“DO YOU WANT TO flip for it?” I pointed to the lunch check.
Friedman shook his head. “I couldn’t afford to lose. My wife, the family treasurer, has me on a budget. For the first time since I’ve been married—twenty years, for God’s sake—I’m on a budget.”
“Then we’d better have thirds on the coffee. There’s no charge.”
He snorted ruefully, at the same time signaling for the waitress.
“What’s the reason for the budget?” I asked.
“The reason,” he answered, “is that my number one son has suddenly decided that he’s no longer interested in retreating to the hills and building a sod hut and raising organic food. Instead, he’s going to be a big-time agronomist. So he wants to go to college. This is February third. College begins September seventeenth. The tab, I figure, is almost six grand a year, everything in. So I’m on a budget.”
“Can’t he work?”
Again he snorted. “Last summer, when it looked like he was going to turn hippie for sure, we promised him that if he went to college, he wouldn’t have to work his way through. Or, more like it, Clara promised. I just went along.”
“I’ll bet.”
We watched the waitress pour our coffee. Friedman’s large, swarthy face was sunk deep into his jowl-mashed collar. His eyes were pensive, his full lips thoughtfully pursed.
“You know,” he said, “I’m just now—at age forty-six—finally beginning to figure out what it really means to be a Jew. Like, it’s a Jewish thing that the oldest son’s got to have the best. He’s got to amount to something. So to Clara, there’s no question about Bernie going to college if he wants to go. No question at all. Literally, she’d wash floors, if that’s what it took. And she wouldn’t think she was making a sacrifice, either. It’s just something that you do, that’s all. It’s expected. It’s a—a cultural reflex.” He was staring down into his coffee, blinking pensively. For the first time since I’d known him, Friedman seemed unaccountably diffident, telling me what it meant to be Jewish. Normally, Friedman coasted easily above most men’s frailties. On the job, I’d often seen him make life-or-death decisions without the slightest hesitation. If something went wrong—if someone died—he didn’t flinch from the decision’s responsibility. Friedman always managed to seem imperturbably right, even if he wasn’t. Yet now, talking about his family and his religion, he seemed strangely vulnerable.
I didn’t want to probe too deeply, but neither did I want to slight his confidence by changing the subject completely. I decided on a compromise. “Were you the oldest son?” I asked.
He sipped the coffee, grimaced at the taste, and put the cup down. “No, I was number two. My older brother, Leonard, went to dental school. He now makes about seventy-five grand a year. In Beverly Hills, naturally.”
“So you got aced out of college.”
“Well—” He hesitated, then looked up, measuring me with a shrewd sidelong glance. His deceptively soft brown eyes were once more inscrutable: seeing everything, revealing nothing. His voice settled into its accustomed accents—lightly bantering, ironic, dry. “Well, the fact is that I went to a seminary for a couple of years.”
“You mean you …” In spite of myself, I realized that my mouth was hanging slightly open.
“That’s right, poopsie. I was meant to be a rabbi. By your stupefied expression, I can see that I never told you.”
“But what—I mean”—I shook my head, frowning as I lamely framed the question—“what happened, anyhow?”
“What happened,” he answered, “was that I got stage-struck. Which is something I know I never told you. I got hooked on amateur theatricals while I was in the seminary, and my studies suffered—considerably.”
“I’ll be damned.” I gulped down the last of the coffee, staring at him over the cup rim.
“I guess,” he continued on the same wry, breezy note, “that I must be in a confiding mood. It’s probably the shock of that six-grand bite for college. My life is passing in front of me. And after all, we’re co-lieutenants. So if I’ve got to confide in someone, it might as well be someone of equal rank. I can’t very well bare my—”
“What happened when you got stage-struck?”
“I dropped out of the seminary and went to Hollywood, of course. In those days, however, I was slim and suave and eager. Or, anyhow, I thought I was suave. But my agent touted me as a character type, which I suppose I was, since agents are always right. Anyhow, I probably had as much talent as the next guy. But talent isn’t nearly as important as the pure and simple thick-skinned tenacity it takes to keep your eight-by-ten glossy in circulation long enough for some jerk in a casting office to remember your face when a part comes up. Which is to say years.”
“Were you in any movies?”
“As an extra, sure. And I had five words in a Gary Cooper Western. Six words, if you count articles. ‘Look out!’ I shouted. ‘He’s got a gun.’ Whereupon I dived behind the bar—and into showbiz oblivion.”
“You quit?”
“I faced facts. It was in the early fifties, and Hollywood was suffering through one of its numerous recessions. I spent two years floundering around in that recession, plus the year and a half I spent getting my six-word speaking part. Most of the time I was a short-order cook. So finally one day I just gave up. I just said screw it, and I came to San Francisco and got a job—as a short-order cook, naturally. But I knew what I wanted, after three and a half years of those Hollywood unemployment lines.”
“What did you want?”
“I wanted the dullsville security of Civil Service,” he answered promptly. “I didn’t ever want to apply for another job. So when the police exam came up, I took it, even though I never actually could see myself putting the arm on anyone. But I passed the exam, by God. Brilliantly. So it came down to a choice of either cooking some more, or becoming a cop—or maybe a life-insurance salesman, or something. So I became a cop. Whereupon I got married and started to put on weight. My agent, it turned out, was right: I was a character type. Which for a homicide cop is the only type to be.” He glanced at his watch, grunted, then signaled the waitress. “I’ve got to get back. The governor’s going to speak in less than an hour.”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
“Didn’t I tell you? No. I’ve been put in charge of his security. For today, you are in sole charge of the homicide squad. You and the captain, that is.”
“Is the governor in town?”
“Of course he’s in town, you noodlehead. He’s speaking at the Civic Center on welfare reform. That’s his newest gimmick, you know: welfare malingerers. The campus radicals have served their purpose, headline-wise. And coming down on the hippies isn’t a very good political move, because almost everyone has a hippie or two at home, as who should know better than me. So now his eminence is bearing down on welfare chiselers.”
“I hope you enjoy the speech.” I counted out my share of the check.
“Christ, I’m not going to the Civic Center, if that’s what you mean. I can’t stand all that political mumbo jumbo.”
“I thought you were in charge of his security.”
“This is the age of electronics, Lieutenant. For the entire day, I’ve got Tach Seven, clear channel. Nothing is too good for the governor.”
“So you’ll be in the office all day.” I smiled as I got to my feet. Friedman’s fondness for settling his impressive bulk into his oversize swivel chair was well known. As the junior homicide lieutenant, with less than a year on the job, I normally went out into the field while Friedman stayed in the office, calling the shots, hassling with the reporters, and placating the brass. It was an arrangement that suited both of us.
As we approached the checkstand, the cashier beckoned to me, holding up a telephone. I gave the check and my share of the money to Friedman, then took the call.
“This is Culligan, Lieutenant. I didn’t get you up from the lunch table, did I?”
“No, we’re just finishing. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I’ve got an unidentified Caucasian male. Looks like he’s about forty or forty-five. He was well dressed. He was killed last night, probably—knifed. The location is a real run-down apartment, one of those storefront jobs. I’ve been here about an hour. Sigler is here, too, and the lab crew and the M.E. Everything is under control, but I thought I should check with you before they move the body. I mean—” He hesitated. “I mean, the victim’s well dressed, like I said. He didn’t live here, and he doesn’t look like he belongs here. So I thought I’d call you.”
“What’s the address?”
“436 Hoffman. Right near Elizabeth.”
“All right. I’ll get Canelli, and we’ll be there in twenty minutes. Do you need anything?”
“No, sir. Everything’s under control, like I said.”
“Good. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”