Chapter One

 

 

 

Willie slouched behind the battered Ford's wheel while Johnny Bob fidgeted in the passenger seat. Big John's orders were simple and direct: wait for the kid to cross Essex, then run him down.

"If the kid lands in front of the car," Big John told Willie, "run him over again. Then have Johnny Bob follow you to Colored Town. Wipe your prints and dump the car with the keys in it. With any luck the cops will figure some Black got himself liquored up and did it."

Now they waited.

"Johnny Bob," Willie said turning to his helper, "stop jumpin' around. You're drivin' me crazy."

Johnny Bob's fingertips beat a hollow tattoo on the Galaxy's dashboard.

"If you screw this up, Johnny Bob, I swear that if Big John don't kill you I will." Johnny Bob pulled out a Lucky Strike and hungrily sucked in the flame.

"This is what I get for using a damn speed freak," Willie mumbled. "Don't you know, boy, that stuff will kill you sure?"

"You just mind your job, Willie," Johnny Bob said in his sing-song voice, "and I'll do mine. I'm the one's gonna have to grab the kid and throw him 'neath the wheels if'n you miss 'im. So you just get ready your way and I'll get ready mine."

Blam, blama, blam, blam, blam, blam -- Johnny pounded out a new rhythm on the dashboard.

Willie turned away and stared at the Eden's front door. He figured the kid would be coming out pretty soon. One good thump and he'd be dead and they could dump the car and get paid.

Blama, blam, blam, blam.

          "Come on, kid," Willie whispered under his breath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE

INSIDE THE EDEN BAR & GRILL,

JUNE, 1984

 

 

Chapter Two

     

 

          It was a typical Friday night at the Eden. I was trying to get my not quite comatose father, Solomon "Sally" Trainer, to his feet and out the door before he was too drunk to stand. Dad had been making a few bucks playing poker with Big Mac and Little Mac and a couple of truckers and drinking up his winnings as fast as he made them. I wasn't quite fourteen and I had to get dad out of there or pretty soon he'd be too far gone for me to haul him out the door.

Lucy McGuire hadn't come in yet. Around nine-thirty she'd probably show up. I didn't expect to see Lucy's daughter, my best and only friend, Hannah. Hannah was almost sixteen and every time Lucy got low on cash she would tell Hannah how easy it would be for her to "do it," just keep her eyes closed and pretend it was someone else, Paul Newman maybe, instead of Little Mac or Eddie Connors, or Big John Harnell. Just think of how much money she (she being Lucy, not Hannah) could get for it.

So far, Hannah hadn't given in to her mother's demands. But Lucy had that wide-eyed look lately, like she'd been getting some extra strong stuff, and Big John was staring at Hannah every chance he got and whispering to Lucy in that quiet, scary voice he used when he wanted you to do something.

"Hey, kid." Len called me away from dad's table where he was betting on turning two pair into a full house. "You want to make a couple of bucks? Take the mop and go clean up the can for me, then take the trash out back."

That was how it was while I was waiting for dad. I'd clean up the bar, run errands, pick up a burger or a plate of ribs for one of the customers whose luck at the table was running hot.

"Sure, Len." It was about eight-forty when I finished. Dad's pile was smaller and his head was weaving in that little circle it made about three drinks before he couldn't stand up any more. Then I heard Big John shout:

"Lenny, bring me a bourbon with a beer back." He usually didn't come in this early, but I figured that maybe he was doing a shylock for some guy who didn't want to be in this part of town too late. When I turned he was looking at me with a peculiar sort of expression, like a fat man studying the deserts in the bakery window. Then I noticed Hannah sitting next to Big John. His hand was on her leg and she was looking straight ahead as if he wasn't there. For an instant I caught her eye, as if to plead: "Don't do this," but she gave her head a little shake as if she knew what I was trying to tell her but she had already made up her mind.

Len brought Big John's order, glanced at Hannah, then, stone-faced, returned to the bar. Big John downed the bourbon then drank half the beer in three fast gulps. A quick pass of a soggy napkin across his lips and he was ready.

Big John stood and draped his huge arm around Hannah's shoulder, cupping her breast in his palm. Hannah flinched as if she had been touched by cold metal, then drew her face into a pale mask. Big John steered her toward the little room off the back corridor where Lucy turned her tricks. Biting my lip I started down the hallway, then paused and turned away.

  

*     *     *

 

Big John pushed Hannah in ahead of him, shot a quick glance at the small metal frame bed, then began to remove his shirt. Hannah stood frozen, staring at Big John's huge hands and his pale, hairy chest, then lowered her eyes and worried the top button on her blouse. When Big John bent to untie his wingtips she pulled a nylon sock half filled with lead sinkers out of her purse and swung it with all her strength. Halfway through the stroke Big John sensed something and jerked aside.

A swipe of his hand sent the homemade sap flying, scattering the sinkers like a squall of dull silver rain. Emotions rippled across Big John's face: surprise, pain, anger, cruel pleasure. Crossing her arms, Hannah slowly retreated to the cartons along the back wall.

"Your mother put you up to this, kid? No, she wouldn't have the guts. So this must be your idea. Well, you gotta learn the business sometime. May as well be now." Smiling, Big John removed his belt, folded it double, then snatched at Hannah's blouse. She lurched away and hurled a glass from a half open crate. It shattered against Harnell's temple, leaving behind a shallow, bleeding wound. Big John wiped his fingers across his bloody skull.

"You shouldn't have done that, Hannah," Big John said quietly. "I was just going to teach you a lesson. Now I have to cut you." Harnell produced a black-enameled pocket knife and popped out a four inch blade. Hannah's eyes widened and she reached for a second glass, but Big John grabbed her wrist and squeezed until it dropped. He raised the blade.

Hannah's free hand scrabbled desperately across the boxes and encountered the hammer Len used to open the crates. His thigh between her legs, Big John smiled and brought the knife forward, intending to cut her from her cheekbone to the side of her mouth. With a sound like the crack of a spoon through an eggshell Hannah smashed the hammer into the back of Big John's skull.

For an instant Harnell seemed amazed then he collapsed noisily to the floor. Hannah stared at the bleeding carcass then at the hammerhead now coated with thick blood and tufts of hair. She dropped it as if it were scalding. There was no movement outside. The Eden's patrons had been trained not to disturb Big John no matter what noises escaped the crib-room's thin walls.

In a daze, Hannah pulled out Big John's money clip. There was a thousand dollars there. Big John liked to flash a roll. After checking her blouse for blood, Hannah walked shakily to the door.

 

*    *     *

 

Hannah's head poked out. Spotting me she made an agitated wave. I looked at dad but he was still hanging on to consciousness. No one paid any attention when I headed down the hallway. Hannah was already closing the door behind me when I saw Harnell's body.

"Jesus! What happen--"

"JT, there's no time. We've got to get out of here."

"Jesus, oh God, Hannah! What are you gonna do?"

"We're getting out of here, both of us. I've got enough money for us to get a long way from here. Then I'll get a job. I can work. Don't worry, Johnny, I'll take care of you."

Johnny. Hannah never called me Johnny unless things were really, really bad and she wanted me to know how much she cared about me -- not sex stuff, but like my sister, my mother, I guess, even though I had never known my real mother.

"But I can't go. Dad--"

"You have to! Johnny, I did this for you. We have to get out of here. We'll talk on the bus." Hannah grabbed my arm and tried to drag me to the door, but I just stood there, looking at Big John's body and that awful pool of blood.

"What do you mean, you did it for me? Besides, I can't leave dad. What would he do without me?"

"JT," Hannah hissed, turning me away from the body, "listen to me! Remember the doctor and those papers your dad filled out a few months ago?"

"Doctor?-- The life insurance? What's--"

"Lucy told me." Hannah never called her mother "mom." She was always "Lucy."

"Big John's going to have them kill you. Tonight. For the insurance money. Don't you see? That's why I did this. If you don't leave right now, they'll kill you, and I won't have anyone left."

