Clandestine

"Ha-ha-ha! Well said. Is 'actor' a euphemism for 'madman,' lad?"

"No, I just think sometimes you're not sure what role you're playing."

Tiny brown predator eyes bored into me. "Lad, all my roles are in the name of justice and all my roles are me. Don't you forget that."

"Sure, Dudley."

"And, lad, don't think I don't know you. Don't think I don't know how smart you think you are. Don't think I didn't notice how you relished giving me guff in front of Brubaker. Don't think I don't know what a son of a bitch you think I am. Ha-ha-ha! Enough sorrow and contention, lad. Drive me downtown and take the rest of the day off."

I dropped Dudley downtown in front of Central Division headquarters on Los Angeles Street. He stuck his big hand out and we shook. "Tomorrow, lad. Eight A.M. at the hotel. We'll go over our evidence and decide when we'll snatch handsome Eddie."

"Right, Dudley."

He squeezed my hand until I rewarded him with a wince, then he winked and left me to contemplate madness and salvation.

I had over four hours to kill before my date with Lorna. I drove home and wrote out a detailed report on my involvement in the Margaret Cadwallader case. I put it in a large manila envelope and sealed it shut. I fed Night Train, changed clothes, and shaved again.

On my way downtown I stopped at a florist's shop, where I bought Lorna a dozen long-stemmed red roses. Somehow they made me think of the dead girl whose eternal sleep Dudley Smith had so viciously interrupted. I started to get a little scared, but the thought of Lorna kiboshed my fear and turned it into some strange symbiosis of hope and the odd amenities of justice.

I waited impatiently, red roses in hand, outside the Spring Street entrance to city hall until six-thirty.

Lorna was standing me up. I jogged over to the parking lot on Temple. Her car was in its space. Angry, I walked back to city hall and entered. I checked out the directory in the vestibule: the office of the district attorney occupied two whole floors. Nervously, I took the elevator, although I wanted to run the nine flights of stairs. I walked down the deserted ninth floor corridors, poking my head in open doorways, checking empty conference rooms. I even ducked my head into the ladies' can. Nothing.

I heard the clack-clacking of a typewriter in the distance. I walked down the hallway to a glass door with "Grand Jury Investigations" lettered on it in flat black paint. I knocked softly.

"Who is it?" Lorna's voice called testily.

I disguised my voice: "Telegram, ma'am."

"Shit," I heard her mutter. "It's open."

I pushed in the door. Lorna looked up from her typewriter, noticed me and jumped toward the door in an attempt to block my entrance. I sidestepped her, and she crashed to the floor.

"Shit. Oh, shit. Oh, God!" she said, pushing herself up into a sitting position against the wall. "What the hell are you doing with me?"

"Stalking your heart," I said, tossing the roses onto her desk. "Here, let me help you up."

I squatted down and grabbed Lorna under her arms and gently lifted her to her feet. She made feeble motions toward pushing me away, but her heart wasn't in it. I embraced her tightly and she didn't resist.

"We had a date, remember?" I whispered into her soft brown hair.

"I remember."

"Are you ready to go?"

"I don't think so."

"I told you last night, don't think."

Lorna disengaged herself. "Don't patronize me, Underhill," she hissed. "I don't know what you want, but I know you underestimate me. I've been around. I'm thirty-one years old. I've tried promiscuity and I've tried true love, and they're like my dead leg: they don't work. I don't need a charity lover. I don't need a deformity-lover. I don't need compassion—and above all, I don't need a cop."

"But you need me."

"No, I don't!" She raised her hand to slap me.

"Do it, counselor," I said. "Then I'll file on you for a 647-F, assault on a police officer. You'll have to investigate it yourself and then be in the incongruous position of being defendant, investigator, and defense attorney all at once. So go ahead."

Lorna lowered her hand and started to laugh.

"Good," I said. "I drop all charges and grant parole."

"In whose custody?"

"In mine."

"Under what conditions?"

"For starters, that you accept my flowers and have dinner with me tonight."

"And then?"

"That will depend on your probation reports."

Lorna laughed again. "Will I get time off for good behavior?"

"No," I said, "I think it's going to be a life sentence."

"You're out of your bailiwick, Officer, as you once said to me."

"I'm above the law, counselor, as you once said to me."

"Touché, Freddy."

"A standstill, Lorna. Dinner?"

"All right. The flowers are lovely. Let me put them in water, then we can go."