EIGHTEEN

We were watching The Maltese Falcon when the local news anchor came on at a commercial break and announced: “A series of bombings rocked Los Angeles, claiming three lives, including a high-ranking official in the Los Angeles police department, and destroying a local church. Details at ten.”

We looked at each other. Josh hopped off of the couch and returned a moment later with a transistor radio set to the twenty-four-hour news channel while I switched the TV to CNN where the anchor was interviewing some political analyst. The radio newscaster said, “Latest developments on tonight’s bombings.” I lowered the volume on CNN and Josh turned up the radio.

“Bombs exploded at three locations tonight in Los Angeles, two private residences and a church that had been the site of an earlier bombing, killing three people, including an assistant chief of the Los Angeles Police Department. The victims have been identified as Robert Metzger, 74, an attorney, and Raymond Moore, 60, an assistant chief of police, and his wife, Bridget, 57. The bombs exploded in their residences. A third bomb exploded at Ekklesia Church, which was the site of an earlier bomb attack. While no victims died in that explosion, the damage was extensive. Police have no suspects as yet, but they are treating the explosions as related and possibly the work of a terrorist although no one has claimed responsibility. We will keep you updated as we learn more . . .”

“Freddy,” Josh said, clicking the radio off.

I switched off the TV. “He’s settling scores.”

I guess I was right— he wasn’t going to be anyone’s fall guy.

“Are you safe?” he asked worriedly.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“He asked you to represent him and you turned him down.”

“I’m not in the same league as Moore and Metzger,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll still feel better when the police catch him.”

I nodded in agreement, but I didn’t really think this was going to end with an arrest.

••••

I turned off Franklin onto Van Ness and then climbed up the hill to home, so lost in thought about the burglary trial I’d started that day I nearly ran into a police barricade at the end of my street. I braked, shut off the engine. The street was sealed off and was swarming with cops in SWAT fatigues. A cop directed me to the curb. I got out of my car, approached him and asked, “What’s going on?”

“Police business,” he replied, unhelpfully.

“Yeah, I can see that, but I live here,” I said, pointing to my house.

“You’re at twenty-three twenty-eight?” he asked, ears almost visibly perking up like a dog’s.

“Yes.”

“Wait here.”

He headed toward an ominous-looking black tank-like vehicle marked with the LAPD’s SWAT insignia. A moment later, he reappeared with a guy in full paramilitary gear, including the black helmet and full body armor. He had his game face on— hard, cold, and assessing.

“You Henry Rios?” he barked.

“Yes. Who are you?”

“Taylor,” he said, biting off the word. “You live at twenty-three twenty-eight?”

“I haven’t moved in the two minutes since I last answered that question. Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

His stony expression became even stonier. “Are you a lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“You know a man named Alfredo Sumaya?”

“Do you mean, Officer Alfredo Sumaya?” I replied, emphasizing Officer. “Yeah, I know him. Why?”

“Is he a client?”

I’d had it with the tough guy bullshit.

“I’m not answering any more questions until you tell me what’s happening at my house.”

Taylor’s expression said, Fine, asshole, but what he actually said was “Officers tried to serve an arrest warrant on Sumaya earlier today. There was a shoot-out, one officer down, and he got away. We tracked him to your residence where he’s barricaded himself with a hostage.”

“A hostage?” I said, heart racing. “Who is it?”

“You tell me,” he said with a tiny smirk he quickly extinguished. “Anyone else living with you?”

“My partner, Josh. Josh Mandel.”

“Partner?” he asked, perplexed. “What, like a law partner?”

“No, not a business partner. My—” and here it was, the quan-dary, what word to use with straight people when you couldn’t say husband or wife. I ran quickly through the usual euphemisms, but decided I needed to be absolutely clear. “My lover.”

A look of disgust flashed across his face.

“Is Josh in there with Sumaya?” I asked.

“If that’s who was in the house, then he’s the hostage,” Taylor replied coolly.

“What does Sumaya want?”

“He wants to talk to you,” Taylor said. “Because he says you’re his lawyer.”