"But dad would get the money if I died, not Big John."

"When did your dad ever have money for life insurance? Who do you think paid for the insurance policy? Don't you think Big John can get anything he wants from Sally?"

I stood there, frozen. It all made a kind of warped sense, the only kind of sense that existed in the Eden. I thought back to the day dad had announced he was taking me to the doctor.

 

*     *     *

 

"Doctor? I'm not sick. Why do I have to go to a doctor?"

"Because I'm your father and I say so. Get your coat. Willie Lee's giving us a ride."

When we got outside, Big John's bill collector was waiting at the curb. Willie Lee seemed to know where we were going. Dad just stared out the window at the barren trees that were almost ready to pop their spring buds.

The doctor's office was down on Blondel on the second floor above a cleaners. It didn't look like he was one of those rich doctors you see on TV. Not that I was there very long. He just hit my knee with a rubber hammer, listened to my heart and my lungs, looked down my throat with a little flashlight, and it was over.

While I was buttoning my shirt the doctor scribbled something on a piece of paper and gave it to dad in exchange for a twenty dollar bill. In the empty waiting room outside a little man in a white shirt with a wrinkled collar and a green and brown tie that had a spot of ketchup on the bottom waited for us.

Dad handed him the paper. The little man nodded, then offered a small, zippered leather case as a platform for a printed form. Dad scribbled his name at the bottom then dropped the pen. The little man extended his hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Trainer. It's been a pleasure ...." Dad ignored him and pulled me toward the door. Willie Lee was waiting when we got outside.

"Any problems?" he asked in a flat voice.

"No," dad told him, "no problems."

Willie Lee drove us back home. No one said anything the entire time.

 

*     *     *

 

Hannah stuck her head out of the crib-room and looked toward the bar.

"Hurry," she hissed and dragged me to the back door. For a second she fumbled with the deadbolt then it slipped free and we were outside. I followed numbly. . . . .Dad.

My father was born Solomon Aloysius Trainer. His mother had hoped that such an exalted name would confer upon him qualities of wisdom and leadership. In a world of magic and spirits and mythical events it might have. In pre-World War II Tennessee it did just the opposite. Faced with the choice of Aloysius or Solomon, my father opted for the lesser of two evils and answered to his given name. His schoolmates, faced with the choice of calling him Solly or Sally, of course chose Sally, a nickname he never escaped.

My father could have fought every time he was challenged and become, if not the toughest kid in school, at least the most combative, or he could smile, take the jokes, go along and get along. He chose the latter. Somewhere in his twenties dad married my mother, though she was long gone by the time I would have been old enough to remember her. Dad would never talk about her when he was sober and if I asked when he was drunk I stood a good chance of getting a licking.

Most of the time dad worked at odd jobs, whatever he could find: laborer, janitor at the dog track, driver's helper on the non-union rigs, runner and general gofer for Big John Harnell. Most of the time when he wasn't working dad would be playing stud or pool down at the Eden for spare change. Or picking up tips from some of his friends at the dog track across the river in Arkansas. Usually he did okay, up one week, down the next, until a few months ago.

Dad had gotten a tip on a long shot in the third over at Southland where he sometimes did kennel work. Big John took his marker for $500. The dog, Monkey Business, won but was disqualified when a surprise blood test rang all the wrong bells.

Dad became desperate to recoup his losses. With a vigorish of 10% per week and Willie Lee as Big John's debt collector Dad was highly motivated. And, like most gamblers, he figured the best way to get even was to make another bet. And another. And another. Finally, dad was into Big John for almost $3,000. Big John gave him one more chance, double or nothing. The next day dad was into Big John for $6,000 with the first week's interest adding another $600 to the total. Dad was summoned to Big John's booth at the Eden. Willie Lee sat on one side, Big John on the other.

"You owe me $6,000, Sally," Big John said quietly.

"Yeah, John, I know. I'm gonna take care of that. I really appreciate--"

"How are you going to pay me, Sally?"

"Well, I've got this deal goin' with a buddy of mine over at the track. In just a week or two--"

"That's no good. You won't be around in a week or two. You're going to have an accident before that."

"I'll get the money, Big John, don't worry."

"I'm not worried, Sally. You'll get the money, or else. You've got two days."

"Yes sir, I'll--"

"Don't tell me. I don't care how you get it. Rob a bank, steal the mayor's Cadillac, whatever. It's not my concern. Just get it however you have to. Are we clear?"

"Sure, I mean, yes, Big John. We're clear."

"Two days." Big John stared at Sally, then Willie Lee slipped out of the booth and let Sally leave. Two days! Where was he going to get $6,000 in two days? Sally actually got as far as borrowing a gun and wandering around outside the First National Bank on Union Avenue but he couldn't do it. All those years of going along and getting along had taken their toll. He didn't have an armed robbery in him. At least not a successful armed robbery.

Later that night Sally gave the revolver back to Willie Lee and quietly drank himself into oblivion. He woke up the next morning on the floor next to his bed, washed his face, and headed back to the Eden. When Big John came in that night Sally's terror on the one side and his consumption of alcohol on the other kept him balanced halfway between unconsciousness and sobriety.

"Do you have my money, Sally?" Big John asked him.

"No sir, I do not. I tried but I couldn't do it."

"How are you going to pay me?"

"I don't know. Maybe I could work it off."

"You couldn't work off the interest, you disgusting loser," Big John growled then reached out a big hand and slapped Sally's face. "So, am I going to have to kill you?"

"Please don't kill me, Big John," Sally pleaded, almost crying. "There's got to be something I could do, some way I could make it up to you."

"You make me sick. What do you own? What do you have in your life that's worth anything?"

"Nothin'. I don't have nothin'."

Big John stared at Sally as if a thought had just occurred to him .

"Well, you do have one thing."

"I do? What's that?"

"Your kid, JT."

"I don't follow you. He doesn't have any money or any way to get any. Damn kid's more trouble than he's worth," Sally mumbled remembering some past inconvenience he believed I had caused him.

"Life insurance. We could put some life insurance on him. Then, if something happened to him, you'd have plenty of money. You could pay me what you owed me and even have a little left over."

"You want me to kill my own kid?"

"Don't talk crazy. I'm just giving you an incentive, that's all. Look, Sally, do you know what happens when you go to the bank and you want to get a loan?" Sally had never borrowed money except from shylocks in his whole life. He gave his head a slow shake.

"They make you take out a life insurance policy so that if anything happens to you there'll be money to pay off the loan. That's what we're going to do. You're going to take out a $20,000 life insurance policy on JT. I have a friend who's an agent. He'll handle the whole thing. I'll even loan you the money for the payments. I'll give you three months to come up with what you owe me."

"Three months?" Sally said in a voice that a condemned man might have used to say "The Governor called?" To Sally, three months was forever. Hell, with that much time he could get Big John's money for sure, one way or the other.

"Three months. You get me my money in three months and we're square. You don't, your kid has an accident and I get the insurance money. Is that okay with you? Do you have any problem with that? Because if you do, then I'll have to make other arrangements." Big John nodded toward Willie Lee.

"Uh, no, I don't have any problem with that. I'll get your money, Big John. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried, Sally. Because if you don't, you won't have to worry about JT any more." Big John waved his hand and Willie Lee slid out of the booth.

Of course, three months or three years, it was all the same. Sally had no more chance of getting that kind of money than he had of being elected governor. So three months later Willie Lee and Johnny Bob were sitting in a stolen Galaxy out front of the Eden Bar & Grill and waiting for me to step off the curb.

 

*     *    *

 

Once out the back door, Hannah led us down Waldorf toward Latham. She kept zigzagging on a diagonal toward the bus station. Finally she stopped at a pay phone and called a cab. It was about twenty to ten when we got there.

It being a Friday night the station was pretty busy. There was a big board with names of cities and times and below it a counter with two lines for tickets. I felt like a leaf that had been ripped off its old familiar branch and blown away into the black night.

