A/N: Just to clarify, a hearing person cannot give a deaf person a sign name. A sign name is only given by a deaf person to someone else. That's not to say that Sara can't give him a nickname, or a term of endearment, or sign his name a certain way to show affection, but she can't give him a sign name that represents his name in the deaf community. Some go their entire lives without being given one, and that's okay. I wholeheartedly respect deaf culture so I won't bend that rule just for my story.
Thanks again to everyone reading my story, and for the reviews/comments. I do truly appreciate it.
Part 5: Sound and Color
Chapter 13
Saturday, March 13th, 1982
My father was pacing again. I had mistakenly asked him about women. I asked if he ever loved my mother. I asked him if I were ever to be in love, how would I know. Maybe I was just curious to know his thoughts. He was my dad, and I barely knew the man, but I should have known better not to ask.
He was always having women troubles. Keeping one happy was too much of a burden for my old man, so he had to make three miserable. His only standards were that they had to have legs, lips, and breathe air. The man was a rake.
I imagined him to have been one of those businessmen who hit on their secretaries, harassed their waitress, and then got mad when their mistress wanted things to get serious. I wondered if he ever promised marriage to another woman while married to my mother.
A hand slapped the table, jarring me from my musings, as the man I'd been degrading in my head stared hard into my eyes and said, "Where's your head at? Haven't you been paying any attention to anything I've been saying?"
/You keep walking back and forth, turning your back to me. I don't know what you're saying if you don't look me in the eyes when you say it./
His blue eyes were hard and not a trace of booze was on his breath. His hand had a tremor. Soon he'd need a drink to stop the shaking. I thought he'd get mad and yell. Instead, he laughed. A deep laugh that made his face appear nearly comical, like Laurel and Hardy or Charlie Chaplin. It was over the top and theatrical.
His hand pinched my shoulder when he grabbed it. "Look you in the eye. Be a man. Is that what you're trying to tell me?"
I gave it a moment's thought before answering, /Essentially, yes./
"Essentially. What a guy." Arthur slapped me on the back a little too hard.
Arthur, I learned, was a hard man. The world had tainted him years ago. He'd been a work hard, play hard, and drink hard kinda guy and it served him well in the cutthroat importing–exporting business. Contracts were made over whiskey at the bar, not in the boardroom. He talked fast and slept fast, barely getting four hours before he was on the phone with someone from Europe, or Saudi Arabia, or mainland China. He brokered deals in little holes in the wall noodle shops, and over coffee and cigarettes in greyhound bus depots, or the cocktail lounge of an airport.
He was a quintessential businessman. That was until he went broke and lost his business. That was before the drinking became a way to cope, which turned into the disease that was slowly killing him. He'd been coughing earlier and there had been a spot of blood in the corner of his mouth. He used a handkerchief to wipe it off, but I noticed. I noticed everything. Like the tremor. I wondered if he knew he was dying.
Arthur grabbed his coffee cup off the counter and tapped the cigarette ash into the ashtray before walking back over to the table and sitting down. The man could've been a movie star. A little over six foot, his brown wavy hair was slicked back as sharp blue eyes pierced through the fog of smoke like some watchful hawk. He had high cheekbones and thin lips. It was no wonder he had three girlfriends.
Yet, the man was far from happy. His good looks were stained by the blackness of his heart. His father could've been many things if he didn't value money over people. If we become who we are, then my father deserved every bit to become a coke distributor out of necessity. Desperation poured like sweat from his pores as alcohol ran through his veins. He was ice cold. There was no warm blood left inside his heart to bleed for another human being.
He thought he was teaching me life lessons. Lessons of hate and distrust. With a lean across the table, he lifted the pendant of St. Francis de Sale that my mother had given me into his hand. I felt the cold naked emptiness against my chest. I wanted it back. The weight reminded me to not let him win. I wasn't supposed to let this hard man break me.
"Women. You got a girl?"
I shook my head.
"If there's nothing you can provide them, don't think love will be enough, it won't. They're the biggest users. You can't trust any of them. In this world, people come ready with knives behind their backs. Women? Theirs' are as sharp as stilettos."
/My mother said—/
"Your mother taught you many things, Gil, but she can never teach you how to be a man. That's a man's job. My job."
/There's no difference whether you're taught by a man or a woman if what you're being taught is how to be a good person—/
"No, you listen to me, damn it." His trembling hand dropped the pendant as he slapped the table, sending a 'thump' up into the palm of my hand. "I'm your father. Okay. Get whatever bullshit your mother told you out of your head. People will lie to you. Lie against you, behind your back and to your face. You understand? They will betray you. They'll take advantage of you. They'll break your heart, kid. You're either in it for yourself, or not at all. Cause no matter what, people want something from you, and it's not love or friendship. It's your money, your time, all your sensibilities. They take and take and never give back. So, fuck them. You get what's coming to you, whether you're good or bad. Everyone gets what's coming to them in the end. The world doesn't give a shit if you're a good person. It only cares about what you can provide. And if it's nothing, it'll push you aside, step over you, and keep going, leaving your ass behind."
