beloved.”
8
Good show of cool, but as I walked to the Seville the anger hit me. I found a pay phone near the yogurt place and put in a call to Milo. He was out and I left a message to phone. I went inside, bought a cup of coffee, drank it, and took a refill while standing at the counter. Lots of ambient conversation about pulse rates. Mine was racing.
I got out of there and drove to the school, traveling slowly, trying to settle down, arriving a little before eleven, still keyed up and not ready to face the kids.
I parked, did a little deep breathing, and got out of the car. Both the school cop and the crossbearer were gone. As I walked toward the gate a car came tooling slowly down the street. Silver-gray compact. Honda Accord in need of a wash, the body dimpled and scarred, the finish not much shinier than primer. But a single display of Kalifornia-kustom flair caught my eye: gleaming blackened windows that wrapped around the car like electrician’s tape, making the lackluster paintwork appear even more tarnished. Windows that would have seemed more in place on a stretch limo.
The little gray car stopped to let me cross, lingered, and continued cruising for a block before turning left. I walked onto the school grounds.
Linda was in her office, behind a pile of paperwork. When she saw me she swiveled, stood, and smiled. She was wearing a blue oxford button-down shirt and khaki skirt, brown boots with sensible low heels. The bit of leg that showed was smooth and white. Her hair was swept back and fastened at the temples with tortoise-shell barettes, revealing small, close-set ears adorned with tiny gold studs.
“Hi. You’re early,” she said, pushing aside some papers.
“Got thrown off my schedule.”
Deep breathing or not, there was still ire in my voice.
She said, “What is it?”
I told her about the confrontation with Massengil and Dobbs, leaving out the part about Milo’s sexuality.
“The bastards,” she said and sat back down. “Trying to profit from tragedy.”
I took a chair opposite her.
“That’s what you get for being a nice guy,” she said.
“I wasn’t such a nice guy half an hour ago. When Massengil started leaning on me, things got hot. Hope I didn’t make things worse for you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She sounded weary.
“How much damage can he do?”
“Nothing in the immediate, other than make more noise—which is unlikely after the shooting.” She thought for a moment. “I guess he
could
try to screw the school budget when it comes up next year in Sacramento. But it would be hard for him to target Hale specifically. So don’t worry about it. Just keep doing your thing.”
“He’s a strange one,” I said. “Really rough around the edges, not at all well-spoken.”
“What’d you expect? A statesman?”
“Some sophistication—polish. He’s been at it for twenty-eight years. On top of the crudeness, he’s got a nasty temper. Surprising he’s lasted this long.”
“He probably knows who to punch out and who to kiss up to—that’s the whole game, isn’t it? And over twenty-eight years he’s fixed plenty of potholes. Besides, being rough around the edges probably works well here—the whole cowboy thing.”
“He’s got to have something going,” I said. “Hasn’t had any opposition for the last two elections. I know, ’cause I’m a constituent. I keep leaving the space blank.”
“I’m a constituent too. I write in Alfred E. Newman.”
I smiled.
She said, “Might we be neighbors, sir?”
“I live up in Beverly Glen.”
“Beverly Glen and where?”
“North of Sunset, up toward Mulholland.”
“Mmm, real pretty up there,” she said. “Way out of my league. All I’ve got is a little hutch near Westwood and Pico.” Mischievous smile. “Guess neither of us loyal constituents has much chance of getting
our
potholes fixed.”
“Better learn to mix your own asphalt,” I said. “Or cozy up to Dr. Dobbs.”
“Speaking of
8
Good show of cool, but as I walked to the Seville the anger hit me. I found a pay phone near the yogurt place and put in a call to Milo. He was out and I left a message to phone. I went inside, bought a cup of coffee, drank it, and took a refill while standing at the counter. Lots of ambient conversation about pulse rates. Mine was racing.
I got out of there and drove to the school, traveling slowly, trying to settle down, arriving a little before eleven, still keyed up and not ready to face the kids.
I parked, did a little deep breathing, and got out of the car. Both the school cop and the crossbearer were gone. As I walked toward the gate a car came tooling slowly down the street. Silver-gray compact. Honda Accord in need of a wash, the body dimpled and scarred, the finish not much shinier than primer. But a single display of Kalifornia-kustom flair caught my eye: gleaming blackened windows that wrapped around the car like electrician’s tape, making the lackluster paintwork appear even more tarnished. Windows that would have seemed more in place on a stretch limo.
The little gray car stopped to let me cross, lingered, and continued cruising for a block before turning left. I walked onto the school grounds.
Linda was in her office, behind a pile of paperwork. When she saw me she swiveled, stood, and smiled. She was wearing a blue oxford button-down shirt and khaki skirt, brown boots with sensible low heels. The bit of leg that showed was smooth and white. Her hair was swept back and fastened at the temples with tortoise-shell barettes, revealing small, close-set ears adorned with tiny gold studs.
“Hi. You’re early,” she said, pushing aside some papers.
“Got thrown off my schedule.”
Deep breathing or not, there was still ire in my voice.
She said, “What is it?”
I told her about the confrontation with Massengil and Dobbs, leaving out the part about Milo’s sexuality.
“The bastards,” she said and sat back down. “Trying to profit from tragedy.”
I took a chair opposite her.
“That’s what you get for being a nice guy,” she said.
“I wasn’t such a nice guy half an hour ago. When Massengil started leaning on me, things got hot. Hope I didn’t make things worse for you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She sounded weary.
“How much damage can he do?”
“Nothing in the immediate, other than make more noise—which is unlikely after the shooting.” She thought for a moment. “I guess he
could
try to screw the school budget when it comes up next year in Sacramento. But it would be hard for him to target Hale specifically. So don’t worry about it. Just keep doing your thing.”
“He’s a strange one,” I said. “Really rough around the edges, not at all well-spoken.”
“What’d you expect? A statesman?”
“Some sophistication—polish. He’s been at it for twenty-eight years. On top of the crudeness, he’s got a nasty temper. Surprising he’s lasted this long.”
“He probably knows who to punch out and who to kiss up to—that’s the whole game, isn’t it? And over twenty-eight years he’s fixed plenty of potholes. Besides, being rough around the edges probably works well here—the whole cowboy thing.”
“He’s got to have something going,” I said. “Hasn’t had any opposition for the last two elections. I know, ’cause I’m a constituent. I keep leaving the space blank.”
“I’m a constituent too. I write in Alfred E. Newman.”
I smiled.
She said, “Might we be neighbors, sir?”
“I live up in Beverly Glen.”
“Beverly Glen and where?”
“North of Sunset, up toward Mulholland.”
“Mmm, real pretty up there,” she said. “Way out of my league. All I’ve got is a little hutch near Westwood and Pico.” Mischievous smile. “Guess neither of us loyal constituents has much chance of getting
our
potholes fixed.”
“Better learn to mix your own asphalt,” I said. “Or cozy up to Dr. Dobbs.”
“Speaking of
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