Chapter 10

The echo of the phone slamming in his ear resonated with Clark Smith for several seconds. He knew he had no real shot of Steve coming back into his life. Deep down, he wasn't even sure it was what he wanted. After all, he had become a drifter; the thought of establishing roots almost made him feel trapped. Still, there were times when Smith longed to have a relationship with his son, such that he was capable.

It was that longing that got them both in the fix they were in. While he hadn't seen his son in several years, Clark Smith did brag about him on occasion. He knew that he had gone to college, got his degree in criminology and then took on a prestigious assignment with the San Francisco police department. There were times in his lonely existence that he'd talk about his son, his surviving offspring, to anyone who would listen. Sometimes it was a waitress at a diner or a bartender; other times he would strike a conversation with people around poker table or the employees at Little Monaco.

"No way in hell!" Would those be the last words he would hear his son say? Should Smith try again before leaving California for good? It had been a stressful last few days for him, no matter what Steve's coworkers thought. He had tried, but going back and trying again was not something he was prone to do.

Smith reached into his jacket pocket and jingled the keys he'd taken from Steve's apartment on the first day. It was time to hit the road anyway. He had made his statement to police and they were through with him. He gathered his belongings in the small suitcase he'd brought and was ready to leave the city.

"Might as well go in style," Smith mused as he unlocked the 1965 model Porsche. "C'est la vie, kiddo. I won't be bothering you again."

Mike and Steve rode in silence after leaving Mono Lake. It would be a long ride if the senior detective didn't do something to break the ice. The best way is the direct way, Mike thought to himself.

"So, I gather your father called you at the station. At least, that's what you said at the diner to those two clowns." Mike was fishing, but did so with a smile on his face.

Steve glanced over and nodded his head. "Yeah, he called. Told me about the arrest of Petit John, the ringleader who works for the casino in Vegas. He said no one got hurt."

"Well, that's good, at least," Mike agreed. "I talked to the Captain after we caught Bain and Marfisi. He said it went off like clockwork. We had given your dad a bag with fifty grand and he made the drop at the warehouse, just like he was instructed. Knowing you were safe, the Captain knew he could move in quickly without risking you. The arrest was made without any gunplay. We got the money back and Jones is in jail."

"Did they count it?"

"What?"

"Did they count the money when they got it back?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Nevermind." Steve gently wrapped his right hand around the cast. The pain in his wrist was returning. He noticed his fingers were swelling, and attempted to flex them. "I just want to get home," he mumbled under his breath.

"Home? We'll get there in a few hours. But you're going to stay with me for a night or two, Buddy boy." Mike didn't really want to go down this path of conversation, but he knew he needed to tell Steve what had happened at his apartment.

"Why? I'm okay."

"Well, Norm is repainting your bedroom."

"What?! Why?"

"It was a bit of a mess, so let's just leave it at that."

"What happened? I'm fairly neat, you know."

Mike chuckled. "It's not that. Jones, Marfisi and Bain left a mess."

"Terrific," Steve sighed. "I didn't know. What did they do? Does my landlord know?"

"They left some graffiti on the wall. Really, a couple of coats of paint and no one will know. We're getting you new bedding too."

"Now what?"

Mike was hesitant, but knew he had to continue. "Well, there's was blood all over. Enough that we were worried we wouldn't find you alive at first. But as they say, 'a little blood goes a long way.'"

Steve went silent. He knew he had been bleeding from his arm and face. The bleeding from his arm was from a rather deep spot, so he figured that they must have hit a vein or artery. It made more sense now.

Seeking to change the subject, Mike asked, "What else did your dad have to say?" He darted a look over to his partner.

Still a little speechless, Steve forced himself to respond. "Um, not too much. He had high praise for all of you, though."

Mike was surprised at that, but he wondered more about whether Smith had mentioned their fight and why Olsen had pulled him off the case. "Was that all?"

"You mean…" Steve couldn't bring himself to say what he thought Mike was getting at. You mean how it was determined I'm too much of a risk because of him and that I'm about to lose my job? "Yeah, he told me."