“Let me talk to him.”

Taylor said, “Come with me. We’ll get him on the line.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t want to call him. I want to go in and talk to him. I want to get him to release Josh.”

“That ain’t going to happen,” Taylor said, sounding briefly human. “We’re not letting a civilian walk into a situation where he might be killed.”

“Yeah, the liability issue,” I said, scornfully. “Don’t worry, Officer Taylor. I don’t have any family to sue you if he kills me, and besides, I’m not a civilian. I’m his lawyer, and I demand to be allowed to see my client. You want me to sign a release from liability? Whatever it takes but let me into my house.”

Taylor considered. “It’s your funeral.”

“Where’s the phone? I want to tell him I’m coming in.”

••••

Approaching the front door, key in hand, I was aware of birds singing above the chatter of police radios and the cooling air as evening descended when, behind me, floodlights seared the front of the house, momentarily blinding me in their reflected glare. The air pulsed loudly above me. I looked up. Two LAPD helicopters hovered nearby.

As I reached for the door, Josh cracked it open and said quietly, “Henry?”

“Yes, let me in, slowly, and don’t open the door all the way.”

I slipped inside. Freddy was standing behind him with a revolver at the back of Josh’s head. Jeans and a black T-shirt, same uniform as last time, but lines of tension were etched across the handsome face.

“Hello, Freddy,” I said, calmly. “You can put that down. It’s just me.” I smiled at Josh. “Hello, Josh.”

He worked his face into as cheerful an expression as the circumstances allowed and said, “Hi, Henry. And how was your day?”

“Screw the small talk,” Freddy growled. “Into the living room.”

He herded us into the living room where the TV was on, volume lowered, and a picture running of the cops surrounding my house. I hadn’t noticed the TV vans. From the angle of the shot it appeared they were a little down the hill on the other end of the street from where I’d driven up. It was surreal— as if we were in a movie. The living room had its usual, slightly mussed-up appearance, but near the big picture window the floodlights illuminated a little arsenal of firearms. Bad sign. Remembering Freddy’s specialty, I wondered if he’d brought a bomb or two.

“Mind if I sit?” I asked, as if it were his house, not mine. He nodded. I sat down in the same chair as the last time. “The cops said you wanted to talk to me, Freddy, so here I am. But before we begin, let Josh go. You only need one of us to keep the cops from storming the place and it should be me. Josh has nothing to do with this situation.”

He weighed my words for what seemed an eternity before finally yanking his chin toward Josh. “Get out of here.”

“No, no,” I said. “We call the cops and tell them he’s coming out so that someone with itchy fingers doesn’t shoot him.”

As Freddy picked up the phone, Josh said, “I’m not leaving.”

We both stared at him, me disbelievingly and Freddy with a pissed-off frown.

“Yes, you are,” I said.

“Not without you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Freddy snapped. “If you don’t get out of here, I’ll shoot you both. You first, then . . .” He jerked his chin toward me. “Him.”

Josh gasped. “Why would you do that?”

“Because, if you haven’t noticed, I’m a little stressed and you’re getting on my fucking nerves. Besides, Henry’s my lawyer and you can’t be here for what I have to say to him.” He picked up the phone and said, “Sending out the kid. Rios stays.”

I wanted to walk Josh to the door, but I also wanted to maintain the illusion of calm, as if this were simply another evening at home and not a police standoff with a nervous ex-cop with a lot of guns and nothing to lose. I remained seated.

“Go on, Josh,” I said, smiling. “I’ll see you soon.”

His lower lip trembled and his eyes were despairing, but he seemed to understand he had to maintain his composure.

“Okay,” he whispered. “See you.”

At the front door he turned and said, “I love you.” I held my breath as he opened the door and light flooded in and didn’t release it until he closed the door quietly behind him.

••••

“Why don’t you sit down,” I said to Freddy.

“Shut up,” he replied. He paced the room, revolver at his side. “You should’ve helped me when I asked you to.”

There was a note of pleading in his harsh tone.

