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  “Like, where you from?”

  Her words were bubbly. Too bubbly for Frank’s taste. He liked her better with her mouth full.

  “Here,” Frank puffed.

  “Like, right here?”

  “Really?” Frank grimaced as smoke escaped the corners of his mouth.

  “Look, here it is,” he said, “I don’t want to hear any more about it either. This is what you get so take notes. We’ve all had tragedies, regrets and joys. So, what’s my story? It’s just like all the other stories, Toots. It just is and I just am.”

  It was like the bitterness didn’t faze her. She kept on as if by any stretch that was an acceptable answer.

  “What about your parents? They from here?”

  “Jesus, Berry,” Frank hissed. He dragged on his cigarette, glaring at the pretty naked girl on the couch.

  Frank scratched at his crotch as he stared, his eyes tracing the curves of her thirty-four–inch legs, the curves of her nude C-cups, the lines of her tight stomach.

  His eyes found their way back to hers and Frank finally admitted, “Yeah. Mom was born right over that way.”

  He pointed his thumb out the window beside the cooler box.

  “At Valley Presbyterian,” he said.

  Felicia capped her nail polish and placed it back in her bag. Sitting up, she turned her body toward Frank and crossed her legs, Indian-style, in the corner of his couch. He couldn’t help but notice how exposed she was with her legs spread apart like that. The only thing keeping her from showing him full frontal was the soft heel of each of her feet crossed before her lap and the slight curve of her calves pressed against the backs of her legs. She laid her hands on her thighs and leaned forward, smiling as she caught Frank looking closer and trying to get a better view of the area between her legs. Frank smiled back.

  “And your dad?” she asked.

  As he sucked in smoke from his cigarette, Frank’s smile faded. His free hand moved toward his lap, covering himself as he answered, “Dad was born in Brooklyn.”

  Felicia’s eyes lit up.

  “Oh, I’ve never been to the East Coast,” she said, her words filled with delight. “What’s it like?”

  Frank met her excitement with equal apathy, remarking in a cold tone, “Me neither.”

  He shrugged. “Old man wasn’t much for trips.”

  “Oh,” she sighed, “I’m sorry. Well, where are your parents now?”

  Frank chuckled. “What’s with the cross-examination?”

  Felicia smiled, uncrossing her legs and giving him another peek at the smoothness between her legs. She smiled.

  “Does it feel like I’m grilling you?” she asked, closing her legs again. “Because I’m not.”

  “In that case,” Frank jested, his cigarette was reaching its end. “Mom’s been gone a long time, Doll. Passed when I was younger.”

  He puffed again on his smoke, adding, “My dad, despite being an asshole, a drunk and an all-around blue collar piece of shit, hit it big with some hedge fund a few years back. He’s sitting pretty up off Mulholland and I watch over Eazy’s.” He pointed his thumb at the wall behind them.

  “I lost my mom too,” Felicia confided. “When I was eight.”

  She had been looking into her lap, and now looked up to Frank, the bubbly nature quickly fading from her face.

  “My dad was a dick too,” she revealed with straight lips. “He still is.”

  “Bummer,” Frank retorted as he popped to his feet.

  Pointing out their naked states with a twist of his hand, he said, “So, this little meeting,” he dragged heavily on his smoke, “It just took a terrible turn. I’m gonna hop in the shower. Think of something better to talk about while I’m in there, Doll.”

  He walked toward the bathroom. As he passed the half-empty glass of scotch on the dresser, he tossed his butt in with the other, extinguishing it with a hiss. Then Frank disappeared behind the bathroom door.

  The hot water felt amazing. Each and every shower, even if only for a few moments, washed Frank clean of it all. Not just the dirt and grime of the day, but the dirt and grime of life. The deceit, the regrets, the tragedies, the mistakes, all the evils inherent in man. The hot water centered Frank and while he basked beneath its warmth, all of that other stuff, all the bad stuff, dripped off his body and swirled down the drain. At least until he twisted the faucet shut and the coldness of reality returned around him like an icy shroud.

  “Shit,” Frank said as he rushed out of the shower.

