Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

Milo released a millimeter of fabric. “Big favor,” he repeated. “Of course, if you prefer, I can arrest you, get you plenty of publicity. Some people will consider you a hero, but I don’t think the doctors at Cedars are going to keep asking for you when they find out about your lack of judgment.”

“They’ll ask,” said Simons. “I’m the-”

“You’re stupid,” said Milo. “You got your clothes full of pig’s blood and accomplished zero.”

“Those people-”

“Hate your guts and always will, but they’re a fringe minority. You want to accomplish something, volunteer at the Holocaust Center, take high school kids on tour. Don’t waste your time on those idiots.” He shrugged. “That’s only my opinion. You disagree, I’ll feed your martyrdom fantasies and stick you in a nice little jail cell with some other guy who it’s a sure bet didn’t get an A in ethnic sensitivity.”

Simons chewed his lip. “Life is short. I want to stand for something.”

“That’s the point,” said Milo. “Survival’s the best damn revenge.”

“Who said so?”

“I did.”

Simons finally calmed down, and Milo uncuffed him. He looked down at his bloody pea coat, as if noticing the stain for the first time, plucked at a clean bit of lapel. “This thing’s finished, I can’t bring it home to my wife.”

“Good point,” said Milo. “Get the hell outta here.” He returned Simons’s wallet and keys and put him in his Toyota. Simons drove off quickly, sped up to Broadway, turned right without a signal.

“That,” said Milo, “was fun.” He checked out his own clothing.

“Clean,” I said. “I already looked.”

He walked me to the Seville. Just as we got there, a voice from behind, mellow, cultured, just loud enough to be audible, said, “Gentlemen? Police gentlemen?”

The tall black man in the gray suit stood on the sidewalk, maybe ten feet away. Hands laced in front. Smiling warmly. Working hard at nonthreatening.

“What?” said Milo, hand trailing down toward his gun.

“Might I talk to you gentlemen, please? About one of the people in there?”

“Who?”

“Albin Larsen,” said the man.

“What about him?”

The man talked through his smile. “May we talk somewhere in private?”

“Why?” said Milo.

“The things I have to say, sir. They are not… nice. This is not a nice man.”

Milo said, “Come forward very slowly, keeping your hands clear. Good, now show me some identification.”

The man complied, drew out a shiny black billfold, removed a business card, and held it out. Milo read it, showed it to me.

Heavy stock, white paper, engraved beautifully.

Protais Bumaya

Special Envoy,

Republic of Rwanda

West Coast Consulate

125 Montgomery Street, Suite 840

San Francisco, CA 94104

“Acceptable, sir?” said Bumaya.

“For the time being.”

“Thank you, sir. Might I have your name?”

“Sturgis.”

Perhaps Bumaya was expecting a warmer introduction, because his smile finally faded. “There’s a place- a tavern up the block. Might we convene there?”

“Yeah,” said Milo. “Let’s convene.”

The “tavern” was on the opposite side of Broadway, between Fourth and Fifth, a windowless dive named the Seabreeze, with wishfully Tudor trim and a rough, salt-ravaged door that had once passed for English oak. Remnant of the Santa Monica that had existed between the two population waves that built the beachside city: stodgy Midwestern burghers streaming westward for warmth at the turn of the twentieth century, and, seventy years later, left-leaning social activists taking advantage of the best rent control in California.

In between there’d been the kind of corruption you get when you mix tourists, hustlers, balmy weather, the ocean, but Santa Monica remained a place molded by self-righteousness.

Milo eyed the Seabreeze’s unfriendly facade. “You been here before?”

Bumaya shook his head. “The proximity seemed advantageous.”

Milo shoved at the door, and we entered. Long, low, dim room, three crude booths to the left, a wooden bar refinished in glossy acrylic to the right. Eight serious drinkers, gray-haired and gray-faced, bellied up against the vinyl cushion, facing a bartender who looked as if he sampled the wares at regular intervals. Yeast and hops and body odor filled air humid enough for growing ferns. Nine stares as we entered. Frankie Valli on the jukebox let us know we were too good to be true.

We took the farthest booth. The bartender ignored us. Finally, one of the drinkers came over. Paunchy guy in a green polo shirt and gray pants. A little chrome change machine hanging from his belt said he was official.

He looked at Bumaya, scowled. “What’ll it be?”

Milo ordered Scotch, and I said, “Me, too.”

Protais Bumaya said, “I would like a Boodles and tonic, please.”

“We got Gilbeys.”

“That will be fine.”

Green Shirt smirked. “It better be.”

Bumaya watched him waddle off, and said, “Apparently, I have offended someone.”

“They probably don’t like tall, dark strangers,” said Milo.

“Black people?”

“Maybe that, too.”

Bumaya smiled. “I had heard this was a progressive city.”

“Life’s full of surprises,” said Milo. “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Bumaya?”

Bumaya started to answer, stopped himself as the drinks arrived. “Thank you, sir,” he told Green Shirt.

“Anything else?”

“If you’ve got some salted peanuts,” said Milo. “If not, just a little peace and quiet, friend.”

Green Shirt glared at him.

Milo downed his Scotch. “And another of these, too.”

Green Shirt took Milo’s shot glass, crossed over to the bar, brought back a refill and a bowl of nubby pretzels. “These salty enough?”

Milo ate a pretzel and grunted. “Gonna earn my stroke honestly.”

“Huh?”

Milo flashed his wolf’s grin. Green Shirt blinked. Backed away. When he’d reclaimed his stool, Milo gulped another pretzel, said, “Yeah, it’s a real progressive city.”

Protais Bumaya sat there, trying not to show that he was studying us. In the miserly light his skin was the color of a Damson plum. Wide-set almond eyes moved very little. His hands were huge, but his wrists were spindly. Even taller than Milo, six-four or -five. But high-waisted; he sat low in the booth, gave a strangely boyish impression.

The three of us drank for a while without talking. Frankie Valli gave way to Dusty Springfield only wanting to be with us. Bumaya seemed to enjoy his gin and T.

“So,” said Milo, “what’s with Albin Larsen?”

“A progressive man, Lieutenant Sturgis.”

“You know different.”

“You were at the bookstore observing him,” said Bumaya.

“Who says it was him we were observing?”

“Who, then?” said Bumaya. “George Issa Qumdis gives political speeches all the time. He is a public man. What could a policeman learn from watching him? And that fellow in the Navy jacket. Impulsive, but not a serious criminal.”

“That’s your diagnosis, huh?”

“He sprays paint,” said Bumaya, dismissively. “You questioned and released him. You are a detective, no?”

Milo reread Bumaya’s business card. “Special Envoy. If I call this number and ask about you, what are they going to tell me?”

“At this hour, sir, you will get a recorded message instructing you to call during regular business hours. Should you call during business hours, you will encounter another recorded message replete with many choices. Should you make the correct choice, you will eventually find yourself talking to a charming woman named Lucy who is the secretary to Mr. Lloyd MacKenzie, Esquire, an articulate, charming San Francisco attorney who serves as de facto West Coast Consul for my country, the Republic of Rwanda. Mr. MacKenzie, in turn, will inform you that I am a legitimate representative of my country.”