"Wow… put in a request for something, and there you have it." Sugar worked on the beer, smacking his lips. "I thought you might have needed some stitches under that eye, but it doesn't look too bad. You take a pretty good punch."
"I think the idea is to throw a pretty good punch, not take one."
"That's the idea all right." Sugar pulled out an aspirin bottle from his Bermudas and shook a few into his hand. "Four enough? I'll get you some water."
"No, thanks." Jimmy chewed the aspirin, careful to keep them away from his swollen lip. "How did you get the name Sugar? You have a sweet tooth?"
"I do have a sweet tooth, but my mama was the one who gave me the name." Sugar's gaze shifted to the surrounding boats, the distant walkways-not as a series of jumpy glances but as a steady scan of the surroundings, barely moving his head. Brimley might have retired, but he still had cop eyes. "Mama always said you catch more flies with sugar than with vinegar, and she was right about that, like she was right about everything else." He grinned at Jimmy, but Jimmy was drifting on the soft rhythms of Sugar's voice, the boat rolling under them. "Most instructors at the Academy didn't think I had what it took to be a cop-too easygoing, they told me, not aggressive enough. But I knew it wasn't a matter of being a tough guy, throwing your authority around. I got better results with a friendly smile and a sympathetic ear than most of the other uniforms did with a billy. 'Course, me being the large economy size helped, but-" He suddenly grabbed Jimmy's sore shoulder, making him howl. "Hey, stay awake."
Jimmy shook him off and sat up, blinking.
"Falling asleep with a head injury can be fatal. I should take you to the emergency room."
"I'm fine."
"You could have a concussion. I'm a damn fool for giving you alcohol."
Jimmy put down the ice pack. "Why don't we just get out of the sun? That way I could drop dead in the shade." Sugar tried to help, but Jimmy waved him away and followed him into the cabin. Jimmy looked around the main cabin before sitting down on one of the two armchairs. He wanted to get out of the sun, but he also wanted to get into Sugar's living space. He needed the retired cop's cooperation, and for that he needed to get inside the man's head.
The main room was small and compact-if Sugar stood on tiptoes, his head would graze the ceiling. But it was clean and neat, with recessed lamps, hardwood floors, and a flat-screen television. The small galley contained a stainless-steel two-burner and a built-in mini-fridge, an espresso maker, and a microwave. A bowl of ripe mangoes was on the counter, next to a half-eaten, store-bought apple pie with a fork resting inside the aluminum pie plate.
He had expected to see the usual career memorabilia on the walls: badges and commendations, framed news clips and photographs of himself taken with the chief or the mayor, maybe a movie star, but there wasn't anything like that. Either Sugar didn't have much of an ego, or he wanted to forget all about his former career. Or maybe he had simply moved on to better things. The decor confirmed that impression. The walls were covered with framed photographs of Brimley holding up fish: bone-fishing near Key West, standing with a near-record tarpon off the Gulf Coast, small fish, large fish. His grin remained goofy and thrilled, and his nose was perpetually peeling. The biggest photo showed him standing beside a nine-foot sailfish hanging off a yardarm.
"Nice-looking black marlin," said Jimmy. "Baja?"
"You know your fish and your fishing holes," said Sugar, pleased. "Seven hundred and eight pounds." He tapped the photo with a thick forefinger. "Hooked him at dusk, and it was nearly midnight before I landed him. A real fighter. Thought I was going to have a heart attack out there on the Sea of Cortez."
Jimmy looked toward the interior of the boat, wondering if Sugar had a wall big enough to mount the marlin.
Sugar shook his head. "Taxidermist lost it," he said, reading Jimmy's mind again. "You believe that? I kept calling and calling for three months, and all I got was 'Sorry, senor, next week, por favor.' Maybe I am too easygoing for my own good. Probably sold it to some rich norteamericano who wouldn't know a marlin from a mackerel."
"Every fisherman has a story about the one who got away. At least you have proof."
"Never thought of it that way. I like that." Sugar sat down in the other armchair and turned it to face Jimmy. His skin was ruddy from the sun, his shanks freckled-he was one of those big white guys who would never tan, only blister, but loved the outdoors anyway. "You ever been to Brazil? I hear the fishing's great down there."
"Never had the pleasure."
"They say you can live off the land-fish in the ocean and fruit on the trees." Sugar nodded. "With my pension… a man can dream, I guess. You sure your head's okay?"
"I read that Walsh actually answered the door when you rang the bell. Did you identify yourself as a police officer first?"
"I guess you're well enough to ask questions."
Jimmy smiled back at him, a couple of grinny-Guses knowing how the game was played. "I'm doing okay. It feels good in here, Sugar. Cozy."
"Thanks. I don't get many visitors, but it suits me. By the way, I did ID myself to Walsh. Standard procedure. I may not be smart, but I know enough to follow the rules."
Jimmy stretched out, his feet almost touching Sugar's well-worn deck shoes. "Walsh opened the door anyway? Covered with blood-"
"He was a mess. Blood… everywhere."
"But he opened the door to a cop. You didn't find that odd?"
Sugar beamed. "I'll tell you a story. True story. My first month on traffic duty, fresh on the job, I make a stop on Pier Street, Mustang convertible driving erratically. It was a Thursday night, streetlights just coming on. I walk up to the car, ticket book in my hand, the full weight and authority of the city of Hermosa Beach behind me, and I see that the driver is… well, he's having a sex act performed on him by the young lady in the passenger seat. Driver just hands me his license. The lady-she doesn't even come up for air. I fill out the ticket, my hand shaking I'm writing so fast. The young lady is sitting up now, checking her lipstick in the mirror like I'm not even there. I tell the driver to watch where he's going in the future, and he promises me he will. Then he drives off." Sugar shook his head. "I learned right there that some people don't have the same respect for the law that police officers do. The night I came knocking on Walsh's door, he was messed up pretty bad on drugs. I think he was in a state of shock, but I wouldn't have been surprised if he had been cold sober opening the door for me, showing me what he had done. That's just the way it is. If people act the way you expect them to act, there wouldn't be any need for police." He winked at Jimmy. "Or reporters."
Chapter 21
Helen Katz rapped on the front door of the Cortez home, a firm knock but not her usual triple-bang that sent the residents scrambling to answer. Deaf, dumb, and blind, you knew that there was a cop at the door when Katz came calling. Right now though, she was feeling kindly toward Mrs. Cortez and didn't feel the need to jump-start her heart. The woman had been through enough, and it was only going to get worse.
"Si?" Mrs. Cortez peered through the steel webbing of the security screen, a short, stocky woman with neatly pinned gray hair and a long-sleeved black dress-mourning clothes for her younger son. Katz's first partner had told her that if she ever wanted to get rich, she should go into business selling funeral dresses to the barrio mamacitas. The paunchy twenty-year vet had looked over at her, grinning. Even fresh out of the Academy and needing a good report, she had looked right through him until he turned away, muttering.
"I'm Detective Katz, senora. Hablas ingles? "