  Stumbling out of the bathroom, still dripping wet, Frank fumbled for his phone and checked the time.

  “Shit,” he echoed, realizing he was going to be late.

  As he dried himself with the towel sitting on the back of the couch, patting his chest and dabbing his thighs, it became apparent to him that he was alone. Felicia had left sometime during his brief and steamy stint in nirvana. Relaxed, released and ready to leave, Frank shrugged in indifference and retrieved his vest from the floor.

  Clipping it in place, he joked to no one, “Guess she couldn’t think of something better to talk about.”

  Frank went to his closet and pulled out a white button-down, a fresh pair of black slacks and a neatly pressed jacket and matching black skinny tie. He wanted to look good for his meeting with Van. Otherwise, as per usual, he’d have just grabbed the wrinkled slacks and coat he’d been wearing for the last two days. Frank wanted to make a good impression—a good third impression—better late than never, right?

  As he turned to check his tie in the mirror on the wall, he saw the note from Felicia scrawled in lipstick across the glass.

  Had to go, Tiger. I have a job to get to. xx

  His eyes widened as he took note of the hard hook on the j, the double loop in the o’s and the back-drag on the t crosses. Frank’s hand fell limp while tucking in his shirt. He rushed to his other coat, laying in a pile at the bottom of the closet. Digging into the pockets, he pulled out Johnson’s day-planner and flipped it open.

  “Goddammit,” Frank hissed as he jumped to his feet. “Fuck me.”

  He pocketed the book and turned back to the mirror, snapping a photo of Felicia’s message with his phone. After a quick fix of the hair, a tuck of the shirt and one final glance at his suit, Frank collected his urine sample from the fridge, yanked on his boots and headed out.

  As Frank rushed through the door, he barreled into Ed, who was standing with his fist loaded and ready to knock. Frank just about knocked the thin old man over the railing and into the pool-turned-garden below.

  “Whoa. Slow down there, Champ,” Ed said as he steadied himself against the rail.

  Frank didn’t have the time. He gripped his cup of pee in one hand and shook it at Ed.

  “Just got fucked, Ed,” Frank barked. “What do you need?”

  “Rose left you a message,” Ed offered with caution, handing Frank an empty manila folder.

  Frank checked the cap on his sample then tucked the cup into his coat and ripped the folder from Ed’s hand. The file had the words Still & Wersner Insurance Claim scrawled across the label and a small yellow piece of paper taped to its face. Tearing the paper off the folder and unfolding in a flash, Frank read:

  I picked up, Hon.

  This folder was empty.

  Had to head to work.

  Kisses

  Love Rose

  “Fuck me twice,” Frank breathed as he jammed the note in his pocket and bent the folder beneath his arm.

  He leapt down the narrow staircase, chiding back over his shoulder, “Where were you two hours ago, Ed?”

  Chapter 14

  Frank sped to a stop against the curb, hopped out with the empty manila folder in hand, and dropped a few quarters in the meter. Stopping in the liquor store on the corner, Frank purchased a pack of nicotine gum. He broke open the package, popped one in his mouth and started chewing. He took the now-empty paper bag from the store and put the cup of pee inside it.

  He knew Amy Van would
appreciate the lack of smoke, and hopefully that would make up for the bag of pee he was about to hand her.

  Before entering the restaurant, he stopped back at his car. He dipped into the passenger side and pulled a small bottle of cologne from the glove box, spritzing himself twice on the chest. Cedar and black suede backed by ambergris and watermint wafted about Frank as he tossed it and the box of gum in the seat. After taking a smell of his underarms and slicking his hair back in the mirror, Frank was ready to go inside.

  The Stand had a rustic appeal to it. It was a popular joint for the corporate types on Ventura Boulevard which made the atmosphere look a bit more high-society than the cheap beer and hotdogs would have you believe. The dining room smelled of old corn batter mixed with the charbroiled scent of burgers cooking on an open flame. Muffled behind closed doors, toward the back and behind the counter, the hourly line cooks shouted back and forth. A little loud at times, but it wasn’t a bad place and that didn’t ruin it. The seats were large and comfy, brown vinyl “leather” booths with those big brass buttons and thick, hand-stitched seams. The walls, covered in paisley wallpaper, were decorated with pictures of the San Fernando Valley before it was urbanized; black-and-white photos of orange groves and strawberry fields that had long since been replaced by housing tracts and freeways. There were the irrigation canals that preceded the concrete canyon they call the L.A. River, and even a few of photos of old general stores that are now, most likely, 7-11s and pawnshops.

