I wrapped an arm around his neck and threw him over an ottoman.
Without pausing to assess the wreckage she and I rushed into the corridor.
Collided with the gargantuan bouncer.
Bounced.
He hadn’t budged, a wall of hard fat and muscle, a bull moose in black Dickies.
“You hit me,” he said.
He reached into his coat for a Taser. “Legally, I can defend myself.”
“Or we could just leave,” Regina said.
The bouncer nodded benignly. “Cops?”
“Private investigators.”
“I used to be with ACSO,” I said.
The bouncer smiled. “No kidding.”
“Thirteen years. You?”
“Oakland PD.”
“Nice,” I said. “Still there?”
“Can’t give up my benefits.”
“Totally. You know Delilah Nwodo? She’s CID.”
“Sure I know her.” Awe in his eyes; I’d dropped the right name. “Smart lady.”
He tucked away the Taser and brought out a flyer. “What’s this about?”
“Drowning vics. Heard anything?”
The bouncer shook his head. “I only work two weekends a month, though.”
“For what it’s worth,” I said, “I asked the bartender, and he got pretty aggro.”
“Yeah, Zeke’s a prick.” He studied the flyer. “What’s the DOD?”
“Adam, about a year ago. John Doe the year before that, Denny in 2024.”
“Then Zeke’s not your guy. He only started over the summer. He was living in New York. His aunt owns the place.”
“I think I met her, too. Friendly.”
“Oh yeah. Defund people.”
“They hired you.”
“All fun and games till shit goes down,” he said, gesturing to The Comfort Zone, where the three injured men lay groaning. “Then who do you call? A social worker?”
“I was a social worker,” Regina said.
“Where? Afghanistan?”
“Close. L.A.”
He laughed. “Do me a favor. The boss is pissed. She wants me to make an example of you.”
“You got it,” Regina said.
He hoisted her onto his shoulder. I hunched so he could clamp a meaty hand on my neck.
“Make a thing of it,” he said.
Regina began to thrash and howl, and he dragged us out to the main room, bellowing to clear a path. I staggered beneath his grasp as though in terrible pain.
“Motherfucker,” Regina screamed. “Put me down.”
The manager stood by the entrance, watching as the bouncer carried Regina outside, placed her gingerly on her feet, and gave me a halfhearted shove.
“Don’t come back,” the bouncer said.
He winked and slammed the door.
On Saturday I waited till noon to call Regina.
A man answered: “Klein Investigations.”
“Hi Ed. It’s Clay.”
“Clay, excellent to hear from you.”
“Same. How’ve you been?”
“Oh, terrific. Exciting times at the lab.”
I let him talk about proteins for a bit.
“That’s really cool,” I said. “Hey, is Regina around?”
“Well, she’s still asleep. I’ll tell you, Clay,” he said, lowering his voice, “she came in pretty late, and I couldn’t help but notice she’s a little banged up.”
“We had an eventful night. She handled herself fine, though.”
“She’s so brave.” Protectiveness had given way to pride. “I just admire her so much.”
In the background she yelled: “Are you talking about me?”
“Only good things,” Ed said. “It’s Clay.”
“Did he tell you I saved his ass?” She took the phone. “Did you tell him?”
“I would describe it as a mutual saving,” I said.
Ed said, “Hungry, darling?”
“I’d love some coffee.”
“Coming right up.”
“Thank you, baby.”
She let Ed leave the room; grumbled: “Don’t say it.”
“Say what.”
“I don’t deserve him.”
“Your words, not mine. Did you give him an answer yet?”
“Kindly shut the fuck up.”
I laughed. “How’s your head?”
“Peachy. You?”
“Some bruises but nothing too bad.”
“Is Amy upset?”
“More resigned,” I said. “Don’t worry, I told her it was your fault. Anything from Olivia yet?”
“She texted. I’m talking to her on Monday after work.”
In the background Ed was asking if Regina wanted scrambled eggs.
“Don’t fucking say it,” she growled and hung up.
On Sunday, Amy and I took the kids fruit picking in Brentwood. Myles lasted five minutes in the heat before climbing into the wagon. I dragged him along bumpy dirt rows while Charlotte ran ahead, grabbing apricots and nectarines and dropping them into her bucket. The lowest branches had been stripped, leaving hard or rotted fruit within her reach.
“Try to find the ripest ones you can,” Amy called.
“Okay, Mommy!”
I rose on tiptoes to snag a golden apricot. “Here you go, buddy.”
Myles took a bite. Juice streamed down his neck. “Num.”
I picked another, held it out. “Honey?”
Amy shook her head absently.
We walked on. Insects whined.
“Out,” Myles said.
I stopped the wagon so he could hop down. He stumbled after Charlotte.
“Tarlah,” he wailed. “Way.”
“Charlotte,” I yelled. “Wait for your brother, please.”
Her voice drifted back: “Okay!”
I turned to Amy. “Did you want to talk about what happened on Friday night?”
“If you do.”
“You seem preoccupied.”
“I am, but not about that,” she said. “You remember Ronald?”
“...Ronald.”
“From the clinic. Ronald Tines. The admin guy. Glasses. Sweater. Tooth gap.”
“Beet salad,” I said.
She tilted her head. “What?”
“Your holiday party. He brought beet salad. He wouldn’t stop talking to me about it. The man loves beet salad.”
She smiled. “Okay. Beet salad.”
“What about him?”
“His dad’s sick.”
“Oh, no. With what?”
“Alzheimer’s. They’ve known for a while but recently it’s gotten much worse.”
“I’m sorry.” I reached for her hand. “That’s awful.”
“It really is. Ronald’s the sole caretaker. I don’t know how he’s going to manage it. He’s so stressed out. I went to get my new keycard, and he’s at his desk, crying. I ended up talking to him for like half an hour.”
“I’m sure it helped him.”
“I hope so. The whole time I couldn’t stop thinking about my own parents.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, no. Just, listening to him — it gave me a little preview, you know?”
I nodded.
“And it raises all these questions for me,” she said. “Am I doing what I want to be doing. Where am I, in a year, or five years.”
“Do you feel ready for a change?” I asked.
“Every single day.”
“Whatever you decide, I support you.”
“I appreciate that.”
“You did it for me.”
She smiled again. “You thought I was mad at you ’cause you got in a fight.”
“Is that a crazy thing to think?”
“Did you start it?”
“No. I told him that his conversation with Regina was over and he went ballistic.”
“What a jerk.”
“Mega-drunk jerk.”
“Oooh, the worst kind,” she said.
She took hold of my shirt and kissed me.
Charlotte raced toward us, squeezing fistfuls of rotted apricot. “Mommy, look.”