays fanned out, joined hands, and effectively kept anyone from leaving. Once the bicycle brigade began looping in figure eights, nothing came in. Police had to park farther out and walk to headquarters, as did civilians. Police cars already in their slots were blocked by the lawn-chair contingent.

“Looking good,” said Harmony to Donald Mallory, who carried a sign that said in Renaissance lettering, “H.H.U. Supports Its Staff.” He was trying to ignore Gus McGlenlevie, who had arrived late carrying a sign that said, “Vigilante Police Menace the Poetic Muse.” “The senior citizens have left the front steps,” said Harmony. “Why don't you Herbert Hobart people parade in front of the entrance so the police inside can see that the city's richest institution is mad at them?”

Gus, Mallory, Chairman Raul Mendez, Professor Anne-Marie LaPortierre, and a gaggle of fashionably dressed English majors trooped over to the steps. In fact, Gus bounced up like a red-bearded Christmas elf and pushed his sign against the glass where Captain Stollinger looked out. Ten minutes of Gus McGlenlevie, and the police ought to agree to anything, thought Harmony smugly.

“What the hell does that mean?” demanded Stollinger. “Police can't be vigilantes.”

“That's Angus McGlenlevie,” said Lieutenant Beltran. “That dumbass poet from H.H.U.” Beltran had come from his office in Crimes Against Persons at the summons from the Community Relations sergeant.

“So what have we got to do with the poetic muse?”

Beltran stared out at the human chain of gay activists in the public parking lot, beyond them to the looping bicycle racers where the traffic was building up in all directions, approaching gridlock. If the department didn't act, there'd be cars backed up to the freeway, to downtown, to Bassett Center and beyond. And they couldn't get units in or out because the police lot was jammed with old folks in lawn chairs, chatting with one another and waving their signs if any cop came near.

“I don't know why McGlenlevie's here,” Beltran admitted. “It's Jarvis and Weizell's case, and they're out gathering evidence against Lance Potemkin, who's a gay bicycle rider. We've got a pretty good case against him.”

“Well, that explains why the gays and the bicyclers are protesting, but not the H.H.U. people,” said Stollinger.

“Or the senior citizens,” added Beltran.

“What senior citizens?”

“They're sitting in lawn chairs blocking traffic in our lot,” said Sergeant Mosson, “carrying signs that say we're letting them get killed. Very bad public relations, sir, especially with all the media people out there.”

“I think we've got a bunch of nut cases on our hands,” said Captain Stollinger in disgust. “Get Captain de la Rosa to clear the parking lots and streets. It's a traffic situation.”

“Captain de la Rosa's at a meeting in Austin,” said Sergeant Mosson.

“So find the ranking officer in Traffic!” Stollinger tramped off, leaving Lieutenant Beltran to watch while a gay activist, approached by a police officer, fell limp into the cop's arms. The cop dropped the young man and leapt away as if burned.

Sweating profusely in the afternoon sun, Lieutenant Kurtz surveyed the line of elderly men and women sitting in lawn chairs, chatting with one another and passing around thermoses of

lemonade. “O.K.,” he said to Sergeant Lopez. “Start with that tall, thin old lady in the slacks and sun hat. She seems to be the ringleader.”

“What am I supposed to do with her?” asked Lopez.

“Ask her to leave. Tell her she's guilty of demonstrating without a permit, interfering with officers in the performance of their duty. If she won't move, have two guys pick her up in the lawn chair and carry her across the street.”

“What about the bicycle riders?”

“That ought to interfere with their operation. They're not gonna run down some old lady in a lawn chair. Assign your men in pairs. Take her and five others. Then we'll have a lane open and can move the rest out.”

“Yes, sir.” Lopez felt unhappy about his assignment, but he grabbed Patrolman Allen Mobley, who was big enough to lift three old ladies, and the two of them headed for Lydia Beeman.

“Ma'am, we'll have to ask you to move out of the way. You're blocking traffic.”

“That's the idea,” said Lydia.

“If you don't move, ma'am,” said Lopez politely, “we're going to pick you up, lawn chair and all, and transport you across the street.”

“Just try it, young man,” said Lydia belligerently. “That's about what I'd expect of the police. Indifference to the safety of women.”

“We're not indifferent, ma'am.” He nodded to Mobley, and the two of them braced themselves to lift Lydia Beeman. Each put a hand on a chair arm and one under the seat. Lydia, who was wearing sensible, heavy-soled walking shoes, stood up—right on one of Mobley's big feet.

“Ye-ow-w!” cried Mobley.

Madre de Dios, thought Lopez. I'm going to have to arrest somebody's grandmother for assaulting an officer.

