Clandestine

The service was held in a roped-off area on a high grassy knoll in the middle of the cemetery. Hundreds of cops in uniform were there, from patrolmen to high brass. Wacky was eulogized by a half-dozen officers who didn't know him. There was no minister or mention of God. Wacky had left specific instructions about that with an old police chaplain several years before.

I was one of the pallbearers. The other five were cops I had never seen before. As we lowered Wacky into the ground, the police rifle team fired a twenty-one-gun salute and a bugler played "Taps." Then I saw Wacky's mother and sister being hustled off in the direction of a long black limousine. I could see a group of newsmen and photographers waiting by the limousine to descend on them.

Beckworth caught me in the parking lot. "Freddy," he called to me.

"Hello, Lieutenant," I said.

"Let's go over to my car and talk, Fred. We need to."

We walked over to where his car was parked, next to a walkway with statues of Jesus kneeling among friendly little animals.

Beckworth put a fatherly hand on my shoulder, and straightened the knot in my tie with his other one. He gave me a fatherly look and sighed. "Freddy, it may sound cruel, but it's over. Walker is dead. You have a commendation and a clean double-bandit killing on your record. Years from now that will look even better. Brass hats who have never drawn their guns will be impressed with that as you move up the ladder."

"No doubt. When do I go to Vice?"

"This summer. As soon as Captain Larson retires."

"Good."

"It all worked out, Freddy. I know you wanted the best for Walker. In a sense, he got it. He was a true hero. A Medal of Honor in the war and a hero's death in the war against crime. I'm sure he died knowing that. And it's funny, Freddy. Although I've, spoken harsh words about Walker, I think that, somehow, I knew he was a true hero, and that he had to die."

Beckworth lowered his voice for dramatic effect and tightened his grip on my shoulder. I knew what I had to do. "You're full of shit, Lieutenant. Wacky Walker was a fucked-up crazy drunk, and that's all. And I didn't care, I loved him. So don't romanticize him to me. Don't insult my intelligence. I knew him better than anyone, and I didn't understand him, so don't tell me you did."

"Freddy, I—"

I shrugged my shoulder free of his grasp. "You're full of shit, Lieutenant."

Beckworth went beet red, and started to tremble. "Do you know who I am, Underhill?" he hissed.

"You're a fuck for the city," I said, and flipped his necktie up into his face.

It had started to rain by the time I got to Wacky's apartment. His landlady, intimidated by my uniform, let me in.

The living room was in a shambles. I found out why—Night Train had been left alone there since Wacky's death, and had torn the sofa and chairs apart looking for food. I found him in the backyard. The resourceful Labrador had chewed his way through a screen door and was now lying under a large eucalyptus tree munching on the carcass of a cat.

He came to me when I called him. "Wacky's dead, Train," I said. "He shuffled off this mortal coil, but don't worry, you can live with me if you don't shit in the house." Night Train dropped the dead cat and nuzzled my legs.

I went back into the apartment. I found Wacky's poetry bin: three large metal filing cabinets. Wacky was messy about everything and his apartment was completely disordered, but his poetry was immaculately kept—filed, dated, and numbered.

I carried his life's work out to my car and locked it in the trunk, then went back inside and found his golf clubs in the heavy leather bag he loved so much and brought them out, too.

Night Train hopped into the front seat with me, giving me quizzical looks. I found some raucous jazz on the radio and turned up the volume. Night Train wagged his tail happily as I drove him to his new home.

I found a safe, dry spot in my hall closet for the three filing cabinets. I cooked Night Train some hamburger and sat down to write a short biography of Wacky, one to send out to publishers with samples of his poetry.

I wrote: "Herbert Lawton Walker was born in St. Louis, Missouri, in 1918. In 1942 he enlisted in the United States Marine Corps. He was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor in 1943, while serving in the Pacific theater. In 1946 he moved to Los Angeles, California, and in 1947 joined the Los Angeles Police Department. He was shot and killed by a holdup man on February 18, 1951. He wrote poetry, unique in its humorous preoccupation with death, from 1939 to the time of his own death."