His head jerked around as if shot by a bullet. He stood and walked into the living room where he picked up the telephone receiver. With his back to me, I couldn't read his lips. It wasn't until he hung up and turned around that I saw them move.
He said, "Start the car. There's been a complication."
/What complication?/ I asked as I stood and crossed into the living room from the kitchen.
Arthur grabbed the keys off the hook by the door and tossed them to me. "I'll be out in five minutes."
Arthur was dressed in a white shirt and loose jeans. He never went out in anything less than a business suit and tie. He kept his shoes polished, doing it himself under the glow of the nightly news as he smoked a cigarette.
I walked through the lingering smoke that never left the house as I grabbed my jacket. It wasn't until I walked out the door into the morning sun that I could finally breathe fresh air.
The white ceiling of the hotel room came into focus. My head buzzed and ached as the fog slowly faded along with the cigarette smoke. The words of Van Gogh pounded between my ears and reminded me why I couldn't lie there. "Who is gnawed inwardly by a great desire for action. Who does nothing because he finds it impossible to do anything since he's imprisoned in something."
Being imprisoned in my mind, in deafness, and by my father had been one of the worst feelings in the world. I could easily do nothing; let myself be locked behind the silent bars of my mind and throw away the key. I could do that. However, that just wasn't who I was.
Catherine never made it back to the hotel. I checked my watch. It was a quarter after ten in the morning. Time to check-out. I rolled out of bed, threw on my jacket, grabbed my overnight bag, and left.
In the hallway were the remains of a long night. Beer cans and liquor bottles littered the dirty pink carpeted floor. A sickening sour smell drifted up in my nose that made me hurry to the stairwell. I read that smiling stopped the gagging reflex, but I wasn't going to wait around to find out if it was true or not by waiting for the elevator. It was only four floors up anyway.
I stood out on the sidewalk and lit the last cigarette that I'd taken from Catherine's purse and waited around for a cab. Given the hotel and location, one would soon be by. It also gave me time to think. I knew time wasn't on my side. The Russians either assumed I left the state, or not, either way they'd be on the lookout for me. That's why I couldn't go back to the house on San Pedro.
With my father missing, and no one to pay the property taxes, it'd be foreclosed. Someone might come around trying to get me to handle it, but I didn't want to. They, whoever they were, could have the house and everything in it. My father's business would fall onto Sam Braun. Loose ends were being tied up, including the coffee business. I was going to move it away from the pier.
Despite having originally been set up as a front for the illegal shipping of cocaine, it had become a very efficient way of laundering the money as we were actually buying, selling, and distributing coffee. It had become a successful business. It needed a clean, fresh repackaging and marketing. It needed new management. I knew just the man for the job. A former employee of my father's and a man who's proven himself to be a friend of mine, Nicholas Foster. He's always wanted to run the coffee company anyway. He had ideas. Big plans. It just needed to be clean. Nicholas deserved a fresh start. I owed it to him.
I spotted a cab rolling through a light. Dropping my last smoke to the ground, I stepped on it to put it out as my hand shot up.
The address that I scribbled on a piece of paper wasn't to the San Pedro house. Like I said, I couldn't go back there. That was where everyone knew I lived with my father. But his house had been his house. The floorboards had been the ones that I've walked over but they weren't mine. The bed in the bedroom where I'd slept was only a temporary solution while I worked at the warehouse. My father's house was just where I visited when there was work to be done. My father just didn't know it, much like he didn't know that I'd been calling the shots for the past five years.
Arthur's drinking, and his constant underestimation of who I was, made him oblivious to a lot of things. He thought he had me trapped in a world I couldn't escape. A world of his making and in his control. He took me out of school to keep me uneducated and with no prospects of a future. I hadn't been associated with anyone in the deaf community since my mother's passing. Isolated. Arthur the only one with a car, or driver's license, up until recently. The only one who could hear. I was beholden to him.
He, like everyone else, thought I was deaf, and dumb, and in need of someone to take care of things for me. A weak boy. I was certain that was what he thought, because he told me that over and over again for years.
The best thing my father ever taught me was how to hide in plain sight. Arthur did it by never moving from San Pedro. The man had money to toss around at the most expensive country clubs, steakhouses, and retail everything but chose to live in a simple house, by the pier, and only owned one car. The only thing that gave away his wealth was the Jaguar. I figured the man was saving it all for retirement; what good that did him. He could have invested it all, but knowing Arthur, he'd pissed it away on his pleasures.
