California Girl (5 page)

JANELLE VONN SHOWED UP
for David’s service on a drizzly Sunday in mid-November. She slouched in a chair at the back of the snack bar chapel. He recognized her immediately but still couldn’t quite believe it was the smart little eleven-year-old he’d invited to Thanksgiving dinner almost three years ago. He’d seen her a few times since then, around town. Each time a little older, bigger, a little more sure of herself. He’d always thought of her as unfortunate.

She was dirty and poorly dressed—jeans with holes in them and a T-shirt dyed in competing colors. Barefoot even in the chill. Hair long, no style. Same black eye that had been swollen nine years ago when he stood on her porch and apologized for his brothers beating up hers. She looked worse than the inmates he counseled at the jail. At least they were clean. In spite of everything she was startlingly pretty and obviously drunk.

After the service was over Janelle wobbled up to him and plunked herself down in one of the folding chairs. She almost missed.

“I need to talk to you,” she said.

“What’s wrong, Janelle?”

“I took some reds and don’t feel too good.”

“Red whats?”

“Pills. Downers.”

“Stand up and come with me.”

David helped her up but she folded into him. He got an arm around her and towed her back to the office. The girl smelled strange—human body odor undercut with something green and pitchy and new to him. Her feet were dirty and she wore a toe ring.

Barbara was at the desk making phone calls. She hung up hard and stood. “What’s this?”

David explained as best he could and lowered Janelle onto the big green Naugahyde couch where he napped and wrote his sermons. Got a pillow under her head.

“Can you drink some coffee?” asked Barbara.

Janelle shook her head no. David saw her pupils were large and he smelled the funny green smell again.

“She’s high on marijuana,” said Barbara. “I can smell it.”

“That’s what I thought,” said David. He’d read about the stuff, knew it led to heroin addiction, but had never once seen or smelled it.

He put a blanket over her. Barbara stood beside the sofa with her hands on her hips, looking down.

“God, that feels good,” said Janelle. She shivered once and looked up at the ceiling.

David snugged the blanket around her feet, then sat and felt her forehead. It felt cool. “When did you take the pills?”

“This morning early.”

“Why?”

“Just for fun.”

“When did you smoke the marijuana?” asked Barbara.

“On the way here.”

“You drove?”

“Hitchhiked. He had some. A cool guy. The thing about these kind of ceilings is all the shapes. I can see an octopus on roller skates and a flower growing out of a clown’s head.”

David glanced up at the old acoustic ceiling, two decades of shapes and stains.

“What happened to your eye?” asked Barbara.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s black.”

“Oh, that. Casey came over.”

David looked at Janelle’s dreamy expression, then up to Barbara’s sharp, assessing face. Barbara had turned out to be six years older than him and wiser.

“Why hit you?” she asked. “What did he want?”

David had never heard a silence say so much.

“Nothing,” Janelle finally said.

“But you said no,” said Barbara.

“Yeah. That’s all I did.”

David looked at Barbara but she was focused on Janelle.

“Was your father there?” Barbara asked.

“Casey wouldn’t a tried that with Dad there.”

“Tried what?” David asked.

Barbara glanced at him quickly but said nothing.

“Just the old thing. No big deal.”

“Does your father know what Casey does to you?” asked Barbara.

“He beat up Casey and Lenny for it. A long time ago.”

“Lenny, too?” asked David.

“He started it.”

David felt a great anger rise up in his chest. He thought of that day by the packinghouse, how he’d ended up on the ground covering up against the blows. How he’d let his man get away to bash Nick with the branch. Wished he could go back, beat the living shit out of Lenny and Casey all by himself. He thought of the long prayers he’d said the night before that rumble, for the courage and strength to fight. Wondered why the Lord had not given him those things.

“We should call the Albert Sitton Home,” he said.

“No,” said Barbara. “You should call Nick.”

“No cops,” said Janelle. She slapped one hand onto the sofa back to pull herself up. Barbara removed it.

