In my case that last of Atti's three final bits of advice was going to be a piece of cake. As for the other two, what do I know about blending in with regular people? The whole point of Hollywood is getting the rest of the world to stand up and pay attention when you do nothing more interesting than make an unscheduled appearance.
That wasn't even the biggest problem with working under the wire to finish what Rita had started. The fact is she'd always been way smarter than me at all of that stuff -- and here's she's the one who ended up dead.
Besides, was Atti really some kind of a government spy instead of another sleazebag paparazzo with unexplained access to some very highly placed individuals? I had to wonder if there was much of a difference between the two, when you get down to it. Anyway, once he squeezed me onto a San Diego-bound shopping shuttle -- obscured by his largest Baja fat farm clientele -- I was left to decipher all that on my own.The van full of pot-smoking surfers who gave me a ride back to L.A. -- and insisted on calling me dude -- were definitely not going to be much help. "Dude," the driver observed in his rear view mirror, "you got way too much on your mind for a hot chick. "That's because I'm a low level police clerk sorting through a lot of high level information," I told him. "That's awesome, dude," he said. "You wanna pass me that spliff?"
If Rita had ratted out her mobster landlord for trading diamonds with foreign terrorists, how did they both end up dead instead of under federal indictment? And what about this shadowy investigation into some kind of police hit squad? If all of that wasn't scary enough, why was some ditzy temp from the records room -- abandoned in Baja to fend for herself -- the only one still asking questions? Maybe the trail had started at Starbutts, as Atti insisted, but right now it was leading directly to the front steps of Hollywood Division.
That's exactly where I found the captain and Special Agent Knowles on my first afternoon back at work. The long anticipated municipal elections were winding down, and there stood Hollywood's favorite power couple, closing up shop at their very own precinct polling place. The public relations value alone was worth your vote, Law Enforcement Ken and Barbie seemed to assure the city of Los Angeles. Their shared commitment to fixing a broken criminal justice system had only been strengthened in the years since their young son's unresolved murder. Seriously, it was epic. The bald little no-name incumbent -- across town somewhere yammering about courtroom experience while waving some moldy Ivy League diploma -- never had a prayer.
"That's Cherry Culpepper," a nonplussed reporter informed her cameraman. "Who?" the big dork asked, not even bothering to re-focus in my general direction. The "blondeshell" at the center of the dismembered stripper case was thankfully yesterday's news -- to everyone but the captain, that is. "Welcome back, kid," my secret, would be paramour whispered, reaching out to touch my shoulder. He might as well have taken a hammer to my heart. "Hey. How was your vacation?" he asked.
So that's the way he wanted to play it. Nobody accidentally shot anybody, or nearly died in a gang-infested Tijuana hospital, or got locked up in a corrupt Mexican prison before being cut loose by the FBI and deposited in the desert to sink or swim. No overdue "I love you's" had to be strong armed at the point of a gun. What could either of us possibly have to explain now by way of a candid conversation? "My vacation was just peachy, sir," I said, shielding my face from the unforgiving glare of the late afternoon sun.
"Peachy?'" he asked. "Are the kids still saying that?" Just then Agent Knowles caught my eye from her lofty pedestal. She smiled like a gracious competitor, bested by my completely shocking reappearance on the scene. Miming a phone to her ear, she mouthed the words, "call me" -- as though she and I had been college teammates who really needed to catch up on some girl talk.
"Don't you ever get tired of all this? I asked the captain."Are you kidding? I'm fucking exhausted." He positioned me around to pose for a quick picture. I looked up and smiled weakly, wondering how he could have aged so visibly in such a short time. While we'd both had near death experiences, given the carefully staged scene I'd once again stumbled upon, there was no need to ask whether his, too, had been life-altering. "I don't care any more, Chuck," I said, defying our longstanding agreement never to speak his name in the cold light of day. I wrested free of his grasp for the last time, turning on a heel and disappearing down the long hallway.
Clocking in for night watch, I found a bouquet of roses at my desk, with an unsigned card reading, Bienvenida de Nuevo, Mi Amore -- "Welcome Back, My Love." I tossed it all in the trash -- along with any lingering hope that the captain and I might some day be good together -- and booted up my trusty computerized records system. I was back -- and this was the best place, it finally occurred to me, to dig up one last batch of dirty dirt that could bring down the whole damn place.
