Grave on Grand Avenue Page 20

  “You painted the car. You conspired to hide evidence. Lita, you could be in big trouble, too.”

  That thought does rattle Lita. “Get rid of the car, querida. Send it to the junkyard. Crush it down. Make it disappear.”

  “We can’t do that, Lita. It’ll make us all the more suspicious. The safest thing to do is to hang on to the Green Mile.” Forever. While driving to Lita’s house, I also came up with a theory. Far-fetched, yes, but then, all of this is. I give voice to my theory. “Puddy is not out here to save people’s lives. He’s here to find Ron Sullivan to collect his share of the money from when he drove the getaway car. Most likely, with interest and then some.”

  FOURTEEN

  I’m early again for the next day’s roll call. It’s amazing how experiencing some success at your job will help your punctuality.

  I sit in our meeting room by myself, fiddling with my cell phone. Nay’s latest article on arrests happening in China has been posted on the Squeeze website. The latest officer to be arrested is named Zhiyun Xu. He is accused of taking huge bribes and dispersing the monies to his wife and relatives. His whereabouts, as well as his family members’ locations, are unknown. I don’t know how common the surname “Xu” is—is it just a coincidence, or was this the high-ranking leader in the Communist Party mentioned in Kendra Prescott’s article? Xu’s uncle, the one who had presented him with the cello? Nay refers to a number of anonymous sources, and I wonder whether any of them are Washington Jeung.

  For the heck of it, I try texting her again: Congrats on your story. Just read it. Hope it wins a Pacemaker. After I press send, I immediately regret the line about the Pacemaker Award. I worry it sounds sarcastic, but it’s not. I honestly think, especially for a school newspaper, that her article rocks.

  I stare at my phone’s blank screen. The friend vacay continues.

  “Hey.” Someone enters the room.

  I turn around. It’s Jorge. “Oh, hi.” He doesn’t always show up for our meetings, so I’m a little surprised to see him.

  He comes close to me, enough to make me a tad uncomfortable. “What are you doing after work?”

  “Uh.” Watching more episodes of Dawson’s Creek with Shippo at my side.

  “Music Center is having one of their dance nights.”

  “You dance?” I ask. Benjamin loves music, but he never danced unless he was pretty drunk. It’s usually up to Nay and me to tear up the dance floor.

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  I like Jorge’s attitude. One thing that I can say about him, he is Mr. Positive.

  “Maybe I’ll stop by. No promises.”

  “Well, I’ll be there.”

  More officers fill the room and Jorge, thankfully, moves to sit in the front corner. Other than Johnny, most guys don’t sit next to me unless there are no other open spots. But this morning I’m a seat magnet. The early birds surround me. The only exception is Mac, who chooses a spot in a corner as far away from me as possible.

  “Officer Mendez, our bicycle liaison, is here to make an announcement,” says Captain Randle.

  Jorge stands up and faces the rest of us. “Well, our discovery of the stolen bicycles has generated great media attention and good will in the biking community and the public. As a result, Councilman Beachum wants to present a special commendation to the Central’s bicycle unit. And he would like the unit to be represented by Officer Rush.”

  “Ruuuush, Ruuuush.” Guys are beating their palms on their desks. Normally, I would love this. But I really don’t want any special attention from our district’s councilman.

  “Officer Lambert will be presented with a commendation, as well. You’re aware of this, right, Lambert?”

  “What’s it for, Mac?” someone calls out.

  Mac sits silently in the back corner, biting his fingernail and looking uncomfortable. I don’t get it. He doesn’t respond, so Jorge moves on and eventually lets the captain continue with the meeting.

  “Wear your uniform tomorrow for the council meeting,” Jorge advises me before he leaves. He doesn’t mention the Grand Park dance night again, thank God. That’s all I need at work, rumors that the bicycle liaison and I are an item.

