and the salt-marsh birdâs beak that looks like tiny birds and is washed under by high tides. But my mind was on other things, and in the rosy grayness, all the colors merged.
Sometime during our walk, I knew I would be driving back to work, overtime or no overtime.
Back at Mrs. Langstonâs, I collected my three daisies and told her to quit staying out at the nightclubs so late, sheâd feel better, then went to my place and microwaved a frozen dinner of lemon chicken and inedible peas. I watched the news and, without a moment of arguing myself out of it, headed to the morgue to see if I could read the chart for the Carbon Canyon victim and convince myself, as Nathan tried to do so desperately, it wasnât Miranda Robertson lifted from the cinders at all.
10
Freeway construction shunted me off to an unfamiliar route on my way to the morgue. On a dark Santa Ana street, I drove toward the highest building I could see, a dull brown block against the charcoal sky. I was passing through a neighborhood of modest homes where third-shift police patrols get several disturbance calls a night and the parks each evening fill up with dope dealers like leaves blown across a lawn. Maybe it was too early, but I didnât hear boom box music issuing from street corners or see many people about. All the same, I cracked the windows on both sides to listen for tire noise or footsteps. At stop signs I only slowed, taking the mild dips designed for water runoff with reasonable speed, watching my low beams bounce over startled catsâ eyes, root-lifted sidewalks, and twenty-year-old car bumpers with red cellophane taped over broken taillights.
Downtown, I drove on virtually empty streets and didnât wait for the full red-light cycles to complete. Here Spanish-named taverns shouldered shops that close before dark. Gutters glinted with broken glass. In the doorway of a storefront with iron accordion grates, a lumpy bag lady stood fussing with her grocery cart.
At Third and Main, I caught the familiar yellow letters on the windowpane of a shop closed as long as I can remember: EVERYTHING IN THE STORE $6.90 OR LESS . I wondered what had become of the owner, and if his sons now wore Raiders jackets and flashed AK-47s from pickup beds. Raiders: R ight A fter I D ie, E verybody R uns S cared. Thatâs what one juvie told us it means.
Monday night blues, or just a mood that had been creeping up for awhile, overtook me, and I wondered why any of us ever thought we could stop or even slow down the mudslide of dark forces.
On a back street behind the morgue a few months ago someone fired a round at a police car as it was leaving the parking lot. Nonetheless, as I neared Shelton, I decided to come around the back way, daring something, I guess. That part of my personality someone will have to clue me in on someday.
Now there was no life at all, only the low-wattage porch lights over butterscotch-colored homes, and the long expanse of the county parking lot scattershot with maybe two dozen dew-covered cars. When I opened the door to the building, a Muzak version of âProud Maryâ was playing. The disk was stuck on rollin,â rollinâ on the river and didnât unstick for a full minute.
A tech with a long ponytail and a jaw still round with baby fat came from the back. I told him I was from the lab and showed him my ID. âCould I look at the file for Jane Doe Five?â He was new, didnât know where anything was. I said that was okay, I did. After buzzing me in, he walked silently back to where heâd come from.
All offices feel foreign when no one is there. I toyed with the light switch but couldnât get more than a bluish middle fixture to come on. It was enough light to find the Doe log book, which gives the details of a case, and then to find the right folder. Janettaâs desk had boxes on it, so I took the file to one of the other four desks and sat down, noting the miniature pink
Sometime during our walk, I knew I would be driving back to work, overtime or no overtime.
Back at Mrs. Langstonâs, I collected my three daisies and told her to quit staying out at the nightclubs so late, sheâd feel better, then went to my place and microwaved a frozen dinner of lemon chicken and inedible peas. I watched the news and, without a moment of arguing myself out of it, headed to the morgue to see if I could read the chart for the Carbon Canyon victim and convince myself, as Nathan tried to do so desperately, it wasnât Miranda Robertson lifted from the cinders at all.
10
Freeway construction shunted me off to an unfamiliar route on my way to the morgue. On a dark Santa Ana street, I drove toward the highest building I could see, a dull brown block against the charcoal sky. I was passing through a neighborhood of modest homes where third-shift police patrols get several disturbance calls a night and the parks each evening fill up with dope dealers like leaves blown across a lawn. Maybe it was too early, but I didnât hear boom box music issuing from street corners or see many people about. All the same, I cracked the windows on both sides to listen for tire noise or footsteps. At stop signs I only slowed, taking the mild dips designed for water runoff with reasonable speed, watching my low beams bounce over startled catsâ eyes, root-lifted sidewalks, and twenty-year-old car bumpers with red cellophane taped over broken taillights.
Downtown, I drove on virtually empty streets and didnât wait for the full red-light cycles to complete. Here Spanish-named taverns shouldered shops that close before dark. Gutters glinted with broken glass. In the doorway of a storefront with iron accordion grates, a lumpy bag lady stood fussing with her grocery cart.
At Third and Main, I caught the familiar yellow letters on the windowpane of a shop closed as long as I can remember: EVERYTHING IN THE STORE $6.90 OR LESS . I wondered what had become of the owner, and if his sons now wore Raiders jackets and flashed AK-47s from pickup beds. Raiders: R ight A fter I D ie, E verybody R uns S cared. Thatâs what one juvie told us it means.
Monday night blues, or just a mood that had been creeping up for awhile, overtook me, and I wondered why any of us ever thought we could stop or even slow down the mudslide of dark forces.
On a back street behind the morgue a few months ago someone fired a round at a police car as it was leaving the parking lot. Nonetheless, as I neared Shelton, I decided to come around the back way, daring something, I guess. That part of my personality someone will have to clue me in on someday.
Now there was no life at all, only the low-wattage porch lights over butterscotch-colored homes, and the long expanse of the county parking lot scattershot with maybe two dozen dew-covered cars. When I opened the door to the building, a Muzak version of âProud Maryâ was playing. The disk was stuck on rollin,â rollinâ on the river and didnât unstick for a full minute.
A tech with a long ponytail and a jaw still round with baby fat came from the back. I told him I was from the lab and showed him my ID. âCould I look at the file for Jane Doe Five?â He was new, didnât know where anything was. I said that was okay, I did. After buzzing me in, he walked silently back to where heâd come from.
All offices feel foreign when no one is there. I toyed with the light switch but couldnât get more than a bluish middle fixture to come on. It was enough light to find the Doe log book, which gives the details of a case, and then to find the right folder. Janettaâs desk had boxes on it, so I took the file to one of the other four desks and sat down, noting the miniature pink
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