Wacky’s mother and sister flew in from St. Louis for the funeral. I had telephoned them with the news of his death and met them at the airport. They were polite, but very detached. Their remoteness was stupefying. They thought that Wacky “should have gone into the insurance business, like his dad.” After determining that they had absolutely no inkling as to who Wacky was, I left them and went home to grieve in private.
I grieved, and fought being guilty over the way I had treated Wacky during his last weeks. I thought of his fatalistic acceptance of all the things of life and of death. I thought of our last tour of duty together and wept, knowing that my absolution was immediate and tendered with love.
High dark clouds were gathering on the day of the funeral. I drove out to the mortuary in Glendale anxious for the whole thing to be over.
The service was held in a roped-off area on a high grassy knoll in the middle of the cemetery. Hundreds of cops in uniform were there, from patrolmen to high brass. Wacky was eulogized by a half-dozen officers who didn’t know him. There was no minister or mention of God. Wacky had left specific instructions about that with an old police chaplain several years before.
I was one of the pallbearers. The other five were cops I had never seen before. As we lowered Wacky into the ground, the police rifle team fired a twenty-one-gun salute and a bugler played “Taps.” Then I saw Wacky’s mother and sister being hustled off in the direction of a long black limousine. I could see a group of newsmen and photographers waiting by the limousine to descend on them.
Beckworth caught me in the parking lot. “Freddy,” he called to me.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” I said.
“Let’s go over to my car and talk, Fred. We need to.”
We walked over to where his car was parked, next to a walkway with statues of Jesus kneeling among friendly little animals.
Beckworth put a fatherly hand on my shoulder, and straightened the knot in my tie with his other one. He gave me a fatherly look and sighed. “Freddy, it may sound cruel, but it’s over. Walker is dead. You have a commendation and a clean double-bandit killing on your record. Years from now that will look even better. Brass hats who have never drawn their guns will be impressed with that as you move up the ladder.”
“No doubt. When do I go to Vice?”
“This summer. As soon as Captain Larson retires.”
“Good.”
“It all worked out, Freddy. I know you wanted the best for Walker. In a sense, he got it. He was a true hero. A Medal of Honor in the war and a hero’s death in the war against crime. I’m sure he died knowing that. And it’s funny, Freddy. Although I’ve, spoken harsh words about Walker, I think that, somehow, I knew he was a true hero, and that he had to die.”
Beckworth lowered his voice for dramatic effect and tightened his grip on my shoulder. I knew what I had to do. “You’re full of shit, Lieutenant. Wacky Walker was a fucked-up crazy drunk, and that’s all. And I didn’t care, I loved him. So don’t romanticize him to me. Don’t insult my intelligence. I knew him better than anyone, and I didn’t understand him, so don’t tell me you did.”
“Freddy, I–”
I shrugged my shoulder free of his grasp. “You’re full of shit, Lieutenant.”
Beckworth went beet red, and started to tremble. “Do you know who I am, Underhill?” he hissed.
“You’re a fuck for the city,” I said, and flipped his necktie up into his face.
It had started to rain by the time I got to Wacky’s apartment. His landlady, intimidated by my uniform, let me in.
The living room was in a shambles. I found out why–Night Train had been left alone there since Wacky’s death, and had torn the sofa and chairs apart looking for food. I found him in the backyard. The resourceful Labrador had chewed his way through a screen door and was now lying under a large eucalyptus tree munching on the carcass of a cat.