from me and just looked at it. When I could talk, I thanked Mr. Klein for his time and hung up on him.
During the drive home I thought about the producer’s conspiracy theory. “Hard to believe,” I said to Sirius. My partner didn’t answer. He was already asleep in the backseat.
The good thing about driving so late was that there was little traffic. Casa Gideon is in Sherman Oaks, the so-called gateway to the San Fernando Valley. Being that gateway is a dubious distinction, and I’m not sure whether the title is a compliment or a ding. Jenny and I had chosen to live in Sherman Oaks because of its proximity to our workplaces, and because when we boughtour home it was somewhat affordable. Officially, Sherman Oaks isn’t a city but a neighborhood in the city of Los Angeles. When you think of neighborhoods, most don’t have sixty thousand people like mine does. One of Sherman Oaks’ claims to fame is that it is the acknowledged birthplace of Valley Girls. In the 1980s, the Sherman Oaks Galleria, the megamall of its time, was the big meet-up spot for the high school crowds. Frank Zappa had to endure listening to the unique lingo of his daughter and her friends, and decided to immortalize the way they talked in song. After that, movies followed and the whole country became familiar with Valspeak. Unfortunately, the speech patterns continue to this day.
Like, gag me with a spoon.
Jenny had told me that although the TV series The Brady Bunch was filmed on a set, the writers always imagined that the household existed in the suburbs of Sherman Oaks. Our plan had been to have our own nest with children, and we picked a house that a family was supposed to fill, but it never worked out that way. Jenny had even insisted that we put up a white picket fence in the front yard. As I pulled into the driveway, the night couldn’t mask the fact that the fence needed a new coat of paint. The whole house needed TLC that I was no longer inspired to put into it.
Sirius stayed at my side as we walked up the pathway to the front door and then waited for me to enter the house first. When the two of us worked together in K-9, there had been clear divisions of rank, with frequent classes and exercises to reinforce that pecking order. The dogs are taught their handlers are generals and that they are grunts that have to obey no matter how insane the orders are. Sirius always went along with this game so as to not make me look bad, and still does.
I made Sirius what was either a late dinner or an early breakfast. He eats on the patio and was waiting outside for his catered affair to be served. I sat down while he ate. It was cool but not uncomfortably so. Our backyard is full of mature fruit trees, andat different times of the year it’s awash in nectarines, apples, apricots, lemons, plums, figs, avocadoes, oranges, limes, and tangelos. It was a good thing the trees were so well established when their care fell to me; so far I’d managed not to kill them. Jen had been the gardener and the cook. The breeze brought with it the bouquet of citrus, and I remembered her tangy lemon meringue pies.
Sirius made short work of his food. I thought about making myself a late snack but decided sleep sounded better than food. I had a six-thirty appointment with the assistant principal at Beverly Hills High, so I’d be lucky to get three hours sleep. My hope was that I would be too tired to dream, especially with my early meeting. When my head hit the pillow, I dropped off. The next thing I knew I was in hellfire.
Both of us were staggering under the weight and heat. The smoke was pummeling us, hitting us in our throats and lungs. The Strangler collapsed to a knee, and Sirius’s legs slipped through his hands and hit the ground. I held on to my partner’s head and legs, but just barely.
“We’re going to die,” the Strangler said.
His lips were blistered and it was tough making out his words. Soot covered his face. His eyes stared out, red coals
During the drive home I thought about the producer’s conspiracy theory. “Hard to believe,” I said to Sirius. My partner didn’t answer. He was already asleep in the backseat.
The good thing about driving so late was that there was little traffic. Casa Gideon is in Sherman Oaks, the so-called gateway to the San Fernando Valley. Being that gateway is a dubious distinction, and I’m not sure whether the title is a compliment or a ding. Jenny and I had chosen to live in Sherman Oaks because of its proximity to our workplaces, and because when we boughtour home it was somewhat affordable. Officially, Sherman Oaks isn’t a city but a neighborhood in the city of Los Angeles. When you think of neighborhoods, most don’t have sixty thousand people like mine does. One of Sherman Oaks’ claims to fame is that it is the acknowledged birthplace of Valley Girls. In the 1980s, the Sherman Oaks Galleria, the megamall of its time, was the big meet-up spot for the high school crowds. Frank Zappa had to endure listening to the unique lingo of his daughter and her friends, and decided to immortalize the way they talked in song. After that, movies followed and the whole country became familiar with Valspeak. Unfortunately, the speech patterns continue to this day.
Like, gag me with a spoon.
Jenny had told me that although the TV series The Brady Bunch was filmed on a set, the writers always imagined that the household existed in the suburbs of Sherman Oaks. Our plan had been to have our own nest with children, and we picked a house that a family was supposed to fill, but it never worked out that way. Jenny had even insisted that we put up a white picket fence in the front yard. As I pulled into the driveway, the night couldn’t mask the fact that the fence needed a new coat of paint. The whole house needed TLC that I was no longer inspired to put into it.
Sirius stayed at my side as we walked up the pathway to the front door and then waited for me to enter the house first. When the two of us worked together in K-9, there had been clear divisions of rank, with frequent classes and exercises to reinforce that pecking order. The dogs are taught their handlers are generals and that they are grunts that have to obey no matter how insane the orders are. Sirius always went along with this game so as to not make me look bad, and still does.
I made Sirius what was either a late dinner or an early breakfast. He eats on the patio and was waiting outside for his catered affair to be served. I sat down while he ate. It was cool but not uncomfortably so. Our backyard is full of mature fruit trees, andat different times of the year it’s awash in nectarines, apples, apricots, lemons, plums, figs, avocadoes, oranges, limes, and tangelos. It was a good thing the trees were so well established when their care fell to me; so far I’d managed not to kill them. Jen had been the gardener and the cook. The breeze brought with it the bouquet of citrus, and I remembered her tangy lemon meringue pies.
Sirius made short work of his food. I thought about making myself a late snack but decided sleep sounded better than food. I had a six-thirty appointment with the assistant principal at Beverly Hills High, so I’d be lucky to get three hours sleep. My hope was that I would be too tired to dream, especially with my early meeting. When my head hit the pillow, I dropped off. The next thing I knew I was in hellfire.
Both of us were staggering under the weight and heat. The smoke was pummeling us, hitting us in our throats and lungs. The Strangler collapsed to a knee, and Sirius’s legs slipped through his hands and hit the ground. I held on to my partner’s head and legs, but just barely.
“We’re going to die,” the Strangler said.
His lips were blistered and it was tough making out his words. Soot covered his face. His eyes stared out, red coals
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