The choices of my actions were very simple as I was fight for my freedom. I'd thrown down an offer to Detective Kramer when I'd been brought in for questioning about Sara's disappearance. She might not even be able to help me, but it was worth a shot. That's another reason why I had to do this. I hoped it'd show Detective Kramer, and anyone else that got involved, that at my core I wasn't a man like my father. I wasn't a bad guy.
Yes, I had blood on my hands, but it could be wiped clean. I would pay whatever price I had to pay, except prison. That probably made me a coward. To become a snitch to save my own ass was the worst thing a person could be in the criminal world. It would make me an outsider, shunned, and ignored.
What else was new? Like I said, I was already out in the cold, I might as well freeze.
~"We walked in the cold air…"~
The cab stopped beside a row of garage doors. Inside those garages were the cars of those who lived in the High Tower Apartments. On my days off, when I was away from San Pedro, I was in Hollywood. In the novel The High Tower by Raymond Chandler, he wrote of the High Tower Apartments. It was a place only accessible by foot. The footpath that got you to the neighborhood was the most elaborate and beautiful stairway walking paths that led up and around the hills that overlooked the Sunset strip, the Hollywood and Highland Center, and just on the other side of the hill of the Hollywood Bowl. If you were a resident of the neighborhood that didn't want to walk up the steps, you took the tower elevator up.
~"Freezing breath on a windowpane
Lying and waiting…"~
I got out, paid the fare, and headed to the gate that opened to the elevator. I took it to the top. The elevator, having been built in the 1920s, had its hazards. You had to crank the wheel and wait for it to be completely, perfectly, lined up before stopping it-don't even breathe-to ensure it didn't get stuck. Then around a stone pathway, down a flight of steps, and on a hill that was surrounded by palms and green plants and foliage, I entered my apartment. My sanctuary was just as advertised: secluded. No one knew about it. I wanted to keep it that way. Catherine may have been a friend, but even I couldn't trust her with the knowledge. Everyone had a price, even friends, especially when a gun was to their heads.
The apartment had been bought three years ago as part of a real estate buy-up I'd done for the Monarch Coffee Company in order to distribute funds. Another good way to launder cash was to go into the real estate business. Anyone looking into the property would find it attached to an LLC, along with about fifty other properties. All now sold. For a guy who never graduated high school, I did pretty well for myself.
~"A man in the dark in a picture frame
So mystic and soulful…"~
It was safe and secure. The perfect hideaway from a group of Russians gunning for your head. It was also in one of the highest traffic areas in all of Los Angeles. The perfect tourist trap. Thousands flocked there every week. Locals knew to stay clear. So, who would notice a guy like me when they were all tourists? Out there on Hollywood Boulevard, I was one of them.
That's the thing about L.A. It was a transient city. People coming and going. Strangers among strangers. No one knew anyone. Everyone was just passing through, and those who lived there knew when to look up and when to keep their head down, tucked away in the collar of their jackets like James Dean and kept walking. Because you either had the money that owned everyone, or you were the one being owned.
As for me, I was both. I thought that made me pretty special; unique. Someone who could do things because I owned, and owed, a lot of people. People also owed me. People like Sam Braun who knew people who knew people. I could do things worthwhile with my wealth besides collecting debts and bodies. I could find a missing girl that no one else cared about except for me and the cop that caught the case.
~"A voice reaching out in a piercing cry
It stays with you until…"~
It felt as if I was living a double life, and I was. There was the life that my father wanted me to live, and then there was the one that I wanted myself to have.
The living room was a half-moon shape with big front windows that overlooked a private terrace. Beyond the terrace and tree foliage was a blue sky. The apartment was south facing, overlooking Hollywood, so I got great sunlight. The evening sunsets were my favorite as the sun descended behind the hills. Off the living room was a little nook. There was a side door which led out to the private covered balcony and terrace that wrapped around the front. The kitchen was 'U' shaped and small. Enough for a person to move around comfortably. Two would be a crowd, unless you didn't mind the close intimate proximity.
The cabinets were the same ones that had been installed in the late 1930s. one cabinet opened to reveal an ironing board. The stove and refrigerator were the only upgrades. The apartment was built before the advent of the washer and dryer so those were outside on the balcony along with the dining room table and chairs. The nook was supposed to be big enough for a small round table and maybe two chairs. I preferred eating outside anyway. I enjoyed the view, the smell of all the foliage and plants, and the hum I felt that told me that music was in the air. I swore I could feel the vibrations anytime a band played over the hill at the Hollywood Bowl.
A short hallway between the living room and kitchen led to the bedroom on the left and bathroom at the end. To the right was the linen closet. I took a left into the bedroom and dropped the bag on the bed. In the closet I moved the little clothes I had stored there aside and knelt down to the safe on the floor in the back. I turned the dial, cracking the code, and removed two stacks of cash that I threw into the bag on the bed.
