LA. Franco Mysteries: End Of Watch Part 2

Oh, many reasons, Mary. For starters Tm in a tin can a mile above the earth. The smell of the fat guy's Bud is crawling up my nose-no temptation there-not to mention Tm about to revisit the scene of my youthful and childish crimes. And atone for them. If I can. Other than that, gee, no reason.

This isn't very productive. Maybe I should get some work done. Think about what I can do instead of what I can't. Mary would say that too.

Jesus, I sound like a d.a.m.n AA parrot. "Squawk, squawk, squawk."

Okay. Time's up. On to reports.

CHAPTER 5.

The fat guy ordered a second beer and when he snapped it open Frank tasted the tangy, malty spray through her nose. She took a long swallow of tepid coffee and focused on Johnny's sixty-day.

By the time the plane landed at JFK the fat guy had downed four beers. Watching him jerk out of a drooling, snoring sleep, she was glad she stuck to coffee. She made haste from the plane and followed the exit signs to the taxi stand. When her cab came she asked the driver, "You know the Canarsie Cemetery? On Remsen in Brooklyn."

"Yah, yah. I know whey ees," the cabbie answered.

"All right. I want a hotel near there. A Holiday Inn or a Motel Six, something like that."

"Yah, yah." He bobbed his head. "I know prace."

She sat back and the cabbie slalomed from the terminal. Frank lowered the window-no matter what coast she was on, cabs still smelled of rancid body fluids. The stale air rushed out. What replaced it was the muddy, dank smell of Jamaica Bay and she was instantly ten years old again. The gus.h.i.+ng cold air ripped at her eyes but she kept her face into the wind. The bay smells mixed with truck diesel and the must from centuries of city living. A hunger pang stabbed her and she suddenly craved a warm onion bialy with a shmear. As the driver tore through the precocious dusk, Frank allowed a thin smile and rolled the window up.

She rapped on the Plexiglas divider. "I changed my mind. I want to go into the City. To the Times Square Crowne Plaza."

"You no want Brookryn?"

"No. Midtown. The Crowne Plaza."

"From Motey Six to Crowne Praza?"

"Yeah."

The cabbie shrugged and slid the window shut, veering north off the parkway a couple exits later.

Frank was at the hotel in under an hour. She carried no bags, only a toothbrush in her briefcase. Upstairs, stretched on the taut bed, she wondered which floor Gail was on. She clicked the TV on and roamed through channels. Nothing caught her interest. She knew there was a bar downstairs. Warned herself not to even think about it. She should think about food instead, and remembered her desire for the bialy. She dialed the operator, called Katz's Deli. They were open until nine. Frank thought about schlepping all the way down to the Lower East Side but decided she was more restless than hungry. Nor was she sure she wanted to go traipsing through her old neighborhood, seeing things she might not want to be reminded of.

Instead she took the stairs to the lobby. In the gift shop she popped for an outrageously priced pair of shorts and a T-s.h.i.+rt. She found the gym and worked out for an hour. After a shower she walked down Broadway, finally stopping in front of a kebab house. She'd pa.s.sed the Italian restaurants knowing she'd want wine with dinner. Sus.h.i.+ was out because of the sake. Pizza because of the beer. But she couldn't a.s.sociate Afghan food with alcohol, so she ate there. Mixed kebabs with spiced tea were good and after dinner she wandered Times Square back to the hotel.

It was eight thirty, too early to go to bed and still nothing on TV. She read the New York Times with her attention inevitably drifting to the locked minibar, whose key she had wisely declined.

She dropped the paper on the floor and laced her fingers behind her head, staring at the same ceiling that was there earlier. She wondered if Gail was in, imagined she was out dining with friends and colleagues, kicking up her heels in the Big Apple. She was sure the doc wouldn't be in her room staring at the ceiling. She'd be having fun somewhere, and her ability to play was one of the things Frank loved best about Gail. All Frank knew was drinking and working. Playing was something she'd have to learn about.

Not wanting to bother Gail on her cell phone, Frank called the desk to leave her a message. She scanned the room service menu while waiting for a machine to answer. She was surprised when Gail answered.

