Clandestine

"Touché." Lorna Weinberg's eyes bored in on me. They were dancing with a bitter mirth. "I'm a deputy district attorney, for the city of Los Angeles. We have the same employer. I would rather be a deputy public defender, but that's the rub of the green, as Dad would say. I deal with policemen every day—and I don't like them. They see too little and arrest too often. What they can't understand or won't accept, they arrest or beat up. The jails in Los Angeles are full of people who don't belong there. My job is to prepare cases for the grand jury. I wade through tons of reports from overzealous detectives. Frankly, I see myself as watchdog on arrest-crazy police agencies. This gets me a lot of flak from my colleagues, but they accept me, because I'm damn good at what I do, and because I save them a lot of work."

I breathed it all in, and gave what I hoped would pass for an ironic grin: "So you don't like cops," I said. "Big deal. Most people don't. Would you rather have anarchy? There's only one answer, Miss Weinberg. This is not the best of all possible worlds. We have to accept that, and get on with the administration of justice."

Big Sid noted the fire in his daughter's eyes, and hurried off in the direction of the bar, embarrassed by the intensity of our conversation.

Lorna did not relent. "I can't accept that, and I won't. You can't change human nature, but you can change the law. And you can weed out some of the sociopaths who carry badges and guns.

"For example, my father told me you were curious about that man who caddied for you today. I know about him. He's one of your victims. An attorney who's a member of this club once represented Dirt Road Dave in his suit against the Los Angeles Police Department. During the Depression he had stolen some food from a grocery. Two policemen saw him do it and chased him, and when they finally caught him they were angry. They beat him unconscious with their billy clubs. Dave suffered internal hemorrhaging and almost died. He sustained irreparable brain damage. The A.C.L.U. sued your police department, and lost. Cops are above the law and can do what they please. Abe Dolwitz, the attorney, looks after Dave somewhat, but Dave's only lucid half the time. I imagine the other half of the time is a nightmare for him. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I understand that you're moving into areas way beyond your bailiwick, counselor. I understand that your opinion of cops is academic and one-sided and removed from the daily context we work in. I understand your compassion, and I understand that the problems you've described are insoluble."

"How can you be so jaded?"

"I'm not. I'm just realistic. You said that cops see too little and arrest too much. It's the opposite with me. I'm in the job for what I see, not the crummy salary I make."

Lorna Weinberg dropped her voice condescendingly: "I find that very hard to believe."

I dropped mine to match hers. "I don't really care, counselor. But one question. You called me a 'double threat.' What in the world is threatening about golf?"

Lorna sighed. "It keeps people from thinking about the important things in life."

"It also keeps them from thinking about the unimportant things," I countered. She shrugged. We were even. I got up to go, chancing a parting shot: "If you hate golf so much, why do you come to this club?"

"Because they have the best food in L.A."

I laughed, and took Lorna Weinberg's hand casually. "Good day, Miss Weinberg."

"Good day, Officer," Lorna said, her voice now richly ironic.

I found Big Sid, thanked him for the pleasure of his golfing company, and promised to call him soon for another game. Big Sid's offer of friendship was touching, but my encounter with Lorna Weinberg left me feeling aggressive and enervated.

I picked up my clubs and walked out to the parking lot to look for my car. It wasn't in the main lot for members, or the one for club employees. I walked out the gate onto Pico. Wacky was getting to be too unreliable to trust.

I crossed the street, deciding to kill time by taking a walk around the outskirts of the 20th Century-Fox studio. I walked north, past a large expanse of vacant lots.

The sky was darkening, black clouds competing for primacy with a brilliant blue sky. I hoped for rain. Rain was a good catalyst. It was good to look for women on rainy nights—they seemed more vulnerable and open when foul weather raged.

I was almost up to Olympic when I spotted my red and white '47 Buick in an alley behind the studio's prop department. It was rocking and there were moans coming from inside. I walked up and peered in the driver's side window. It was fogged from heavy breathing, but I could still plainly see Wacky and Siddell Weinberg writhing in a hot nude embrace.