Читать книгу Dukkha Unloaded - Loren W. Christensen - Страница 11

CHAPTER FOUR

One just doesn’t drop in on a deputy chief for a chat. There is a protocol. An officer or detective must ask permission from a superior officer in his unit to talk with someone on the fifteenth floor. But I don’t have a superior officer right now because having been off duty for two months my name has been dropped from the duty roster in Detectives and placed back in Personnel. Since I’m in limbo, I head straight up to the Chief’s Office.

Karen smiles as I approach her desk. “You’re coming to see me again, Sam? You do know I’m married, right?”

I snap my fingers and feign disappointment. “Darn. Hey, you got a sister?”

“An older one.”

“Better yet.”

“You here to see Deputy Chief Rodriguez?”

“I am.”

“Does he know you’re coming?” When I shake my head, she keys a button on her phone. “Chief, Detective Sam Reeves is here to see you. Yes, sir. Will do.” She looks at me. “Not as nervous this time?”

I smile. “More, but it’s not about seeing Rodriguez.”

“You’ll be fine, Sam,” she says like a reassuring mother. Like most personal assistants, Karen knows everything going on in the Bureau. She nods her head toward the hallway, and whispers, “He’s waiting.”

“Detective Reeves,” Chief Rodriguez says, from his doorway. “Come on in. Sit.”

“Good morning, Chief.” I sit in the same chair I sat in yesterday.

“You asked for twenty-four hours to decide and here we are at the twentieth hour. You going to take the job?”

Rodriguez is a cut-to-the-chase kind of commander so I’m not going to annoy him with what all went into my thinking. I’m especially not going to let him know about my issues with firearms.

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good,” he says without emotion. “Your shrink cleared you?”

“It’s in the works, sir. We chatted earlier and I’m good to go. She’ll be sending her report over before noon.”

“Good,” he says, picking up his phone and tapping in a number. “Stand by. I’ll let Lieutenant Sherman know.”

BJ Sherman is the lieutenant in charge of Intelligence. Since a small unit such as Intelligence doesn’t have a captain, Sherman probably answers directly to the captain of Detectives or maybe to Rodriguez himself.

“BJ, Tony here,” the Chief says. “Sam Reeves is on board … Right, I’ll tell him. The Fat Dicks check in with you yet? Good. I’ll have Reeves’s personnel file sent over to you, and I’ll make sure he’s back on the books. Good … Okay, he’s on the way.” The Chief cradles the phone.

“Do you know Lieutenant Sherman?” he asks.

“We worked East Precinct together about ten years ago. He had a desk job.”

“He’s a good lieutenant. Savvy to the sensitivity needed to work hate crimes. He also understands the importance of you keeping a low profile.”

My new mantra: Keep a loooow profile.

“You know Angela Clemmons and Steve Nardia?”

“Angela, just to say hello. Steve has been in a couple of my in-service classes. Funny guy as I recall. Coincidentally, I talked to him about Intelligence about six months ago. Said he liked it.”

Rodriguez nods. “Sharp guy, knows what he’s doing, Angela Clemmons is a good cop—tough woman, very race conscious. Lost her mother and father to homicide about eight years ago, in Chicago, I think it was. Anyway, we just got a vacancy in Intel. You’re the replacement.”

“Thanks, sir. Appreciate being considered for the job. The last few weeks have been a rollercoaster of …” I’m not sure where I’m going with this so it’s time to shut up.

He looks at my personnel file. “You’ve been on, what? Fifteen years, coming up on sixteen.” He lays the file down and looks at me for what seems like a half minute, though it probably just feels like it He sniffs, and says, “I’ve been on twenty-five. In my third year I killed a mother and her daughter.”

What?

“I was racing to an accident on I-5, going way too fast and zipping between cars like I was in a video game. Clipped a Volkswagen Bug and sent it into a cement pillar. Killed both occupants.” The lines around the Chief’s mouth deepen and you can see in his eyes the sad place he visits too often. “Witnesses said she jerked her car into my lane as I was passing. Officially, it was her fault, but in my mind, the fault was mine. Still believe it. I was racing to a car accident and there was no need. It had already happened. No need for me to drive over the speed limit with lights and siren. It startled the poor woman and she turned left instead of right, and I slammed into her. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been hotdogging.”

“I’ve never heard about this, Chief. So sorry.”

He nods, as his eyes come back to mine. “I’ve never heard a bad word about you, Reeves, but I have heard lots of good. I trained in the martial arts myself when I was younger. Brown belt in judo.”

“Very good, sir.” Hard to say something nice to a deputy chief without it sounding like you’re kissing up.

“This is a good opportunity to get yourself back on track.”

“Thank you.”

He smirks. “So don’t fuck it up.”

“Don’t fuck it up. Copy that, sir.”

“All right. Head on down to twelve and have a chat with Lieutenant Sherman.” He looks at his watch. “Today’s the first day of the new pay period. It’s ten fifteen. You’re already two hours and fifteen minutes late for duty.”

I stand. “Thanks, Chief.”

“I think you’ll be a good fit. Any problems, let me know.”

“Yes, sir.”

Karen is on the phone so we just wave at each other and she gives me a thumbs up as I pass. She probably already knows I took the assignment.

I go into the restroom before taking the elevator down and splash cold water on my face and behind my neck.

Dang, I just accepted the assignment. These past few weeks I’ve been all over the map as to what to do. Resign and expand my school? Move to Saigon? Take up sheep herding? I smile remembering when I ran into Tom Bashman in the hall after he had signed his retirement papers. When I asked what he was going to do, he said, “Gonna be a sheep herder, Reeves. Wear a robe, walk with a staff, and if one of them goddamn sheep go astray, fuck it. I ain’t going after it.” It was clearly time for Tom to retire.

Maybe it’s time for me too. I can take the elevator all the way down to the lobby, drive home, and call Rodriguez and tell him not only am I not taking the position, I’m resigning.

I won’t though. I’m going back to work. I don’t know why but I know it’s my destiny. Saying it sounds corny, but it’s what I’m feeling. When my father told me in Saigon he believed my destiny was to return to Portland, I don’t think he was talking about me being a grocery bagger or a mail carrier.

What about not being able to shoot again? Don’t know. Have to wing it, I guess.

* * *

The elevators swoosh open to the twelfth floor and I nearly bump chests with Clarence Sanders who is one of the academy training officers. He’s a black man, early fifties, slight build, greying hair, and wears horned-rimmed glasses that, combined with his facial structure, give him the hangdog look of a younger Woody Allen. Many a street hoodlum made the mistake of thinking he was a pushover. I’m approaching thirty years in the martial arts; he’s got close to forty.

“Sam! How the hell are yuh?” he says, extending his small, fragile-looking hand. Earlier in his martial arts career, Clarence was known on the tournament circuit for breaking stones with these gentle-looking hands.

“Good to see you, Clarence,” I say slapping his shoulder. When I was working in Detectives, he was always badgering Mark to free me up for an afternoon to help him teach defensive tactics to new recruits. Mark let me go whenever my workload allowed. Clarence is an excellent DT instructor with black belts in several fighting arts. We always had fun teaching together. “What’s going on? How’s the Training Division?”

“Excellent, man. Just had coffee with Steve Nardia. Said the rumor was you’re going to be working with him. He really likes it there.”

“I am. Just going in to meet up with the lieutenant now.”

“BJ is …” He pauses, clearly picking his words carefully, then, “A good administrator.” Interesting thing to say. “Steve’s great. Angela? Well, you got to tiptoe around her a little. She might be a good-looking sister, but she’s got some attitude. If this were nineteen sixty-eight, she’d fit right in with the black power movement.” He shrugs apologetically. “I don’t like to say anything bad about anyone but take my comments as a heads up.”

“Gotcha, Clarence. Well, I better get in there. BJ knows I’m coming down from Rodriguez’s office.”

“Rodriguez, huh? How was it?”

“It went pretty well, actually. The rumors about him ripping out your intestines have been exaggerated.”

“Good to hear. Never had any dealings with him but I’ve heard the rumors. Hey, you want to come help with a class when you get settled in?”

“Sure. It depends on BJ now.”

“My lieutenant’s tight with him. I’ll make it happen. Get settled in and I’ll give you a shout in a couple three days. Good luck with the new gig. Crazy stuff happening out in the mean streets, I hear.”

I tap on the glass and Steve Nardia, sitting at the closest desk to the window, buzzes me in the door.