Assuming that Steve referred to Mike hitting his father, Mike apologized. "I'm sorry, Buddy boy. Believe me when I tell you that I didn't like being a part of that."

"I understand. Granted, I'm disappointed."

Mike was ashamed and a little surprised that Steve was disappointed. He had hoped after working for several months together that Steve would understand Mike's feelings a bit better and figure that any conflict between Smith and him had with Steve's best interest at heart.

As the pain medication wore off fully, the throbbing in his wrist became apparent. Realizing that he probably broke the wrist again in the altercation at the diner, he still didn't want to show Mike that he was hurting. For the moment, he could keep the pain at bay, but he wasn't sure he could make it all the way back to San Francisco. He began fidgeting in his seat.

Minutes passed and Steve said very little. "You okay?" Mike asked.

"Yeah." He held onto this casted arm. "Look, I'm sorry too. But, please understand, I'm not my old man."

"We all recognize that, Steve. But no offense: he's one of the most exasperating people I've ever met."

Steve nodded his head, but then felt a need to defend his father. "My grandfather would tell you that he wasn't always that way. It was only after he got back from the war that he started acting very careless. It's like he developed a deathwish over there. Not only did he no longer want any part of the life he knew before, but he became reckless. It was like he didn't care about anything. He broke my mother's heart with that."

"What caused that? Was he injured during the war?"

"Yeah," Steve said as his voice cracked with the pain. "He received a Purple Heart from his time in the Pacific Theater. He was on one of the Solomon Islands where there was heavy fighting."

"Was he at Guadalcanal?"

"Rennell Island, actually. At any rate, there was a mortar explosion and he hit his head pretty hard. It was a fairly serious skull fracture, in addition to a broken arm and a dislocated shoulder. The problem was it took a bit for him to get medical attention, as you can imagine. He was discharged later that year, but he had changed."

"I'm sorry," Mike could think of nothing more to say.

Steve's breathing became more labored as the pain in his wrist was now unbearable.

Uncertain that Steve's condition was physical or emotional, Mike slowed the car and checked on his partner. "Hey, what's wrong with you?"

"How close are we to Modesto?"

"About twenty miles."

"Mike, can we go to the hospital there? It's my wrist."

Mike looked over to the cast and saw very swollen and darkening fingers dangling from the end. "Damn it, Steve, why didn't you say something earlier?"

Mike escorted his partner into the ER treatment room where an attendant made quick work of removing his cast. Mike winced as he saw the swelling and discoloration. Clearly, Steve's wrist was broken and no longer properly set.

"We'll need to x-ray it, but no one should be surprised if it turns out he needs a plate or pins. That will be for the doctor to decide." The attendant walked out of the treatment room and left the partners alone.

Mike's face was etched with concern and fatigue. He felt sorry that Steve would endure more pain. He felt helpless and thus began to think of things he should do. "I'm going to call Rudy and let him know what happened. Since we're here in Modesto, is there anyone you want me to contact?"

"Family? No, my grandfather's out of the country. No one else is here." Steve shuddered in the chilly examining room.

"Okay. I'll be just a few minutes. You warm enough?"

"I'm fine," Steve snapped automatically.

"Yeah, right. That's what you said earlier," Mike said as squeezed Steve's shoulder and shook his head. "I'll see you in a bit."

Mike walked down the corridor and found a phone where he quickly got through to Captain Olsen.

"Rudy, I just wanted you to know that we needed to stop off and have Steve's arm looked at again. We'll be in later than expected. There's a chance we may not be back until tomorrow."

"Hmmph…" came Olsen's normal grouchy response. "Well, don't stay too long. I've got two of my best men in the middle of nowhere and I need you back soon," Rudy ordered. He then took a softer tone. "Mike, there's something I need to tell you."

"What is it?" A sense of dread fell over the detective.

"The fifty thousand that we gave Smith to drop. Only forty-five of it made it back."

Mike silently remembered Steve's remark about counting the money. He decided to stay mum.

"And there's something else," Rudy continued.

"I'm afraid to know," Mike answered.

"Steve's car was stolen. Haseejian went over to paint his apartment and saw that the Porsche was gone."