“Make the call, David,” she said.

WHEN NICK
got there half an hour later Janelle was snoring loudly. David and Barbara looked like a thousand other parents he’d talked to in the last year or two. Just dawning on them that young kids were prone to dope and sex. Though from what David had told him this was quite a bit worse.

Goddamned brothers and who knew about the old man. No wonder the mother had done what she did.

David woke Janelle and sat her up. She took one look at Nick and shook her head.

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

“Nick the cop.”

She flopped back to the sofa and pulled the blanket over her face. She moaned.

“That black eye didn’t just grow there,” said Nick. He sat down a couple of feet from her. “Come on, Janelle. Sit up and act like the young lady you are.”

She struggled back up and pulled away the blanket. Her long dark hair washed over her face. She blew a part in it, looked out at Nick. Then she shook her head and the thick hair fell back over her face. “I kinda dig it like this,” she said. “Here, in my secret cave.”

“Nice, isn’t it?” asked Nick. “No creeps.”

Janelle nodded.

“No brothers,” said Nick.

“I hate my brothers,” she said. “It was neat when you guys beat them all up. Ethan’s all the way in Florida now.”

Nick smiled and shook his head. “That was a long time ago.”

“I had the biggest crush on you guys. All four of you, but most on Clay. Where is Clay?”

“Vietnam.”

“Doing what?”

“Advising the government.”

“How old is he now?”

“Twenty-four. A year younger than me,” he said.

“Far away,” said Janelle. “That’s too bad.”

“He’ll be back for Christmas. Maybe we could get the families together.”

“Have eggnog with lots of rum?”

Nick looked at David, then Barbara, then at the hair-shrouded fourteen-year-old. “Janelle, are you going to tell me what happened or sit there and act like a child?”

Janelle was still for a long moment. Then blew another opening in her hair. “It’s no big deal. It’s a small deal.”

David said, “You wouldn’t have hitchhiked all the way here for a small deal, would you?”

“True,” said Barbara. “And a black eye on a pretty girl, that’s not a small deal.”

Janelle sighed. She was very still for a long time. When she spoke again her voice was just a whisper.

“I wasn’t strong enough. I didn’t understand. I…
Those pigs
.”

NICK FOUND CASEY VONN
at Foothill Rents. Sundays were busy, men bringing back Rototillers and lawn seed broadcasters and backhoes. Casey was in the yard wrestling a trencher back into place. Dirty T-shirt, cutoff sleeves. Oily jeans with a knife on his belt, muscles and tattoos.

Nick had seen him around, mostly on a black Harley hog ripping up and down the Tustin streets like he’d just held up a bank. Big ears and a thatch of black hair.

The warrant check had Casey with drunk in public and an assault that got him ninety days in County. The assault was a while back, just after Nick made patrol. But he remembered it had to do with Casey’s motorcycle gang, the Hessians, and Casey had put the guy in the hospital. It figured.

“Hey, Casey Vonn,” Nick said, crunching across the oil-stained gravel. He came from the sunshine into the shade of a big metal port.

Casey didn’t look at him. Just rammed the heavy trencher forward. Then yanked it backward, lining it up straight.

“Still a little crooked,” said Nick.

Casey picked a big crescent wrench off the table, flinched, and Nick
saw the wrench flying at his face. Turned and took it high on his shoulder. In a flash Casey was over the back fence, running alongside the flood control channel. Nick got over the chain link easy and hit the ground running. Saw Casey up ahead in his clunky boots, figured he’d catch him in less than thirty seconds. Thought: knife. Nick had run down plenty of creeps in the last seven years and it was one of his favorite things about the job, kind of like being on the football field for the Tillers, knowing you had a step on everyone. Or a couple of steps. What a good feeling, to close the distance, see the guy in front of you look back and his eyes get big. Then take him down according to what he’d tried to do to you. This big-eared sisterfucker Hessian with a crescent-wrench greeting card, he was going down hard.

