A Small Matter (4 page)

“My dad taught me I’d get rich if I
squirreled my money away,” he said. “So every month, I put
everything I could into real estate and savings.”

“Who would ever guess you had such a pile?”
she said.

“It wasn’t all real estate,” he said. “Being
a cop helped some. I admit I ate lunch free every day while I was
on the force. But I only ate where I was welcome, and it was mostly
just taco joints or stir-fry places, nothing fancy, not like a
Chicago politician or anything.”

“Okay, Mulroney,” she said. “You showed me
yours, now I’ll show you mine. I’ve got a lot of money. When Jack
died, he left me set for life. All the years we were married, we
both worked. We lived off what he earned and put my paychecks in
the market. Jack loved the technology stocks. We’ve quadrupled that
money. When he died, there was an insurance policy that paid off
our house, and a huge death benefit. I have to admit, I’ve spent
some of the money to satisfy my two major vices--keeping my Z-28
alive, and nice clothes.”

“Nobody looks nicer than you, Vickie,”
Mulroney said.

“I’ve spent way too much on my wardrobe,” she
said, “but what can I say? I like the way I feel when I shop in an
elegant store. While Jack was alive, we found most of our clothing
at Ross, but since Jack died, I guess shopping for expensive
outfits was my way of keeping sane--it was something I could do
without having a man along. The truth is, shopping in the best
shops gives me a feeling of being cared about--but now that I’m
dying, I guess I can admit to a new perspective--I see all that
shopping as a phony way I had to mask the loneliness I felt--to
pretend I had friends. All those salespeople were nothing more than
professional fawners. Anyway, to make a long story short--I’m rich.
My accountant keeps wanting me to diversify, but I keep letting it
roll over in the high yield sector. If I cashed out today, I’d
probably come in likewise at around a couple of million or
three.”

“Good grief,” Mulroney said. “I always
figured you were barely making it. I was looking forward to
showering you with my riches, and even showing off a little. I’m so
cash-heavy right now, if I don’t do some tax-hedge-type investing,
my exclusive Santa Monica accountant is threatening to downgrade me
to one of the discount firms. Can you imagine a guy like me trying
to explain my life to some weenie at Charles Schwab?”

“Mulroney, I’ve got a problem,” she said.
“I’m worried about Dalk. He’s never been smart with money like me,
and I won’t be around to take care of him. He’s got nothing but
past due credit card bills and he’s almost 40. He blew his peak
earning years in Japan learning how to tap into his spiritual
essence or something, and as you may have guessed, they don’t pay a
whole lot in this town for that kind of skill. Even his job with
the Department is on a consultant basis--he’s not a for-real cop. I
wish they’d at least make him a permanent employee so he could get
a pension and health benefits.”

“Dalk really helps the officers he trains,”
Mulroney said. “He helps them overcome the bad habits they’ve
picked up which could get them killed. He deserves a secure
position within the Department. His self-defense seminars have
created a lot of respect for him. A couple of times, he’s pointed
out better ways to do things which have gotten the old policies
changed. I can call somebody inside the Department and secure him a
position, if you’d like me to. I still have a few favors owed
me.”

“I’d like that,” Vickie said, “But don’t tell
me anybody owes you any favors. You’re a crusty old goat who knows
where all the bodies are buried in the Department.”

“It’s a tribal thing,” he said. “I came of
age as a cop before the PD went PC. Most of the bodies that lie
buried, I buried myself on behalf of someone else. It so happens
that those someone else’s are running things now. My experience
from the dinosaur days entitles me to lifetime pimping privileges
among the Department higher-ups, never mind that mealy-mouthed
sorry excuse of a Chief they brought in from out-of-state to
pressure all the righteous cops into early retirements.”

“There’s one more thing,” Vickie said. “I’m
not sure how you’re going to take this, but as far as my money
goes, I plan to leave it all to Dalk. He’s all the family I’ve got
left. I don’t think Dalk is capable of building any wealth on his
own--he’s the type to donate everything to some Buddhist temple
nobody’s ever heard of, where it somehow winds up in a politician's
pockets.”

“I think it’s beautiful that you’re going to
take care of your baby brother,” Mulroney said. “That’s what
families are for. As far as us getting hitched, I’ll sign a prenup.
That way there won’t be any cloud over Dalk’s inheritance.”

