and rubbed the back of my neck with the other.
"I'm
going to bed," she said. "What time is it?"
"Ten-forty."
She yawned again. "I've got an early day tomorrow. Staff meeting." I
turned the little blue book over so I wouldn't lose my place and
stretched my
arms up and back, pulling her toward me.
"I'll
be
up in a while," I said. "Just want to finish going through this one
again."
I'd
brought
down the three books which covered nineteen sixty-nine and left Mikey
the
Monkey to guard their place in the file. Fourth of July weekend was
near the
end of the middle book. I was making my third pass through that
particular
volume. Each successive pass brought further spasms of lucidity,
wherein I
would suddenly understand what had up until that point seemed nothing
more than
alphanumeric gibberish, so then I'd have to go back and read everything
again.
She
patted me
on top of the head.
"You
must
be tired. You've been at it all day."
"It
took
me a long while to figure out his shorthand."
"Find
anything?"
"Nothing
I'd write home about."
She
leaned over
my shoulder. "What are the big numbers at the bottom of each page?"
It read: 15,789.
'
'Mileage on
the city car. The city only paid for mileage when my father was
actually in the
car. He paid for Bermuda's mileage out of his
own pocket. From the time Bermuda left him off
at night, to the time he picked him up again in the morning, those were
personal miles."
For
nearly
twenty years, Ed "Bermuda" Schwartz
had been my old man's personal driver and confidant. His promising
career in
the SPD had ended one night during a high-speed chase through the
Rainier
Valley, when Bermuda's police cruiser T-boned a garbage truck, killing
his
partner instantly and leaving the young officer Schwartz with a broken
back and
one mangled leg four inches shorter than the other.
Despite
its
tragic overtones, the situation had a couple of things going for it.
First off,
right about that time, one of my old man's many real estate scams had
incurred
the wrath of a couple of old-time land barons. The way they told the
story,
he'd used his official clout to lose some of their paperwork and then
had
appropriated their recently refurbished eight-story building on Third Avenue
for little
more than the price of back taxes. A ploy which, interestingly enough,
turned
out to be precisely how they'd gotten hold of the building in the first
place.
These were the kind of guys who were used to paying off politicians,
not
getting fleeced by them, so needless to say, they were miffed. So
miffed, in
fact, that they let it be known on the street that were my old man to
appear
suddenly before the headlights of the wrong automobile some dark and
lonely
night, he might well turn up late for supper.
Secondly,
and
of equal importance, Officer Ed Schwartz was, at that time, the SPD's
sole and
token Jew. Not only that but Schwartz didn't want to go on disability.
He
wanted to stay on the force. At a desk if he had to, but on the force.
As any
cop will tell you, you can't have a uniformed officer pushing a walker
around
the squad room. It's bad for morale. It's hard enough to put on the
badge and
go out every day, knowing that any routine traffic stop could well be
your last
act, without having to look at it every morning.
It
was one of
those sweet deals that politicians so love. The kind that works out all
around.
The police department got to look benevolent. Bermuda
got to stay on active duty and work toward his pension; the city got to
make
good on its racial and ethnic guidelines and, most importantly perhaps,
my old
man got a full-time gofer with a gun. A fearful symmetry indeed.
I
turned the
page. "See ... top of the next page. Car mileage first thing in the
morning." 15,805.
"Sixteen
miles," she said.
"Right.
Wherever Bermuda lived back then, it was
sixteen miles round-trip from right here." I tapped the table and began
to
flip through the pages. "Every night, the same thing. He'd drop the old
man off, drive home and
"I'm
going to bed," she said. "What time is it?"
"Ten-forty."
She yawned again. "I've got an early day tomorrow. Staff meeting." I
turned the little blue book over so I wouldn't lose my place and
stretched my
arms up and back, pulling her toward me.
"I'll
be
up in a while," I said. "Just want to finish going through this one
again."
I'd
brought
down the three books which covered nineteen sixty-nine and left Mikey
the
Monkey to guard their place in the file. Fourth of July weekend was
near the
end of the middle book. I was making my third pass through that
particular
volume. Each successive pass brought further spasms of lucidity,
wherein I
would suddenly understand what had up until that point seemed nothing
more than
alphanumeric gibberish, so then I'd have to go back and read everything
again.
She
patted me
on top of the head.
"You
must
be tired. You've been at it all day."
"It
took
me a long while to figure out his shorthand."
"Find
anything?"
"Nothing
I'd write home about."
She
leaned over
my shoulder. "What are the big numbers at the bottom of each page?"
It read: 15,789.
'
'Mileage on
the city car. The city only paid for mileage when my father was
actually in the
car. He paid for Bermuda's mileage out of his
own pocket. From the time Bermuda left him off
at night, to the time he picked him up again in the morning, those were
personal miles."
For
nearly
twenty years, Ed "Bermuda" Schwartz
had been my old man's personal driver and confidant. His promising
career in
the SPD had ended one night during a high-speed chase through the
Rainier
Valley, when Bermuda's police cruiser T-boned a garbage truck, killing
his
partner instantly and leaving the young officer Schwartz with a broken
back and
one mangled leg four inches shorter than the other.
Despite
its
tragic overtones, the situation had a couple of things going for it.
First off,
right about that time, one of my old man's many real estate scams had
incurred
the wrath of a couple of old-time land barons. The way they told the
story,
he'd used his official clout to lose some of their paperwork and then
had
appropriated their recently refurbished eight-story building on Third Avenue
for little
more than the price of back taxes. A ploy which, interestingly enough,
turned
out to be precisely how they'd gotten hold of the building in the first
place.
These were the kind of guys who were used to paying off politicians,
not
getting fleeced by them, so needless to say, they were miffed. So
miffed, in
fact, that they let it be known on the street that were my old man to
appear
suddenly before the headlights of the wrong automobile some dark and
lonely
night, he might well turn up late for supper.
Secondly,
and
of equal importance, Officer Ed Schwartz was, at that time, the SPD's
sole and
token Jew. Not only that but Schwartz didn't want to go on disability.
He
wanted to stay on the force. At a desk if he had to, but on the force.
As any
cop will tell you, you can't have a uniformed officer pushing a walker
around
the squad room. It's bad for morale. It's hard enough to put on the
badge and
go out every day, knowing that any routine traffic stop could well be
your last
act, without having to look at it every morning.
It
was one of
those sweet deals that politicians so love. The kind that works out all
around.
The police department got to look benevolent. Bermuda
got to stay on active duty and work toward his pension; the city got to
make
good on its racial and ethnic guidelines and, most importantly perhaps,
my old
man got a full-time gofer with a gun. A fearful symmetry indeed.
I
turned the
page. "See ... top of the next page. Car mileage first thing in the
morning." 15,805.
"Sixteen
miles," she said.
"Right.
Wherever Bermuda lived back then, it was
sixteen miles round-trip from right here." I tapped the table and began
to
flip through the pages. "Every night, the same thing. He'd drop the old
man off, drive home and
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