~"The feeling has gone, only you and I, it means nothing to me…"~
I then showered, shaved, popped two aspirin and swallowed them down with two glasses of water before I left the bathroom. In the bedroom, I changed into a clean pair of jeans and the only concert t-shirt I owned. The Hollywood Bowl, September 22, 1974, Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon tour.
It was where I first saw music thanks to the visual effects of the laser lights that the band used in their stage performance. Add in the quadraphonic sound system and I finally understood the power of a live musical performance.
I've always enjoyed the feel that music brought since I was a kid, but I never got to fully experience it. I would read song lyrics as I would lines of poetry. Some lyrics were straight to the point while others painted pictures in my head. Meanings were simple, or—even after hours of decrypting—a mystery. In music class I had made a game to see which instrument stimulated what part of my body. Vibrations tingled my ears with some, others thumped in my chest, some tingled my feet and hands, and one specific instrument—the bass—shook all over my body; it even vibrated my teeth.
Despite the vibrations and tingling sensations, it still hadn't been enough. Seeing music had changed everything. My life may have been silent, but it wasn't quiet. There was sound in my body that thumped and throbbed and shook as anyone else's. There was sound in the visual. Sign language was a visual language where facial expressions were the grammar. Being given the chance to see the expression of all the vibrations that filled my body, I learned the grammar. I wanted to keep seeing it.
~"This means nothing to me…"~
That was why on a bright and sunny Saturday afternoon I left my sanctuary, bag in hand, to get myself a car. Granted, I loved Catherine's car, but it wasn't mine. It also didn't have what I needed. I knew exactly where I wanted to go. It wasn't to some regular run-of-the-mill car dealer off the street. I needed a place that could customize the car to my needs.
~"Oh, Vienna…"~
Less than fifteen minutes later, I walked under a blue awning through the metallic silver doors of Boydz Cars and removed my sunglasses. The custom car dealership on the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue was the place to go in L.A., especially for me. Purchasing my first car was no easy task. There were a lot of things to consider aside from color, but handling, and, in my case, visibility and sound system. The downside of Catherine's Toyota was the blind spots and narrow side-mirrors. On the shelves around all four walls were various add-ons for any car enthusiast from rims to steering wheels, gauges to lights, fenders, trim, moldings, mirrors, and radios.
A salesman walked over and introduced himself. The man's mouth moved a hundred miles a minute and I had no idea what he said other than "hello". Typical fast-talking salesman, thinking his slick wordplay would get me to buy something I didn't need nor want for a price I couldn't afford. His nametag said his name was Leo. He was a tall, skinny, guy with short brown hair, a thin nose, bushy mustache, and a wide tie over a white dress shirt, no jacket. We shook hands and I nodded when he asked to show me around the lot.
I let him waste his breath as he showed me through the backdoors and out into the car lot. He strutted up to a Ford Escort, then a Mercury Capri, and finally a Chevrolet Camaro, all the while spewing his spill trying to entice me to buy. I pointed over to the black 1980 Mercedes Benz 450SLC. Light brown interior, automatic transmission, V8 engine, power steering, front fog lights, side moldings, chrome trim, adjustable bucket seats, dual-side rearview mirrors, Alpine radio, and alloy wheels. It was beautiful.
Leo straightened off the Camaro as he hesitated in his steps to join me. He said something I didn't care to acknowledge. The fast talker was going to make me buy something he didn't think I couldn't afford so didn't even offer to show it. He thought the easy sale was the Camaro, but the Mercedes had a better field of view than the Camaro. The mirrors were also wider. And, it just looked better. In my opinion, any Camaro produced post 1969 looked like shit.
I walked back towards the building, got to the door, and turned to face the guy. Waiting. Leo seemed to realize I meant business because he finally followed. We got to his desk where I sat and flipped open my notepad. The main reason I came to Boydz had everything to do with what I wrote on that piece of paper.
'I want a display panel graphic equalizer radio installed, with EQ booster, along with a speaker box containing 2 x 15" subs, 2 x 10" mids and 4 x 2" bullets and 6 x amps mounted on the rear of the speaker box. All with quick connectors so I can remove it when needed.' Once done, I handed it to Leo.
Leo read it, eyed me, and said, "That's a lot of bass power. Are you sure—"
I handed him another note. 'I'm deaf. I want to feel the music in my car. Can you do that, Leo?'
His eyes widened before clarity hit. "Yeah, I can do that. Everything, including the car, will run you about forty grand. Now, I know it's a sweet ride, but if you're not able—"
I dropped my bag to the floor, unzipped it, and out from under my clothes I removed the two stacks of cash that I'd gotten out of my safe. Each stack was twenty thousand. Having done my research, I knew the cost. I placed the money on the desk and eyed Leo right back.
