One Foot Off the Gutter (8 page)

An instant later, he saw a blinding white light.

“What's that?” he said.

Laughter was crinkling in her eyes. A flood of his semen was sticking to the sheets, to the money, and to her breasts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

b
ellamy's complexion was akin to the scales on a fish. His uniform bore the signs of having been mended by hand at least ten times. But in a bar, Bellamy gave off a healthy shine, as if he'd just tumbled out of the sack. The rumpled cast in his eyes seemed to say he always had good sex.

He smiled at the young bar maid, tipped his riot helmet back in a polite greeting. She lifted her chin in his direction, letting him know with her mouth that she was interested in him. Bellamy had done a lot of sweet talking to her in the last half hour.

“You know I'd like to see you sometime.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing serious. Just want to get to know you.”

She turned her back to him and said over her shoulder:

“I've heard that one before.”

“People who repeat themselves only do it because they're thinking out loud.”

“Oh, I get it,” she said. “You're a philosopher.”

“No, I'm a cop,” Bellamy said sweetly.

He was visiting her at El Oso where she worked. Success with the opposite sex was never a guaranteed thing. He had to bust a nut to get what he wanted. It would have been simpler to be gay. Those men got laid more easily than the heteros Bellamy knew.

He said to her, “I bet you've never gone out with a police officer before.”

“How'd you guess?” she smiled.

“Most citizens wouldn't. I don't take it personally.”

“You shouldn't. If you did, you'd end up committing suicide.”

“Why? Because I'm a cop?”

“People don't exactly love you guys these days.”

“So? Who's in love, anyway? Can you show me?”

His technique was simple. It was called the interview. He began his quest by asking questions. He'd start with general topics, then he maneuvered his way into more personal territory. He always looked his potential lover in the eyes, affecting a pose of deep sincerity. The questions were designed to make an individual feel wanted. Basking in the attention he gave a woman, she'd let her guard down. Bellamy was fond of saying his system never failed. Everybody at the station knew he was a liar.

To his great amusement, because it was too weird to take himself seriously, the girl yielded to his strategy. She agreed to make a date with him.

“I'll go out with you, police officer,” she said one evening. “It's got to be short because I'm busy. That okay with you?”

“I'm cool,” Bellamy answered.

He wasn't going to push his luck. He wasn't like other players. You had to treat a woman like a lady to get anywhere. Bellamy had learned that lesson the hard way over the years.

Two days later, he picked her up after work. He was driving the squad car. He'd wanted to get it washed at the car wash on Divisadero, the place where they employed ninety million illegals, but he didn't have the money. Bellamy knew he had a bit of nerve asking her to ride with him considering how bad the back seat smelled. But he was nonchalant. That was part of his charm.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked her.

She tossed a glance at him.

“Bellamy, right?”

“That's right. My name is Bellamy.”

“Well, I'll tell you, Bellamy, I don't care where we go.”

He drove them to another bar in the Mission. The joint was called The Dovre Club. It was his favorite watering hole. It was a pleasant cavern that always had Sinatra caterwauling on the jukebox. There were photographs of baseball stars, torch singers and popular criminals on the walls. It was an Irish bar on Valencia Street that didn't conceal its sympathy for the Republican cause. The ambience was perfect for a player like Bellamy.

He got them a couple of seats, some napkins and three drinks; one for her, two for him. Then he went to work on
her. He unleashed several weapons from his arsenal of intimacy. A smile here and an ingratiating, winning laugh there. He plied her with more questions, getting her drunk on their profusion. He ran his campaign to get her into bed like it was a job interview.

“How did work go today?”

“It was tolerable,” she said.

“You like the job you do?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” she replied.

Bellamy didn't feel like he was getting anywhere. She wasn't saying much. So he approached the situation from another angle.

“How many kids you got?” he asked.

“What are you, some kind of wise guy?” she grinned.

“Nah,” Bellamy simpered. He played with the cocktail napkin on the table. He kept his eyes lowered to his drink. He acted coy but serious. All the chicks loved it when you affected airs like that. Women thought you had integrity and a sense of humor. That was important stuff, if you wanted to make it with someone.

“I think kids are a great idea,” he said. “It makes people feel better to have a couple around, you know? But that's only my opinion. Myself, I've never been married. And kids? I ain't never had any, no sir.”

“Why is that?”

Her name was Doreen. That seemed to fit with the color of her eyes. They were brown, near as he could make out through the cigarette haze in the bar.

“I guess I haven't met the right woman yet,” Bellamy replied. He took his time answering her, trying to sound
world weary and sophisticated. He couldn't front himself off as a young stud, not at his age.

“When you get to where I am in life, it would be better if I met a woman who already had some kids. That way, I could become an instant father.”

Bellamy knew he'd touched down somewhere near her core when he saw the look she gave him. Bingo, he smiled to himself. Tell them you want to be a daddy, and they'll follow you anywhere.

“I've got two girls,” she said.

“No shit?”

“I'm not kidding you.”

He started to warm up to the subject. It was kind of kinky to him. He'd never thought of himself as a father to a bunch of rug rats.

“How old are they?”

“The youngest one is four and her sister is seven. The baby goes to preschool at Saint Anne's. The other one is in the second grade over there.”

“A good Catholic school?”

Bellamy scrunched his eyebrows together. The gesture caused his transplant to ripple across his scalp.

“You know it,” Doreen said.

She leaned across the table to get a better look at him. In the dark, Bellamy was almost handsome. His hair transplant seemed natural. His acne scars were hardly noticeable. By the time the second round of drinks appeared in front of them, she was getting relaxed with him. They were settling down into a friendly conversation. Bellamy told her about his job.

