Rosie sat cross-legged on an ottoman directly in front of the television, elbows propped on knees, chin in hands. A waist-up shot of Channel 3 news anchor Erik Beaumont filled the screen. With an appropriately somber expression on his face, he related a story about a bank robbery.
On the other side of the living room, her dad’s recliner creaked. “He is not bad looking.”
“For a gringo.”
“Rosita, you should not use that word.”
She smiled. The gentleness of Esteban Delgado’s admonitions tickled her. “Papi.” The word for “daddy” sounded like “poppy” in English. She’d always called him that. “I’m almost thirty years old. When are you going to give up on me?”
“When you quit talking like a hard-nosed cop. I know what the streets are like. They will ruin you if we don’t keep our guard up. I will get to heaven and your madre will turn her head in disgust and say she never knew me.”
Rosie glanced at him. His facial features reflected his Aztec heritage. His accent spoke of a childhood in Mexico. His ample waist indicated that he overindulged on the yummy dishes served at the restaurant he owned. His mention of her deceased mother meant he was overtired.
“Papi, go to bed. I’ll let myself out.”
“Take this man here.” He pointedly ignored her, nodding toward the television. “Nice and clean looking. Handsome.”
Erik Beaumont was all that, dressed in a stylish black suit and royal blue tie. The contrast between his black hair and light eyes produced a startling effect. Like catching a glimpse of sunlight breaking through clouds. She was drawn to study his face. She didn’t think the eyes were blue. Greenish, maybe? He was attractive in a cookie-cutter way, nose and mouth and chin perfectly sized and shaped. She remembered handcuffing him. He was tall, over six feet, broad shouldered. Soft hands.
“You’d think,” her father continued, “that he was the heart and soul of the United States. Trustworthy. A model citizen. But no. He does not know the meaning of self-discipline. He is a drunk. A bum. Grosero. You had to arrest him.”
Rosie grimaced. The story had slipped out when she tried to explain why it was she wanted to watch the news all of a sudden. “Forget I said anything, okay? I shouldn’t have told you.”
“My lips are sealed. But your blessed madre . . .” He shook his head. “¡Dios mío! What she will say to me! I never should have allowed you to go to police school.”
“Mom would say you should pray for this guy and not worry about me. Right?”
He harrumphed.
Now Beaumont shared the screen with his coanchor, Felicia Matthews. Even at thirty years of age or so, they were material for high school homecoming king and queen in white-bread America. She was cover-girl pretty, blonde, obviously blue-eyed even on the old television. Through the grapevine, Rosie had heard that Beaumont and Matthews were an item offscreen.
Her father lowered the footrest, lumbered out of his chair, and stepped to her side. “You are right.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Lilly would say a prayer for him. I will tomorrow. Good night, Rosita.”
“’Night, Papi. Love you.”
“I love you too. Be careful going home.”
She smiled at his oft-used phrase. She lived in his yard. Typical old San Diego, the modest property included a small cottage tucked behind fruit trees, next to an alley.
For a few more minutes she continued to study Beaumont on the television. Her partner Bobby was right. Much as she disliked what the newsman represented with his slaphappy attitude, he had touched a spot in her heart.
It was the place where God whispered to her to pray for a complete stranger.
It was the place that convinced her she was loonier than half the weirdos she arrested.
“Whatever.” Rosie closed her eyes and bowed her head. “Okay, Lord, I’m listening. You want me to pray for this guy, right? Right.” For a long moment she sat still, waiting for words. They came. “Swamp Erik Beaumont with Your love. Swamp him until he can no longer stand under the strength of his own power.”