“You got yourself a lawyer after we talked,” I pointed out. “She filed your lawsuit.”

“She dropped me the minute the DA charged me. You wouldn’t have done that. You would’ve fought for me.”

“Maybe I can help you now.”

“Not likely,” he scoffed. “Three dead, plus the cop I wounded. If I wasn’t looking at death row before, I am now.”

He was right, of course, so I didn’t try to bullshit him.

“Why did you kill Moore and Metzger? You could’ve used your knowledge about them as a bargaining chip with the DA.”

“My word against theirs,” he said, “and who do you think people are going to believe? A couple of respectable citizens or a psycho cop? That was the choice you gave me, right? Bigot or psycho and I said, I’m not a bigot. But there’s another option you forgot. Dupe.”

“You were set up.”

“Damn right,” he said. “You know why they chose me?”

“Your experience with explosives?”

“No, because I’m a spic.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a spic. Just like you.” He lurched forward, grabbed my hand. I was too stunned to pull back. “See, same color. You and me. Brown guys in a white world with funny names from the wrong side of the tracks. Or maybe you didn’t grow up poor.”

“My father worked construction.”

He dropped my hand. “Mine was a janitor at my high school. I dropped out to join the army when I couldn’t stand to see him pushing the mop down the hall and pretending he didn’t know me so I wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of my friends. I always had the stink of a guy with something to prove,” he said bitterly. “The bosses smell it on you and take advantage. They know you’ll work twice as hard just to prove you’re equal to the gringos. Go the extra mile for the pat on your back from the jefe. You get a reputation as someone who does what he’s told, no questions asked, just keep those pats coming. Just like your fucking father, head down, pushing the broom.”

“Even if you’re told to blow up a church? That’s not anyone’s idea of police work.”

“Anti-terrorism pulls off all kinds of shit that civilians wouldn’t consider police work,” he replied, casually. “Spies on the mayor and the city council members. Plants drugs on what they call subversives and then busts them. Blow up a church?” He shrugged. “The target wasn’t the church; it was QUEER, or that’s what they told me. The church was cooperating. What was I supposed to believe? Plus, Moore said he’d protect me from the fallout. I should have known better. I was nothing more to him than the help, like my dad.”

“You really didn’t know Daniel Herron was going to be at the church that night?”

“I told you I didn’t,” he said angrily. “He wasn’t the target. The church was the target. When I went back to Moore and asked him, what the fuck, he said it was an accident but not to worry; the whole thing would be pinned on Theo.”

“You had to know Theo was going to point the finger at you.”

“But who was he going to tell? The police?”

“His lawyer,” I said. “Me.”

“That’s why Theo had to go.”

“Who killed him?”

“I don’t know who killed him, but Moore was behind it.”

“Why?”

“Because he was afraid that sweet deal you negotiated with the city attorney was going to raise more questions than it answered. He figured if Theo killed himself before he made the deal, everyone would assume he was guilty and that would be it. It would have been except for those wrongful death actions. That was your doing.”

“I didn’t file them,” I said.

He cast a sour look at me. “Don’t bullshit me. You were behind them. You wanted to flush me out.”

“I wanted to prove Theo wasn’t a murderer.”

“Yeah, well, happy now?”

The tension between us had been rising and I was afraid. I looked for a way to defuse it.

“You were set up and you knew no one was going to believe you over Moore and Metzger, so you took care of them in your own way.” I took a breath. “You made your point. No one else needs to die.”

He smirked. “Are you afraid I’m going to kill you?”

‘Of course I am.”

“I told you I’m not a psycho,” he said, almost hurt. “Here, I’ll prove it.” He laid the gun on the little table next to my chair and backed away. “Go ahead, make a grab for it. I won’t stop you.”

“And do what, shoot you? March you out the door to the cops? I won’t do the first thing, and I’m pretty sure you won’t let me do the second one. Freddy, what do you want from me?”

He sank into the sofa, threw his arm over the back, and stroked it as he’d done with his jacket, as if it were a cat. Did he have a cat? I wondered. A little creature he loved? It was an absurd thought but as I watched his fingers softly stroke the fabric I couldn’t shake the image.