Leo pursed his lips—he probably whistled—as he grabbed a pen and opened a drawer. From the drawer he removed a stack of paperwork as thick as the cash. "Let's sell you a car."
Once all the paperwork was in order and everything paid for, I wrote him another note. I asked, 'How long will it take to install everything?'
Leo shrugged, saying, "Give us two hours," as he handed over the title to the car.
'I'll be back in two hours.' All the paperwork and title went into my bag before I left.
~"The music is weaving…"~
Outside the metallic doors of the car dealership, the cars moved at a snail's pace along the boulevard. Exhausted drivers hung out their windows trying to get some air. Angry drivers were pounding the steering wheel, most likely honking the horns.
The sidewalks were just as busy with schemers and dreamers. The homeless were either panhandling or hidden away behind the dumpsters. A con man was on the corner trying to sell worthless silver screen memorabilia. Beside him, sitting on an overturned paint bucket, a man was strumming a guitar. A painful expression scrunched up his face as he sang out words of sorrow I couldn't quite make out.
~"Haunting notes, pizzicato strings
The rhythm is calling…"~
The hills where my apartment was located were to the northwest. Palm trees lined the street all the way east. I saw the sign for the Directors Guild and the same old Marlboro Man billboard that's been standing since I was a kid. The Sunset Strip was littered with nightclubs and music venues like the Whisky A Go Go, The Roxy Theatre, and a jazz club called The Central, along with various restaurants, shopping centers, and all the celebrities a person could stand, which for me, one was one too many.
I didn't care much for the celebrities. Didn't know who most of them were since I didn't own a television or hadn't been to the movies since they stopped showing silent films. I wasn't that old, but there had been a time when the Palace theater would show the old silent films on Tuesday nights. I'd rather read a book.
I took a moment to breathe in the car exhaust and smog. Just another Saturday afternoon. Once the tourists were gone that was when all the riffraff came out. The drug dealers, the hookers, and the prowlers. Vagrants. Deviants. I was one of them. All this daylight was hurting my head.
~"Alone in the night as the daylight brings
A cool empty silence…"~
It was nearly two in the afternoon and I hadn't eaten yet. Since I was so close to Hollywood Boulevard, I decided to walk to one of my favorite little pizzerias. My mother introduced me to the place on my sixth birthday. She loved to venture around the tourist trap that was Hollywood including the Sunset strip, Mann's Chinese Theater, the Paramount Lot, and the best pizza in Los Angeles, Miceli's. It was a family-owned business that first opened its doors in 1949.
You walked inside thinking you've been transported into another time and place. A simpler time when piano players played in a corner and the wait staff sang opera while pouring glasses of vintage red wine. I couldn't hear the singing, but the food was good.
It was a tavern-style decor with two-floors. The walls were red brick, chandeliers hung from the ceilings over red and white checkered tables, and between the mosaic windows were renderings of famous artwork, like the Mona Lisa holding a pizza. I opted to sit at the bar, under the red neon cursive lettering that spelt 'Vino', and handed a note to the bartender. She eyed my ID and then got me a beer before putting in my food order. I didn't drink vino.
There was a lot on the menu that I've never tried, but I knew what I wanted. The fried calamari and Miceli's Special pizza. A small was enough when the toppings were loaded with pepperoni, sausage, meatball, salami, mushroom, and bell pepper.
The beer was cold and smooth. The pizza was hot and delicious. And Sara was still missing. As I sat there, nursing the beer in my hand, I thought about the day our paths crossed that had somehow inadvertently intertwined our lives. It hadn't been our first meeting, but the second. After the first meeting, I hadn't thought that I would ever see her again. Though, I found myself worried and wondering if she was okay.
~"The warmth of your hand and a cold grey sky, it fades to the distance…"~
It was the second Saturday afternoon meeting that made me question fate. Once my mind grasped onto something that intrigued me, I had to see it to the end. That was why I loved a good mystery, why I loved puzzles, and word games. I couldn't put them down. But those were easy.
The puzzle of people, now that was hard. Sara made me question myself that day. She made me question us, and friendship, and what it meant to be one, because up until that moment when she gave me a brown sack bag of cookies, I never knew what it meant to have a friend. The fact that it was offered by a child had been startling. Thinking back on it though, I realized why.
Adults feared the differences. They questioned motives and sought out impurities. They were tainted by the ugliness of life. The hard lessons that jaded our thinking and clouded our judgment. Everyone was guilty of something. Nothing was clean and innocent. No one was ever good and pure. A grown man couldn't befriend a little girl without it being sinister or wrong.
~"The image has gone, only you and I, it means nothing to me…"~
Children, on the other hand, were curious. They didn't fear differences because they didn't see differences. If they were never taught to distrust or to hate, they never would.