"What's the next bus that's leaving," Hannah asked the clerk.

"Gate Six, five minutes," the man said, barely looking up.

"Where's it going?"

"Bus 1401, Little Rock, Dallas,El Paso, Tucson, and San Diego." The man adjusted his butt on his high padded stool and then yawned behind his palm.

"Okay, two one-way tickets for San Diego."

"That'll be $126."

Hannah carefully reached into her pocket and put two one hundred dollar bills on the counter. Used to stacks of grimy fives and wrinkled tens the clerk gave Hannah a close look, then shrugged, filled out two tickets and pushed them and the seventy-four dollars change across the counter.

"Gate Six, that way," he said motioning to our left. Outside the glass doors were three silver buses, one of which was in the last stages of loading. A stocky man in a gray uniform closed the luggage bin and climbed inside. Hannah pushed me ahead of her. I waited on the bus's second step for the lady ahead of me to find her ticket. Idly, I turned and looked into the waiting room just as Willie Lee and Johnny Bob rushed inside.

"Hannah, look!" Were they after me or her? Maybe both of us. Hannah stood frozen for a second then pulled out a pile of bills and shoved half of them into my hand.

"What are you doing?"

"We have to split up."

"What do you mean? You can't go out there."

"I have to," Hannah said in a cracking voice. "Willie's going to check with that clerk. They'll run us down before the bus gets out of town. I'm keeping my ticket and half the money. I'll catch up with you later. A day after you get to San Diego I'll meet you there."

"Don't leave me!" I pleaded.

"Here," she said pulling her medallion over her head and thrusting it into my hand. As long as I had known Hannah she had worn that quarter-sized gold-plated medal on a thin gold colored chain. One side displayed a sun shedding beams of light as it rose over a mountainous horizon. The other bore the sun in a clear sky which it filled with golden rays that transformed into little hearts as they neared the edge of the coin. It had been a present from her father, her real father, the only thing she had from him. It couldn't have been worth ten dollars but it was her most precious possession.

"You hold this for me. I'll come back for it." She forced my fingers around the chain.

"Hannah, don't leave me!" But she was already turning away. She paused and hugged me fiercely, then jumped from the bus.

"Son, you got a ticket?" the driver called. Hannah had already reached the far side of the loading bay. "Go on!" Hannah mouthed and waved at me.

"Son, off or on." I took half a step toward the door and stared at Hannah's terrified face. "NO!" she mouthed. "GO BACK!"

Feeling like the lowest sort of coward, I surrendered my ticket and slipped into a window seat a few rows back. The door closed and the bus began to back out.

As soon as she saw that I was safely aboard, Hannah approached the glass doors and stood there, silhouetted against the light.

Willie Lee had finally reached the clerk and I saw him point toward the loading gate. Willie followed his gesture and saw Hannah. With a shout to Johnny Bob, he barreled across the lobby. Hannah sprinted down the loading bay and out into the night.

I hunched down in my seat and watched as Willie and Johnny Bob exploded through the doors and pounded across the tarmac after her. The bus finished backing out and pulled into the street. In an instant, Hannah, with Willie Lee and Johnny Bob in hot pursuit, had all disappeared into the darkness. That's the last time I saw Hannah. I've been looking for her ever since.

I think that's a big part of why I became a cop.

My name is John Thomas Trainer. I'm a homicide detective. I speak for the victims, for the dead who can no longer speak for themselves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA, 2004

                                                           

 

Chapter Three

 

 

When Thursday afternoon's shooting was reported I closed the file I had created in my long search for Hannah McGuire, grabbed my coat, and headed for the scene, the home of Dr. Ellen Garrow on Calle Maria in the heights above Pacific Beach.

The stucco and red tile house was set in a maze of quiet streets lined with jacaranda, magnolia, and date palm, someplace where shootings usually involved a nine millimeter automatic hidden in the night table, not a blast from a twelve gauge fired from ambush.

About a block from the Garrow house an ambulance passed me headed back toward Mission Bay, the closest place it could get onto the 5. A black and white with a civilian in the front seat followed behind. That would be the husband. The uniformed officer had been smart enough not to let him drive himself. When I was finished at the scene I would go to the hospital to interview him.

A crowd of neighbors lined the sidewalk. A magnolia sheltered the left side of the Garrow's front yard. Sergeant Bud Hopkins was supervising the scene. I never saw Bud, or any sergeant, without thinking of Albert Leyva's determined resistance to promotion. Albert could have made sergeant in his sleep, if he had wanted to. At least twice Lieutenant Costas had asked him to take the test. Albert always refused.

"Never lose sight of what you want to do, what you're good at, JT," he always told me.

"Is being a sergeant that different, Albert? Besides, it would be a nice bump in pay."

"I don't need the money. Maria and I, we've got everything we need, plus a few bucks in the bank for a rainy day. Why, do you need some extra cash?"

"No, no, I'm doing fine. I just thought, with all your time on the Force, maybe you'd like to retire as a sergeant."

"Retire? Hell, JT, I'm not ready to retire, not yet. I do important work. I help people. Until I can't do it any more, I'll stay right where I am."

And that was that. Like he said, Albert did important work. And so do I. My clients are the dead, the people who have no one to tell their story, no one to bring their killers to justice, except me.

"What've we got, Bud?"

Bud Hopkins was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with thinning blond hair and a rangy frame starting to bulk up around the middle. Bud opened his notebook.

"Dr. Ellen Garrow pulled into her driveway at approximately five-fifteen," he began. "The Regal over there's hers. Apparently the shooters were waiting in a pickup parked in front of the neighbor's house, number 3917." Hopkins nodded toward the next house to the north just beyond the driveway where the Buick now sagged on its ruptured front tire.

"Okay -- she gets out of the car and starts for the house, then remembers a book she had bought for her daughter and turns back to the car. That probably saved her life. By this time the shooters have pulled forward and are in front of her house. She looks up, sees a guy sticking a shotgun out the passenger window, and runs for cover between the car and the garage door.

"The shooter lets one go and she catches a double ought pellet in her right shoulder. You can see the shot pattern on the garage door. Anyway, she manages to get more or less behind the car before he pumps and fires again. This time he shoots the shit out of the driver's front quarter panel and a couple of slugs hit the driver's side front tire, but none hit her. By now the neighbors are starting to look out their windows to see what the hell's going on.

"The driver pulls far enough forward to get an angle on the space where she's hiding between the front of the car and the garage door. The shooter lets go two more rounds. The first one catches her in the right side and the right leg. The second shot goes over her, she's flat on her face by then, and that's when the kid bought it."

Bud led me down the sidewalk to number 3917. A sheet covered a small form on the grass. At several points it was stained with red blotches. A small crimson pool had begun to work its way through the grass on the downhill side.

"God, I hate this," Bud said as he lifted the sheet. "Name's Amy Frascelli. Eleven years old. She and a friend, Jennifer Dahlberg, were just leaving the house when the shooting started. Amy ran over here to see what was happening. It was the fourth shot, the last one, that got her."

The child was lying on her back, her chest puckered with six double ought entrance wounds. Her face, unmarked by the projectiles, was refrigerator white and still bore the look of surprise and pain that had tainted her last seconds of life. Her eyes were open, staring blindly, doll's eyes, the hallmark of dead children. I stared at her a moment then nodded for Bud to drop the sheet.

"Did anybody get the plate on the truck?"

"Not so far. We're still canvassing. All we've got is that it was a brown, bronze, or beige, Chevy. One witness said he thought it was an older half-ton but I don't know if that means it was an old model or just beat-up."

"How does he know it was a half-ton truck?"

"The bed was narrower with a step or running board along the side. That makes it a half-ton Step Side, at least according to the neighbor."