“Norris, right?” Steve says, walking over to shake my hand. He’s about six feet tall, one seventy, mid-forties, greying hair. “Chuck Norris?”

Steve and Clarence have been best buds for years. Clarence is a martial artist and Steve has made a name for himself playing violin with the Oregon Symphony Orchestra. Friendship is a magical thing.

“How are you doing, Steve?”

“I’m doing awesomely.” He gestures to the room. “Welcome to, uh, this place.”

It’s a small, mostly beige office, in which are crammed six desks, each with a PC, and surrounded by file cabinets. The only wall adornments are vintage World War Two posters. Two are close enough for me to read. One depicts a parrot and the words, “Free Speech Doesn’t Mean Careless Talk.” The one beside it depicts a desperate hand and part of a face sinking below a choppy sea. It reads, “Loose Lips Sink Ships.”

“BJ and Angela went over to Records but should be back anytime now. You got the middle desk by the window. Yes, I got seniority and could have it but I got acrophobia. I hate looking down twelve floors to the street, and it freaks me even more to look up at those taller buildings over there. I like my post right here at center front. Angela’s got the one in front of you and the Fat Dicks, when they’re in here, got the one behind you and the one across from it. The center one in this row is for anyone to use who drops in, usually uniformed guys or dicks. BJ has the one office there in the back.”

“Thanks, Steve. I’ve been in here a few times over the years. Last time was about three years ago, maybe four. BJ was here then, I think he just got assigned.”

“Then it was four years ago. I came in right after him and Angela joined us a year ago. Candy Abrams was here briefly but it wasn’t a good fit for her. She transferred out a couple weeks ago to Northeast Precinct. I heard your name bantered about right after.”

“Really.” So I was being talked about at the same time I hadn’t a clue what I was going to do.

The door buzzes. “Here’s the boss and Angela,” Steve says.

“There he is,” BJ Sherman says pleasantly, though not much louder than a whisper. He’s in his midforties, my height, with thinning brown hair, and a pear-shaped body carrying twenty pounds too much on hips wider than his shoulders. He extends his hand as he approaches. “Good to see you and glad you’re on board.” I’m not getting a read as to how much he means it, or doesn’t mean it.

“Hi, Sam,” Angela says, moving around the big man. She’s wearing blue jeans that reveal a toned figure, and what I think is called an African Dashiki shirt, with lots of yellows and blues, big pockets, and oversized sleeves. Her wrists are covered with at least a half-dozen multi-colored bracelets. A two-inch high afro haloes a pretty face with almond-shaped brown eyes and a huge smile. “Good to see you with us,” she says, gripping my hand as her eyes crawl over me. Hmm.

“Steve give you the layout?” BJ asks in a low voice. I’ve heard guys refer to him as “Whispers” and I see—hear why.

“He did. Guess I have the middle desk by the window.”

“It’s settled then,” he says. “Everyone back to my cave for a short chat.”

It’s a small office, cozily lit by two small lamps definitely not department issue. Classical music plays softly from a Bose unit resting on a long wall cabinet behind him. A bible lies next to it. The lieutenant has definitely made the place his. “Understand you were in Saigon, Sam,” he says sitting behind his desk.

“Just got back. Talk about your culture shock.”

“My father was there during the war,” BJ says. “Has lots of stories.”

I do too, but I’m not telling them. “I bet.”

“Okay,” BJ says. “In a nutshell, here’s what we’re all involved in at the moment. I’ll let Angela and Steve fill in the details later. The biker gang wars have mellowed as of late, so we’re not doing anything with them except writing up bits of info we get from snitches. Organized crime is quiet as well; there was a series of firebombing rival adult bookstores. They still own most of them, as well as most all of the massage parlors and escort services. The Vice Unit actively works them for violations, of course, and our job is to collect info on threats of violence, mass drug sales, that sort of thing. There are no named politicians or other officials coming to town for a while so things are quiet as far as dignitary protection goes. There was an abortion clinic protest a couple days ago, which Steve and Angela knew was coming up, so we were able to give a heads up to the precincts.”

“I got caught in it,” I say. “A cab driver and me. A couple of them tried to get in the cab.”

“You do your magic on them, Chuck?” Steve asks. He looks at Angela and BJ. “You know when the boogeyman goes to sleep, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.”

“Anyway,” BJ says, a little annoyed, “because our other areas of responsibility are quiet, we’re able to put our combined energy into these hate crimes and suspected hate crimes. The Fat Dicks will be in here from time to time getting info from us and providing us with anything they learn. Right now, they’re assigned the lynching in Old Town and the attack on Lieutenant Mark Sanderson and his friend David Rowe.

“Sam, you’ve been working in Detectives, but understand in here we’re not involved in investigations of crimes, at least in the way you have been doing them in the past. Our task is to gather information from informants, from crime reports, and from interviews with suspects, witnesses, and victims. We do write up minor reports from time to time and forward them to the respective precincts and the Detective Division. But I don’t want you getting wrapped up in an investigation that will interfere with your primary task, which is gathering intelligence.”

“Got it,” I say.

“Right now we don’t know if these recent hate crimes are part of an organized movement, if there is one person behind them, or several people; it could be a militia group, the KKK, some might be copycat crimes. Nor do we know if they will continue.” He takes a sip from a water bottle. “Understand Mark is a friend of yours. You heard how he’s doing?”

“I haven’t talked with him this morning but yesterday he was pretty down in the dumps. Speaking of, I need to ask a favor already. I didn’t know I’d be starting work when I came to the Justice Center this morning, and I promised Mark I’d give him a ride home when he’s ready to leave. Should he call, may I go get him?”

“Of course,” BJ says. “I haven’t talked with the Fat Dicks this morning, but I’m sure they’re declaring Mark’s and his friend’s assault as a hate crime.”

I look at the bible on the table behind BJ and at an artsy crucifix propped up against the wall. It’s about twelve inches high and about as wide and is made of nails, all silver, all varying sizes.

It always concerns me when a copper is so in your face with his religious beliefs. I’ve worked with two officers who would read their bibles when it was my turn to drive. One would ask suspects to pray with her in the backseat of the patrol car, and the other would give sermons to suspects as well as to complainants. Didn’t like working with them because they were on a personal mission, which made them a danger to themselves and others. One is thankfully off the street now and the other quit. But I worked with another guy for several months who had a degree in theology, and he was as gritty and street savvy as any cop I’ve ever worked with. I’d work with him again in a heartbeat. Seeing this material in BJ’s office makes me wonder if his beliefs ever bump heads with what needs to be done.

“Any questions, Sam?” BJ asks.

“Lots,” I say.

He smiles. “Well, I’m going to let Angela and Steve bring you up to speed on the computer programs we use, our hardcopy filing systems, how we pay informants, and so on. When the Fat Dicks come in, we’ll gather again to hear what they have on the lynching and on Mark’s assault. Angela, make sure Sam reads up on the attempted arson of the Mosque, the cross burning, the assaults, and the bullying cases.”

“Will do,” she says.

“Glad you’re on the team, Sam” BJ says, standing and extending his hand. “Let’s you and I have coffee after lunch.”

“Sounds good,” I say, getting up. Probably wants to chat about where my head is and the rumor I was thinking about resigning. As my boss, he has a need to know, but I’m still not comfortable talking about it, maybe because I’m not comfortable with all of it myself.

Steve had to go meet up with a snitch, and BJ left for another meeting in the Chief’s office, so for the next ninety minutes Angela, her chair turned around to face my desk, gives me a rundown on the computer, the files, where the keys are to the cars, and the nuances of getting along with the boss.

I have only a passing acquaintance with her. I keep hearing she can be a tad militant about race, but I’m not one to put much faith in gossip. Still, I wonder about the warnings.

Afrocentric. I just heard the word for the first time a few weeks ago when I was cruising the cable channels and paused on a fashion show. A voice-over called a black woman’s long, zebra-striped dress, afro hair, and the cluster of multi-colored beads draped around her neck as Afrocentric. “To celebrate her heritage,” the voice noted. Funny what sticks in my mind. I look at Angela’s African-style top and her multiple bracelets of copper, fake or real bone, and earthy-colored beads. I notice several pictures under her desk blotter of her with two black women, all dressed similarly. Afrocentric.

Regardless of whether it means anything, she would have to be a good cop to be assigned to Intelligence for the last few years.

But there was the blatant way she looked into my eyes when she came into the office, along with the ol’ up-and-down appraisal. She’s done it twice more since we’ve been talking. She sizing me up as a potential father of her children, the ones she has now, and the new ones we make together? Nice for my ego, but even if Mai wasn’t in my life, this kind of attention could be a problem.

