Burying Ben (36 page)

I hold up a copy of a letter addressed to Chief Baxter and read it aloud. “Based on the standard psychological screening data, I find
that
the
applica
n
t,
Benj
a
m
in
Go
m
ez, does not
m
eet the psychological qualifications
required by
G
overn
m
ent Code 1031 (f).”

It is signed by Mark Edis
o
n, Ph.D. My na
m
e is
still on the l
e
tt
er
head. My hands are tre
m
bling. I gi
v
e the l
e
tt
e
r to Gary.

He frowns and says, ”Mark turn
e
d him
down and the c
h
i
e
f
still
h
i
red hi
m
?
”

“He couldn
’
t have. It
’
s against the law to hire someone who hasn
’
t got the requisite psychological qualifications.”

“Could someone have changed the recom
m
enda
t
ion
?
”

“Mark told
m
e he upgraded his entire co
m
puter syste
m
, that all his reports are encrypted. So
m
eone would need a password to
unscra
m
ble the code and change the recom
m
endation.”

Suddenly I feel drained, exhausted. The smoke from
Gary
’
s pipe is
m
aking
m
e nauseous. I haven
’
t eaten all day. I lean against Gary
’
s couch. All I want to do is sleep.

“How in hell am
I going to find out
w
ho did this, Gary? I’m
not even allowed in the building.”

Chapter Thirty
Six

Eddie Ri
m
b
auer
’
s apart
m
ent house in East Kenilworth is behind a shopping center. It has all the architectural charm of
a cheap
m
otel. The balconies are cram
m
ed with bicycles, boxes, baby carria
g
es and weightlifting benches.
L
aundry hangs over the railings.
W
i
ndows are covered with bed
s
preads and sheets. The occasio
n
al hanging curtain is knotted at the bottom
to let in air.
W
recked and rusting shopping carts stand sentinel in the overgro
w
n yard. The air is r
e
dolent with garbage
a
nd dirty diapers. A cacophony
o
f
sounds creates the illu
s
i
on of villa
g
e life – the clatter of
pots,
chil
d
ren cr
y
ing and laughing, the brassy blare of
Norteño
m
usic and the soft
m
u
r
m
ur of conversation.

I don’t really want to see hi
m
, but I
have no other choice. The door to his apart
m
ent is partially ajar. I knock. There
’
s no response. I push the door open into the tiny living roo
m
. Eddie is passed out in a
recliner in front of the TV, watching a basketball
g
a
m
e with t
h
e sound off. There
’
s
a can of beer in his hand. His face is
m
ore bloated than it was a week ago. Broken ca
p
illaries
spread
across
his nose like fine netting. It
’
s a waste of ti
m
e to talk to h
i
m
in this condition. The door squeaks as I pull it closed.
E
ddie blasts awake like a soldi
e
r who has fallen asleep in the
m
i
ddle of a battle.

He l
o
oks wildly around the r
o
om
until his eyes settle
o
n
m
e.
“
W
hat the fuc
k
? Where am
I
?”

“In your apart
m
ent. Your living roo
m
.”

“
W
hat the fuck are you doing here?
I ain
’
t
g
oing to no rehab place. I told Fran, I
’
m not going.”

He pushes hi
m
self o
f
f the recliner without retrac
t
ing the footrest and falls on the floor. His t-shirt is soiled and his belly s
p
ills over his pants. His hair is
m
atted with sleep.

”I need to piss.” He turns over, pushes
hi
m
self to his hands and knees and pulls hi
m
self up by hanging onto the chair. He wobbles down a short hall, opens a door and unzips his pants.

“
W
hat the fuck
?
” he says,
slams the door and opens another.

I hear him urinating, a long, heavy strea
m
. I go down the h
a
ll and open the first door. It
’
s a clothes clos
e
t and
fr
o
m
the s
m
ell, this isn
’
t t
h
e
f
i
rst ti
m
e he
’
s
m
i
staken it
f
or the
ba
throo
m
. I scoot back into the living room. He co
m
e
s back and drops onto the chair. It bounces under his weight, the legs scraping the bare floor.