"Okay, we'll check with the dealer to find out if the guy knows what he's talking about." I looked at my watch in the golden, late afternoon light. "I'd better get up to the hospital to see how Dr. Garrow's doing and take a statement from her husband. Whoever did this was after her. Maybe he's got an idea of who it was. Can your guys follow up here on the witnesses? See if you can get anything on the plate or the guys in the truck. I'm assuming that it was two males, but maybe it wasn't."

"Sure," Bud said then glanced back at the small red and white mound on the Frascelli lawn.

"If you can, would you see if one of your men can get some truck catalogs from Maldonado Chevrolet, maybe they have some old brochures. Have the witness take a look through them and see if he can pick out the vehicle. At least maybe we can narrow it down to a year or a model.

"No problem." Bud scanned the crowd and waved to one of his men, then turned back to me. "I hate this," he said nodding toward Amy's body. "Jeeze, I hope we get these guys."

I got back into the Department Crown Vic and headed for the hospital.

 

*     *     *

 

Scripps Hospital, "the Scripps," looks more like the headquarters of a high tech electronics company than a medical center. The facility is composed of seven or eight buildings, most devoted to laboratories and research facilities, scattered over several acres of lawns and bubbling fountains. Today I was only interested in main hospital, a seven story glass and tan brick structure in the shape of the letter "H" -- the east and west wings connected by corridors hosting offices and waiting rooms.

When I arrived Ellen Garrow was already in operating room two on the first floor after which she would be transported to the fourth floor east surgical facilities. That's where the patients' family and friends were told to wait and that's where I headed.

The corridor joining the east and west wings was all glass on the north side with the waiting area chairs positioned so that the visitors could stare out toward Los Penasquitos Canyon Park. Nurses' stations capped the east and west ends of the corridor and beyond them were the patients' rooms. It was a geography I knew well.

I found Frederick Garrow pacing the small waiting area, the pastoral view beyond the windows ignored. A soft, doughy man not quite six feet tall, Garrow's sparse black hair was combed straight back from a rapidly receding widow's peak. I could smell tobacco smoke clinging to his tweed sport coat. Garrow's hands made little fidgeting motions and sporadically dived into his pocket only to emerge empty a second or two later. He wanted to pull out his pack of Camels and light one up but he knew better than to try it in a hospital waiting room.

"Mr. Garrow?" I asked. "I'm detective JT Trainer, San Diego Police. How's your wife?"

"I don't know. They took her into surgery a few minutes ago. No one's telling me anything." Garrow glanced past me toward the elevators that would transport her when the surgery was finished, then turned back to me.

"Did you get a look at your wife's attacker or the vehicle?" I asked, taking out my notepad.

"No, but I don't need to. Bastards!"

"You know who shot your wife?"

"Everyone knows. They haven't made any secret of it."

"And who would that be?"

"Aaron Ray Samuels and his bunch. They've been threatening Ellen for months. I told her this was going to happen. I told her, but she wouldn't listen!" Garrow glanced again toward the elevators then shoved his hand back into his coat pocket.

"It may be a while, Mr. Garrow," I said directing him to one of the dove-gray chairs. "Why don't we sit down and you can start from the beginning. Who's Aaron Ray Samuels and why has he been threatening your wife?"

Garrow reluctantly took a seat then ran his fingers through his hair.

"Aaron Ray Samuels is the deacon or minister or whatever of a bunch of fanatics. They call themselves The Mission Of The True Way Of The Lord. They started calling Ellen about six months ago, demanding that she stop doing 'Satan's work.'"

"What did they mean by that?"

"Ellen owns the Women's Choice Clinic. She performs abortions."

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'Oh.' They didn't stop with calling her at work. Pretty soon they started harassing her at home. Next came the letters. A week later they threw a balloon of red paint at her car. Then the death threats started."

"Did she report this to the police?"

"Of course, for all the good it did. They were unsigned, printed on a laser printer. Untraceable, the detective told us. But it was obvious who sent them: 'God will punish baby killers!'; 'If you don't stop, you'll soon join Satan in Hell,' -- that sort of thing."

"But you couldn't prove they were sent by this . . . 'Mission Of The True Way Of The Lord'?"

"I can't prove that Al Capone sold whiskey either, but everyone knows he did."

I didn't put much faith in the "everyone knows" school of crime detection but now was not the time to debate the point. I got the name of the detective who had been handling the death threats and finished my interview with Frederick Garrow.

"I'll need to talk with your wife when she comes out of surgery," I told him. "Please call me as soon as she's able to have visitors. She may have seen something that would help us identify her assailants," I held out my card. Garrow took it without looking at it then got up and began to pace.

Before I left I checked in at the nurse's station and confirmed that Dr. Garrow would be in surgery for at least another hour. I left one of my cards with the duty nurse and asked her to call me as soon as Ms. Garrow was able to have visitors. Unless Bud Hopkins' men turned up another lead, she was likely to be the best witness we would have, though I didn't hold out much hope that she would be able to identify the men who had shot her.

I started back to the elevator then paused and turned toward the window. Under other circumstances it was a scene I might have sketched, then filled in with water colors. The sun was drifting down, bathing the olive green blur of oaks and eucalyptus in a rich gold light.

It was a singularly peaceful image, the deep golds of the ridges and canyons of Penasquitos Park, the teal blue sky imperceptibly shading to pale gray over a landscape that gave no hint of the surrounding city of well over a million people who strived and hated and occasionally killed innocent children in the name of God.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

I got back to headquarters about two hours after the official end of my shift. Before I clocked out I left a message for Marilyn Gladstone, the detective who had been handling the Garrow death threats, and put in a request for an NCIC printout on Aaron Ray Samuels.

The last thing I did before heading home was to pick up the phone messages on the corner of my desk. I reviewed again the slip from the Missouri Bureau of Vital Statistics. I pointlessly glanced at my watch but knew the switchboard back there was long closed.

I opened my lower left hand drawer. Outside of some extra staples and a cellophane tape dispenser, the only thing I kept there was The File, Hannah's file. After twenty years it was a thick and ponderous document. I kept promising myself that I would re-organize it, but I think I was afraid that if I redistributed its contents among separate folders that I would never again have the command of the material that I had today. As ratty and overstuffed and disorganized as it

appeared, I knew every page it contained.

I took the phone message from the Bureau of Vital Statistics and stapled it in the middle of a sheet of white paper. Below the message I wrote a short paragraph referencing who I had originally called and why and noting that this message was in reply to that inquiry. Lastly, I punched two holes at the top and fastened the sheet on the top right hand side of the file, the side for incoming information. Copies of outgoing items, letters I had written, notations of calls I had made, were kept on the left side of the file.

Almost involuntarily, I leafed through the folder, through those hundreds of pages which collectively bore the imprint of two decades of my life. Back to the first tentative steps I had taken in my search for Hannah. Back to the time when I myself was a child not too much older than Amy Frascelli, and also in danger.

Reluctantly, I closed Hannah's file and slipped my hand inside my shirt to touch again the medal she had given me so long ago. Over the years the gold plating had worn away revealing the silvery base material beneath, but I didn't care. I rubbed my thumb once more across its surface. I would return the call to the Missouri Bureau of Vital Statistics tomorrow right after I talked to the officer who had handled the threats against Helen Garrow's life -- Detective Marilyn Gladstone.

 

*     *     *

 

The next morning I caught up with Marilyn at a eucalyptus shaded bench on the west side of Balboa Park. She looked up then slid a foot or so to her left and handed me a small bag of stale bread.

"What's our cover?" I asked half jokingly as I dug around inside the bag.

"We're having an illicit affair out here among the pigeons and the au pairs."

"Aren't all affairs illicit? Isn't that part of the definition?" I tossed a handful of crumbs in the direction of three birds who were watching us intently.

"I don't know. I'm out of practice in the affair department." Marilyn stared sharply across the lawn, then diverted her gaze. "See that trash barrel over there, the one with the dent near the bottom? That's where the victim's supposed to drop the cash."

"At a trash barrel in the park? That's too cornball even for Hollywood. What's the deal?"

