T Parker: The border Lords

For instance, she had seen her first case of flesh-eating bacteria just last night. Just as ugly as it sounds. This segued into an account of still another stateside victim of the drug wars along the Iron River, a young courier shot to death outside one of Buenavista's rougher saloons. In the last year Hood had grown accustomed to her peaks of energy and high spirits, and the valleys of quiet that separated them. He enjoyed the fact that between a cop and a doctor there wasn't a lot that couldn't be talked about. There wasn't a queasy fiber between them and sometimes the grisly had its own forbidden but delicious humor.

"… and I said, sure, there's that and about a hundred other things it could be, too. I wish I was more like House on TV. Where's the cumin up here? Didn't I bring some over not too long ago? What's on the computer, Charlie? Are you even listening?"

"I can't help you with the diagnosis but a cane would just get in your way. The cumin's behind the steak seasoning. I'm just checking e-mail. Beth, it's hard to assist a hurricane-like person in the kitchen."

"Can you mash potatoes?"

With Daisy sitting next to him Hood mashed and looked out the window at the vast desert. There was a wash just beyond the back patio and he had seen wild pigs and coyotes and feral dogs and even wild horses passing through. And humans, of course-scores of the Mexican poor shuffling slowly north through the sand and rocks and cacti, the infernal heat and stunning cold.

Beth started in on the asparagus, telling Hood that her father had called today to say he'd shot par for the first time on his club course. She said she was toying with the idea of taking up the game so they could do something together.

Hood thought of his own father, almost gone now, no real perception of who he was. Douglas had been a generous and patient man but the dementia had turned him mean. They assigned him the biggest nurses to intimidate him. Every once in a while, on his visits to the home, Hood would see that old warm smile come to his father's face and then he'd say something like, So, what's your name, young man? Or, Fish come in all sizes but when your shorts ride up there's no fixing the tractor.

He wished his father would have taken up golf, or anything else he could love enough to brighten his days. He pictured his own life at seventy-nine. Golf? Tennis? Tinkering with cars? He'd read once of someone who had a "diminishing portfolio of enthusiasms" and he thought this applied to his father and, for all he knew, could someday apply to himself.

"I was thinking of getting back into tennis," he said.

"You should. You don't have enough recreation in your life."

"Neither do you."

"I'll learn, too. We can play together, Charlie. Are you competitive and sullen if you lose?"

"Usually."

"They say couples don't make good doubles partners."

"I'd try to make an exception for you, Beth."

"Who knows? Maybe we'd be winners."

Hood reached across the counter and pulled the laptop screen to face him. He hit the "send/receive" tab and watched the new message drop into place as he slapped away at the potatoes.

Instead of sitting down to eat when the food was ready they surrendered their pretenses of self-control and Hood led her by the hand to the bedroom in happy anticipation. The lovemaking was heartfelt and strong and to Hood well worth the cold dinner. He put the plates in the microwave and as it roared along noisily he looked at Beth in the candlelight pouring wine, her thick dirty-blond hair piled and pinned up and her white satin bathrobe open high at the leg and deep at the chest.

"What are you looking at?" she asked, smiling.

"You take my breath away."

"A girl could get self-conscious."

"I'll avert my eyes."

"Please don't."

They managed to clear the dishes before heading back to the bed again. There were stars beyond the windows and a moon still low. Hood looked up at her, facing away from him with eyes closed and lips parted and the loose strands of her hair swaying with their rhythm. His hands were free and he ran them down her face and neck and arms and over her breasts and rested them on her thigh tops, smooth and taut with strength. He watched her and felt the tides of pleasure pushing through him and when her breath caught and she began to shake he loosed them into her.

They raided the refrigerator as lovers do. Beth poured chocolate syrup on the ice cream and Hood finally opened the lone message on his laptop. He didn't recognize the sender.

But he was pleased to read that one of the German birders at the Volcano View on Arenal had written back to him. Dear Charlie Hood, I received your e-mail of two weeks ago and was not able to find a picture of Father Joe Leftwich. I did find many superior images of birds and flora. Then Gretchen remembered that she had used her cell phone one day because she had allowed her camera battery to become uncharged. And to my satisfaction I found this picture of Father Joe, here attached. It didn't turn out very well but you can tell who it is. We were all in the Volcano View bar and we were having Schnapps. I hope you are well. We are now making plans for a return visit. We have trogons and quetzals in our dreams!

Hood was eager to see a picture of the man who had tortured and destroyed the Ozburns. He opened the attachment and looked at Father Joe Leftwich. His heart was beating hard and his breath came fast. "Oh."

"What's wrong, Hood?"

"Father Joe Leftwich, the priest."

She came around the counter and stood next to Hood. "I'll be… He's gained weight and dyed his hair black since he graced my ICU. But look. He's got the Catholic priest's shirt and collar but it's still Mike Finnegan. No doubt. He's Leftwich? What do you mean? When I treated him he was selling bathroom fixtures in L.A. What's going on?"

Finnegan walked down South Olive Street downtown and ducked into the J Lounge. He sat alone and had a quick drink and looked out at the downtown L.A. skyline. My city, he thought. Would love to have been born here.

Then over to West Eighth for another drink at the Golden Gopher. He talked to some people he knew there, bought a round, then excused himself and left. He hit the Broadway Bar and enjoyed his chat with another patron, a young guy named Marcus, wife had just passed on, had a brother in prison-interesting what strangers would tell you if you just asked the right questions and listened to the answers. But he didn't stay long.

The night was cool and there was a breeze and he loved being out of doors in the autumn. He hit the Edison on West Second, then La Cite on Hill Street, very much enjoying the ranchero music and the bartender, a handsome woman of Chilean-German extraction who held a degree in history from UCLA. She stood him a beer and they talked about the river-laced countryside of southern Chile, well below Puerto Montt, near the village of Coyhaique where Gisela had visited as a tourist and Finnegan said he had fly-fished. Chile was still struggling after the big oh-ten quake, she said. The worst thing was the looting. He told her about his daughter's growing career in commercials and of course Gisela had an agent but not many calls so Mike said he'd pass along her number to Owens, and Gisela wrote it on a bar napkin and gave it to him.

He looked in at the Redwood but the crowd was small. He decided against the Bordello, not wanting to wear out his welcome there or run into Bradley Jones, who was clearly hot to jump into Mike's world. Bradley would keep. Bradley would be a father. Bradley would improve with age, like a good red wine.

At Bar 107 he stood outside and listened to the murmur of the drinkers each time the door opened. The music of humankind, thought Mike. It was late but the bar was busy with people coming and going. He looked up at the sky and saw the stars faint above L.A. and when the door was held open for his date by a big man in a black leather jacket, Mike took hold of the handle and stepped aside, smiling, so they both could pass. The big man nodded and the woman said thank you.