“I’m going to talk with a guy today who lives just above Old Town,” Angela says. “He’s not an official snitch; he’s a second cousin of mine. He’s been away for about four days and he’s back at work today. I want to see if he knows anything about the lynching. You want to go with me?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m kinda swamped, and all.”

She smiles. “Grab the second set of keys from the right on the board next to BJ’s office and let’s go. You drive, rookie.”

* * *

We’re three blocks back from the main intersection at Second and Burnside. I’d like to hang a left onto Burn but traffic is at a standstill. In fact, traffic is a mess everywhere in the area, including the side streets where drivers are trying to get through the jam or trying to get away from it.

“Listen,” Angela says, turning up the FM station. “The news guy said to stay away from the area of Third and Couch. There, hear him? Said there’s some kind of police action going on there.”

“Info we could have used three minutes ago,” I say, cranking a hard right onto Pine and heading toward Tom McCall. “I’ll shoot north and then cut back to get us up to Twenty-First. Wonder what’s happening there. Probably a shooting or a knifing. I worked the area for a few months way back when I—”

“There,” Angela says, pointing at the police radio this time. “A unit said something about a struck pedestrian. Fatality.”

“Ooooh, okay. Getting run over is considered a natural death down there with all the drunks staggering around.”

“So sad,” Angela says, sounding like she means it. No dark humor for her, I guess. She looks over at me. “You up on Ocnod?”

“Oc … The guy who was lynched?”

She nods. “Street name Ocnod. His real name was Qasim Al-Sabti. The Fat Dicks think he was from Iraq because they found a famous artist with the same name listed in Google, a long-dead painter who lived in Baghdad. Our Ocnod has lived here in Portland for fifty years.”

“Wait a sec,” I say, cranking a left, which at least gets us heading toward Twenty-First. “So the guy lynched wasn’t black?”

Angela shakes her head. “Not an African American and not black the way the GP has been led to believe.”

“So the general public thinks he’s black because of what the police told the media?”

“Yup, but it wasn’t a lie at the time. He didn’t have ID on him and he looks like an African American. It wasn’t until yesterday the Fat Dicks learned his name was Qasim Al-Sabti.”

“Oh man. So our perp killed a man he thought was African American, but he was really a Middle Easterner. Oh man!”

“Yup. Still a hate crime, though. Deputy Chief Rodriguez told BJ to tell us to keep Ocnod’s real ethnicity hush-hush.”

“I can imagine the African American community is … concerned.” I was going to say upset, but Angela might think it’s a feeble word given the gravity of the issue.

She snaps her head toward me. “You think they might be concerned because a black man was hung from a fucking light post?” At least she restrained her volume.

“Hold on, Angela.” So this is what Clarence and the Deputy Chief Rodriguez were talking about. “Sorry I used the wrong word, or at least one you think is wrong. I was out of the country when this happened so I’m trying to play catch-up here. What I know is a black man was found lynched and there have been protest marches. In my experience, racially motivated crimes in the black community almost always lead to marches. So that’s why I was asking.”

I break our stare down first so I don’t crash us into a parked car.

“All right,” she says softly. “I give you that you’re trying to play catch-up. What do you make—”

“Wait. You ‘give me?’” I say meeting her eyes again. “‘Give me’?”

She keeps looking at me until I have to look back out the windshield again. Twenty seconds pass. “Wrong word choice. Sorry.”

“I’m sorry about my wrong word choice too.”

Another twenty seconds pass. She looks over at me. “All right then.”

“All right then,” I say back. We smile at each other and the tension eases. Thing is, I don’t care how sensitive she is to racial issues, I refuse to tiptoe around her. I’m not a racist so I have no reason to watch my every word.

“What I was going to ask, Sam, as someone just learning all this, what do you make of the fact he was lynched and ‘nigger’ was carved into his chest?”

“At first blush, I’d say hanging him might be a message, same with the N word scratched into him. Hanging someone because of their color or ethnicity is pretty unusual, although they used to do it down in the South. The KKK and similar ilk. But around here?”

“I see,” she says, her voice tight again but not angry. Maybe she didn’t like me saying ‘N word.’ What the hell am I supposed to say? Naughty word? Not going to happen. “I agree with one part and disagree with the other,” she says.

“Which is which?” I ask.

“I think lynching the man and the carving, oh, by the way, the word wasn’t ‘scratched’ into his skin. The ME said it was cut all the way into his sternum. Anyway, I agree those things were a message. I disagree lynching black folk was only done in the past. Last year in Chicago, a black man walked into what he didn’t know was a big-time racist bar. The next morning, Chicago PD found him hanging from a roof overhang in the alley out back. Last Fall in Boise, Idaho, some teenage white boys raped a pregnant black woman, and then hung her from a tree.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah, damn,” she snaps.

I hang a left on Tenth and look over at her again, and say pointedly, “I didn’t know about those hangings, Angela.”

She looks back at me. “Okay.”

I’m not accepting her ‘okay.’ “My point, Angela, is my not knowing about them does not make me a bad guy and it doesn’t give you a reason to snap at me.”

“I never said you were a—”

“You implied it by your tone.”

“I—”

“Here are a couple of things about me. One of the reasons I agreed to work on hate crimes is the very thought of someone getting hurt because of their sexual preference, ethnicity, race, skin color, religion, or whatever, pisses me the hell off. Secondly, you’re black and I’m white. I don’t have one iota of a problem with this. Do you?”

It’s called putting the turd in the other guy’s pocket.

“What? No, I don’t,” she says defensively, her eyes impossibly wide.

“Good, now tell me where we’re going.”

My eyes back on the road, I hear her take a deep breath as if she’d just been smacked in the face. Maybe no one has called her on her attitude before. “Hang a left up there. It’s on the east side of the street.”

“Thank you.”

We ride in silence, which gives me a moment to look at a part of Portland I haven’t seen for a long while. This part of Twenty-First Avenue has seen some rough economic times in the last few years. There is a boarded-up storefront and right across the street is another. I see a building not boarded but it still looks as if it hasn’t been occupied in a while. Here is one remodeled with a nice all-brick front and big smoked window.

“There,” Angela says, pointing at the brick building.

“What is it? There’s no sign.” The little one over the front door reads: Enter In The Rear.

“Rose City Steam,” Angela says. “Gay bathhouse. Pull in the driveway there. It takes us to a parking area in the back.”

I hang a left. “A gay bathhouse. Your cousin works here?”

“He’s actually my mother’s cousin, God rest her soul, which makes him my … something. Second cousin? Anyway, he’s been living down in Old Town since his wife died about ten years ago. He knows everyone and everything going on in his hood. As far as working here, he says they treat him right and he’s his own boss. Head of maintenance.” She shrugs. “I don’t think he’s gay.”

There are about a dozen cars parked back here, which seems like a lot for a place like this considering it’s only noon. But what do I know? Angela and I walk toward a canopied door. It’s fluorescent purple and guarded on each side by four-feet high, shiny black panthers sitting on their haunches and looking eager to pounce. They’re magnificent stone carvings that must weigh five hundred pounds each.

Angela pulls open the door and we step into a small foyer with sparkly purple walls draped with white, twinkling lights. Straight ahead is a thick Plexiglas teller’s window, and to the right, a heavy-duty door with a buzzer. On the other side of the window, a man wearing only a white athletic supporter sprays cleaner on a small window in an open door on the opposite wall. From here we can see about halfway down the softly lit hall where half-a-dozen men are standing in a group talking and laughing. It would look like an office workplace setting except every man is stark naked.

“Angela!” greets the man whose jock strap makes him the most dressed on the other side of the window. He moves up to the teller window. Yowsa! He’s got nipple piercings. He smiles at Angela. “How are you, sweet cheeks? Haven’t seen you for a … whoa! Like who’s your knock-down-gorgeous-and-sit-on-my-face friend?”

Angela laughs. “This is Sam. He’s a detective.”

“Detective! Oh my. So he’s a dick, on top all of that gorgeousness. Saaaam,” he says, crotch gazing me. “My name is Teddy. Remember it, you’ll be screeeeaming it later.” Angela laughs.

I smile, and say, “Isn’t going to happen, Teddy. I’m straight, it’s great, I don’t hate, and I don’t discriiiiminate.”

Teddy points at me, and laughs. “You’re good, and oh so hot.” He looks at Angela. “Want to see Terrance, sweet cheeks?”

“Just for a few minutes, Teddy. Appreciate it.”