~"This means nothing to me
Oh, Vienna…"~
That's what made them in need of protection. They were pure, and innocent, and easy prey for the tainted.
The People's Almanac #2 had been published a few years ago but I'd just gotten around to reading it. I had enjoyed the first edition so much that I've been eager to read the second, but life and other books had gotten in the way. The first page was open, the words in front of me, but I couldn't focus.
She was back. A piece of paper was placed in front of my face along with a brown paper bag used for school lunches. Closing the book, I regarded the girl who sat down in the chair at the same table. A bandana wrapped her long brown hair up out of her face. She smiled. It lit up her brown eyes. There was a gap between her two front teeth. She had a diastema. Today she wore a long-sleeved pink blouse that matched the bandana.
I picked up the note and read it. 'Truce?'
That one word was all that was written. Inside the bag was a pile of cookies. I almost laughed. She was only a child, of course this was her way of apologizing. I accepted by pulling out two cookies and handing her one. Once she took it, I signed /Thank you./ Writing it down, I showed her the meaning. Then I signed it again.
She regarded the hand gesture, her face wrinkling in contemplation, before she repeated the sign while saying, "Thank you."
A week ago, she'd stolen from me. Right there in the library the girl had taken some of my money. She thought I hadn't noticed. I noticed. Once I caught her, she handed the money back and asked how I knew. I told her I felt it. The movement of fabric against my waist when she'd been talking to me.
She'd been going around to all of the adults, trying to get their attention by talking to them about books. What she was really doing was distracting them long enough to steal their cash from their pockets. Since I couldn't hear her, her distraction technique hadn't worked. I was also more sensitive to the vibrations in the environment around me that I immediately felt that something was off.
Children didn't learn how to steal on their own, and if they did, it was out of necessity. That day I learned that her name was Sara, she was ten, and that she'd moved to Los Angeles from San Francisco with her parents. They were wayward and ex-hippies and couldn't raise a child to save their life. Sara's words, not mine. They also couldn't keep food on the table.
And food was what she needed the money for. Not knowing what else to do, I walked her home. On the way we stopped to get tacos from a food truck. I also wanted to see if the girl was telling the truth about her parents. She could have been giving me a hard luck story just to gain sympathy in order to get more money and free tacos.
"They used to own a bed and breakfast," she'd said. "But it failed. They're horrible when it comes to finances."
She had walked to the library alone from a motel room. How a ten-year-old was able to wander off on her own long enough to go to the library both astonished and confused me as I followed her up the steps to the second floor of the motel. We passed four red doors until we came to the fifth at the end of the walkway.
As I knocked on the door, a twisting started in my gut. How was I to explain to the mother what had happened? I was taking out my pen and notepad when the door opened and a pair of wild brown eyes under long straw hair greeted me. There were blemishes covering her raw pale face, a bruise under her left eye, and as she reached out to grab Sara by the arm, I caught sight of the scratches on her arms and the deep purple, blue and green spots on the wrist. They were fresh, less than a week.
As Sara tried to yank her arm away, her sleeve dropped down to her elbow. Her arms were spotted with similar coloring of blues, greens and yellows on her skin. Her bruises were a few days older than the mothers. There were harsh words spoken by the mother; I could tell by both their faces. The woman's wild eyes were wide, face screwed up as her eyebrows knitted, and her mouth was as wide a canyon. Sara's brown eyes welled with tears, her lip trembled, before she ran into the darkness of the room.
The mother's eyes fell onto me. She was screaming and I didn't catch all her words. What I caught was "You don't touch my daughter! I see you! I see you!" Before the door was slammed in my face.
That'd been a week ago. I tried to ignore it, tried to get Sara and her mother out of my head, but it'd been difficult. Even though I couldn't hear their voices, I had felt their fear, their pain, and it hurt my head and ached at my heart.
I didn't think I'd see the girl again. That was until she placed the note and sack of cookies down next to me at the table. Pulling out my pen, I wrote on the piece of paper, 'You should go home.'
She rolled her eyes and said, because she knew I could read lips, "I have no home. My dad is off somewhere working, and my mom is Looney Tunes. The only home I have is here. I love reading. I can read a book a day. It's my favorite thing to do."
For a child, she was very articulate and seemed highly intelligent. The book she removed from her bag was well above her age range. Flipping the paper over, I wrote, 'You're reading The Great Gatsby?'
She smirked. "Would you rather I read Oliver Twist?"
I almost laughed. She was also quick-witted.
"Look, while you're here, I'm okay. We can read in silence and when we're done, you can walk me home. That way, you know I'm safe."
Glancing around the library, I didn't see her mother anywhere. She was alone, and just a child.
'Why isn't your mother here?'
Sara told me, "She's schizophrenic. She doesn't like all the people. The outside scares her. Right now, anyway. It'll change. She's unpredictable that way. Her mind is sporadic."
