“And you decided to become a musician? And it didn’t work out?”
“Wrong. I decided to become a cop.”
It was Jane’s turn to laugh and she did, heartily. “That’s so funny! What a non sequitur! Why did you quit the police force?”
“That’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you later tonight, if the music moves me to confession. I love Brahms and the L.A. Philharmonic isn’t half bad, but I can’t stand Mehta.”
She could tell that I didn’t want to talk about my police experiences, so she let it pass.
I turned north onto Highland. The Bowl traffic was already heavy. By the time we reached Franklin, we were crawling at a snail’s pace. As we arrived at the vast expanse of parking area, I looked out with affection at the throngs of music lovers, nightlife lovers and just plain lovers all hurrying toward a summer rendezvous with Brahms.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jane dig into her purse for cigarettes and matches. She lit a cigarette nervously, inhaled, and threw it out the window. I pulled to the curb, my spirits sinking.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Reality, I guess. I just know I can’t take the goddamned Hollywood Bowl.” I felt my spirits hit bottom.
“Shall I take you home?”
“No. I just don’t want to be around people.”
“A drive, then?”
Jane smiled. “All right.”
We ended up in Ferndell Park, with its eucalyptus-shaded walkways and fish ponds. I was at a loss for small talk, so I impulsively took Jane’s hand as we walked uphill toward the picnic grounds. Jane squeezed mine, and when I turned to look at her she gave a warm smile. “I love this place,” she said. “You know L.A., don’t you, Fritz?”
“I’ve lived here all my life. I think I know it. But it’s changing. Every time I look around another landmark from my childhood is gone. Are you from L.A., Jane?”
“More or less. I was born here. My parents moved to Monterey when I was one. They died there, and the foster homes I lived in were here. Do you have a family?”
“No, my parents died within six months of each other when I was twenty. You know, it’s funny. Most of the people I know are orphans or come from fragmented families — you and I, my friend Walter, the man I do a lot of work for. All strays awash in a sea of neon, all trying to survive and find a little more than survival.”
Jane smiled at my half-hearted attempt at poetry. “You said earlier that you’d tell me why you quit the police force,” she said.
“It’s an ugly story, Jane. Are you sure you want to hear it?”
She squeezed my hand briefly. “Yes,” she said. “I called Lieutenant Holland this afternoon, to check you out. I didn’t tell him why I needed the information, just that we had met and you offered him as a reference. He said that you were a good man, but when I asked him if you were a good police officer, he was ambiguous. You can tell me, Fritz.”
“All right. I was a shitty cop. I was drunk a good deal of the time, so I got shunted off to Hollywood Vice. A sympathetic sergeant told me I’d fit right in with the kind of people the Vice Squad dealt with: drunks, dopers, hookers, bookies, pimps, homosexuals, and perverts. The cream of Hollywood society. I did fit in and I enjoyed the job for a while. But gradually the despair of hassling people who should have been left alone got to me. I was depressed so I drank and popped uppers to kill the depression. Which brings us to Blow Job Anderson. He was a character out of my youth, from the old neighborhood, a legendary pervert who was seducing twelve-year-old boys when Walter and I were that age. He was six or seven years older than us. He was still living in the neighborhood and Walter told me he was seducing a new generation of kids. After I’d been working Hollywood Vice for eight or nine months, I found out that Blow Job Anderson was a big time informer to Narcotics Division. I went to the Commander of Narco and told him that Blow Job was a known pervert who had been seducing young boys since I was a kid. He told me not to worry, that he would take care of it. He didn’t do a goddamned thing. I went to the guys in Narco themselves, and told them. They didn’t care, either. They told me to cool it, that I had no proof, and that Anderson was a good snitch they couldn’t afford to lose. Finally, word came down from the commander of Hollywood Station: ‘Shut your mouth about Blow Job Anderson.’ I knew what I had to do. I got drunk one night and went looking for Anderson. I found him and broke both his legs with a lead filled baseball bat. I told him if I ever heard he was still bothering kids, I would kill him. While he was lying on the ground screaming, I poured a five pound bag of sugar into the gas tank of his Corvette. When I went to work the next day I was summoned to the Captain’s office. He handed me a resignation form. ‘I strongly suggest that you sign this,’ he said. I did. Farewell, police career.”
I had begun my story seeking absolution and had ended it on a note of intransigent pride. I wondered if Jane had noticed it. We stared at each other.
Finally, she spoke. “I don’t care. I don’t think any more or less of you for what you’ve told me. You just saw corruption that you couldn’t take. You—”
“That wasn’t it,” I interrupted. “I wasn’t an outraged moralist like most cops. I let plenty of perverts slide. I came down hard on others. It was arbitrary, dictated by mood. What I couldn’t take was that Blow Job Anderson was more valuable to the L.A.P.D. than Fritz Brown. That was what ate me up.”
“Did you abuse your power often when you were a policeman?”
“Yes, and terribly.”
“I understand. You were a Dissension Center. You were drinking, but now you’re sober. I was a Dissension Center, too. I loved power. Sexual power. I laid half the boys at St. Vibiana’s. I loved having them want me, knowing that I could say ‘no’ and castrate them. Knowing that I could get what I wanted by offering my body in barter. But that was then. Now I have my cello. There’s a good chance I’ll be accepted at Juilliard in January. Now I’m a Unity Center. You are, too. You don’t hurt people anymore, do you?”
“No,” I lied.
“And you’re not drinking. Do you have plans for the future?”
“Not really. I’m going to Europe this fall, though. A musical holiday. Germany and Austria.”
“So am I! Sol has been pushing me toward a vacation for years. I’ll probably leave in October.”
“Maybe we can travel together,” I blurted out.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Jane said, almost mockingly, “but right now what I’d like to do is listen to some good chamber music on a good stereo.”
“I know just the place. I live there. Shall we go?”
“Yes, please.”
So we went to my apartment, a few minutes’ drive away. But we didn’t listen to chamber music, we made our own. It was an urgent coupling, freighted with knowledge that tomorrow reality would come down hard. Afterward, I hooked up the bedroom speaker and put some Vivaldi on the turntable, with the volume down low. We lay in bed holding hands and not talking until I couldn’t stand it any longer and burst out laughing. “Jane, Jane, Jane,” I said. “Jane, a very traditional name. I like that.”
She laughed along. “Fritz is a good ethnic name,” she said, “I like that. You’re scowling, dear. What is it?”
“I never know how I stand in situations like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, will there be a next time?”
“Anytime. Including now.”
I reached across the bed and pulled her toward me. We held each other tightly for several minutes, then made love again, this time more for reassurance than passion. Then we fell asleep.
I awoke at eight o’clock. I heard water running in the bathroom, and Jane came out a moment later, fully dressed. I knew from the look on her face that reality had hit. “Good morning,” I said.