“Hold a sec,” he says. He slips out of the room swinging his bare ass. After three or four steps he looks over his shoulder, and says, “Sam?”

“It’s still no, Teddy.”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. Down the hall, several of the men, most in the twenties and thirties, turn all the way toward us. I’m not sure if they are really interested in us or just want to pose.

“I love it here,” Angela says.

“I bet you do.”

A small sign by the window lists the price and the rules:

• No clothing allowed past the locker room except for sandals.

• No alcohol or drugs.

• Condoms will be worn for all sexual activity.

• When you’re told “not interested” respect it and move on.

There are about a dozen more, but before I can read them the door opens and a fit-looking, sixty-something black man in a blue tank top and matching shorts steps out, his arms spread wide. “Angie baby. How you be? How you be?”

The two embrace for a moment, then Angie says, “Terrance, this is my partner Sam. Sam, this is Terrance.”

“What it is, Sam?” he says pumping my hand “What it is? You taking care of my girl?”

“I got a feeling she can do just fine without my help.”

“Sure ‘nuff the truth,” he cackles, extending his palm toward me. “Sure ‘nuff.” I slap it.

“Can we go outside, Terrance?” Angela says.

“Let’s do it, let’s do it.” He pulls the door open and gestures for us to lead the way out. “This about Ocnod?” he says as the three of us sit on a long bench at the side of the building.

Angela nods. “He lived in Old Town. Did you know him?”

“Talked to him off and on, off and on. If you squint your eyes he looked like a black man, you know. But he wasn’t. Heard he was from Iraq or some such. Don’t think he liked real blacks too much. Maybe cuz everyone thought he was one.” Terrance cackles. “Sad thing hanging him up. Don’t know what to make of it, I don’t.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?” Angela asks.

“Let’s see, let’s see. I was gone for a few days, but I think I seen him two weeks ago, or some such.”

“Where, cousin?”

“At Hung Far Low.”

“The Chinese food joint on Fourth?” I ask.

“Yes, sir, yes, sir. Lunch time. Didn’t talk. No we didn’t. I waved, but he didn’t wave back. Don’t think he liked real blacks too much.”

I nod. “Any reason you know for someone to kill him?”

“Wasn’t a friendly sort but don’t know a reason to kill him, I don’t.”

“Any strange faces in Old Town?” Angela asks.

Terrance cackles loudly. “For sure, cousin. For damn sure. You probably mean new strange faces.”

She smiles. “I do.”

“More in the winter when it’s cold and folks stop into Portland to get free food and clothes. Now, not so much. A couple dudes with huge backpacks yesterday, but nothin’ too strange about them. Can’t think of nothin’ else …” He looks off for a moment.

Angela touches his arm. “What, cousin?”

“Two ladies—last weekend, I think. Yup, Saturday. Saturday for sure. Big women, not fat-fat you know, but big, like they could knock any man on his ass. Both white. They were walking along Fifth and cut down Everett to Third. One had a camera.”

“What caught your eye, Terrance?” I ask.

“Something about them, something about them. I only looked at them shortly, very shortly, but I remember thinking they didn’t fit in Old Town. Not like folks passing through, or like no tourist, neither.”

“What did they look like, Cousin?”

“Well, no prejudice intended, none at all, but if I had to guess, I’d say they was dykes. You know—lesbos—sisters for sure. Maybe twins. Had short hair combed like a man, both of them. One had her damn head shaved here, on the sides but real long in the back. Wearing work jeans. One wore blue ones, the other had black ones. Both had work shirts, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the both of them. Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes. Just remembered. One had a swastika tattoo. Right here on the back of her hand, left, no, right hand. Right hand. And if I had to guess, it was a Stoney Lonesome tattoo. You know, done down there in Salem at the prison, or some such.”

“Prison tattoo,” I say. “Good info, Terrance. Good eyes.”

“Cousin, where did Ocnod live?”

“I always saw him around Everett. Probably in Rose City Place, old hotel turned into apartments between Everett and Davis.”

We chat for a few minutes longer but Terrance doesn’t have any more useful info.

“Thanks so much, cousin,” Angela says. “They treating you okay here?”

“Oh yes, oh yes. None of them too interested in me, except every once in a while one will make a move when the pickin’s slim, you know. But I’m still straight as an arrow. Mostly I tend to the furnace in the winter and the air conditioners in the summer. I clean up things too. Pretty good job, I guess. Pretty good job.”

Angela leans across and gives him a hug. “Thanks, cousin. I’ll tell Auntie Beth I saw you.”

“Thank you, thank you. Got to get over there to see her. I do.” He extends his hand to me. Take care of this girl, Sam. She can be ornery but she’s a good one.”

“Ornery?” I say with pretend surprise. “No way.”

Angela struggles not to smile.

* * *

“To be fair,” I say, as I guide our car down Burnside, “we should stop at Mary’s Club to see if they’ve seen anything unusual.” Mary’s Club, located on Broadway, one block south of Old Town, is one of the oldest strip joints in Portland.

“Uh, huh. You want to know if any of those topless girls have seen anything?”

“Well, you just got an eyeful of bottomless dudes.”

“There were bottomless dudes there? Why didn’t you tell me?”

We’re tension free for the moment and I hope it continues, but I’m not betting on it.

“You familiar with Second Chance, an old secondhand store at Two and Davis in Old Town?” I ask.

Angela shakes her head. “No. Why?”

“I know the owner. He’s got another store on Southeast Fifteenth and Taylor. If he’s not there, he’s usually at his Davis store. We can check to see if he’s seen anyone around who’s caught his eye.”

“Let’s do it,” Angela says. “Will he be dressed?”

“I so hope so.”

I find a parking spot a couple blocks away from the store. It’s a pleasant, partly sunny June day so there are lots of people on the sidewalk, a mix of down-and-outers and uptowners, the latter braving the two- or three-block walk into Old Town to lunch at No Cows Allowed, a spendy, all veggie eatery.

“In five years,” I say, gesturing toward everything in our path, most if not all of the winos, dopers, panhandlers, and low-income folks down here will be a thing of the past, replaced by glossy establishments catering to the high-rise folks.”

“Think you’re right,” Angela says. “But as is always the case, those displaced won’t be helped out of their poverty and addictions. They will be shoved somewhere else, the east side of the Willamette River, maybe, or to North Portland. But the one place they won’t be allowed to go is to the neighborhoods where the politicians, attorneys, money lenders, and CEOs live.”

“So right. It never fails to amaze me why—”

“Hell-oooo salt-and-pepper people,” a raggedly looking man says gravelly, stepping out from a doorway and blocking our way. “Help an old altar boy buy a jug of communion wine, will you?” The guy looks to be in his thirties but they’ve been hard years. He’s got grime imbedded into his skin, long unwashed hair, and filthy, mismatched clothes. Panhandling is legal in Portland, but it’s illegal to block people’s path. When we start to move around him, he sidesteps to block us. “Your donation?” he says, holding out his palm, his mouth smiling, his eyes not.

“You’re going to move out of the way,” Angela says. “We’re the police. Move now!”

“Come on, pepper,” he says, reaching for her jacket. “Be a good Catholic and—”

I grab his arm and yank it toward me hard enough to spin him completely around. I reach around and cup his forehead with my palm and pull his head up and over until he plops unceremoniously onto his rear.

“We’re the police, pal,” I say to the top of his head. “I want you to—”

He kicks at Angela, just barely missing her leg, and reaches behind him to grab my ankle. I jerk my leg away, drop down onto one knee, and slide the inside of my wrist over the bridge of his nose. Before he can bring his hands up, I pull his head back against my chest, grab my fist with my free hand, and pull my wrist in hard against his schnoz, wiggling my hand a little to grind in the misery.

“Aaaah! Sweet Lord!” he bellows, his rough voice now nasal, his hands struggling to pry my crushing wrist away.

“Put your hands behind you,” Angela commands, her handcuffs ready.

“Do as she says,” I say into his ear as I apply more pressure. “Do it or you will never breathe right again.” He releases my arm and quickly puts his hands behind him. “Cuff him now.” I scoot back a couple of inches to give her room. She snaps on one, then the other.

My cell phone rings. It’s got to be Mark. It will have to wait.

I keep my hand on his shoulder as I stand and lean over to look at him. His nose is pouring snot and blood, and tears are making dirty rivers down his cheeks.

“Stay still, altar boy,” Angela says. She extracts her hand radio from a holder attached to her pants belt. It was hidden under her jacket. I didn’t even think about asking to get one before we left the office. Guess I’m rustier than I thought.