“Must be interesting. I always thought cops were exotic. Like fascinating,” Doreen said.

Bellamy was stoked by her attitude. “Yeah, I guess we are,” he replied.

He could tell Doreen was interested in him. He knew she saw him as a steady wage earner. That was no small deal for a woman with two mouths to feed. Wait until I tell her I'm homeless. That'll be a laugh, Bellamy thought.

He liked her smile. Just look at her mouth. It was made for bloodsucking kisses. It was a funny thing how short women with big legs and full breasts were dynamite in bed. He was sure she was a hurricane in between the sheets. Catholic girls like Doreen had the fire of the church in them.

“I bet you bite a guy when you kiss him good night,” he said.

It was so crude, she was caught off guard. She found she wasn't offended. What a guy; he flirted like an ape.

“I like a deep kiss,” she laughed.

 

When they left the bar, Bellamy was feeling tipsy. That wasn't surprising because he hadn't eaten a damn thing all day long. He was pleased when Doreen consented to let him escort her home.

Neither of them said anything during the ride to the Sunset district. The squad car was filthy, but Doreen didn't seem to mind. Or if she did, she didn't say anything about it. Both of them were content to watch the fog through the cracked windshield.

When they got to her apartment, a cozy duplex nestled
under the slopes of Mount Davidson, she invited him in for a cup of tea.

“You don't have to if you don't want to. But the kids are spending the night at my mother's.”

The words trailed off into an excited silence. Bellamy was at one end of the silence. Doreen was at the other end, reeling him in with her soft brown eyes. Holy shit. She was putting the make on him. That was the last thing he'd expected from her. It put a new take on the scene. He chuckled behind the steering wheel. She hadn't said a word about the dirty laundry in the back seat. He was liking her more and more. Doreen knew how to give a man some room. Bellamy tapped his fingers on the dashboard. A few stars were peeking out from the fog bank hovering over Mount Davidson. Everything was going smooth. All he had to do was ask a dangerous question, then he'd be sitting pretty.

“What about your husband? Won't he mind me coming upstairs?”

“I don't have a husband,” Doreen said quickly,

It was an answer he'd been waiting to hear; for how long, he couldn't recall. He just knew, that whatever loneliness he'd been going through lately, it had ended on this young woman's doorstep.

That had turned out to be the beginning of a great night. Young women like Doreen O'Malley were fortified with an extra powerful sex drive. Bellamy was sore when he woke up in her bed the following morning. He was ecstatic when Coddy met him at the station that afternoon. He wanted to tell his partner about his adventure. But to Bellamy's dismay, Coddy was in a foul mood.

 

 

 

 

 

 

i
want that building,” I groused. “I can't stand the sight of a good house like that going to waste.”

Bellamy rolled a toothpick around in his mouth. I knew he wasn't worrying about anything. Making love to the girl he'd mentioned had infused my partner with unexpected tranquility. It was no excuse for the casual remark he made.

“Don't you think you're going too far with this, Coddy? I mean, c'mon, man. You sound like you're developing an obsession or something.”

We were in the station's locker room, loading our cartridge belts with extra clips. We always felt better after checking our weapons. It was a ritual neither of us could live without. The soft-hard, oily feel of the bullets in our hands allowed for a certain serenity. And the guns on our belts? Convictions aside, we would be nothing without them.

I finished first and looked at Bellamy. I measured him with a cynical eye. It wasn't fair, but I couldn't help it. Bellamy was a solid cop, yet he didn't understand the personal, behind-the-scenes program. There were certain pressures that went along with being married which Bellamy didn't comprehend. I decided to explain myself.

“I've been talking to Alice. That's all we ever do. We talk about this bullshit. And I'll admit it. I'm starting to get crazy. And you know what? You ain't seen nothin' yet. If my circumstances don't improve, I don't know what'll happen. What other choice do I have? I've got to jump for what I want.”

“If you want, I can drive,” Bellamy offered.

I leered at him in mild fury, convinced this was an issue Bellamy would never fathom. “You know I can't let you do that,” I japed. “What's the matter with you? You have a suspended driver's license.”

Alice and I talked night after night. We knew it would take a miracle to get us out of the labyrinth we were living in. Alice had said, “I don't like Novato. All I ever see are other cops' wives. It's like we're clones. We worry for our husbands. Our little gods. We want them to come home safely to us. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with it. I know it's part of the job.”

Feeling like a ship lost at sea, Alice struggled to find the right expression. She wasn't fussy. But it had to be accurate; something that made sense.

I'd propped up my head with the palm of my right hand and let Alice hold my left hand, so she could massage
the scar tissue where my pinkie used to be. Her fingers were cold; her face was underscored by the kitchen's stern fluorescent lighting.

“I'm working on a plan,” I said. “I'm reading the listings in the newspapers every day to see what's available. I'm chatting up property managers, landlords, and real estate agents whenever I'm making my rounds. I'm keeping my ear to the ground, doing what I can to pick up tips that will help us.”

Who would have thought it was going to come down to this? The expression on Alice's face scared me. The distress glinting in her watery green eyes wasn't anything compared to the terror I heard bubbling in her throat. I knew she was starting to question me. The power I used to have to make things different had slowed down to a snail's pace. Nothing was moving like it used to. Hard work and conscientious thrift didn't change anything.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Oh, a house.”

“A house? Coddy, please don't get our hopes up.”

She was thirty-seven. I was ten years, six months and three weeks older than her. Desperation had never been part of our personal vocabulary, but when I saw the lines on Alice's face, I also saw the seeds of defeat planted in the downward curve of her mouth.