“Do you have any coffee
?
”

“In the kitchen.” He nods to a pair of louvered doors. There a
r
e holes in the walls on either side of the doors where the knobs
have splintered the paint and dented the sheetr
o
ck. His tiny
k
itc
h
en is bare e
x
cept for t
h
ree s
m
all cactus plants shriveling on t
h
e window ledge over the sink and a salt and pepp
e
r set of co
m
i
cal cera
m
i
c pigs. There
’
s a cheap coffee pot and a can of generic coffee
on the counter. It
’
s the only thing in the kitchen that looks used. While the coffee is brewing, I open the door
to
the
refrigerator. It
’
s filled with beer. There are p
a
cka
g
ed dinners from
Fran
’
s in the freez
e
r. I re
m
e
m
ber when Eddie showed up at
m
y place unannounced and
m
ocked
m
e for livi
n
g in a barren house. Compared to his, I live in a castle. The
r
e
’
s a full set of restaur
a
nt style plates and a drawer full of silverware,
m
ore gifts from
Fran. I pour the co
f
f
ee and go back into the living roo
m
. Eddie is sitting, slack-jawed, in
his recliner. There
’
s a cooler on the floor next to
h
i
s chair and
h
e reaches for
another beer. I hand him
the coffee.

“Sorry about the
m
ess. I wasn
’
t
expecting co
m
pany. You shoulda
m
ade an appoint
m
ent.” His words are slurry. “Didn
’
t know you
m
ade
house calls.” He swigs the coffee like it was a beer and s
p
ews it out. “Fucking hot.”

“
It
’
s coffee, it
’
s supposed to be hot,” I say. He looks confused.

“I need to talk to you. But I need you to be sober.”

“I’m
on
m
y four day. I
’
ll be shit faced
until
m
y Monday. Have a seat. You
take the couch for a change.”

He laughs at his joke.
B
eside the ancient
recliner and the couch, there
’
s only a phony wood coffee table with
a chipped corner and the television. Newspapers and paperback books are stacked in
corners. The walls are bare. He watches
m
e looking around.

“Not exactly House and Garden, but it
’
s
a
ll I can get for what I have after ali
m
ony pay
m
ents.”

“You don
’
t look well. Things rough at work
?
”

“Not at
a
ll
.
” He
m
akes an elabo
r
ate
sw
eeping ge
s
ture with his
arm
and spills
m
ore coffee. “Everything
’
s peachy. I love the front desk. Helping the upstanding citizens of Kenilworth with their traffic tickets – the ones
they don
’
t deserve, of course. Beats the hell out of working the street.”

“How
m
uch
are
you drinking
?
”

“Don
’
t start on
m
e. I got Fran crawling up
m
y ass every other day.”

“I need your help, and you can
’
t help
m
e if you
’
r
e drunk.”

“I can’t help you if I’m
s
ober. I don’t know shit. R
e
m
e
m
ber?
I’m
the guy who sat next to Gomez for ten hours a day and d
i
dn’t recognize hi
m
.” He drains his coffee cup and hands it to
m
e. “Ref
i
ll,“ he says. I pour him
a second cup. “
W
hat do you want?”

I tell him
about the encrypted
report and
m
y suspicions
that so
m
eone at the P.D. changed the report from
fail to pass. He looks at
m
e with puzzled eyes. “Crips in Kenilworth?
W
hat kinda Crips you talk
i
ng about?
Crips and Bloods?”

I explain encryption the best I ca
n
. Eddie puts his cof
f
ee down, reaches for a beer and pops the lid.

“I don
’
t know fucking-A about co
m
p
uters.
I’m
a fucking dinosaur. To
m
e, a co
m
puter is a glorified typewriter. Took
m
e
fu
c
king forever to learn how to use the one in the
c
r
ui
se
r.”

“I’m
not allowed in the building, Eddie. The chief
’
s threatened to have
m
e arrested if he sees me again. I need so
m
ebody on the inside to help
m
e.”

“Talk to
Mañana
. He
’
s a co
m
puter whiz. G
r
ew up with all that stuff. I think his mother had co
m
puter cables for tits.”

He laughs and then suddenly throws hi
m
self forward in his chair, slamming his feet and l
e
gs down on the footrest. It snaps back with a groan. For the
m
o
ment he looks sober. “Don
’
t
get the little beaner in
trouble. I’m
warning you, Doc. He
’
s a good kid. Don
’
t do a Go
m
ez on hi
m
.”

‘Go
m
ez’. That’s a verb
m
ade out of a noun
m
ade out of a once living hu
m
an being.