“Four Four Four,” she says into her hand radio.

“Four Four Four,” dispatch repeats.

“Can we get a uniform car to Two and Northwest Everett to transport a prisoner for us?”

“Eight Thirty-Two, can you do it?”

“Eight Thirty-Two, we’re a couple blocks away.”

Twenty minutes later, Angela and I are again on the way to the secondhand shop. The two uniformed officers knew him and said his street name really is Altar Boy. He had two warrants for failure to appear, one for an assault on a police officer and the other for aggressive begging.

“You know,” Angela says, “I could have handled the man if you’d given me the chance.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Soon as I saw him reach for you, I just reacted. I didn’t know if he was going to grab you or hit you, and I couldn’t see if he had a weapon in his other hand.”

She laughs. “Well, it was pretty cool. There a name for your nose crush move? It’s gotta hurt.”

“There is,” I say. “It’s called nose-oyama crush-azuki. It’s a good one because it messes with the recipient’s breathing and vision, plus it hurts like holy hell. Not particularly a good police technique unless you got a partner to do the handcuffing.”

“Good thing I was there to save your ass,” she says with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Oh, man, are we flirting with each other? Don’t need it. Don’t need it at all.

My cell rings again. I pry it out of my pocket, thankful for the distraction, and check the screen. “Mark,” I say. “How are you doing?”

“Sam. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“It’s good. I’m actually working. Rodriguez put me to work in Intel today and already I’m out serving and protecting. At the moment I’m in Old town with Angela Clemmons. We just pinched an aggressive panhandler.” Angela smiles at me. “It’s Intel’s secondary mission, you know.” I expect him to laugh but I get only silence. “Mark? You okay?”

“Yeah. Just so tired. I was going to bother you for a ride but I’ll grab a cab. Got to get home and check on the place, and get a shower.”

“Listen, buddy. We were about to interview a man but I can get over to the hospital after and—”

“No, no, no. I’m good. A cab’s fine.”

“Hold on a sec,” I say, retrieving my wallet. I find Rudy’s card: Rudolph Abraham Lincoln. World’s Best Cabbie. “I got people, Mark. Putting you on hold. Don’t go away.”

I tap in Rudy’s cell number.

“Rudy, where to?”

“Still pulling on innocent folk’s eyelids?”

“Ha ha. It was a hoot, wasn’t it, Sam? How you doin’? You goin’ to buy me a burger?”

“Hey, Rudy. I’m working right now. Let me give you a shout in a couple of days.”

“Listen to this. Weighed in this morning and sure enough, down one.”

“Excellent. Wife happy?”

Oh, yeah. Says the thought of me with a six pac makes her feel warm all over.” He laughs uproariously.

“Well, gotta say, thinking of you with a six pac kinda does it for me too.”

“Uh oh. Uuuuh oh. I got ‘em comin’ at me from all directions.”

I laugh. “Listen, Rudy. If you’re free, can you swing by Emanuel and pick up my friend Mark Sanderson? I’ll have him meet you in the lobby.”

“Consider it done. Just gassin’ up and I’ll be there in ten.”

“Thanks, Rudy. I’ll call you in a couple three days for a burger.”

“Ten four, Sam.”

I click back to Mark. “Hey, me again. Got a cab coming for you. He’ll meet you in the lobby in ten. His name is Rudy, black man, huge belly. I guarantee he will cheer you up before you get all the way home.”

“Thanks, Sam. Appreciate it. How’s it feel to be on the bricks?”

“Weird, good, fish out of water, exhilarating. How’s David?”

Long pause, then softly, “The same. I’m … scared. Got a bad feeling.”

“I think you’ll feel better after eating some nutritious food and sleeping a solid eight in your own bed.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“I am. You heading down to the lobby?

“Almost there. Thanks, Sam. Talk to you later.”

Angela has been standing a few feet away fiddling with her cell. When I pocket mine, she asks, “How’s the lieutenant doing?”

“Hurting physically and hurting more mentally. He’s really worried about David.”

She shakes her head. “Sons of bitches,” she says through gritting teeth.

“I concur.”

“Is Second Chance on the corner there?” Angela asks. Before I can answer, she does. “Yes, it is. I can see the little sandwich board on the sidewalk. What’s the man’s name?”

“Mister Efrem Axelbrad.”

“A mouthful,” Angela says, pushing open the door. “Sounds Jewish.”

“Detectives Reeves!” the seventy-four-year-old man shouts from the back of the cluttered and dusty second-hand store. “Come in, sweet man. And your friend too.” The old man clasps his hands and shakes them vigorously above his head as he twists and turns his way through all the old crap lying about. He points upward as he approaches, and says, “Praise God I can see you today, my sweet detective.” He grips my arms and looks at me, his head nodding. His face shows hard years of worry and strain, his large nose and elongated ears sprouting more hair than his mole-covered, balding scalp. “Praise God. How are you, my friend?”

I laugh and touch his arms. “I am well, and you, Mister Axelbrad?”

“I am alive! Because of you.” He looks at Angela. “Young woman, did you know? Detective Reeves saved my life. Four months, eight days, and,” he looks at a big clock over his door, “one hour ago. He saved my life. Not at this store, my other one on Taylor, on the other side of the river. A hero. No, no, an angel,” he says, jabbing his finger heavenward. “Sent from God himself. I’m seventy-four years old and Detective Reeves gave me a few more years.”

Realization spreads across Angela’s face as she looks from the old man to me. “Ooooh, so this is the man …”

I nod, wondering if either of them can hear my pounding heart. Four months, eight days, and one hour ago, I interrupted an armed robbery in progress. A doper was pressing a gun against Mister Axelbrad’s head—he was about to blow a hole in it, but I shot the tweaker first, right under the nose and into his medulla oblongata, which stopped all his body functions instantly, preventing him from reflexively pulling the trigger. A couple months later, I would shoot two more people.

“I am so happy to see you, Detective. But such terrible nightmares I have. You too?”

“Yes,” I say, and pocket my trembling hands. “This is Detective Angela Clemmons.”

The old man bows several times, his hands still clasped. “So happy to meet you. You are a very pretty lady.” He wags his finger at her. “Be careful of my friend here. He is most handsome, is he not?”

Angela shrugs indifferently, then smirks at me.

He points at her again, laughs. “Ooooh. Detective Sam. I think it is you who should be careful.

“We are investigating the hanging over on Third,” I say quickly, wanting to terminate the uncomfortable moment.” Mister Axelbrad shakes his head. “Ocnod. So sad. He was in here last week, you know? Bought a … what was it? Oh, yes, a clock.” He shrugs his thin shoulders. “Buys a clock and the poor bastard didn’t have much time left. God has a sense of humor, no?”

“Did you know him well, sir?” Angela asks, looking at a dusty Darth Vader helmet.

“Ocnod? Not at all. He came in a few times, just looking around. He looked my age, you know, so I tried to engage him in conversation, but he didn’t make an effort. Turned down my offer for some tea.” He shrugs. “Shy maybe, or just not sociable.”

“Too bad,” I say. “He say anything about anyone bothering him, harassing him?”

Mister Axelbrad shakes his head. “Hard enough getting a hello out of him.”

“How often are you at this store, sir,” Angela asks.

“My brother and I rotate between the two stores. So I’m here three days a week usually.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I don’t like so much working at the other place … ever since …” He pats my cheek and smiles, and I take a deep breath to slow my heart, which has been in the red zone since we walked through the door. “And my brother doesn’t like working there anymore either. Might shut it down and work here for another year or two. My Hannah wants me to retire.” He shrugs. “Maybe she is right. It is about time.”

Angela touches his arm. “Have you seen anyone around who’s caught your eye? You know, someone who didn’t look right among all these other people who don’t look right?”

“Yes, a woman!” he says, angrily swatting at the air. “An awful woman. Oy-vey! A big man-woman. Had a fucking swastika here.” He jabs his finger at the back of his hand. “Farshtinkener! I saw it and my stomach …” He clenches his fist “. . . it did like this.” He steps over to a counter loaded with old, dusty junk, and picks up a foot and a half-long bone, bleached, chipped, from an animal’s leg, or a human’s, maybe. “I lift this up in my hand like this, and I tell her, ‘You nafka! You whore. You get out of my shop or I will beat your ugly face in.’”

“What did she do?” I ask, thinking he looks like Samson had he lived into his senior years.

“The bitch left,” he says with a shrug. “Who wants their face beat in with someone’s bone?”