“When I die,” he said, “they’ll close the book on this”— he gestured with his free hand to take in everything that had happened to him— “and I’ll be the one, the only one, they blame. They’re going to turn me into a monster.” He looked at me with his warm, dark eyes. “I need to hear from someone who knows the whole story that he knows I’m not a monster.”

“I never said you were a monster,” I replied quietly.

“You said I was a psycho.”

“You really didn’t know Herron was going to be in the building?”

He shook his head. “Why would I die with a lie on my lips? I did not know the man would be there. I did not mean to kill him.”

People do lie, even on their deathbeds, and maybe Freddy was lying now, but it seemed urgent for me to say I believed him. If I did, maybe we could both walk out of this room alive.

“I believe you, Freddy.”

“No, you don’t,” he said. “You’re just scared, but it’s the truth, Rios.”

He slowly got to his feet, and, eyes locked on mine, walked toward me. He picked up the revolver. I thought, he’s going to shoot me. In a moment of blind panic, I grabbed the arms of the chair and lifted myself up to hurl myself at him before he got off the shot. He stepped back, jammed the revolver against his temple and fired. He fell forward on top of me, his hard, heavy body tumbling me to the ground, his eyes peering into mine as the light went out of them.

The door splintered, and the room was filled with shouting as Freddy’s body was lifted off of me.

Above me, Taylor, the SWAT guy, yelled, “Rios! Rios! Talk to me.”

I opened my mouth to speak and a little blood dribbled into it. It wasn’t mine.

••••

I watched the cops roll out yellow crime scene tape across the entrance to my house and wondered what I was supposed to do for clothes when I had to appear in court the next day for trial. I couldn’t very well show up in the sweats I was wearing— the cops having confiscated my Freddy-splattered clothes.

Why had he come to me? Was it really because he wanted someone to tell him that after everything he’d done, he was still a good guy? Or was it because he thought, hoped, I could pull a rabbit out of my hat of legal tricks and make everything all right? Or because he didn’t want to die alone? One thing was sure. If he was afraid he would be vilified and forgotten, he’d guaranteed that at least one person would be thinking about Alfredo Sumaya for a very long time.

“Henry …” I turned to Josh and pulled him into my arms, holding him tight.

“When I heard the gunshot,” he said, tearfully, “I thought he’d killed you.”

“I know. I’m sorry I put you through that, but it’s over now.”

He pulled away, wiped his eyes, turned his head, and said over his shoulder, “Mom? Dad? Come and meet Henry.”

“Your parents?” I said in a low, shocked voice.

“I called them to let them know what had happened and that I was okay. They drove out from Encino.”

A small, dark-haired woman with a heart-shaped face approached me, arm extended. Behind her was a sour-looking man with thinning hair.

“Henry,” she said. “I’m Selma Mandel. Josh told us you exchanged yourself for him when that madman took him hostage.”

“He wouldn’t have been here in the first place except for you,” the man grumbled.

“Sam,” she replied sharply. “He saved our son’s life.” She took my hand. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Sam Mandel said, grudgingly. “Thanks.”

Josh asked, “What happens now?”

“I have to go down to Parker Center to make a statement and convince the cops our house is not a crime scene, so they’ll let us back in. I don’t how long that will take. Why don’t you go stay with your parents?”

Smiling wanly, he said, “This is the second time tonight you’ve tried to get rid of me.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be in with the cops. You’d just be sitting on an uncomfortable bench in the police station.”

“I love you,” he said. “I’ll wait for you as long as I have to.”

Behind us, his father scowled. His mother pretended she hadn’t heard. He noticed it.

“Mom, Dad, why don’t you go home now? Henry and I will be fine.”

His mother started to speak, but his father took her by the arm and led her away.

We sat down on the curb. I put my arm around Josh. He rested his head on my shoulder, and we watched the cops begin to pull away, light bars darkening, sirens winding down, and the helicopters fading into the night sky high above the hard glitter of LA’s skyline.