“My apologies,” said Lydia. “I didn't see your foot.”

As Lopez gave thanks that it had been an accident, Lydia folded her lawn chair and walked away.

Two chairs down, Emily Marks, who thought the whole operation a lark, slipped out of her chair and rolled into a ball on the pavement when two patrolmen tried to pick her up.

“Sergeant,” shouted the officer on her left, “she's had a heart attack.”

“Don't be silly,” said Emily, peeking up at him. “I'm protecting myself against police brutality.” The TV cameras were rolling.

“What did you do to that there lady?” roared T. Bob Tyler. He leapt from his station beside Dimitra and grappled with the patrolman who was taking Emily's pulse.

“Aren't you gallant, T. Bob!” said Emily.

T. Bob blushed happily.

“Sir, I'll have to arrest you for interfering with an officer in the performance of his duty,” said the pulse-taker's partner.

“Who, me?” T. Bob looked surprised. “Ah thought you was hurtin' Miz Emily.”

“Emily, get up!” Lydia had returned when she heard the commotion. “T. Bob, you come along too. He's just a foolish old man, Officer. You'd be embarrassed if you arrested him.”

The officer looked embarrassed.

“I can't leave without Miz Dimitra,” said T. Bob, looking around. “My lord, she's done disappeared.”

Lieutenant Kurtz, who hadn't been there to see Emily's spectacular collapse or T. Bob's gallant rescue, was in front of headquarters. “You folks are blocking access to a public building,” he shouted through a bullhorn. “Move along.” No one moved. Kurtz then chose Gus McGlenlevie as the worst flake in the bunch. If his men had to haul this guy off, it would look a lot better on television than taking the man in the suit and tie. He approached Gus.

“I am a renowned poet, Officer,” said McGlenlevie loudly. “Angus McGlenlevie, author of Erotica in Reeboks, author of Rapture on the Rapids, which will be in your local bookstores in time for Christmas gift-giving, Mile-High Press, nineteen ninety-five. Did you get that?” he asked a newspaper reporter scribbling beside him. Then he smiled and bowed with a flourish to the cameras from Channel 9.

Glancing uneasily at the TV cameras out of the corner of his eye, Lieutenant Kurtz turned to Donald Mallory, who looked as if he might be more amenable to a warning from a representative of law, order, and traffic control. “Sir, we would appreciate your vacating the premises. On pain of arrest, I ask you—”

Mallory stared down his nose loftily. “I am a professor of Renaissance and Jacobean poetry, sir, and your detectives are unfairly harassing a member of our staff and a talented poet.” Mallory had raised his voice to auditorium volume. The TV people had to adjust their sound levels.

“And a gay,” cried Orion Massine, rushing in from the public parking lot.

“And a Los Santos bicycle racer,” said Hoke Mitchell, who had broken ranks on the street and bicycled up to the steps of Police Headquarters, skidding to a dramatic stop, displaying his Los Santos Cycle Racers T-shirt for the cameras.

“Lance Potemkin wouldn't kill a soul, much less his abominable father,” said Orion to the reporter.

How the hell did Captain de la Rosa always manage to leave town when there was a problem? Kurtz wondered.

“And Los Santos will miss the acclaim when Lance wins the bicycle race on the High Road to Taos,” warned Hoke Mitchell. He had collared a Channel 7 reporter. “The police have stolen his bicycle and refused to let him leave town.”

Lieutenant Kurtz had no idea what they were talking about. Where the hell was Community Relations when he needed them? “Mosson!” he yelled through the door.

“I'm Lance's mother,” cried Dimitra. “He didn't kill Boris.” One of the traffic patrolmen had made the mistake of escorting Dimitra in her walker around to the front of the building. “Boris was struck down by God for his sins and his nasty disposition,” said Dimitra to a Herald Post reporter, “and T. Bob Tyler was just trying to rescue Emily Marks. No matter what you people say, he's not a brawler.”

Because of all the media people grouped around Dimitra, Sergeant Manny Escobedo, who had been sent out to represent the C.A.P. case against Lance Potemkin, couldn't get through the crowd. Sergeant Mosson of Community Relations tried to call Chief Gaitan, but the chief, according to his secretary, was giving a speech to the Rotarians on the department's plans to move operations out to area divisions in order to increase contact with the citizens of Los Santos. “Community-based law enforcement,” Chief Gaitan called it, but Mosson didn't think this kind of interaction with the citizens was what the chief had in mind.

Friday, October 1, 4:30 P.M.

Elena spent two hours canvassing the pawnbrokers with a description of the czar's medal. At her last stop on Alameda, Jesus Bonilla said, “Don't sound like much. What would I want with it?”