“What day?” Angela asks, eyeing the weapon. “What was she looking at in here?”

“A week ago, I think. Looking at knives, under the counter there. I felt like giving her a knife,” He smacks his stomach. “Right in the kishka.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “You’re all right, Mister Axelbrad.”

“I see you have two video cameras in the corners back there,” Angela says. “Do you have tapes of when she came in?”

He shrugs. “Sorry. They are empty. For show only.”

“No problem,” I say. “How is business?”

He shrugs. “Could be better. But I don’t worry so much about it. A bi gezunt, eh? So long as you’ve got your health.”

I hand him my card. “I think you already have one but here’s another. Call me if anything catches your eye. For sure call me if you see the woman again.”

“That nafka!” he says loudly lifting the bone over his head. “If I call you, you better hurry before I bone her.”

“Promise me you won’t do any boning,” I say, gently taking the bone from him and setting it on the counter.

“I will, my boy. But you should know I live by this, “Call on God, but row away from the rocks.” He shrugs. “I have a temper, I’m sorry to say. My dear Hannah has been telling me for fifty years I need to control my temper. I try. It’s all I can do.”

I squeeze his shoulder. “Try real hard, okay. For me?”

He pats my face again. “I will try hard for you, my sweet boy.” He looks at Angela. “You take care of him.”

Angela smiles.

* * *

Turns out, Angela is quite the health food enthusiast. She takes me to her favorite lunch place, a vegetarian joint where most of the customers look like they are in dire need of protein and Vitamin B-12. Angela says she eats meat but likes the sandwiches here. She orders one so stuffed full of vegetation it would overdose a rabbit. I order the same thing but to be funny I ask for four slices of ham with extra mayo, which couldn’t have shocked the skinny hippie dude behind the counter more if I’d slapped his mother.

Angela says she has been doing yoga three times a week for about six years and weight training twice a week for about ten years.

“Well, it’s obviously working for you.” Oh man. That sounded like flirting and could even be construed as sexual harassment.

She blushes, as much as a black person can blush, and says, “Thank you, Sam,” all sweet and coy-like.

Angela is an attractive woman and there is where the thought ends. The slow body scan she gave me in the office made me feel uncomfortable as did the smiles we exchanged in the car after our getting-to-know-you spat. Of course, it didn’t help we looked at naked men together, nor did Mister Axelbrad’s teasing. Now my comment about her having a nice body is like a gusting Santa Ana wind buffeting an out-of-control fire in a southern California canyon.

Am I over thinking this? Hope so.

It’s two p.m. by the time we finish lunch. We head toward the river walk where Mark and David were jumped, but there is construction in the area and not a parking place to be found, even for a police car. It’s getting late anyway so we head back to the office, and fill out reports about our conversation with Terrance at the bathhouse and with Efrem Axelbrad at Second Chance. I call down to Central Precinct duty sergeant and ask her to have the Old Town beat cars keep an eye out for the two women we were told about and get their names and other vitals.

Angela and I fill in Steve and BJ on what we learned. Steve loves hearing about our arrest of the panhandler, especially liking the fact I used a couple of martial arts moves. “This is what I’ve been saying,” Steve says to the lieutenant. “Did you know ghosts sit around campfires telling Chuck Norris stories?”

BJ isn’t amused by any of it and asks me to remain as Steve and Angela leave the office. Guess I’m in trouble already and I have yet to work a full day, but in trouble for what?

BJ straightens some papers on his desk that don’t need straightening and clears his throat that doesn’t need clearing. “Sam,” he says, in his whispery, Alec Baldwin voice, his face still angled down as if reading a report, though his eyes peer up at me from under his eyebrows. “Between Steve, Angela, and me, we have ten combined years in Intelligence, during which not one of us has used physical force. You’re here one day and you’re doing your kung fu thing on a homeless person.”

“He was about to grab Angela,” I say, sounding like a little kid alibiing his actions.

“You couldn’t have backed away? You couldn’t have sternly warned him to leave you alone?”

Is this guy for real? Now I‘m pissed off. I control it, though, and reply calmly, “I hear what you’re saying, boss, but if you’ve looked over my personnel file you won’t find one complaint for excessive force, and I have been in many beefs on the job. I do not abuse people and I do not insult my art or my teachers by using my skills unnecessarily. Check with any of my previous partners and they will tell you I am the last guy to use force.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the lieutenant says, his face still angled toward his desktop. I notice for the first time he has a serious comb over. “This position isn’t about jumping fences, doing karate chops, and shots fired. It’s a low-keyed job about gathering information. Period. And I don’t need to remind you this is especially important for you.”

“Understood,” I say, gritting my teeth, and standing. I want to tell him next time I’ll do exactly the same thing if I think another officer is about to be grabbed, punched, or whatever, but I refrain. His little speech isn’t about me dumping a guy on his butt, at least I hope he’s enough of a cop that that isn’t what this is about. No, this is about him letting me know he isn’t about to be embarrassed and put on the spot by me.

I’m well aware some cops dislike me intensely for what I did nine weeks ago. Well, welcome to the club because I hate what I did too. I destroyed a family, I shamed the PD, I instilled fear of the police in the people I’m sworn to protect, and I scarred my soul. I’ve been through hell over it and now after two months of confusion as to what I should do next, I made the decision to come back here to do what’s right. If my boss has trouble with it, and if anyone else has trouble with it, well, screw ‘em. And if my coming back gets to be too much—for them—I’m out of here.

“I’m done, Sam,” BJ says, giving me all of his face. “Questions?”

“None, Lieutenant.”

“Good. It’s quitting time. See you tomorrow.”

Steve and Angela ask if I want to have a beer with them and I decline, telling them I have to teach. Angela seems disappointed. Oh well.

I get my pickup and head toward my school, stopping first to get a Whopper. I give Mark a call while chowing down in my truck.

“How are you doing?”

“Hey, Sam,” he says, with more life in his voice than I’ve heard since I’ve been home. “Your advice was all good. Your friend Rudy brought me home. What a live wire he is. Even had me laughing. He helped me in the house and with getting settled. And he volunteered to go to the grocery for me.”

“Great, Mark. You sleep at all?”

“I did. Got about five hours in and I feel pretty good. Well, maybe not good, my ribs are killing me, but I feel awake.”

“Heard anything on your case?”

“Nada. The Fat Dicks were in court all day so they didn’t work it at all. Babcock and Tyler checked on surveillance tapes in the area and talked to some construction workers, but they didn’t turn up anything. Hopefully tomorrow. How was your first day back?”

When I tell him about my day with Angela, he laughs and then groans in pain. “You better watch out,” he says. “She is a looker. I’ve heard she’s a bit of a racist, but apparently she’s made an exception for you.”

“You’re funny. I’m not even remotely inter—” Mark’s phone bleeps. “Sounds like you got a call, Mark. I’ll let you get it. I’ve got to get over to the school.”

“Okay, pal. Thanks for taking care of me.”

I head on over to the church and park in the lot.

“Sensei,” someone says from behind me as I climb out of my truck. It’s Nate, the new black belt. He pulls his workout bag out of the trunk of a black Honda.

“Hey, Nate, good to see you,” I say, extending my hand. Last evening when we chatted before class, he seemed subdued, as if he hadn’t an ounce of energy. But he came alive during class. As soon as it was over, though, he slipped back into the same lifeless, quiet demeanor. Before he left, he came over to where I was talking with a couple of brown belts and thanked me. He hesitated for a second, as if he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t, and left without uttering another word to anyone. I haven’t known him long, but it’s apparent he is a troubled man.

“You’re here early,” I say. “White belts are at six and black belts are at seven.”

Nate nods. “I was going to work on stretching while the white belts trained.” He’s wearing all black again, a long-sleeve button shirt this time. A large turquoise ring adorns the index finger of his right hand.

“Sounds good,” I say. We look at each other for a moment, break eye contact, and then look back at the same time.

He clears his throat. “You teaching the white belts?” he asks, his tone more like, “Do you have to teach the white belts?”

“The padre will teach it if I’m not there.” He nods, looks at the passing traffic, sniffs, and then looks back at me. “Nate, you want to sit in my pickup?”

He tightens his lips, blinks several times, nods.

I move my truck just off the lot and park at the curb a few feet away from the church entrance. “The arriving students shouldn’t interrupt us now.”

He sits stiffly, holding his workout bag in his lap, like a woman on the bus clutching her purse. He unconsciously squeezes the fabric with both hands.

