It was almost more than I wanted to know.
Siddell sensed this: “Don’t be sad,” she said. “It was a long time ago.”
I nodded. “And your father never remarried?”
Siddell shook her head. “Daddy hasn’t touched another woman since the day Mama died.”
I got up to leave. By way of farewell, Siddell said, “Tell Herbert I’ll call him. Tell him I like him.”
“I will.”
I walked out to my car, looking up at the sky and hoping for rain. As I hit the ignition, the wonder caught me, and the irony– my adopted family were orphans, too.
5
Wacky was out with the flu Monday and Tuesday, and Beckworth bought it because Wacky hardly ever used his sick leave. In reality, he was juiced up and working on his new “epic” poem and waiting by the phone for a call from Siddell Weinberg.
Early Wednesday morning as we swung out of the station parking lot, I put his fears to rest: “She’s going out of town for a week or so. She’s going to call you when she gets back.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. We had a nice chat. She’s engaged to some Jewish guy, but she isn’t in love with him.”
“And she’s hot for some un-kosher meat on the side?” Wacky was almost drooling.
“I think so. She thinks you’re the cat’s meow.”
Wacky celebrated the good news by hanging a U-turn in heavy traffic, hitting the siren and flooring the gas pedal for a good five minutes, cutting in and out of the quiet residential streets that bordered the station. When he finally returned to normal driving speed and cut the siren we were all the way down on Adams and Seventh Avenue, and he was grinning like a sated lover. “Thanks, partner,” he said.
“For what?”
“For everything. Don’t ask me to explain, I’m feeling elliptical today.”
“That reminds me,” I said, “I got you a present. It’s back in my locker. A poetry anthology. But beware–I’ve looked through it pretty well, and the next time we play Name the Poet, I’m going to kick your ass.”
“That’ll be the day. Hot dog! I feel good today. You want coffee and doughnuts? I’m buying.”
“You’re on.”
We drove to a Cooper’s doughnut joint at Twenty-third and Western, where we got a dozen fresh glazed and coffee. We ate and drank in silence.
I took a seat that faced out toward the street and let my mind drift with prosaic wonder: a cold, sunny, winter’s day. My city. The propriety born of my special, inside knowledge.
Across the street on Western, in front of the liquor store, a high school kid was convincing a wino to go in and buy him some booze. When the wino went inside the kid ogled the mulatto prostitute standing next door in front of the cabstand. She caught him looking at her and snorted her amusement. The wino came back out a few moments later and surreptitiously handed the kid a paper bag. The kid took off, practically running, hurling some kind of remark at the prostitute, who flipped him the finger. The wino walked off in the opposite direction, sucking on a short-dog of muscatel that the. kid had bought him for his services.
A patrol car cruised by slowly, driven by my colleague, Tom Brewer. The wino stuck the bottle hurriedly into his back pocket, looking around guiltily. Brewer just drove on by, not noticing the little dance of fear. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. His father was a drunk, and he had loved his father, so he left drunks alone. Tom had told me about his father one night at a softball game at the Academy when he was half drunk himself.
My city. My wonder.
Three hours later, we were driving south on Berendo when a white Ford pickup passed us going in the opposite direction. I craned my neck and saw that there were two Mexicans in the cab. They turned right at the corner, out of my vision, and I knew. “Stop the car, partner,” I said.
Wacky noted the gravity of my voice and pulled to the curb.
“We got a hot one, Wacky,” I said. “There’s a little market around the corner in back of us. The two Mexican heisters in the Ford truck just turned the corner …” I didn’t have to finish. Wacky nodded and very slowly pulled the black-and-white around in a U-turn to the opposite side of the street, stopping just short of the intersection.