  Six of us, including Johnny, Armine and me, are assigned to an independent movie shoot next to the downtown architectural school. It’s on the eastern side of the Arts District, next to the Los Angeles River. I never even knew that the school existed until I started working for the Central Division. It’s in an old freight terminal for the Santa Fe Railroad, a long narrow building that spans four blocks.

  I’m not quite sure what kind of movie they’re shooting. It’s called Renegade Flats, and I don’t recognize any of the actors. Most of them are dressed in street gear, all black. Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing I’ll be watching, even if the filmmakers offer it free on the web.

  I move my bike closer to Johnny. He seems bummed out. “What’s happening with the Divorcée-on-the-beach episode?” I ask him.

  “The chief nixed it.”

  No wonder Johnny is so down. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, he said that he doesn’t think it would put the department in a good light.”

  Thank God for the chief, I think.

  “Hey, maybe your aunt can put in a good word for us,” Johnny suggests.

  “Ah, no. I can’t ask her for any favors.” Especially if she finds out that I’ve spilled the beans to Cortez about Puddy. Speaking of Cortez, no return phone call.

  We watch as the lighting crew move equipment around.

  “Chale must have been disappointed,” I say.

  “Heck, yeah. She doesn’t even want to hang out anymore.”

  And you’re surprised? My poor sometimes-partner is one deluded man.

  “Too bad for Misty, too,” I say.

  “She doesn’t care. It’s more her husband.”

  “Her husband?”

  “He’s an exec with the cable network. He’s best friends with Cortez Williams. That’s why Williams even agreed to meet with us.”

  I readjust my sunglasses. So that’s why Misty seemed so cozy with Cortez. He’s tight with her husband. They’re friends. Legitimate friends. Once again, my paranoia, jealousy, has gotten the best of me. I wish I could just turn off that side of me, like a faucet or a spigot. I need that slogan “Keep Calm and Carry On” tattooed to my brain.

  “Anyway, Misty’s husband has plans for us, Ellie. A kind of Baywatch on bikes. A reality show.”

  “Good luck with that, okay?”

  “Oh no, if it gets off the ground, you’ll have to be a part of it.”

  Not a chance. I ride my bike to the other side of the production and look away from the lights, actors and reflective screens. I know that the river, shallow fingers of water carrying mud and trash, is just a few blocks away. I feel more connected to the river, no matter how dirty and pitiful, than all the glitz right in front of me. The river smells real and is going to be there tomorrow, whereas this whole film crew will be gone, leaving the streets empty again.

  * * *

  Toward the end of the day I receive a text from Jorge: 60s nite!!! Music Center. 7.

  His exclamation marks crack up me up. I don’t know of any other guys who would use so many—or even one—in a text. Circles of people at the shoot have gathered, smoking cigarettes and laughing. They’ve invited a few of us, including Johnny and me, to drinks at the local bar. I don’t feel like standing around, a beer in my hand, talking BS. But I also don’t feel like playing dog lady again, spending another night with Shippo and Dawson’s Creek, so I text Jorge that I’ll meet him there.

  I go home to feed Shippo and to change. I’m certainly not going to dress in tie-dye, macramé vests, or whatever they wore then. In defiance of the theme, I wear a Nike Lycra running shirt and shorts.

  I drive the Green Mile, prepared to pay for park
ing. The lot is already filled with young people my age trying to find their inner flower children, judging from the outfits they’re wearing. There are also plenty of people in regular T-shirts and jeans like me.

  “Hey, I like your outfit. Prefontaine,” a skinny black guy wearing a halter top says to me.

  I’ve heard of Prefontaine before. He was a runner who ran in Oregon, where Nike’s waffle-iron sole was created. While trying to rebel against the event’s theme, I guess I fell smack-dab in the middle of it.

  I go up the stairs toward the Music Center plaza. There are about two hundred people already on a laminate dance floor that they’ve placed on the concrete. The DJs on the stage, at their turntables, are spinning the vinyl. Strings of paper lanterns above. It’s completely insane.

  “El-lie!” I hear a male voice shouting, but it doesn’t sound like Jorge. Rickie comes running toward me, his Mohawk standing straight up with God knows how many layers of hair product.