"Hey. It's Frank. I, uh, I didn't think you'd be in. I was just going to leave you a message."

"Well, here I am. I got in about thirty seconds ago."

"So what do you think about my offer of hot chocolate?"

"I think that'd be lovely."

"Okay, then." Frank couldn't believe Gail had said yes. "Lovely, it is. Uh, how about one?"

"That'd be fine."

"Okay. How about I meet you in the lobby."

"Sure. Where are you?"

"Well, actually I'm on the third floor."

"Here? At the hotel?"

"Yeah. Don't worry, though. I'm not stalking you. I was headed to a Motel Six in Brooklyn and I thought what the h.e.l.l, why not treat myself? So here I am, about to order a hot fudge sundae from room service." Frank decided to gamble big. "I don't suppose you'd care to join me?"

"You're not playing fair. You keep plying me with chocolate."

"It's my new drug of choice. Better a big bowl of ice cream than a bottle of Scotch."

"What room are you in?" Frank told her and Gail said, "Order one for me, too. I'll be down in five minutes."

"Roger that."

"With extra chocolate."

"Roger again."

CHAPTER 6.

Frank opened at Gail's knock and gawked. "You're running around the Crowne Plaza in pajamas?"

Swis.h.i.+ng by in flannel pants and a s.h.i.+rt, Gail scoffed, "I have more clothes on than three-quarters of the women in the lobby. And in case you haven't noticed, sleepwear has become street wear. I'm sure I'm very fas.h.i.+onable."

Frank hoisted a brow and closed the door. "Make a cool Post picture. aLA's Chief Coroner Traipsing Plaza in PJs.'"

"Since when did you become so priggish?"

"Priggish? Me?"

"Yes." Gail giggled. "You."

"Never. Never a prig. Just surprised, is all. Guess I'm self-conscious in such a fancy place."

"Then I suggest you not run around in your pajamas."

"I won't. I don't have any."

"How long are you staying?"

"Just tonight. I'm going home tomorrow. Sit?" Frank perched on one of the chairs at the small table. Gail took the other. "So how'd your speech go last night?"

Gail chuckled. "Oh, G.o.d, I was so nervous." In a quivering voice she said, "I sounded like I was driving down a b.u.mpy road. But everyone told me I did a good job so I a.s.sume I was at least intelligible."

"I'm sure you were wonderful. Did you present anything else?"

"No. After the opening speech I got to relax and just be an attendee. Thank G.o.d."

"What was the best session so far?"

"Probably the one on forensic tox software. G.o.d, there's so much technology out there. Applications I couldn't even have dreamed about twenty years ago."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?"

Gail c.o.c.ked her head and squinted at Frank. "You hate computers. Why do I get the feeling you are oh-so-adroitly deflecting conversation from yourself?"

Guilty as charged, Frank fibbed, "I don't know. Can't a girl be curious?"

"Not you. Not about software applications."

Frank had to grin. Gail knew her too well.

"My turn. Can I ask what you came here for?"

Stalling, Frank answered, "You mean the hotel or New York?"

"New York."

"Sure. You could ask."

"And would you tell me?"

Frank sighed. "I'd have to. That's what I'm supposed to do to stay sober. Tell the truth. Hide nothing."

"Wow," Gail said, crossing her long legs, tucking her feet under. "I shouldn't think that would be an easy task for you."

"I've had easier. You cold? Want a blanket?"

"No, I'm fine."

"It's probably gonna be a cold fudge sundae by the time it gets here."

"Any fudge is good fudge. And you're fudging."

"Busted," Frank conceded. "All right. Guess we should start from the beginning. I told you my mom was dead, right?"

Gail nodded. "You said she died of heart failure and when I asked from what you got vague on me."

"Sounds like something I'd do." Frank sighed again. Seemed that the truth required extra oxygen. "She died when I was twenty-something. Twenty-three, I think. I came back and took care of all the arrangements but I didn't have a funeral for her, just handled the business of burying her, paid for it and left. Never went to the cemetery where they put her. Never said good-bye. And I ... I figure it's time to do that. I've waited long enough. Time to say good-bye, put an end to her-to us." She shrugged, wondering where the h.e.l.l room service was.