Nick took him low, ramming his shoulder into the small of Casey Vonn’s back. Nick held on tight while they fell, then he let go and scrambled quick to get a handful of Casey’s black hair and his .45 against the back of Casey’s head. When Casey was compliant Nick reached down, flipped open the knife case, and tossed the heavy weapon into a green tumbleweed.

“You’re slow as shit, Casey.”

“You’re the goddamned football star.”

“Get your hands behind your back.”

Casey was breathing hard and fast. His cigarette box had come out of his pocket and gotten torn up in the fall. There was a trail of broken up smokes and shredded tobacco.

Nick watched Casey’s skinned, bloody, grease-stained hands cross submissively on his back. He got the cuffs tight but not too tight, then stood. For a second, looking down, he saw two of Casey. Felt his balance go out of whack for just a second. Ever since the rumble and the branch they used on him.

“You could have hurt me with that wrench, Casey.”

“It got your attention.”

“Janelle is what got my attention.”

“What about her?”

“She told us everything you and Lenny did. She’s got a black eye to prove it. You’re looking at serious charges, so there’s no use bullshitting me.”

“I never did nothing to her and I’m never changing that story. You do what you want, pig.”

“I hate that word for cops.”

“What charges?”

“I know guys who’d kick your teeth out right now,” said Nick. He looked down at Casey. Too easy.

Casey didn’t say anything right away. Just lay with his face in the dirt getting his breath back now. “What charges, Becker?”

“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

“I never did nothing to her. Whatever she said she’s lying. Fuckin’ girl drinks, you know? I’ve seen her put away half a bottle of schnapps, no problem. Lies all the time. Do anything for money.”

Nick put both hands on one of Vonn’s shoulders, rolled him over, and sat him up. Cuts on his cheek and lower lip, nothing serious. Casey sat cross-legged and hunched.

“Maybe we can work a deal,” said Nick.

“I’m listening.”

“You tell me everything you and Lenny and Janelle used to do, and I’ll make sure you don’t get charged for any of it.”

Sirens wailed and Nick thought the timing was great. Stupid confusion crossed Casey’s face. Nick could tell he was guilty just by the set of his lips.

“Most of it’s probably not a crime anyhow,” Nick said. He surprised himself with the idea. Then went with it. “It’s never been a crime to touch your brother or sister. It’s just everyday brother and sister stuff. I know. I got little sisters, too.”

Vonn eyed him. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s just touching, is what I’m talking about. Tell me about the Foot Tickle, Casey. And the Leg Tickle and the Bun Bunny and the Front Bunny.”

“Those are all lies.”

“I told you it’s no big deal. It’s not even a crime.”

“Then why’d you chase me down?”

“And after that, I want to know about the black eye and the dope.”

“What dope?”

Sirens louder now. More good timing, Nick thought.

“The reds, Casey. Don’t tell me you didn’t give her the reds.”

“Wasn’t me,” he said quietly, looking down at the dirt.

“Lenny?”

Casey spit. “Ask Lenny about Lenny.”

“I already did and he said you gave Janelle the reds. And Janelle said you gave her the reds. Lots of fingers pointed at you, my friend.”

“They’re fuckin’ liars, man.”

“That’s why I chased you down, Casey. That’s how bad I wanted somebody to tell the truth. So just start off with that kid stuff, the Bun Bunny and all that. Just start with one thing and then go to the next.”

“What if I don’t? What if I just get my lawyer?”

“That’s fine, but I’ve got to arrest you before they’ll appoint one. And lawyers are for creeps like Lenny. So suit yourself.”

Two uniforms came jangling down the flood canal road but Nick told them to wait back by the rental yard.

For the next half hour Nick listened and asked questions. He almost brought out his notepad and pen but he figured that would be enough to spook Casey Vonn back into the slime he came from.