  Frank wondered if he should wait for her before ordering a drink. Deciding in favor of the cold brew, Frank walked up to the cashier and order a beer. They handed him a bottle and a glass and he found a seat in the back corner.

  It was only a few moments before he noticed Amy Van. Even from across the room, through the corn batter and the charbroil, he could smell the faint scent of sandalwood and coconut radiating from her pearly skin. Amy saw Frank hunched in the corner and made her way toward him, extending her strong legs one after the other. She was wearing the same pencil skirt and matching gray, short-cropped blazer as in the morning and, after a long day, she still looked just as flawless. In one hand, she balanced a glass of ginger ale with a lime on the brim and gripped her clipboard in the other as she proceeded through the restaurant. She passed the only other occupied table as she walked closer. Even the man sitting with his wife of a thousand years or so crooked his neck to get a better view as she glided by, weaving between the tables until she was standing beside Frank. Frank felt his stomach turn and he knew it wasn’t the beer.

  “Good evening, Mr. Black,” she said and set her glass on the table. “I’m glad you could take time out of your busy schedule to finally meet.”

  Frank could sense the aggravation. He returned it with a smile.

  “Have a seat, Dr. Van.”

  He stood, pulling the straight-backed chair out from beneath the table and offering it to her with an open palm.

  “First things first, Mr. Black,” Amy said, taking a careful seat while tugging on the hem of her pencil skirt to keep her slender, milky thighs covered. “You left the scene of a crime today.”

  “Which one?” jested Frank as he stood over her, staring down at her as she struggled with the skirt.

  “You left a man unconscious on the floor of a townhome in Hollywood,” Amy scolded into her lap.

  Looking up at Frank and making contact with his roaming eyes, she said, “He could have died.”

  She tugged the skirt one last time then covered her lap with her clipboard, adding, “And mind your manners, Mr. Black.”

  He grinned down at her and chuckled.

  “Correction, Ms. Van. I left a murderer unconscious on the floor of a townhome in Hollywood. A murderer could have died,” he said as he sat. “And a damn good puddle of Laphroiag. That’s on the floor there too. And if you ask me, the latter was a truer crime.”

  Frank swirled his beer and gnawed on his chewy cigarette replacement, staring into his glass while Amy stared at him. Her pretty lips were partly open as she inspected the downturned gaze of the man sitting across from her. Despite his boorishness, despite his lewd glances and his unusual love for the liquor, she couldn’t help but notice that he cleaned up pretty well. Pretty well indeed. Amy brought her soda to her lips, giving them something to do as she stared.

  Then Frank looked up at her and stopped smacking on the nicotine gum. Finally getting over his spilled scotch—yet again—he grumbled, “You said the boy’s in a coma and it came from somewhere other than me, which got me thinking. Made me think, maybe there’s something more going on here. And well, Ms. Van, I’ve got a sample for you to look at. Should put this whole thing to rest.”

  Van nodded in response. She pulled the glass from her wet lips and set it back on the table.

  “Okay,” she said.

  Picking the brown bag off the floor and sliding it across the table, he commanded, “Take this.”

  “What is it?” Amy asked, cocking her head to the side.

  Frank said, without batting an eye or missing a beat, “It’s urine. Mine.”

  Amy’s lips curled and she lifted one of her thin, penciled-on eyebrows.

  Sliding her glasses off and tucking them into the thin cotton over her breasts, she said, “No, Mr. Black.”

  “Please,” he replied, “And call me Frank.”

  He pushed the brown bag closer. She recoiled, grabbing her glass and scooting her chair back, screeching the legs against the linoleum floor.

  “No thank you, Mr. Black,” she pleaded, throwing her hand up at the brown bag.

  “Look,” Frank said, “I was drugged the other night.”