"Why now, after all this time?"

"It's just one more thing I've been running from all these years. One more thing I don't want to face. And I have to. I have to put all these ghosts to rest if I want to stay sober."

When the knock came Frank jumped so quickly she almost tipped the table over. After holding her eye to the peephole she opened the door. A uniformed man smiled, hefting a tray. Frank watched him place the tray on the table and uncover the sundaes.

"Thank you," Gail gushed.

"You're welcome," the man chirped in a thick accent. Frank put two bucks in his hand as he pa.s.sed. "Thank you, ma'am."

She closed the door and bolted it. "How is it?"

"Good. But hurry. It's melting."

Frank complied. She buried her spoon into the mound of ice cream as Gail asked, "Why didn't you have a funeral for your mom?"

Around a mouthful of sundae Frank snorted. "She's lucky I buried her."

"What did she do that was so awful?"

"She wasn't awful," Frank admitted. "She was just sick. She was a manic depressive and wouldn't stay on her meds."

"Did she have the radical mood swings?"

Frank stared into her bowl. "Yeah. More toward the end. And to be fair, it wasn't always so awful... When I was little, before my dad died, they'd be getting dressed up to go dancing-they loved dancing-and my dad was shaved and he smelled like Old Spice and Scotch and he'd put me on his feet and dance with me. Sinatra or Benny Goodman. He loved those guys. Then he'd shoo me off and I'd sit in the bathroom on the John, watching my mother put on her makeup. She'd be humming and making faces in the mirror-putting her face on, she used to call it-and I loved watching her. She was so pretty. She looked like a queen in a fairy tale, or one of those Greek G.o.ddesses they were always trying to teach us about in school. And I thought, I mean I really believed she was magic. She'd make flowers appear in the window box in midwinter, or she'd cheep at these tough little New York sparrows and they'd come flying into her hand. And there was a pit bull in the bas.e.m.e.nt that would kill anything that came near it, but my mom would say, aOh, hush,' and walk up to it, pretty as you please, scratching his ears, rubbing his belly, and that dog would act the fool over her. Wagging his tail and rolling on his back, licking her cheek. I was sure he was gonna eat her one day, but she'd just laugh and play with him. He'd whine for her to come back when she walked away."

She took a bite of ice cream. When Gail didn't say anything Frank continued.

"I never knew which it was going to be." She gave a wry smile. "How the pigeons have come home to roost, huh? I'm just like her in that I never knew if she was going to be the fairy princess or the wicked witch. Was she gonna be high or low? Laughing or weeping? Dancing or sleeping? Toward the end, after my dad died, that's when she got pretty predictable. It was all bad then. Everything went to h.e.l.l. I did what I could to try and make up for it, to try and keep her from spilling over into the lows, but it didn't matter. She always ended up in a depression. There'd be days, sometimes weeks, she wouldn't get out of bed. Toward the end I preferred that. At least I knew where she was. And I could take care of myself. All I really needed her for was to cash the welfare checks. I'd drag her outta bed to the supermarket then I'd keep the cash they gave her and do all the shopping, pay what bills we could."

The ice cream didn't taste good anymore and Frank stirred it into soup. Gail was sc.r.a.ping smears of fudge from the sides of her bowl. The click of her spoon was comforting. Gail sitting across from her was comforting. Licking the tip of the spoon, Gail asked, "How old were you when it got bad?"

Frank did the math. "I was ten when my dad died. She held it together for a little while after that. She didn't get really bad until I was in my teens. My uncle helped out when he could. He'd come by once a month or so, slip her something. It was pretty embarra.s.sing. My mom had been so pretty-I think he was crushed out on her even after my dad married her. She'd cry all over him and grovel and thank him. He had a wife and two kids so he never gave us much. And he must have been leaning on the landlord because I don't how else we paid the rent."