"Pet ransom. Woman lost her Cocker Spaniel, put up posters, ad in the paper, all the usual stuff. Yesterday she gets a ransom note: 'If you want to see Missy alive again, put $750 into a paper bag and leave it in the trash barrel on the west side of Balboa Park just north of El Prado.'"

"So you're sitting here staking out a garbage can and waiting for a dognapper?"

"Ten to one the guy's never seen the dog. My bet's this is a scam. The guy reads the want ads and figures here's a desperate woman who'll be sucker enough to believe that he's really got her dog. When you think about it, he's actually stupider than he thinks she is."

From out of nowhere a glistening fat, old mallard waddled up to Marilyn's end of the bench and honked at her.

"Where did he come from? There's no duck pond around here."

"I don't know and I don't care. Give me the bag. If I don't feed him he'll blow my cover."

"I thought our affair was your cover?"

"I like him better than I do you. More believable. -- Here you go." Marilyn tossed a chunk of bread at the duck's feet. "So, you want to ask me about Aaron Ray Samuels?"

I wiggled my butt around the slats in a vain attempt to fit my thin, six foot two inch frame into a more comfortable position.

"Did you find anything that might tie him to the Garrow death threats?"

"Nothing that would stand up in court."

"But...?"

"But he's a wrong guy."

"Tell me about him."

"I'll get the file for you, but here's the story in a nutshell: Samuels runs a church called 'The Mission Of The True Way Of The Lord.' They've got a big house just outside Chula Vista, out in the County."

"Which means they're out of our jurisdiction."

Marilyn nodded and tossed another handful of bread.

"Unless we can prove they've committed a crime within the city limits. Which I couldn't in the Garrow case."

Marilyn wouldn't look directly at me, instead she kept glancing at a woman and her two young children playing in the vicinity of the trash can where the drop was supposed to take place.

"Okay -- what crime do you think Samuel's has committed outside of the jurisdiction?"

"I don't have any proof of anything."

"But?"

"But he's set himself up like some kind of Guru out there at his Mission. I've got a bad feeling about him. He's too slick by half and they all treat him like puppy dogs around their master."

"Remind me not to send you to the Vatican."

"There were all these kids out there, running around, doing errands for him. Look, I've been in bunko for three years. I know a scam when I see one. He doesn't work but he's sitting on two or three million dollars in real estate. I checked the county records. The Mission Of The True Way Of The Lord, Inc., A Nonprofit Religious Corporation, is the owner of record. I ran his church through the DMV -- they own eight vehicles from pickup trucks to a Lincoln Town Car. They've got over three hundred thousand dollars in the bank, and when you go out there they're all busy as beavers, all running around, doing -- whatever."

"Sounds like the American Way -- work hard, get rich."

"Yeah, but who's doing the working and who's getting rich? There must have been eight, ten kids under the age of sixteen out there. Why were they there on a school day? What's he doing with those kids? Is he sending them out to collect money? Are they making stuff that he's selling? The whole thing smells."

"What about Child Protective Services?"

"The kids are well dressed, clean, well fed. What can they do? You aren't required to send your kids to public school. You can educate them at home or at a private school if you want. You can bet Samuels has everybody well rehearsed about that."

The bag was empty. The fat mallard honked twice, then, disgusted, waddled away.

"Did you get anything on him from NCIC?"

"Nothing on Aaron Ray Samuels, for whatever good that does us. I'd feel better if I'd been able to run a set of his prints." Marilyn glanced at a late twenties white male dressed in a Hard Rock Cafe' t-shirt, jeans and Nike's who was slowly wandering over to the trash can. "This could be our guy," she whispered into her collar after pressing the transmit button inside her purse. "Looks like it's going down, JT. If you need anything else, give me a call."

"Sure, thanks for the info. Hey, Marilyn," I called to her as he began to walk away from the bench. "What do you really think is going on with Samuels?"

"Maybe I've been a cop too long, but some of those girls were real pretty. The wrong kind of guy out there with their parents under his thumb, he could be doing anything he wanted to them and who would they tell?" Marilyn hurriedly whispered into her radio. "Take him down. -- Gotta go, JT."

Amid a flurry of quacks and flapping wings, Marilyn ran across the lawn. She had lots of suspicions, but that was a police officer's stock in trade. Without evidence, suspicion was as useful as tape cassette without a VCR, you think there's something there, but there's no way to tell what.

Marilyn and her partner wrestled the suspect to the ground and cuffed him. A few feet away a flurry of nurses, baby sitters, and au pairs grabbed their charges and fled before the cops asked for their names, addresses, and a look at their Green Cards. Frightened by the commotion, a mixed flock of ducks, pigeons and seagulls noisily flapped away.

I headed back to my car for the drive to the headquarters of the Mission Of The True Way Of The Lord.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA, JUNE, 1984

 

                                                           

Chapter Five

 

 

It took almost two days for the bus to reach the end of the line in San Diego. Outside of the books they assigned us in school, I had never read anything beyond the sports page or the occasional copy of Road & Track in Terry's Barbershop. On that trip I just stared out the window, endlessly. Even when there was nothing to see but the impenetrable darkness shrouding the plains I laid my forehead against the glass and peered into the formless night.

The same questions rattled ran through my mind: Had they caught Hannah? Was Big John really dead? Would dad try to find me, bring me home? Could I go home? Maybe, if Big John was really dead, I could go back in a few days and everything would be okay. Or, I could send dad some of the money Hannah gave me, or a bus ticket, and dad could come to San Diego.

A fantasy began to take shape: I would hang around the bus station and meet Hannah, then the two of us would get a place and in a week or so dad would join us. Maybe if he left home, got away from the Eden, things would be better, maybe he would change and we could all be a family together. It was such an attractive, lovely fantasy that I worked on it endlessly, filling in the pieces, embellishing the details -- where we would live, what kind of job dad would get, how happy Hannah would be when she was away from Lucy and the Eden.

The bus pulled into San Diego at 9:30 on Sunday morning. I hadn't showered or changed my clothes in two days and I had no idea of what to do next. That is to say I knew what I was going to do the next day, the next week -- my grand plan -- but the details, where I would sleep that night, what I would wear, had escaped my notice.

I wandered out of the bus station and into a beautiful sunny morning. In the distance I church bells were calling the faithful to mass. The area around the depot at First and Broadway was mostly bars and burger joints and junky souvenir shops. Since Hannah wouldn't arrive until tomorrow (I wouldn't let myself think that they had caught her) I just kept walking around, looking at the stores and the palm trees in the plaza in front of the sky scrapers.

A block up from Broadway I found a Woolworth's where I bought a t-shirt, a pair of shorts and a package of Fruit Of The Loom jockeys. The lady let me change in the men's room in the back. I put my old clothes and the extra underwear in the Woolworth's' plastic bag then sat on a bench in the Civic Center Plaza. About a half an hour later a policeman walked by, glanced at me and then continued on. He was a older than dad, forty or forty-five I guessed, and he looked foreign, Mexican or something. A little while later I saw him entering the plaza from the other direction and I got up and headed back to the bus station. I figured I could hang out there and they would think I was just waiting for a bus, then, later, I could find a cheap hotel that wouldn't ask any questions.

The next couple of days I just walked around, looked in store windows, or sat in the plaza or the bus station waiting room. I was afraid to spend the money Hannah had given me because I didn't know how much she would have left when she arrived and how much we would need to rent an apartment. I found an old hotel a block down Broadway and rented a room for $11 a night. The place was full of drunks and addicts and hookers -- it reminded me of the Eden -- and I stayed there only to wash and sleep.

The second day I made sure that I was in the depot for the bus from Memphis, but Hannah wasn't on it. I saw the Mexican cop again, twice. The first time he was checking out people in the waiting room. The second time I looked up and saw him staring at me. I got up and left. I think he might have followed me but I ducked into snack bar then went back to the hotel room.