“You’d do that for me?” she said. “You’d sign
a prenup?”

“I love you,” he said. “It’s not about money.
If you owed a million, I’d pay it to have you.”

She laughed softly at his concern. “You’re a
knight in shining armor, Mulroney,” she said. “You’re
well-documented proof that cops have never evolved beyond the
archaic traditions and social standards set up all those thousands
of years ago, when everything important was set in stone.”

“No,” he said. “Don’t judge me harshly. Even
though I have made a couple of attempts in the past to find the
Holy Grail, I’m still very much a millennial man. When it comes to
relationships with the opposite sex, I’m very flexible--I consider
myself very modern. You might even call me a feminist’s dream.”

“To set the record straight,” Vickie said,
“you’re every feminist’s nightmare--but I love you anyway. I want
you to look before you leap, because a few days from now, when I
waft down the aisle in my virginal-white gown, pledging a lifetime
of devotion and love to you, there’ll be no need for a prenup
because I’ll already be flat broke.”

“Come again?”

“I’ll explain on the way. Right now, I want
you to re-cage this family-style pet of yours and start the car.
Second, when you hit the bottom of the hill, turn south on
Sepulveda towards the beach.”

“South? But I thought we were taking you to
see the Virgin Mary lady.”

“C’mon, Mulroney,” she said. “The tumor’s
probably already spread. It’s past time to be working on the cure.
I’ve decided not to fight it. I want to enjoy what little time I
have left. That’s why you’re turning south. We’re going to spend
the day in Santa Monica.”

“Santa Monica?” he said. “What for?”

“What do you think? Santa Monica is the New
Beverly Hills. We’re going to spend my million dollars.”

“On what?”

“On Dalk.”

“Explain, please.”

“Dalk may be the master of the armed felon
building search,” she said, “but he’s a fool when it comes to
money. I have no intention of leaving him a million in cash. The
vultures would pick him clean in a year. And this is The City of
Angels. Before I die, I’m going to be his guardian angel and buy
Dalk a piece of heaven right here on earth.”

Chapter 6

“You got anything to drink?” Vickie said. “I
need something to settle my stomach.”

“There’s a short dog of Schnapps in the glove
box,” Mulroney replied.

They were moving slowly through the
Mulholland tunnel, located in the heart of the pass which provided
north-south access from the Valley to West Los Angeles and regions
south. The morning commuter traffic poured like a slow-falling
steel waterfall from the tunnel mouth down the side of the Santa
Monica National Park System, the world’s largest urban national
park, and the only park in the world with a mission to preserve the
city’s “air shed”, that is, to act as a natural filter for the
smoggy secretions which passed for air among the citizens.

Vickie popped open the glove box. Alongside a
large-bore revolver, she found a pint bottle of Peppermint Schnapps
and something else--a prescription vial of tiny white nitro
pills.

“What’s this?” she said.

“You weren’t supposed to see those,” he said.
“Pass the Schnapps.” He took a sip and passed it back.

“What’s wrong with you?” she said.

“My heart,” he said. “It’s a big, nasty mess
from all those doughnuts and coffee. I can’t walk ten feet without
a pain. The ghouls want to open my chest, but I won’t let them. To
tell you the truth, I think my surgical risk is in the same
category as Ron Goldman’s impromptu surgery at the black-gloved
hands of Dr. O.J.”

“My, we’re a pair,” she said. “We’re both
dodging the doctor’s silver bullet. I hope you don’t croak before
our wedding.”

“Just for the record,” he said, “if God calls
for me in the next few days, tell Him I’m out.”

“I want to buy the dress today,” she said,
“but I’m concerned about the fit. For some reason, the last few
days, my stomach’s starting to swell--Oh! Ooooooh!”

At that very instant, the back pain, which
for weeks had reserved itself to a somewhat constant level of
burning pain, decided to escape its boundaries and expand
throughout her upper abdomen, as though an electric eagle were
raking a white hot talon through her guts.

“Oh! Help me!” Vickie screamed.

Mulroney swerved over to a stop. “It’s okay,”
he said. “Try to breathe. Just try to breathe.”