  Motioning to the bag, he stressed, “This is proof. You test this, you find the stuff that’s in Chad.”

  “How do you know you were drugged, Mr. Black?” she asked. “Chad Campbell’s screen came back clean.”

  “Both you and I know that was just the basics. Routine screening doesn’t find shit.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” Amy said, “Who drugged you, Mr. Black?”

  “Chad’s girlfriend.”

  Amy sighed and asked with exaggerated disinterest, “And how do you know this?”

  “Last night I blacked out. I woke up in my apartment this morning. Place was a wreck. I know it was her. She planted a fake day-planner to lead me to the gym and to Campbell.”

  He flashed the empty manila folder and said, “She took this. Something was in here she doesn’t want me to know about. Something that has to do with Judge Johnson.”

  “You blacked out and misplaced a file,” Amy said. “One empty manila folder doesn’t mean anything, Mr. Black.”

  “The day-planner,” Frank repeated. “She wanted me to find Chad.”

  “The day-planner you said you didn’t have?” Amy snapped.

  Frank nodded.

  “It’s her handwriting,” he said. “She left a note on my mirror while I was in the shower and, well, it’s her handwriting in the day-planner too. She’s been setting me up.”

  Frank slid his glass and bottle to the edge of the table furthest to his right and pulled out the day-planner, throwing it open on the table. Sliding his phone from his pocket, he clicked at it with his thumbs then tossed it down beside the book.

  “Look,” he said, pushing his index finger at the picture of Felicia’s note scrawled across his mirror.

  Without glancing down at the picture or the book, Amy asked, “What was she doing alone in your apartment while you were in the shower, Mr. Black?”

  “What’s the difference? Look,” Frank breathed, pressing harder on the evidence before him.

  Amy’s eyes evaded his jabbing finger and in an effort to show her shame, she crossed her arms and furrowed her brow-line, frowning at Frank. Though, it wasn’t her scowl that Frank noticed as her arms closed her off. Pressing into the upper portion of her stomach, they lifted the tops of her milky, round breasts further out of the cotton blouse and tipped her glasses forward, pointing them at Frank from he
r cleavage.

  “We were fucking, Van,” Frank blathered to her chest, “Fucking like rabbits.”

  A mix of disgust and jealousy played across her lips as she narrowed her eyes at Frank, who was still staring.

  “Not the one he went to jail for, I hope,” Amy breathed.

  She uncrossed her arms, letting her chest fall back into the embracing cups of her bra and blocking Frank’s view with her hand.

  Guiding his eyes upward from her chest, she said, “She’s just a kid, Frank.”

  Frank turned his head at that as if this entire time he thought Amy knew exactly who he was talking about. In that sentence, he realized she hadn’t.

  “No. God no,” he said. “She’s not much older though. Twenty. Twenty-one. Felicia Berry is her name. Actress by day, stripper by night. I found her loitering outside Rose’s after I gave Campbell what he had coming.”

  Amy laid into him, saying, “Let me get this straight. You broke into the first victim’s home. Stole from her. Lied to me about it. Drank too much. Lost a file. Beat up your prime suspect and slept with his teenage girlfriend?”

  “Twenty-something.”

  “That doesn’t make it any better, Mr. Black.”

  “It’s not the point,” he hissed.

  Amy took in a deep breath and leaned forward in her seat.

  “I’ve read your file, Mr. Black,” she said.

  Her words were mixed with a dash of disappointment and disgust. You could tell she didn’t expect much from Frank. She stressed the syllables as she spoke.

  “You were a cop,” she said.

  Sipping her ginger ale and lime, she went on, “You were a good cop, but after a while you couldn’t pass the psych. On the job, off the job, you were drinking too much.”

  “I was a detective,” Frank corrected, chewing harder on his nicotine gum as he tipped his brew to his lips, gulping down the bubbly hops.

  “Couldn’t take it, Mr. Black?” she chided, “Is that why you took to drinking so much? Is that what kept you from staying on the force? Were you drunk on the job? And now you’re just a washed-up dick trying to keep his head afloat. Have you tried AA, Mr. Black?”