By the end of the third day I was starting to get really worried. I was increasingly afraid that Willie Lee had caught Hannah, that she was dead or something worse. I kept telling myself that Hannah was strong, that Willie could never catch her, but the fear wouldn't go away. Then the vultures started to hit on me.

I had seen plenty of grifters and conmen in the Eden. The first guy tried to be friendly, he said I looked like I needed a place to stay. What was it to him? I had never seen a guy at the Eden volunteer to give anyone something for nothing. I told him that I was doing fine. Then he went into his pitch, that he liked to help kids, that he had a big place where lots of them crashed, and would I like to try a little grass? At first I thought that maybe he was some kind of a do-gooder but when he mentioned the grass I knew he was running a scam. No one gives away dope. You always gotta pay for it one way or another. I told him to get lost. He gave me a phony smile and said that when I needed help to look him up, that he'd be around.

The next morning the Memphis bus came and went without Hannah and I wondered if she had taken the train to throw off Willie Lee or if she had hitched a ride to Nashville and would take the bus from there instead. Maybe I should meet all the buses from anywhere in Tennessee and maybe Little Rock too. The more buses I watched the longer I was in the station and the more the guys kept hitting on me. On the afternoon of the fourth day one of them didn't want to take no for an answer.

"Come on, kid," the guy said, grabbing my T-shirt. "We'll have a good time, you'll see," and he tried to hustle me out of the station.

"Lemme go!" I shouted and tried to pry his fist loose, but he just kept walking, dragging me along and talking as if nothing was happening: "Yeah, we'll get something to eat. You like Chinese food?" He was maybe twenty, twenty-three, over six feet and I could tell he worked out. I tried to dig in my heels but I didn't even slow him down. He had me almost to the side door when the Mexican cop stepped out from behind one of the pillars and blocked the way.

"What's the problem?" the cop asked him.

"No problem. I'm just taking the kid out for some Chinese."

"This guy a friend of yours?" the cop asked me.

"No. I don't know who he is and I don't want to." The cop had skin the color of an oatmeal cookie and curly black hair sticking out from under the sides of his cap. He turned to the guy and tapped the punk's hand with his baton. The guy let go of my shirt, put up his hands, palms out as if surrendering, then smiled at the cop and walked away without looking back.

I looked up at the cop. His blue uniform was tight across his stocky body and I saw a small black and gold nameplate pinned to his chest: A. LEYVA

"I've seen you around the last few days," he said politely, "where are you from?"

I was surprised by the way he talked to me. All the cops I had seen around the Eden had either been punks on Big John's payroll or jerks giving orders and pushing people around. This was the first cop I had ever met who talked like a person. I looked down then back up. He just stood there calmly and watched me.

"Tennessee," I said finally. It was a big state. I figured, what could it hurt to be polite to him if he was going to treat me decently?

"You spend a lot of time here. Are you waiting for someone?"

"Yeah, a friend. She should be here any time now."

"From Memphis?"

How did he know that? But then I realized that all he had to do was watch me or ask one of the clerks to do it for him. I had met every bus from Memphis for the past three days.

"Yeah, she's going to meet me."

"You're kind of young to be here all alone. Where are your parents?"

"Mom's--, she's gone, right after I was born. Dad is back in Memphis. He, he said it was okay for Hannah and me to move out here." There was something about the cop's eyes, really calm brown eyes that just kept looking at me, looking and waiting for me to explain. I looked away then found myself staring again up into those quiet eyes and my mouth just started to move on its own.

"Dad wasn't feeling too good and we talked it over and Hannah said that she would take care of me -- until dad was feeling better so we agreed that we would come out here, because it's warm and all, and Hannah missed the bus, but, well, she'll be here any time now. And . . . ." My voice trailed off and I just sort of ran out of words. I tore my gaze from the policeman's eyes and stared at the scarred toes of my sneakers.

"Why don't we sit down over here?" the cop said, pointing to an empty row of seats. "My name's Al Leyva," and held out his hand. Without thinking I took it and blurted out: "John Trainer," then clamped my mouth shut, too late.

"People call you Johnny?" Well, the damage was done.

"No, well Hannah does sometimes, but most people call me JT -- for John Thomas." I figured now the real questions would start -- where do you live? What's your father's name? All that stuff. But Albert Leyva surprised me, again.

"JT, how long do you think I've been a cop?"

I looked him over and tried to figure out how old a person would be when they started a job like that.

"I don't know," I answered after a little pause.

"Seventeen years. Do you figure that in seventeen years of being a cop that I might have learned a few things about people?"

"I guess."

"JT, you're, what? Thirteen, fourteen? Something like that?"

"Fourteen -- almost."

"Okay, you're almost fourteen, alone in a big city, hanging around a bus station and waiting for someone who you don't know will ever show up . . . ."

"Hannah will! She will! She wouldn't let anything happen to--. She's my friend!"

"Okay, JT, I believe you. Hannah will come, if she can. But maybe she's in trouble and she can't make it. She could be in trouble, couldn't she?" If he only knew. I nodded my head.

"Look, JT, I hope your friend gets here okay, but you know you can't keep sitting around this bus station. That guy who tried to drag you out, he's nothing compared to some of the scum around here. You hang around here much longer, something bad's going to happen to you. Do you know about what some men want to do with young boys like you? Do you understand what I'm asking you?"

The fags, sure I knew about the fags. Big John had a piece of that business too.

"I'm not like that!" I told him hotly.

"I'm not saying you are. But you know what some of those people will try to make you do if you stay around here much longer. You understand?"

"Yeah, I understand," I said sullenly.

"So look, JT, I can't just leave you here and let that happen. You've either got to go back home or we've got to find an adult to be responsible for you. Tell me the truth. What's the story with your dad? Did you run away?"

"No-- not exactly." I refused to look up from the floor.

"Were you having some problems with your dad? Maybe he was getting on your case, maybe pushing you around?"

"No, dad's not like that. He wouldn't--, he wouldn't, that's all."

"JT, you've got to give me something to work with here. Look, if there's a problem with your father hitting you or something--"

"No! I told you. Dad wouldn't do that! He wasn't hitting me!"

"If he wasn't abusing you, then we've got to talk to him and make arrangements to send you back home. Unless -- do you have any relatives out here who'll take care of you?"

I looked up briefly and shook my head.

"Nobody? An uncle, grandmother, anyone?" I gave my head another shake and continued to stare at the floor. "How'd you happen to pick San Diego? Why not L.A.? Or San Francisco? Why here?"

"It was the first one."

"What do you mean? I don't follow you."

"Hannah asked the clerk which was the next bus leaving Memphis and he said it was the one to San Diego, so that's the one we picked."

Albert paused for a moment and something in his expression changed, I don't know how or what, but he stared at me a long time and he was different somehow.

"Sounds like you were in a big hurry to leave town," he said finally. "Why was that?" Had I always been this stupid? Why was I telling this cop all this stuff? I should lie to him, but I couldn't seem to do it. I think something told me that he'd know if I tried.

"I don't want to talk about it," I said finally. I wouldn't betray Hannah, no matter what. She had killed Big John and stolen his money. That was murder. I couldn't tell.

"Did you do something wrong? Are you in trouble with the law?"

"I didn't do anything. We -- we just had to leave, that's all."

"What about your father? Don't you think he's worried about you? Shouldn't we at least call him to let him know you're all right?"

"If you called him, would you have to tell him where I am?"

"Why wouldn't you to want him to know where you are? What's the problem with your dad? I thought you said he wasn't hitting you or anything like that."

"It's not dad. It's -- he has some friends, I mean, not friends, but some guys he knows, and I don't want them to find out where I am. You've got to promise not to tell where I am. If you tell dad, they'll get it out of him."

"You think these people would hurt you?"

"Yeah, they'd hurt me," I admitted. Somehow I had found myself staring back up into Leyva's eyes.

"What--" he started to ask, then stopped. What did he see in my face? Fear? I don't know, but he just stopped and thought for a second or two. "Okay, JT, I'm going to break one of my rules. I'm going to trust you. A cop's never supposed to trust a kid in a situation like this. But I'm going to trust you. Don't let me down, okay? Okay?"