  “It’s the sixties, Rickie. Way before the Village People.”

  “Don’t be such a smart-ass. It’s not how you look; it’s not even about how you move. It’s about just showing up and being with everyone.”

  I give Rickie a sideways look.

  “Why are you here, anyways? Didn’t think these dance jams would be your thing,” he says.

  “Maybe I’m branching out.”

  “Are you with someone?”

  “Not necessarily.” I regret my ambiguous remark.

  Just then I hear Jorge calling my name. He’s wearing a pair of tight jeans and a loose wine-colored V-neck T-shirt. On his head is one of those hipster hats that I usually can’t stand. But he actually looks pretty cute in it. Lessens the glow of his shiny forehead.

  “Hey,” I say when Jorge joins us. “I’m here.”

  “It’s even more crowded than usual.” Jorge notices Rickie. “Hi.” He extends his hand.

  “Jorge, Rickie. Jorge and I work together. Rickie and I are friends from college.”

  From the stage the music changes to Sly and the Family Stone’s “Dance to the Music.” I love the beginning of this song—the horns blasting, the tambourine shaking, and someone—maybe Sly Stone—yelling in that raspy voice, “Hey, get up and dance to the music.” Rickie starts jumping up and down, and in this crowd, it’s totally appropriate.

  Jorge cups his mouth as he says to me, “So, is he your boyfriend?”

  I make a face. “No. Are you kidding me?”

  We make our way to the dance floor, and yes, we start dancing to the music. Some folks are doing some choreographed moves, but we choose to just lose ourselves in the rhythm. At one point, I literally lose Jorge in the crowd.

  Rickie hops toward me. “So, is he your new boyfriend?”

  I laugh. “That’s funny. That’s what he asked me earlier about you.”

  “You’re not my type.”

  “Amen to that.”

  More hip and butt shaking. Hands clapping. Cymbals banging.

  Rickie hops to me again. “He’s kind of One Direction–ish. Looks like that half-Pakistani one, you know, Malik.”

  Jorge? You’d have to squint really hard to make that connection. “Whatever. He’s just a friend. Wait a minute, I want to amend that. He’s just a coworker.”

  The song ends and a new one comes on. Jorge comes back. The rhythm of an electric guitar. The DJ introduces it as the Kinks’ “You Really Got Me,” and the older people on the dance floor go wild. I’ve heard the song before, too, and both Jorge and I start bouncing around on the laminate floor. Colors flash. Beats ring. My body lets go.

  Jorge jumps, his shirt rising up. I’m surprised to see a tattoo by his belly button. It’s of a skeleton with a smoking gun. Why does he have a gang tattoo? I wonder. He takes hold of my elbows. The two of us are now leaping together like fools. And before I know it, his mouth is on mine.

  “No, no,” I say, feeling the wetness of his kiss. “This is not going to happen.” I pull myself from him and walk off the dance floor.

  “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He follows me.

  “We work together.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says again. He’s removed his hat; sweat is dripping down the sides of his face. “But as for us working together, I mean, how else are people supposed to meet after you leave school, anyway? Besides the Internet.”

  “I know. It’s just that . . .” I can make up dozens of good reasons; the best one is that I’m still recovering from a breakup. But he’s not proposing marriage or even a relationship. “It’s just not a good idea.”

  “I get it, I get it.” He doesn’t verbalize what he gets. The thing is, we both know now that I don’t want to be kissed by him. That part is clear.

  He disappears in the sea of people and I don’t bother chasing after him.

  The song changes to “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” A dance instructor is giving the crowd some coordinated steps.

  A Mohawk nears. “Hey, what happened to Mr. No Direction?”

  “He took off. I think that he’s pissed.”

  “What did you do?”

  “He kissed me.”

  “And . . .”

  “I didn’t want to be kissed by him.”

  “Oh. Harsh.”

  “I wasn’t mean about it. I figured it was better not to lead him on, right?”