That had to be rough. I went back to reading, thinking that was the end of it. We'd sit there and read and then once done I'd walk her to the motel. A pit-stop along my route home and the last one I'd ever do because it wasn't like this was going to be a continual thing. Soon her parents would pack up and move.
A note slid across the table. 'Favorite Gatsby quote? Mine is "There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice".'
The words on the paper blurred as a well of emotion heated my face brought on by an old forgotten memory, the kind that could sit heavy and warm on your chest. My mother, book in hand, sitting quietly reading by the lamplight on the side table in the living room. F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby in her hand.
She told me the same once when I asked about love. She then added, "It changed like the wind. One as innocent and gentle as the softest of caresses against the cheek, or as strong as a gust that looped and whirled knocking you off your feet. And then there were the ones that ended in a thunderclap that left you standing in the rain on a dark night. Always changing, always different, but always felt." My mother.
I didn't answer the question. It was the same.
Another note slid across the table. 'I'm fluent in French. My grandmother is French Canadian. What's a good book for me to read?'
That one I could answer. 'Les Misérables.'
She grabbed the piece of paper and ran off down the aisles in search of the book. She returned with two. One was Les Misérables, the other was Jaws. "I just saw the movie; thought I'd read the book. The book is always better than the movie, am I right?" she said with a playful jab to my arm. Her happy eyes, and comical wink told me she was telling a joke.
It took a lot of effort not to laugh. She was trying to be funny by telling jokes that relied on tone of voice…to a deaf man. That was hilarious. I felt another jab. She was back with more jokes.
"It seems like we've been friends for a long time now."
It took me a while to understand what she meant by that. I've read of people who meet and there's an instant connection. A feeling that you've met before, or that you've known the person, a complete stranger, your whole life.
Could that have been why I feel so compelled to help in keeping her safe? Had fate intertwined us at that very moment for a reason? I had no idea. Deciding not to dwell on it, I went back to reading as the lines on the page blurred. Easier said than done. My mind had a hard time with letting things go. The innocent words of a child could send me off into the spiritual wonderings of the divine universe.
An hour later, I walked her back to the motel.
"Want to come in?" she asked.
/No./ I mouthed the word and shook my head. That was a horrible idea.
"I have a journal. You want to read it?"
Again, I shook my head. Why would she think I was interested in reading her journal?
"I just thought, since we're friends, you could read about my life."
I had no business knowing about her life. I didn't know what to do about the bruises on her arms and her mother's face. It really wasn't any of my business. Maybe the mother got too aggressive given her illness. For all I knew, she acted out and did things to herself. I could have informed the police, but I didn't want to get involved. Also, the police and I wouldn't get along very well.
"Next Saturday?" she asked hopefully, expectantly. "It can be our day."
She thought we were friends. I couldn't be friends with a child. There was no reason for me to say yes. I got her home safe; twice. That should have been enough. Could I be her friend? Normally I would mind my own business. Look the other way and keep walking. But the thought of something happening to her was something my heart couldn't take.
There were prostitutes and drug dealers on corners, and a whole intersection of creeps in cars. It wasn't a long walk, but for a child it could be the difference between life or death. I knew who I was. So did she. She knew I was safe. After spending years doing all the wrong things, it felt good to do right.
I nodded before writing a note to give to her mother. The last thing I needed was for her mom to yell and slam the door in my face again.
"Two o'clock?"
I nodded again. She smiled. Next time, I would bring my camera so I could take a picture. I waited at the end of the walkway until she was safely inside the room before heading home.
All around me were blurry flashes of movement and faces as a tension filled my chest. A numbing thought entered my head. As I sat there eating, she was in misery. She was in absolute hell. What if I failed? What if Sara was already gone?
~"This means nothing to me…"~
Shakespeare wrote in Macbeth, "If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me, without my stir." For once, I thought Shakespeare was wrong. Or at least, Macbeth's musings that regardless of his actions, if he was to be a king, he would become one due purely to destiny. I thought that one couldn't sit idly by and expect fate to happen. It wasn't going to thrust upon your head a crown simply because it was destined. Actions had consequences. So did inaction.
If fate had decided that I would be the one to find Sara, yet I did nothing, how would I ever find her? If I didn't act, nothing would be done. I believed in God, in fate, but I also knew that where one divine act stopped another act had to take its place. A human hand had to reach out and shake hands with the divine, accepting that unspoken silent agreement. God's will and free will had to act in accordance with one another to get the job done. That's how fate worked, how destiny was made. It all came down to actions, to choices, and accepting that handshake.
Sara wasn't going to just fall into my lap, unharmed and safe. That's why I preferred what Julius Caesar said, "The fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings." We were the masters of our own fate. While she was out there, needing help, I was drinking a beer at three o'clock in the afternoon on a Saturday. Our day.