"I'm not lying to you."

"Okay. If I'm going to trust you, you have to trust me. What's your father's name and where does he live?" I was a fool, of course, to tell anything to a cop in a situation like that. Naturally, he would lie to me, for my own good. But for some dumb reason I did trust this particular cop.

"Solomon. His name's Solomon Trainer, but everybody calls him Sally. We live at 1429 Locust Street, Apartment 29. Remember, you promised."

"I remember. Come on. We'll go down to the station. I'll call him from there."

Officer Leyva led me to his police car down the block but he didn't make me sit in back. I rode up front with him. When we got to the Headquarters Building at Market and Eighth he tried to call dad but there was no answer. Reluctantly, I suggested that he call the Eden. Len answered the phone and Officer Leyva asked for my dad, then he asked when dad might be in. "Okay, I'll try tonight," he said finally and hung up.

"Your dad's not there. The bartender says he'll probably be in tonight." Then Leyva stood there and stared at me. I knew what he was thinking -- now what am I going to do with this kid? I took a quick look around and wondered if I could get out the door before he took me down to Juvenile Hall. No, I'd never make it.

"I'm off shift in a few minutes," he said after a long pause. "Let's go talk to my sergeant."

The sergeant was a short, pudgy guy, going bald. He looked up from behind a small metal desk covered with pieces of paper.

"What's up, Al?" he asked then looked at me.

"This is John Thomas Trainer, Sarge. His dad's back in Memphis. I should be able to reach him tonight. John's in some kind of trouble back there and I'd like to keep him out of Juvie if I can. I thought, if you'd okay it, Maria and I'd put him up for the night."

"Where'd you find him?" the Sergeant, the plaque on the desk said SGT. CROCKER, asked, looking back at Leyva.

"Hanging around the bus station. Says someone was supposed to join him here from Memphis. The sharks were starting to circle so I figured I'd better get him out of there." The sergeant looked back at me.

"Officer Leyva here is willing to take you to his home and let you sleep there tonight while he tries to get a hold of your father. Is that okay with you? If it's not, he'll have to take you over to Social Services." Was it okay with me? What choice did I have?

"Sure, I guess."

"Show a little gratitude, kid. He doesn't have to do that, you know."

"It's okay, Sarge. He's got a lot on his mind right now."

"You're in the wrong business, Al. You should've been a social worker."

"Too late to change now. Okay if I check out?" Leyva asked, nodding toward the clock on the wall behind the Sergeant's desk.

"First, I want you to write this up as a response to a citizen complaint that this boy was being harassed at the bus station, then state what you're planning to do. I'll approve it and file it, just it case."

"Sure, Sarge, I'm right on it."

"Okay, and, Al, be sure you find his father, soon."

"I'll call him tonight. JT, have a seat over there while I write up my report, then we'll go home."

 

*    *     *

 

Officer Leyva lived on Myrtle Street just north of Balboa Park. I had never been in a house like his, a real house with a back yard and trees and flowers. The homes were all small, single story, bungalows they might have been called in an earlier time. Most had date palms or banana trees or bottle brush on the front lawns with hedges of oleander and hibiscus still in bloom.

I had seen places like this on television but they were beyond my personal experience. Al's wife (on the ride home he told me to call him Al) had curly, dark brown hair, and skin a little lighter colored than his. Like Al, she was, I guess the word was stout, not fat, but solidly built.

She was friendly, but a little concerned. I wondered if he had brought other kids home with him. After a brief introduction, Al lead me down a hallway and through the first door on the right. One wall held a Jefferson Airplane poster and a color picture of Pete Rose. On the other was an American flag. There were two or three baseball trophies on the dresser and the top of the chest of drawers. A pennant for the Hornets football team was pinned to the wall above the narrow, neatly made bed. Confused, I looked at the mementos all carefully preserved. On the side of the dresser was a small, four by six inch framed picture of a smiling boy with curly hair, broad shoulders and a mustache. He had his arm around a pretty girl who was wearing a bright red dress. The boy looked a lot like Al.

"Is this your son? Is this his room?" I asked, pointing at the picture.

"It used to be."

"Is he away at college or something?"

"No."

"Where is he?" I asked, my adolescent curiosity causing me to miss the tightness in Al voice and the slight compression of his lips.

"He's dead."

"What happened?" I know. But I was only about fourteen and I didn't know any better.

"He was killed, in the service. We never . . . . never got around to putting his stuff away." Al took a deep breath, looked briefly at the decorated wall behind the bed, then turned away

"You'll find a robe in the closet." He pointed across the room. "It will be too big for you, but after dinner you put it on anyway and then give me all of your clothes. Maria will wash them for you. The bathroom's across the hall. Wash up good. We'll be eating dinner in a few minutes. If you need anything, toothpaste or anything, ask me or Maria. There are towels in the closet next to the bathroom. Is there anything else you need?"

"Uhh, no, I mean, no thanks." Al gave me a slight nod and started to leave. "Uh, wait, Al, look, it's real nice your letting me use you son's room. I know you could've sent me to Juvie. I know you're trying to help me. And, uhh, look, I'm sorry, sorry about your son and all."

"He died for his country, as an honorable man," Al said quietly, but his voice sounded hollow and unconvinced.

"What was his name?"

"Roberto, Robby, Robby Leyva." Al took one more look at the picture on the dresser. "You'd better wash up, now."

"Yes sir."

*     *    *

 

Dinner was real good though it wasn't the kind of food I was used to. Instead of potatoes and peas we had beans and rice and some kind of a stew with pork and celery and tomatoes in a thin pinkish gravy. But it was real good. At about seven o'clock Al called our home number in Memphis but there was no answer. Then he called the Eden. It was nine o'clock there. If dad wasn't home, that's where he'd be.

"Hello, I'm trying to find Sally Trainer. Has he come in yet?" I couldn't hear what Len said, but I noticed Al frown at Len's reply.

"Why is that?" he asked and then listened again for a few seconds then he hung up the phone. A moment later he pulled out a pencil and a small note pad, dialed information in Memphis and asked for the main number for the police department. Damn! Had Lenny told Al about Big John? If he found out about Big John and Hannah, he would have his cop friends stake out the bus station and they'd arrest Hannah as soon as she showed up. My heart was pounding and my skin went clammy and cold.

"Memphis PD? This is Officer Albert Leyva of the San Diego PD. I need to talk with whoever's handling the case involving Solomon Trainer. It's important."

Solomon Trainer? Dad? Did the cops think dad had killed Big John? No, no, no. How did this get so screwed up? They couldn't think dad would do something like that. There was a thirty second wait while the Memphis PD found the right guy and put him on the line. Al identified himself again and asked about the details concerning Solomon Trainer. Then he added:

"I've got his son with me right now . . . . No, the boy's not in any trouble. He's been in town for several days and I was just checking on his father. The bartender at the Eden Bar & Grill told me to call you."

Al hunched forward a little and scribbled some notes on his pad while uttering little "uh-huhs" every three or four seconds.

"Yeah, I see. When did that happen . . . . Uh-huh . . . . Yeah . . . . No, he's been here since Sunday morning . . . . Yeah, I'm sure. Any other relatives? Any at all? . . . . Okay, yeah. Look, let me give you my number at the Headquarters Building and I'd better spell my name for you." Al recited a phone number then his badge number and finally spelled his last name.

"Okay, thanks, Detective . . . . Yeah, I'll take care of things on this end . . . . Sure, I'll let you know." Al hung up the phone, tore the page from the pad, folded it, and carefully put it into his shirt pocket.

"JT, there's been a problem back in Memphis. Your dad's had an accident."

"What do you mean? What kind of an accident?" Al reached over and put his hand on my shoulder and stared at me with those quiet brown eyes of his.

"JT, your dad is dead. They found him in the river. He'd been stabbed. Did he have any enemies? Is that why you ran away? Was someone after your father?"