“You looked real good in class last night,” I say to get the conversation going. “It was clear you had good teachers.” He bows his head slightly, the gesture reminding me of my new Vietnamese friends in Saigon. “You’ve trained with my black belts already, right?”

“Yes,” he says. “They are very good, strong, fast. I especially like their attitudes. No one shows off. I have seen too much of it at other schools.”

“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment. I have always taught that besides self-defense, the martial arts should teach you to respect the struggle, respect it in yourself and respect it in your training partners. In my school, there is no place for strutting peacocks.”

He nods.

When he doesn’t speak, I ask, in an attempt to establish a comfortable connection, “It’s been my experience most kenpo practitioners are hand specialists.”

“My teacher is a very good kicker but he is amazing with his hands. So I lean toward hand techniques more than kicking.”

“Most street encounters are settled with the hands, anyway. I don’t think I know what weapons are used in kenpo.” Actually, I do. Just trying to encourage conversation.

“The usual: staff, Chinese sword, chain. My teacher helped me adapt my family’s war club to the martial arts.”

“Really. You mean the hammer-looking weapon with a rock attached to one end?”

Nate smiles, no doubt at my ignorance. “I have mine,” he says, unzipping his bag. He rummages through his training gear to the bottom, and extracts a thick cylinder of rolled brown and white cowhide.

“As near as my father can tell,” Nate says, unwrapping it, “this has been in our family for over a hundred and fifty years. He told me another family might have owned it before, and it was either lost in battle or maybe dropped when its owner fell injured or dead. He lifts it up with reverence. He doesn’t offer it to me to hold.

The twelve- or fifteen-inch-long handle is some kind of hardwood with black cowhide wrapped in the middle, a clump of brownish fur above it, then another band of black cowhide, and near the top one more clump of fur. I’ve seen photos of war clubs with a fist-sized rock secured to the end, but this one has about a ten-inch-curved piece of something black and hard looking. It’s not steel and I don’t think it’s a rock. One end looks a little like an axe and the other end a blunt snout, like a hammer. Whatever it is, someone has carved about a dozen shark-like teeth into the axe end.

“This would leave a fella lonesome for his skull,” I say. “What is the head made of?”

“Jawbone of a buffalo. See how this end has been ground to give it teeth?”

“Nasty,” I say. “Guess you could hit with the blunt end too? Like a hammer?”

“It’s all good.” He spins it in his hand so the hammer end is forward, and then snaps his wrist a couple times as if pounding in a nail. “You can bash someone’s head or any other body part with the hammer end.” He spins the blade side forward, snaps his wrist again to hit an imaginary target, then rips the blade downward. “I like to hack with it like it’s an ax and then slice downward a few inches to rip flesh with the teeth.”

“Gee, I was going to ask you to teach it to the tiny tots class until you mentioned the ripping flesh part.” He smiles. “Impressive. How often do you train with it?”

“Three or four days a week. I’ve created a routine of strikes, blocks, and combinations. There is no one to test me, but my father and grandfather approved when I demonstrated my skills.”

“You’ll have to show me. Not on me, of course, maybe on one of the white belts.”

Nate laughs, the first time I’ve heard him do so. It fades quickly. Silently he rewraps the club and puts it back under his training gear. He folds his hands on top of the bag. When he doesn’t say anything, I crack the window a little to let in some air. I’m not going to force the conversation this time. The ball is in his court.

Awkward silence. More awkward silence. Then, “How did you do it?” he asks softly, looking out the windshield.

“Meaning?”

Thirty seconds pass. “How did you survive what happened to you?”

I know he’s not referring to the shooting in the secondhand store. He means the one in the house, the hostage taker … and the hostage. Three cops have asked me this same question. They had been involved in deadly force encounters, all good shoots. Still, they were haunted by their experiences. I told them every day is a challenge because every day I wake up, I’m a killer. Alcoholics have the twelve-step program. There isn’t anything out there for cops who kill innocent children.

On two occasions, people who recognized me at the grocery asked the same thing. Actually, they asked how I could live with myself. My first impulse was to strike out at them. My second was to hope they’d strike me. In the end, I walked away without doing or saying anything.

When I tell Nate it’s mostly the ol’ one-day-at-a-time thing, he nods, as if he knew already knew it, but knowing wasn’t helping. “Do you feel like telling me what happened?” I ask.

He shrugs.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were wanting to talk about—”

“Sensei, have you heard the expression, ‘Men are at war with each other because each man is at war with himself’?”

I shake my head. “I haven’t but it’s interesting.” I wonder if my father knows it.

“I’m not sure if it applies to what is going on between our countries around the world because, as has always been the case, the grunts, the one’s doing the fighting, aren’t privy. Their job is to put on the war garb and go into harm’s way. Some go mindlessly into the fray, others go like wound-up robots, others go with a sense of doing something right for the indigenous people. Lastly, there is a small percentage who go in with the anticipation of getting to kill. I went two times with all those reasons except for wanting to kill.”

He shakes his head as he looks out the side window. He mindlessly drums his fingernails on the glass for a moment before clutching the fabric on his gym bag again. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out. “I killed during my first tour … three times. The first was two months after I’d been in Iraq, the second one after six months there, and the third man I killed during my eighth month. All of them were firing at us and all were armed. I … didn’t feel good about killing and I didn’t feel bad. I guess I felt … nothing. I kept thinking I should feel something, but there was nothing there. It was like white noise. Even when my captain told me that those I killed would not kill any more of us, still, I felt nothing.”

Can’t say I had the same experience. After I shot the tweaker who was about to shoot Mister Axelbrad, I felt horrible. I remember collapsing against the plate glass window outside of his store and losing my breakfast on the sidewalk, and losing it again when I got back to the office. For the two months I was off duty, I’d fluctuate between feeling giddy one moment and sinking into a deep funk the next. Doc Kari always says whatever I feel is perfectly normal because I experienced an abnormal event. It’s hard to keep that in mind sometimes.

Nate continues, “I was home for a few months and then I was ordered to go back over for a second tour, to Afghanistan this time. My wife was extremely upset, my four-year-old daughter was inconsolable, and I was having problems facing the possibility of having to kill again.”

Nate looks down at his bag for a moment and turns to me. “I said last night I’m not related to Geronimo or Cochise, but I possess their warrior nature. And I think being a member of the warrior class is an honorable thing. But somewhere along the line during my second tour things … my belief in acting honorably got … buried. I became miserable, anxious, angry, full of hate, and I wanted revenge—desperately.”

He pauses, his eyes focused on mine but his mind off in some dusty rock pile in the Middle East. My sense is he has had these thoughts before, but this is the first time he’s verbalized them.

“I don’t know, Nate. If I’ve learned anything about violence it’s that everyone processes what they see and do differently. Some have issues with it right away; others might not feel the impact for a long while; some never have a problem with it; some suffer all their life. There’s no wrong or right about how you feel. ”

He shakes his head, but I don’t think it’s directed at what I just said. It’s more like he’s trying to shake out something revolving in his mind. He’s silent for a moment, his eyes on his hand as it slides the zipper over and back on his workout bag.

“It’s not what happened in Iraq,” he says. “It’s what happened in Afghanistan. It’s what I … allowed to happen.”

I start to ask what he means but I decide not to intrude. Sometimes not responding can be a powerful tool to get someone to talk.

“Do you know about the dust there?” he asks, his eyes wide, his body almost vibrating with … What? Anxiety for sure. Fear maybe.

“In Afghanistan, you mean? The dust in Afghanistan?”

“Yes,” he says. He’s working the zipper faster than he was a moment ago. Back and forth, back and forth.

“I’m …” I shrug. “I guess I don’t know anything about—”

“It’s a constant,” he snaps. “It blows all the time. It gets in your eyes, ears, mouth. You breathe it in with each inhale but you don’t breathe it all out when you exhale. See the problem?” Nate is talking faster now, one sentence flowing into the next, the zipper sliding back and forth, back and forth. “I researched it online while I was there. I knew it couldn’t be good for you, the dust. I just knew it. I breathed it in when I was in Iraq, and I didn’t breathe it all out there, either. I read the dust is made up of a thousand particles, some so small they can sit on the head of a pin. Aluminum, lead, tin, manganese, and other shit. All of it causes neurological disorders, and stuff like cancer, lung problems, heart disease.