~"This means nothing to me…"~
I paid and left. I had work to do.
Returning to Boydz, Leo handed me the keys to my new car. I was nervous sitting in it for the first time. My hands were sweaty as I grabbed the steering wheel. I wiped them on my jeans and started the engine. The rumble of the seat, the vibrations that tingled my hands made me smile. It felt good.
Turning on the radio, the display lit up and I watched as the lines of the equalizer bounced up and down in time with the rhythm of the thumping. I wished I knew what was playing, or, for all I knew, it was a talk show. It didn't really matter. It was the best thing ever.
I shifted into drive and headed south towards Wilcox Avenue. Since Catherine didn't show back at the hotel, I wanted to make sure she was okay. I also had to go pick up the pictures that'd been developed. I could've done it myself but didn't have the time.
Stopping at a light, I decided to pick up the pictures first so that way I could take them with me to Catherine's and we could go over them together. That way, if we found a possible suspect, she could call her dad for me. He was one of the people who owed me, and I expected him to pay up.
~"Oh, Vienna."~
Sara's life may very well depend on it.
Wednesday, March 13th, 2002
Grissom ignored her for a whole day. He'd texted and said that something came up, and they'd meet Wednesday for breakfast. When she texted back, there was no response. She called her mother. Annie told her not to worry about it. It was a long assignment and sometimes things couldn't be done every day.
That was police work. Some days she would spend all day running around and then others do nothing except sit at her desk doing paperwork. Tuesday had been a paperwork kind of day without the paperwork.
So, she spent it studying sign language. She hadn't realized how much of it depended on facial gestures and expressions. The grammar in understanding the sign was the facial expressions. A person could convey a lot with just a look, especially when it was associated with a hand gesture. Some signs were the same hand gestures, but depending on the facial expression it changed the meaning. Then there were abbreviated signs, slang, dialect, etcetera, etcetera. There was so much that went into the language that it felt nearly overwhelming. French had been easier.
The sun breaking over the hills brought her out of her musings as she realized she'd missed her turn off to circle back around through Verdugo Park, which was about a quarter mile behind her. The music that'd been playing in her ears had been drowned out by her thoughts but now the song, "Vienna", sounded obtrusively in her ears.
She turned around where Verdugo Road merged with Canada Boulevard and took the boulevard back down. Crossing the Los Angeles River, she entered a quiet neighborhood of single home bungalows and on every other corner was a bus stop sign. She passed gas stations and fast-food restaurants, along with small family-owned businesses.
The boulevard merged back into Verdugo at another 'V' intersection North of the park. Sitting, idling on the corner, was a familiar black Mercedes. She pulled the cord of her headphones, letting them dangle down the front of her sweat covered tank top, as she approached the passenger side door.
The window was already lowered and sitting in the driver's seat was Grissom. She glanced around the park before opening the door and dropping down into the seat. He shifted into drive and took her home.
There was no music playing that morning and he kept the windows down to let in the morning breeze. She wanted to speak to him, ask him why he ditched her yesterday and canceled dinner. She knew what the text had said but never received a follow-up. That was until now.
After he parked on the street next to the side gate that led to her apartment complex, he grabbed a packaged envelope from the back and handed it to her. There was a note already attached to it that read 'I'll be back in two hours to pick you up, unless you change your mind. Then I'll show you what's in the warehouse.'
Catherine must have told him that she'd inquired about it. It was also possible that he'd caught the tail end of her conversation with Catherine at the café a few days ago.
She wondered what he meant by "unless you change your mind". Did he think she'd pull out of this investigation once she saw what was in the package? It was a possibility, she supposed, but she wasn't a quitter. If anything, it would raise more questions.
She took it and got out of his car. Only glancing back once as she used her key to unlock the side gate, she saw his car gone. She entered her apartment, smelt the freshly brewed coffee, petted Joni behind her ears, and opted for a shower first.
Once she was clean and changed into a pair of perfectly fitted jeans, long-sleeved pullover, and her first cup of coffee in hand, she went out onto the balcony where she opened the package. Inside was a casefile and letter.
The letter read: 'Sara, there are no words for me to express my deepest apologies, just know that at the time, I did what I thought had to be done. If I could take it all back, do things differently to spare you the suffering you'd gone through, I would do it in a heartbeat regardless of what that meant for me and my future.'
That was it.
She opened the casefile and saw a transcript and a handwritten confession that was dated March 20th, 1982, and it regarded the events that happened on Sunday, March 7th, 1982, at the pier at the Port of Long Beach around two o'clock in the morning.
The detective who took the confession was Annie Kramer. Also present was the District Attorney, Marvin Irvin. She wondered if he was related to Chief Irvin. Getting comfortable in the chair, she opened the file.
TBC…
Disclaimer song used: "Vienna" by Ultravox