  “Poor George.”

  “You know he spells it J-O-R-G-E.”

  “But he pronounces it George, not Jorge?” Rickie says it the Spanish way, sounded the J as an H. “That’s sacrilegious, man.”

  “See,” I say, as if that’s my reason for rejecting him. “He also had a tat on him.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “No, I mean it’s a gang tat. From East LA.”

  “Maybe he’s just a poser. I mean, George?”

  I shake my head and then check my phone. While I was dancing, I’d received a voice mail message. I say good night to Rickie and then listen to my message as I make my way back to the car.

  It’s my mother. “Congratulations on your arrest of the bicycle thieves. Your boss must be very happy.”

  Even though it’s late, almost eleven, I call my mom back. Ever since she went through chemo, her sleeping patterns are all messed up. She now barely sleeps, making her both a night owl and an early-morning person.

  “Hi, Mom, sorry to call so late.”

  “I’m up. Reading for my book club.”

  “Book club? Since when did you start doing that?”

  “Janice got me into it. They read the most depressing books. It’s almost like the more suffering, the better.”

  “Oh.” I give it another month before Mom picks up a different activity. “Anyway, you called?”

  “Yes, I read the post on Bicycle News.”

  “Since when do you read the Bicycle News?”

  “I have you on Google Alerts.”

  “Why would you have me on Google Alerts?”

  “Well, you don’t tell me anything. How else can I find out things about you?”

  Even more reason not to be on social media.

  “Anyway, congratulations on solving the case.” Mom makes me sound like Nancy Drew. Ellie Rush and the Missing Pink Bicycle.

  “Thanks, Mom. It was actually kind of an accident—”

  “No, no, don’t do that. Don’t sell yourself short,” Mom says. “You did something of note in your field, and you need to be proud of it. I am.”

  When my mother says things like this, it always throws me for a loop. Lately she’s been giving me more compliments and I don’t know what to do with it. So I change the subject. “By the way,” I say. “I have some bad news. Benjamin’s mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer.”

  “Ovarian cancer. Oh, that’s not good. Hard to detect.”<
br />
  “She had a hysterectomy. The surgeon found some cancer cells in her lymph nodes, but they think they got all of it.”

  “She’s about my age?” Mom has met Mrs. Choi only a couple of times.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ellie. Tell Benjamin that I’ll be cheering her on. She’ll get through it. And if she ever wants to talk to someone . . .”

  My mother’s nurturing mood gets me to further open up. “By the way, has Aunt Cheryl mentioned if she was dating anyone?”

  “What?” Mom is scandalized. “Who is she dating?”

  “I’m not sure, or even if she is. I was just wondering if she’d said anything to you or Grandma.”

  “Well,” Mom says, “I have your aunt on Google Alerts, too, and so far I haven’t seen anything new.”

  See, NSA, if you have a need for a middle-aged Japanese American woman, I have the perfect candidate for you.

  FIFTEEN

  I’m at Grand Central Market on Monday morning, sitting at the counter of a popular breakfast place that specializes in organic coddled eggs. It’s early, a little after eight a.m., and I’m in my full uniform. After playing telephone tag with Cortez, we’ve finally made a time to meet up. It’s for less than an hour before work, but with the LAPD’s joint investigation of the Old Lady Bandit robberies, I’ll have to take what I can get.

  I check my phone. Cortez is a few minutes late; it’s not like him, but no message, so he must be on his way.

  And then, magically, he appears in the empty seat next to me.

  “Sorry,” he says, “accident on the 10.” He does a double take. “Hey, you look nice.”

  Yes, I’ve actually pinned my long horse hair into a bun (took me two packages of bobby pins), rubbed some tinted moisturizer on my face, and even applied a couple of wands of mascara. I’m going to receive a commendation at City Council chambers today, so I might as well look respectable, even if I’ll be receiving that commendation from a man I don’t have any respect for.

  “Thanks,” I say. “You’ve been busy.”

  “Worked all through the weekend.”