“But that’s just what the Army tells us. Here is what they aren’t saying. Some of the particles are from humans. Particles are flaking off the skin of millions of diseased Afghanis. Dead ones too. They just bury their dead in the dust and under rocks. They don’t put their coffins in concrete liners like we do. So their bodies decompose and become part of the dust, part of those particles on the head of a pin, and it blows and we breathe it in. But we don’t breathe it all out.”

“So you’re saying—I guess I don’t know what you’re saying, Nate.”

“The dust,” he says irritably. “I’m saying it’s part of it. The Army admits we’re breathing it in and it’s making the troops sick. And the heat. Who knows what the awful heat does to you—the heat—and, you’re packing eighty pounds of shit on your back. Then there’s the IEDs. They’re invisible, see? You can’t fight them because you can’t see them. Not until they blow. Not until they explode and take your legs and feet and balls.” He nods his head rapidly. “Yes, improvised explosive devices take your balls.

“I’ve seen six vehicles get hit by IEDs. Two times, there were indigenous people on the road when it happened, like they were waiting for it to happen. They laughed. They laughed when the vehicle blew and the legs blew off, and when the one guy lost his balls. They laughed.”

The zipper—back and forth, back and forth.

“I hated the indigenous and I hated the dust. Both were killing us. You understand? The dust and the IEDs. The heat was miserable, the constant tension was miserable. But the IEDs and the dust …” He snaps his head toward me, his long hair swishing about, his eyes looking wild, his face dark with blood. He jerks his head toward the windshield.

“Nate, look at me for a moment.” He does. “Breathe with me, okay?” He frowns a little. “Humor me, Nate, and follow me as I count. Please sit up straight and close your eyes. Straighter. Good.”

I wish my father were here. He is a master at guided meditation. His voice hypnotizes, takes you in, takes you under.

“Okay, Nate, now breathe in slowly, two, three, four. Hold it, two, three, four. Exhale slowly, two, three, four. Hold it, two, three, four. That’s one cycle. Now let’s do it again. “In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four …”

After three more cycles, Nate’s complexion lightens and his breathing has returned to normal. He looks at me, nods. “I’d forgotten about it,” he says, his voice mellow, again under his control. “They taught it to us in my unit.”

“Helped me a few dozen times these past couple of months. Do you want to continue talking? Or we can always do it later.”

“If I may, I’d like to finish.”

“Sure.”

Nate takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Here goes,” he says, more to himself then to me. “My best buddy in Afghanistan was another Indian, Jay Butterfly, hundred percent Blackfoot from Montana. Jay had been hurt in the COP, a combat outpost, unloading a vehicle. He’d been sleeping in his bunk when they told him to go out and help unload some heavy fifty-caliber ammo cans. So, crazy guy that he was, he went out barefoot, and one of the cans fell on his right one and crushed four of his toes and some major bones in the top of the foot. The last time I talked to Jay, he was about to get shipped stateside and he said he had to tell me something. Said he needed to unburden himself.”

“Unburden himself?”

Nate nods. “Yes, but it ended up burdening me. Says he knew about two guys, both sergeants, who were killing civilians. Fun kills, thrill kills, whatever you want to call it. The people weren’t a threat; they weren’t even the enemy. They were people we were supposed to be helping. Killed them just because they were Afghanis. He knew for sure of two. I don’t know if he saw it happen or what, because all he said was he, ‘knew for sure.’”

“Damn,” I whisper.

“He told me the sergeants’ names. They weren’t in my platoon. They were in another one in the COP. I knew them, or of them, although I hadn’t seen them in a while. Loud mouths, obnoxious. Or at least they had been. Because when I saw them after Jay told me what they had been doing, they weren’t so loud anymore, they kept to themselves, talking quietly, sitting together all the time.

“A couple weeks after Jay shipped out, I heard the sergeants were getting an attaboy for killing two other Afghanis who were about to attack them with pistols. The two troops claimed they were quicker and blew away the young men, teenagers, before they could get off a shot. Their story was different than the one Jay had told me.

“Then it happened again about three weeks after they got the award. This time the two tossed a grenade at an old man. They said he had a pistol on him too. The two got another attaboy, and they were strutting around like banty roosters. Then someone, I don’t know who, found some photos. I think they were on one of the sergeants’ computers, but I’m not sure. Anyway, the photos showed these guys with the two dead teens and the old man. They had taken pictures of each other so only one guy was in each shot. In one, one of the sergeants was smiling and kneeling next to one of the dead teenagers, and lifting the kid’s head by his hair. Another shot showed the other sergeant pretending to kiss the old man’s forehead. In another pic, the same sergeant was pretending to have sex with the old Afghani.”

“Oh, man,” I say, shaking my head. “I think I read about it. The two were charged, weren’t they?”

Nate nods. “Yes, they were eventually figured out. The Army is talking about the death penalty.”

“So sad,” I say. “Atrocities happen in every war. For every hundred great, righteous warriors, there is one criminal psychopath.”

“These two killed five people,” Nate says, his eyes penetrating mine, the skin across his forehead and around his mouth impossibly tight. “The sergeants planted the weapons on the people they killed. Jay told me about two of them. The other three happened after … after I knew about what they were doing.”

“I’m not following.”

“What I told you before about the heat, the toxic dust, the IEDs, the laughter, the constant tension … I … my … craziness … it peaked. I was so filled with hatred for the Afghanis. I pushed them around, insulted their culture, called them ‘dune coons,’ ‘camel jockeys,’ ‘towel heads,’ ‘dead meat.’”

“Nate, I would think under such horrible conditions it wouldn’t be unusual for a guy to …”

“Thing is … I knew what those two sergeants were doing—and I didn’t report it. Instead, I applauded it.”

* * *

Mai hasn’t answered my calls on Skype or my cell phone calls since I’ve been home tonight. I tried at eight p.m., eight thirty, and again at nine. It’s midmorning tomorrow in Saigon, so she should still be in the house. Plus, we agreed to chat at eight at night my time each day. I could call our father, but I don’t want to come across clingy and desperate, which I sort of am right now. Mostly I’m worried, remembering how crazy things were before I left.

I’m sitting in my kitchen eating a yogurt blended with protein powder, blueberries, and a little Cool Whip, my usual post-workout meal. The black belt class went well, though Nate and I were a little down for a while after our talk.

I think I did a convincing job of hiding my feelings about what he had told me as I greeted my black belts, many of whom I hadn’t seen for a few weeks. They have been my friends for years and have been infinitely supportive during all my troubles and in keeping the school going while I was in Saigon. I started the class and within a few minutes, Nate and I were enjoying the endorphin rush of hard training.

The guy is carrying an enormous burden. He said his intense hatred for Middle Easterners has mellowed since he’s been home, but the feelings come back in a red hot flash whenever he sees a reference to Afghanistan, Iraq, or any of those other countries over there. The feelings don’t last long, but they bother him so much he doesn’t watch the news or read the paper. Still, no matter where he goes, there is always a magazine cover, a movie trailer, a TV playing, and there it is again.

We discussed his seeking professional help, but unfortunately his insurance doesn’t provide for mental health, and there is no way he would confide in anyone in the Army. He will have a medical plan after he joins the fire department, but he needs help now. Doc Kari comes immediately to mind, and I told Nate I would ask her for recommendations.

I try Mai again. Nothing.

After a shower, I put on baggie pants and a T-shirt, and call Mai again. Damn! I try to read an old National Geographic magazine but I can’t focus. I head into my bedroom and lift the window to a chorus of barking dogs, sirens in the distance, and jets streaking overhead. I close the window.

I must admit my first day on the job went pretty well. I’ll have to tip toe around Angela and hope her crush passes. Police officers work virtually shoulder to shoulder for eight hours and we share a variety of intense experiences. Sexual tension occurs sometimes. In fact, I’ve had a crush or two on female partners. Fortunately, I’ve been able to keep my cool and wait for the crush to work itself out.

BJ, I don’t have a good read on yet. I’ve heard guys say he is a good boss, which, they always add, makes up for his lack of street experience. Supposedly, the lieutenant, who has been on three years longer than I have, only worked the street for a couple of years before getting promoted to sergeant in Records Division. Five years later he made lieutenant and was assigned to Community Affairs for a few years after which he transferred to Intelligence where he’s been ever since. I’m not sure what to read into his accusation that I chose to use force on the street guy. Talk about jumping to conclusion without having all the facts. Guess I’ll have to tiptoe around him too.

I try Mai once more. Double damn!

Being back on the job felt okay. I didn’t feel bad and I didn’t feel out of place. It was like slipping on a favorite pair of shoes, easy, comfortable.

Hell, tomorrow I might even carry my gun.