“Historical stuff sells for thousands if you have the right buyer,” she replied.

“So if I had it, I wouldn't be tellin' you, would I?” Jesus had a pawnshop cum fencing operation and a smart mouth.

“Gee, that's too bad, Jesus,” said Elena, leaning her elbow on a glass case displaying handguns with nicked grips and unoiled barrels. “We're watching this one real close. If we find that the medal's passed through your hands—”

“Yeah, yeah. You're gonna drag me straight down to headquarters for questioning.”

“No, we're gonna arrest you as an accessory to murder.”

Jesus bit down so hard on his cigarillo that it broke and dropped sparks on his leather vest. Ten years earlier, he had been a member of the Scorpions and had barely beaten a murder rap after spending a year in the Los Santos County Jail.

“Hey,” he said, grinding the cigarillo into the grimy floor with a booted heel. “You got no call to hassle me. I ain't seen the thing.”

“That's not exactly what you said, Jesus. I took your answer to mean, ‘I wouldn't tell you if I had.'”

“Well, I ain't seen it. Swear on my mother's soul.”

“Your mother's dead.”

“So she's a soul in heaven. All the better. Listen, I got a kid now. See ‘im? Jesus, Jr.”

Elena glanced down the aisle and didn't see any kid. “Jesus, Jr., seems to have skipped town.”

“Madre de Dios!” exclaimed Jesus, Sr., and clacked off in his high-heeled cowboy boots. She could hear him in the back room yelling, “Hey, malcríado, fingers outa that cartridge box.”

He returned carrying on his bony hip a pretty child with smooth brown cheeks, which by the time he reached maturity, if he reached maturity, would probably be pocked with acne scars like his father's.

“If that medal comes into your hands,” said Elena, “if you even hear about it, you call me. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Jesus, scowling at her in such a way that she could see in the man the boy who had once been the terror of the barrios and then moved on to prey on the young cholos who used him as a fence.

“You got no solidarity with la raza,” said Jesus.

“My people,” said Elena, “are on my side of the law. You ought to try it.”

“I ought to starve too,” said Jesus, but too softly to be quoted.

It was 4:45, and Jesus was her last stop. More overtime coming on her paycheck, and nothing to show for her day's work except the elimination of Omar Ashkenazi as a suspect. Her police radio stuttered to life with a warning that headquarters at Five Points was inaccessible due to traffic gridlock. Astonished, Elena headed home and parked the unmarked Taurus in her driveway. She jogged around the house to the kitchen and the black and white TV. As she locked up her gun, the news was coming on, shots of Los Santos, the mountain, cactus flowers, downtown bank buildings. She pulled a Tecate from the refrigerator and popped the tab as the

newscaster said, “There's a giant protest going on at Police Headquarters this afternoon. It's tied up traffic for at least a mile in every direction for the last two hours. . . .”

“Protest?” Elena picked up the can and sat down, the first long sip sliding down her throat like wet silk.

“. . . on Monday when seventy-one-year-old Boris Potemkin was shot to death in his home on Sierra Negra. A varied group gathered at Five Points this afternoon to protest police harassment of his son, Lance Potemkin, who is a suspect in the murder.”

“Oh shit,” muttered Elena and took another long gulp of cold beer.

“Among the groups represented in the protest are the Los Santos Gay Rights Association, professors and students from Herbert Hobart University—”

She spotted Gus McGlenlevie waving a sign about the cops interfering with the poetic muse. Donald Mallory, Lance's former lover, glared at McGlenlevie from the edge of the screen. The English Department was evidently supporting its secretary.

“—the Los Santos Cycle Racing Club . . .”

TV cameras showed a long shot of people wearing tights, pancake helmets and fanny packs, riding bicycles in figure eights on Raynor and Montana.

“. . . headed by Lance Potemkin's mother, Mrs. Dimitra Potemkin, and Mrs. Harmony Waite Portillo of Chimayo, New Mexico—”

“Mom?” Elena stared at the black and white image of her mother.

“Among those arrested were Dr. Donald Mallory, Mrs. Portillo . . .” The list went on. “At this time the suspects are being held at Five Points because there is no way to get them to the county jail.”

Elena rose, draining her beer can, then made a perfect hook shot into the wastebasket. She snapped off the television set, unlocked the drawer to get her 9mm in its shoulder holster, shrugged into her jacket, and headed for the departmental Taurus. If she had to walk in, she'd do it. Her own mother! They'd probably planned the demonstration at the poetry reading last night, and Harmony had conveniently failed to mention it.