Ronald Tierney - Good To The Last Kiss - Crimes of the Depraved Mind Series

‘I mean I never messed around.’

‘No, no, no. You and what’s his name with the magazines in the back seat of the Buick, right?’

‘Joey. My cousin. We didn’t mess around.’

‘You said…’

‘I said the two of us were in the back seat of my Uncle Frank’s black Buick looking through some magazines. You didn’t let me finish. He was telling me about looking in the window of this apartment house and seeing two guys going at it. That’s all. First I knew about that sort of thing.’

‘You never…’

‘Not me,’ Gratelli said. ‘I don’t mind you like guys, though.’

‘That was thirty fuckin’ years ago!’

‘All right, I don’t mind that you used to like guys. Listen, this is San Francisco. We got gays on the force.’

‘Cut it out, Gratelli.’

‘You’re right. It’s none of my business. But you brought it up, remember. And I think that’s great, healthy, you know. Developing a little sensitivity.’

T he best part of having McClellan as a partner was that Gratelli wasn’t obligated to be the cop’s friend off-duty. Gratelli had never met his partner’s wife and McClellan had never set foot in Gratelli’s apartment. Both of them, unlike most police officers, clocked off the force and off each other at the end of their shift.

No bowling, no shared drinks before heading home, no weekend barbecues. Gratelli had no idea how McClellan spent his off hours except for the rumors that he was a boozer. For all Gratelli knew, McClellan made birdhouses on Saturday mornings or coached little league. He did know that McClellan had a wife and a couple of kids who had to have some expensive dental work and now were going the college route; and he knew now that the marriage was in trouble.

The lack of a deep, personal friendship didn’t seem to bother either one of them.

The worst part of the partnership was lunch. McClellan’s palate was accustomed to Denny’s. Even preferred it. Or maybe one of the tasteless noodle joints in Chinatown. McClellan liked his food cheap and filling.

Food for Gratelli was, like opera, one of life’s few celebrations. He could wear cheap suits, get by with a barber rather than a hair stylist, could even endure an inexpensive but decent Chianti; but he was willing to lay out real money for his opera seats, a fine old LP recording and a really good meal. Food for McClellan wasn’t a celebration, it was like pulling up to a gas station and pushing the hose in the hole and pumping it in until the tank couldn’t take any more.

Even so, he’d given up the lunch fight years ago. He’d rather chew on a cheap hamburger than listen to McClellan complain for three hours that he’d spent seven dollars for lunch. Of course, Gratelli knew McClellan would complain about something anyway. That way Gratelli wouldn’t have to bear the guilt.

McClellan made one exception – once a week at Original Joe’s. The neighborhood wasn’t great, but the restaurant was. But that was only once a week. Fridays, usually. The stew was the best. Both Gratelli and McClellan said it was just like the stew their mothers made. Gratelli’s mother was Italian. McClellan’s Irish. Stew had somehow crossed ethnic lines.

This time, they sat in the McDonald’s at the end of Haight Street on Stanyan across from the entrance to Golden Gate Park. Gratelli had managed to get through his fish sandwich and about half his fries. McClellan was on his second Big Mac.

‘You remember the fight they had trying to get a McDonald’s in here?’

Gratelli nodded. The neighbors fought it. He was sorry they’d lost. He hated seeing the chains invade his city.

‘You remember what this neighborhood was at the time, practically burnt out? Still ain’t much. Shit,’ McClellan said. ‘City’s out of fuckin’ control. The Castro was an Irish neighborhood, Gratelli. Now the queers own it. Look at your neighborhood, for Chrissakes. Hell, you Italians used to run this city. Now look at you. The Chinese are runnin’ you out. The Japs and Chinks have all the money. The queers run City Hall.’

‘Why don’t you move to Ohio or something?’ Gratelli said.

‘I ain’t being run out,’ McClellan said. ‘Bunch of fuckin’ weirdoes have taken over the city.’

‘The city was founded by prostitutes, gamblers and con men, remember?’

‘Well they were whores, gamblers and con men who learned the fuckin’ English language. Now we got Salvadorans, Mexicans, Colombians, Chinese, Cambodian, Vietnamese. What was it Bateman said? The guy who did her had brown eyes?’

‘She said she thought he might have had brown eyes. It was dark, remember, and she wasn’t sure why she thought that. Hell, I have brown eyes.’ He shook his head. He didn’t know why he was being so short tempered. Maybe he didn’t like being second guessed by a task force either. It was like he and McClellan were being sawed off – no longer part of the department. No doubt it was because they didn’t want McClellan’s big mouth open when the press was around. ‘You believe all this crap you spout?’

McClellan put down his sandwich. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Gratelli. Everything’s so fuckin’ outta control. There’s gotta be some reason for it.’

All the other times Gratelli called him on his litany of hate, McClellan would respond, ‘You bet your sweet ass I do.’ Now he saw his partner quiet, sad. McClellan took a bite of his burger but seemed to have trouble swallowing it.

‘Are we gonna make this fuckin’ meeting?’ McClellan asked.

Gratelli looked at his watch. ‘We got time. Finish your burger.’

‘Live life, love and be happy,’ was what Paul Chang wanted to tell her as he sat on the edge of her bed, his fingers gently and affectionately trailing up her forearm. This was an expression they shared often, especially when times were rough. But seeing Julia’s bruised face, her lost and frightened eyes staring at her hands, this was clearly not the time.

He did not know what to say. They knew each other well enough to be comfortable during long silences, but words were all he could offer by way of support and he didn’t have any.

Julia’s father and her doctor were engaged in conversation near the door and not out of Julia and Paul’s earshot.

‘I don’t advise it, not for a few days.’

‘There are fine doctors in Iowa City,’ Mr Bateman said.

‘I don’t doubt that there are, not for a minute. And I’m sure that being in warm and familiar surroundings will encourage recovery. My concern at the moment is the time between here and there. She’s very steady and she’s doing well, but I’d like to have her here for a few more days anyway. Then we can talk about it.’

Paul got up and went to Julia’s father as the doctor retreated into the hall. ‘Mr Bateman, I’m going to be able to watch over her.’

Royal Bateman turned as if he’d been struck. ‘I want Julia out of this loony bin. For good!’ He seemed to recognize his overreaction. ‘Paul, I’m sorry. I’m so thankful you called. But this isn’t the place for her. You’re a young man, you’re tough, looking for the excitement this kind of city can offer. I understand that. But it’s not for Julia.’

‘Julia’s tough,’ Paul said, then realized how bizarre that sounded while the woman remained in shock, a physical and emotional wreck. ‘She’ll come around.’

He believed he knew her and he believed this to be true. More to the point, he didn’t want her to leave – to be hauled back like a prisoner to a place she had once escaped.

‘She’ll come around. At home. Where she belongs.’ The voice was calm, firm and seemed to make Julia’s trip back to Iowa not only certain, but permanent. ‘I know,’ Bateman continued, ‘that leaves your job up in the air…’