When Nick was sure he had enough he got the knife from the tumbleweed and put it in his pocket. Walked Casey back toward the rental yard. Nick switched the cuffs to the front and the deputies helped him get Casey over the fence.

Nick told Casey to sit in the back of his unmarked and he’d get him a cigarette. He told the rental yard customers gathered around the car to beat it and they did.

When he’d finished lighting one of his smokes for Vonn, he told him he was under arrest for statutory rape, assault, and narcotics violations.

“You behave yourself, I’ll forget about the wrench,” he said.

“You said the tickle and bunny stuff isn’t a crime because she’s family.”

“Let’s ask a jury.”

“You never said nothing about a jury.”

AN HOUR LATER
Nick and two deputies arrested Lenny at his home out in Modjeska Canyon. Took all three of them to pry Lenny out of the bathtub. Skinny as a scorpion and he smelled bad and his eyes had a terrible wattage in them. In the garage Lenny had a nice chopped Harley Panhead with a Fat Bob gas tank done up in flame orange and red. And maybe ten thousand little white pills that looked and smelled like Benzedrine hidden down in some old fishing gear under the workbench.

ON HIS WAY
home that evening Nick stopped off at Millie’s for a couple of drinks. He liked the quiet before returning to the happy, deafening chaos of the Becker family. Willie was almost three. Katherine one and a half. Stevie two months. Katy was big and beautiful and often exhausted.

He opened the door to find Willie screaming and chasing Katherine around the living room. Katherine wailed happily. Katy right behind them hollering for them to be quiet while the baby in her arms screamed in sheer excitement.

Nick reached down and ran his hand through Katherine’s hair. He hugged Willie against his leg, brushed his hip holster to make sure Willie didn’t have a hand on it again. Leaned into a kiss from Katy.

“How’d it go?” asked Katy.

“Popped ’em both.”

“My hero!”

“My hero!” screamed Willie.

“My hero!”
screamed Katherine.

The baby wailed and kicked.

“It’s nice to be home,” Nick said.

“Got our Sunday—”

“MY HERO!”

“MY HERO!”

“WILLIE AND KATHERINE, BE QUIET! I’VE GOT THE SUNDAY PORK CHOPS ABOUT READY, HONEY! THE PORK CHOPS ARE ALMOST READY!”

She was flushed and pretty. A couple of vodka tonics into the evening, thought Nick. He liked her that way. Loose and easy and a little goofy. She’d gained a fair amount of weight after three children but Nick liked that, too. Her flesh was firm and cool and it always smelled sweet.

AFTER PORK CHOPS
they watched
Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color
in black and white. Nick wondered when the new color sets would get down into the three-hundred range so they could afford one. Five hundred bucks would get you a nice RCA Victor with Vista Color, but they didn’t have that kind of money.

They put the children to bed and Nick made fresh drinks and brought Katy one in the small bathroom where she was brushing her straight blond hair. Nick left the bathroom door cracked, lay on the bed, and watched her. He liked to see this, liked the way the just-combed hair stood out before settling back into place. Katy had on her slinky floral night slip, didn’t cover much. A loose robe over it. She sat on the counter with her head turned slightly toward the medicine chest mirror, one leg crossed over the other, one foot on the floor flexed to keep her balance.

Nick watched her turn off the light and come toward him. He felt surrounded by complex and contradictory emotions, like bats at dusk, swooping down from different directions.

She got under the covers and turned her back to him. “I’m tired tonight, honey. Is that okay?”

“Sure. I understand.”

“You, too?” she asked.

“Not tired, really. Lend a guy a helping hand?”

“I really am tired, Nick. Why don’t you believe me?”

“I do. I know how it is all day with the monsters.”

“Rain check?”

“Rain check.”

“I love you, Nick.”

“I love you.”

