Secret Light (8 page)

gifts for the girls.”

“I am honored,” Rafe said. “How old are your girls again?”

“Rachel is nine and Karen, twelve, but there’s no need for you to bring gifts.”

“They’re young ladies already.” Rafe smiled. “Time flies.”

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“That it does.” Gold got up and went to the door. Once there, he turned back. “I-I

should tell you that a couple of the guys won’t be coming. They’ve said they don’t want

to be part of some Jewish holiday thing—”

“That means more fun for us, eh?” Rafe clutched his pen where Gold couldn’t see.

“Bunch of spoilsports, if you ask me.”

Gold smiled for the first time since he’d come in. “More for us. That’s right.”

“I must work now, though, so I can be free to spend tomorrow evening with

friends.”

“Right. Thanks. I appreciate this.”

“Me too. Thank you.”

Gold ducked out the way he came, headfirst, and Rafe was left to his thoughts

again.

Ben watched Jim Calhoun as he got his food. After their bout in the ring at the gym,

the man was a walking cautionary tale. His face bore the unmistakable imprint of Ben’s

fury, and his nose sat at a jaunty new angle, its tip about a quarter inch to the left—

looking straight on—of the cupid’s bow of his lips.

Jim probably hadn’t entirely forgiven Ben, and forgetting was out of the question.

At least now he knew who would take the brunt of things in a fight. As painful a lesson

as it had been, Ben hoped he’d learned it. Or he hoped at the least Jim had learned Ben

would administer the lesson as many times as it took for him to show some damned

respect.

They’d stopped at a hot dog joint where Ben had ordered a stretch dog with chili,

no mustard. Calhoun joined him, leaning against the hood of the patrol car, balancing

his usual chili dog and fries.

“We going to be okay?” Ben asked him.

Calhoun turned a cool eye his way. “Yeah. Sure.”

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“’Cause I don’t have a beef with you as long as you understand we’re here to serve

the citizens of LA.”

“I get that.” Calhoun took a massive bite from his hot dog and chewed it noisily. “I

just don’t like it. There’s plenty of people you just think…why bother? They make all

their own problems.”

Ben was very much afraid he knew where this was going. “Like who?”

“Like those Negro bastards in Alabama boycotting the buses. Like the ones here

trying to move into all the decent neighborhoods. Sure as shit they’ll be moving from

Central Avenue to Hancock Park next. Those people just gotta make trouble. We got the

Jews and the queers thinking they run the place. I say give ’em what’s coming to them.”

Ben’s stomach lurched. He wondered if his hot dog was going to stay down, but it

didn’t stop him from eating the rest of it casually, as if what Calhoun said wasn’t

getting to him. It was hard to keep his cool, to hide what he was thinking. But as a cop,

he’d had a lot of practice.

“Sometimes I think maybe we shoulda let Hitler keep on going. He’d have saved us

a lot of trouble.”

“Sh-shit,” Ben sputtered. Now that was…
Damn
. “That’s a
helluva
thing to say, even

for you.”

“Aw, quit whining. Just on account of your master-race faggot with the dog, you

been all sensitive lately. Boohoo. He should have stayed in his own country and died

like a man. Now he’s here, living large, and we gotta pull in a couple of American kids

for a damned prank. It ain’t right.”

“Like I said. If nobody told you, the only dinosaurs left are in the La Brea tar pits.”

Ben got hold of himself. He finished up his dog—leaning over so he didn’t end up

wearing half of it like Calhoun usually did—and chewed. “Think what you like, but

don’t cross the line again, you hear me?”

“What does that mean?”

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“Do your job, Calhoun. That’s all I’m saying.”

Ben finished his food and wiped his hands carefully with a number of napkins. He

threw his trash out and came back to find Jim making a mess.

“Ah, shit.” Jim dabbed at his shirt. “Every damned time.”

“Get a cup of water and see if that will take the stain out. I gotta make a call.” Ben

started toward the phone booth on the corner.

“It’s fine.” Calhoun’s paper napkin disintegrated as he rubbed it along the coarse

fabric. “It doesn’t show.”

“Right,” Ben muttered, digging a coin from his pocket. He knew he shouldn’t call.

He
knew
he should leave it alone, but for the life of him, he couldn’t get Rafe Colman or

that tender, aching kiss from his memory.

He closed the door behind him, put in his dime, and dialed Paradise Realty. When

the pleasant-voiced girl answered, he once again asked for Rafe.

“Paradise Realty. Rafe speaking. How may I help you?”

“It’s Ben.”

Silence.

“I know what you said. But I called to ask you if you would come to dinner at my

mother’s house tomorrow.”

“Your
mother
?”

“Yes.” Ben crossed his fingers. “I told her about you and Mooki, and she asked if

you would like to come for church and supper.”

“She did?”

“She likes having my friends over. She says it keeps her busy.” He prayed God

wouldn’t strike him dead for lying. His mother would be delighted to have Rafe over,

but he’d never discussed inviting anyone with her. “Mamãe likes to cook, and I’m only

one person, so—”

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“Your mother would like to cook…for me?” There was clear hesitation in Rafe’s

voice, but there was another emotion—something that sounded like longing. Ben

wondered if Rafe ever got a home-cooked meal he didn’t have to fix for himself.

“She would. Very much. We can take my mother to mass and have supper after. Is

tomorrow okay?”

More hesitation. Ben began to marshal other arguments—like the fact that his

mother was certainly an adequate chaperone—when he heard Rafe sigh.

“I’m sorry. I’ve already accepted an invitation for a party tomorrow.” Rafe’s pen

tapped again. Ben could almost see him, sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves.
Tap, tap.

Tap, tap.