An unearthly shriek from deep inside her
sought to shake the pain loose, but it dug in deeper, pushing her
limbs into an awkward dance of senseless writhing.

“Mulroney!” she shrieked.

The pain stopped as suddenly as it had begun,
retreating to its base camp fire in her lower back. But it’s probe
to further regions of her body had proved successful, thoroughly
dehumanizing and demoralizing her, leaving in its wake the chill of
death blanketed over her still-twitching limbs.

Mulroney whipped out his phone. “I’m calling
for help,” he said.

“No,” she whispered.

“You need help,” he said.

“No, Mulroney. Don’t call anybody. I’m not
going back to the hospital. Take me into the mountains. Take me
back to the canyons. I want to see the waterfalls and hear the
peacocks one more time. Tell me you love me and leave me there
beside the waterfall to die in peace. Promise me, you’ll never let
me die in a hospital. Never.”

“Okay,” he said. “I promise.” He rummaged in
her purse. “Where’s your pain pills?” he said.

“I don’t have any,” she said. “We forgot to
fill the prescription this morning, what with all the excitement
about our wedding plans.”

“Well I can fix that,” he said. He rummaged
in a cargo compartment and came up with a large white-capped vial
full of pills, from which he shook out a couple of capsules. The
white-and-green specked caps sparkled authoritatively in his
palm.

“Dr. Bienenfeld warned me not to
self-medicate,” she said.

“To which I say a big So What!”

“I won’t even ask what these are,” she said.
She opened her mouth and he placed the unholy communion on her
tongue, which she then swallowed, following this with a long
swallow of the Schnapps.

“They’re Policeman’s Specials,” he said.
“I’ve been on them ever since I got that brick in the shoulder
during the Rodney King aftermath.”

“My doctor prescribed something,” she
said.

"He didn't give you anything like this. My
special’s will keep you pain-free for awhile longer. If those give
out, we’ll get you something stronger.”

“Do you have enough to last me?” she
said.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I can get all you
need without a prescription.”

He put the big SUV in gear and bullied his
way through the dense traffic down the hill while Vickie nursed the
Schnapps, feeling a welcome warmth suffuse her bones and skin.

“I’m being slowly cut off from life,” she
said. “All my life, I’ve always thought that death would walk up to
me one day and tap me on the shoulder--now I realize that death is
like a bullfight. We’re like poor dumb animals on display in a ring
where the evil Toreador of Death puts in the lance while we're
still alive, while all the world is watching and mocking us as we
grow weaker and weaker. We can fight back, of course, but we’ll
only wind up with our noses in the wind, smelling the stench of our
own blood as it drains into the earth.”

Ten miles later, the relief from the
synthetic narcotics and the Schnapps was surging through her body
like an incoming Pacific tide, each wave pushing her higher and
higher. By the time they hit the storybook Montana Shopping
District in Santa Monica--said by some to be second only to Beverly
Hills’ Rodeo Drive--Vickie was ready to shop.

“Where to?” Mulroney said.

“Where else?” she replied. “The Montclair
Collection--they’ve got a rack of bridal gowns from around the
world.”

“I get to buy the dress,” Mulroney said. “And
I want the most expensive one in the joint.”

“It doesn’t have to be expensive,” Vickie
said, “just perfect--the perfect dress for our perfect day--but if
it’s perfect and expensive, that’s okay, too.”

“I think we’re starting a tradition, here,”
he said. “I’ll bring the Schnapps.”

“Oh no you won’t,” she said. “You’re not
coming in to my elegant boutique dressed like that. You’re staying
in the car with Kilkenney. There’s a Starbucks back down the
street. You can go have your coffee and donuts while I pick out my
dress.”

“I’ll leave you the Schnapps,” he said.

“Get real,” she said. “This is Santa Monica.
They’ll be serving champagne.”

Chapter 7

“If it’s a second marriage,” Dee said,
“tradition dictates we work with something beige, or even another
color entirely.”

“To heck with tradition,” Vickie said. “I’m
going with white. My intentions are honorable. I’m not buying into
the notion that because a woman isn’t a physical virgin, she’s no
longer pure. Of course, with the recent turn of events in my life
perhaps it’s fitting that my final gown be a dress with colors
closer to the earth than to the sky. No. I’ve decided. The dress
must be white.”