They killed dad. They killed him because of me. When I ran away with Hannah and they couldn't get the insurance money, they'd killed dad. Was Big John alive? Maybe he was and when Hannah and I disappeared he decided to take it out on dad. Or maybe Big John was dead and Willie Lee had taken over the business and he decided to kill dad so everyone would know who was in charge. I had gotten dad killed!

Al was talking to me but I wasn't paying any attention. All I had were questions. Was Big John really dead? How long was that life insurance policy good for? Did they still want to kill me? But more than anything else, what had happened to Hannah?

"Do you have any idea who might have killed your father?" What could I say? I just shook my head and stared at the floor. Albert looked like he didn't believe me, but he didn't say anything. Finally, he asked who my nearest relative was. No one that I knew anything about I told him. Dad had a brother somewhere, I think, but I didn't know where or what his name was. I didn't know anything about mom's family and as far as I knew dad's parents were both dead.

"There's nobody. Just dad."

"JT, if I can't find a relative, they'll have to put you in a foster home. Isn't there anyone?"

"No," I said, shaking my head.

"Okay, you'll stay here tonight and tomorrow I'll call the Child Welfare people in Tennessee."

"Tennessee? Can't they put me in a foster home here?"

"No, you're a runaway. You'll have to go back to Memphis."

"I can't go back there!"

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"That's not good enough, JT. The social workers are going to need a reason why the California taxpayers should pick up the bill for you." I lifted my head and saw that Albert had a determined look in his eyes. I turned away and glanced at the front door, already thinking about escaping Albert's little house before he could send me back. He didn't miss my furtive glance.

"Tell me what kind of trouble you're in and maybe I can help you," he told me gently.

"You can't help me."

"Maybe I can't and maybe I can. I've got a lot of friends who'll do me a favor, if I ask them."

"There's nothing you can do for me."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because you're a cop."

"Are you in trouble with the law? Did you do something wrong?"

"No. I just can't go back there, that's all."

"Is it your friend, Hannah, who's in trouble? Did she do something?" I just turned away and stared at the street light outside Albert's big front window and imagined what it would be like to be outside and free.

Then Albert did a strange thing. For a few seconds he wiggled the fingers of his right hand up and down against his thigh, like the legs of a spider moving in sequence, then he reached into his pants pocket and took out a little leather wallet. He showed me a blue and gold ID card on the one side and a printed card with his picture on it on the other -- his identification as a police officer. Carefully, Albert carried the wallet over to the kitchen table, put it down, then sat next to me on the couch.

"Okay, JT, now I'm not a cop. Whatever you tell me, you're telling me, Albert Leyva, someone who would like to help you, not Albert Leyva the Police Officer. Whatever you tell me will stay just between us." Was this a trick?

"Just between us? You won't tell anyone?"

"I won't tell anyone."

"Even if it's something bad?"

"Have you told me the truth? You haven't done anything wrong?"

"I didn't do anything!"

"All right. No matter what you tell me, I won't tell anyone unless you say it's okay."

"You swear?" Albert paused for a minute and seemed to stare past me.

"I swear," he said a moment later.

"I'm trusting you."

"I won't let you down."

Why should I trust him? I had just met him and he was a cop. He would do whatever he thought was right. No one cared about keeping a promise to a kid. But for some dumb reason I did trust him, and I told him about dad and the money he owed to Big John and the insurance policy and how Hannah had got me out of there and put me on the bus.

I didn't tell him about her killing Big John and taking his money. I didn't lie, I just didn't say anything about it one way or the other. I figured that it was my decision to trust Albert and if I was wrong, I was the one who would pay for it. But I didn't have the right to betray Hannah. I couldn't trust Albert for her.

"That's why you can't go back there?" he asked when I had finished. "Because you think this Big John will have you killed for the insurance money?"

"I don't know what he'll do, but Willie Lee, he'd kill anybody if you paid him."

"You know, JT, I can check on that insurance policy, find out if there's one on your life."

"You think I'm making this up?" Albert held my gaze for a moment then shook his head slightly.

"No, I don't think you're making it up."

"Are you going to take me to Juvenile Hall?" For the first time I saw Albert unsure of himself. Until then, he seemed to know just what he was going to do.

"No," he said finally, his brown eyes boring into me. "You can stay here for a few days until we get this straightened out. That okay with you?"

"Sure, I mean, yes, thanks."

"JT, I'm sticking my neck out here. If you run off on me, I'll be in big trouble."

"Okay."

"Not okay. You trust me, I trust you. I gave you my word. Now I want yours. You're going to stay right here until I say you can leave. Do we have a deal?" That's the first time I realized that he really meant it, that he really wasn't going to turn me in, the first time that I knew for sure that I could trust Albert. When he stuck out his hand and stared at me and repeated: "Deal?"

"Deal," I said and took his hand in mine. I remember it was big and brown and soft except where he had calluses from carrying his nightstick.

The next morning I woke up early, got dressed in the clean clothes that Mrs. Leyva had washed for me and went to the kitchen. Albert and Maria were already there. Maria asked me if I would like some scrambled eggs.

"Sure. What should I do today, while you're at work? I could help around the house if you'd like." I was used to cleaning house and washing dishes. That had been my job at home, with dad. Albert glanced at his wife.

"I could use some help," she said immediately. "This floor could use a good cleaning, and I need to go to the market too. You want to help me with the groceries?"

"Sure, I can carry them for you."

"Okay then, JT," Albert said getting up from the table. "You help out Maria and I'll check into things back in Tennessee."

So that's how things went for the next three or four days. Every morning Maria would make us breakfast, then Albert would leave for work and I would help with the laundry or cleaning or shopping or whatever. Finally, after dinner on the fifth evening, Albert took me outside to sit on the back patio. I could smell orange blossoms and gardenia on the evening breeze.

"I checked with the Memphis police about this Big John Harnell. It seems he's been missing for awhile-- " Oh no, I thought. Albert's found out about Big John being killed! "--but he showed up again at the Eden Bar yesterday."

"What?"

"Yeah. He was in the hospital. Somebody cracked his skull, but apparently he's a tough customer. If you want I could tell the Memphis police to check him out in connection with your father's murder."

And then what? They could never prove Big John did it, or more likely, had Willie Lee do it. Then someone would want to know why a San Diego cop was so interested in the case.

"No, don't. It's no use." Albert didn't say anything. Maybe he thought that I should do something to avenge dad's murder, but right then I just felt empty.

"Also," Albert told me, "I heard back from my friend with the insurance bureau. He says the premium on your life insurance policy is paid up for another three months. He checked and the alternate beneficiary is listed as John Harnell."

"What's that mean?"

"It means that with your father dead, if you die, Big John Harnell will get twenty thousand dollars, forty thousand if you die in an accident instead of from a disease."

So that was why they had killed dad. Now all they needed was to find me in the next three months and then kill me too. Unless they paid to keep the insurance in force for longer than that.

"So," Albert continued, twisting uneasily in his aluminum chair, "I guess it wouldn't be a good idea to send you back to Memphis for a while."

"Will the welfare people find me a foster home here? Will I have to stay in Juvenile Hall?"

"Well, that might be a little complicated. They'd want to talk to the people in Memphis. There'd be paperwork and your address would end up on some of the forms. And they've got a rule about runaways--"

"What's going to--"

" so I thought you might want to stay here and help Maria out a little longer, until the insurance policy expires."

"What? You mean I could stay here?"

"If you want. You'd have to help out. It might take a while until we can get this all straightened out. You could stay in Robby's room. So, what do you say?" I could stay here? In this nice house with the backyard and have a room of my own?

"Sure, I'd like that, I mean, if it's okay with you and Mrs. Leyva."

"I've already talked with Maria. She says you've been a big help to her. She'd be happy to have you stay. Just for a while, you understand. Until we get this all straightened out. Okay?"

"Deal," I said and held out my hand.