“Well… How about next week?”

More tapping.

“All right. Next week. What time and where?”

Ben gave Rafe the address and time, then rang off before Rafe could change his

mind. He stood in the phone booth, just breathing for a minute, before returning to Jim.

Jim had thrown his trash out and was getting into the patrol car. “Somebody looks

happy. Is your mother making your favorite dinner again tomorrow night?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, she is.”

“Good for you. I’m sure you and your mother will be very happy together.”

Ben dropped into his seat behind the wheel and turned to Jim. “I think there’s

probably still a spot on your face I didn’t get a glove on last night.”

“All right.” Calhoun regarded him darkly but said nothing further. If that was how

it had to be, well… That was Calhoun’s problem.

“Radio us in, ten-eight, Calhoun.”

Calhoun did as he was told.

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Rafe managed to make all his cold calls by two, giving him the opportunity to drive

to Henshey’s for a quick shop instead of lunch. The Santa Monica department store was

probably the perfect place to find some small gifts for Gold’s daughters. Despite what

Gold said, Rafe had no intention of showing up empty-handed.

Really, he couldn’t blame the girls for wanting Christmas. Already holiday fever

infected the boulevard, dotting it with all the end-of-the-year ephemera: tinsel, trees,

and colored lights.

He parked his car and waded in, as dazzled as anyone by the sheer abundance he

found within the walls of the large building. He eyed it with a sort of grim

determination; he’d come to surgically extract the perfect things for Rachel and Karen

Gold, and he refused to allow himself to be sidetracked by the seemingly endless

variety of…endlessness to be found there.

Christmas music filled the air. Several salesgirls attempted to get his attention on

the way to the cosmetic department, where he located some silver dresser sets—the

kind an elegant young woman might keep on her vanity. A comb, a brush, and a pretty

silver mirror, stamped with a cherry blossom pattern on the back. He took them to the

counter and had a girl ring them up. She told him where he could go to have them gift-

wrapped, so he took the elevator and made his way there.

He had to pass the line of children waiting for a chance to visit with St. Nikolaus. It

seemed such a strange thing to him. At that age—the children looked very young—he’d

have run screaming to his Mutti to save him from the odd, old man.

At the gift-wrapping counter, the girl teased him. “Presents for twin sweethearts?”

She was young and pretty, maybe working there while attending school. Her name tag

said Meghan.

“Ah. No, I would need ten more for all my sweethearts.” He shot her his most

winning smile, and it did the usual damage. Pink tinged her fair, teenage cheeks as a

slight vocal blast—somewhere between a giggle and an embarrassed sob—rent the air.

“These are for the children of a friend.”

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“Christmas presents?”

“Hanukkah.”

“The blue paper, then?”

He glanced at his choices. The blue paper was pretty but plain. Even with a white or

silver ribbon it seemed to say,
Hanukkah is
less.

He’d had some instinctive reaction to Jack’s story about his daughters—an odd one,

considering—but it hurt him to think of Jack’s lovely little girls wishing they were

something they were not. They were beautiful little ladies from a loving family.

Perhaps the gift of a mirror might help them see that.

Perhaps I should look in a mirror of my own.

“Please”—Rafe pointed to a foiled paper stamped with silver and gold snowflakes

that came with a silver lace ribbon and a gold and silver card—“wrap the gifts in that

paper.”

“It costs extra for that paper. Is that okay?” Megan tilted her head, reminding him

in some happy way of Mooki.

“That’s fine.”

“All right, then, I’ll have these done in no time.”

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Chapter Seven

December 10, 1955

Jack Gold and his family lived in a pleasant little suburban house near Inglewood

High School. It was hard to find parking on the street, indicating that maybe there was

more than one holiday party going on. Three houses down from the Gold place,

someone was playing Bill Haley and the Comets, and teens were dancing in the

driveway. He got Rachel’s and Karen’s presents from the trunk and headed up the path

to the Golds’ front door with Mooki prancing along on her leash.

As a general rule, Rafe wouldn’t bring a dog to a party, but the Golds were the

exception. The girls had always loved Mooki, and Mrs. Gold herself was as dog crazy as

he was. When Dorothy opened the door, the family’s schnauzer, Schatzi, made a play

for Mooki, but she nipped his ear soundly and reminded him she was a lady.

The two dogs scampered off to find the children and the inevitable treats that

awaited them. Rafe shook hands with Jack and kissed Dorothy on both cheeks.

Dorothy took the gifts he offered. “For the girls.”

“You shouldn’t have, Rafe.” She held the presents up for Jack to see. “So pretty! Too

pretty to unwrap.”

Jack asked, “Did you get that listing you were after?”

“I did.” Rafe grinned at him. He started to say more, but Jack interrupted.

“I know. Nobody says no to Rafe.” Jack rolled his eyes. “Congratulations. Still, it

would be nice if you’d leave at least some business for the rest of us.”

“In future, I shall try to remember.”

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Jack took him aside. “Thanks for coming tonight. This is going a long way toward

defusing the Hanukkah-bush situation.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

In the living room, the McGuire Sisters warbled “Sincerely” from the record player.

Rafe didn’t have much to do but make small talk. There were a few people from work,

but most were friends and relatives of the Golds. He felt like the odd man out, allowing

them to explain the Hanukkah traditions and foods for him, smiling politely and

nodding and flying false colors, wearing someone else’s skin as he watched Dorothy fry

latkes, just as his mother had always done.

For a while, he sat on the floor with the girls and their friends, jacket off,

shirtsleeves rolled up, playing dreidel after solemnly letting them teach him the rules of

the game.

Feeling somewhat daring, he gave them the words, “
Nish Gadol haya sham
.”
A great