He kissed the back of her head and flipped on the reading light. Picked up an Ian Fleming paperback. Bond got laid every night or so. Nick got laid—had last gotten genuinely laid—thirty-four nights ago. Before that, twenty-eight. A hand job here and there. Nick suspected there was something out of whack with this, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you just talked about. Before the children, a whole different story. It had gone out the window when Willie was born and never come back.

Better to just not think about it. Bond wouldn’t let him not think about it. Bond pissed him off.

Last night he’d had another dream about the secretary in the district attorney’s office. Sharon. Second time in a month. In the dreams he always said something funny to her. In real life he’d never said a word to her except for a hi or two.

He offed the light and got into his robe and slippers. Sat in the rocker in Steven’s room and watched the baby sleep awhile. Liked the smells in here. Wondered what an eight-week-old human being dreamed about. Wondered how Clay was doing over there in the jungle. Just one letter, four months back. An advisor. Nick got up and made another drink.

Out in the garage were two of Nick’s favorite things. One was a wooden cabinet he had built. It was eight feet high, with double doors and shelves that slid out on ball-bearing runners. He’d painted it red to match one of his other favorite things, their Ford Country Squire station wagon with the wood-look siding. The family called the big cabinet the Odd Box and the wagon they called the Red Rocket. The car was red outside and red inside, too, with red vinyl seats and plenty of chrome on the dash. Nick kept the car inside against the weather and the box locked against the children, though the things inside it were essentially valueless.

He dialed open the padlock and swung out the Odd Box doors. The lower shelves held the dirt collection and the older things. The higher the shelf, the more recent. The top three shelves were still empty.

He glanced at the bottles of dirt from important places. The grave he and his brothers had dug for Jake the collie. The lake where he’d caught his first fish. Soil from Northrup Field, where he’d scored his first touchdown. From Prentice Park, where Katy first told him she loved him. Maui beach sand from their honeymoon. Earth from the Sheriff’s Academy range. Soil from the hospital grounds where his children were born. Each bottle was labeled with the date and the location.

And oddities: the toy panda he’d gotten for his second birthday and treasured well into third grade. The first baseball mitt his father had given him, old and shapeless and dark with oil. A pastel drawing he’d won a magazine contest with. A luminous dial pocket watch he’d gotten one year for Christmas. A hummingbird’s nest. Fossilized branches he’d smuggled out of the Petrified Forest in Arizona.

And so on. Up through his marriage and his children and his Sheriff’s Academy training and his career.

Nick pulled out the shelves one at a time, looking them over for nothing in particular. Just getting the feel of time passing. Of his life going by. A rock from near the
Mercury 1
liftoff. Cool, big daddy. He’d been collecting things longer than he could remember. His mother said she’d never know what his pockets would be full of by the end of the day. She found a baby king snake in his pocket once. A field mouse. A cherry bomb. A handful of live ammunition he’d found out in one of the groves when he was five. Pack of cards with pictures of naked women on them—another orange grove treasure. Nick could never pass up a good souvenir.

He closed up the cabinet, spun the lock dial, and pulled on it once.

Back inside he sat in the living room a minute, listened to the sounds of the house. The Hotpoint was noisy but it sure froze those ice cubes in a hurry. He moved the drapes and looked outside to the houses across from theirs, the driveways and the sidewalks and the streetlights dampened by a light autumn fog. Grape stake fences. Trash cans at the curb. A white Country Squire station wagon and a blue Kingswood Estate and a brown Vista Cruiser and a yellow Colony Park and two green Mercury Commuters. Backboards and hoops above the garage doors.
Kitchen lights on at the Fortners’. Off at the Sloans’. Kids in their rooms with baseball cards and Beatles cards and dolls and plastic dinosaurs. Or, one town over, two brothers molesting their sister, mom a suicide and dad not home. Poor girl drugged to the gills, trying to forget about it. Bright girl. Pretty. Dimples. Goddamned tutu and a guitar. A real shame. Nothing will happen to her tonight, anyway. Maybe I did some good.