the Two Minute Rule (2006) (4 page)

Wally pulled up outside the front entrance and turned off his car. They had stopped by the CCC so Holman could sign his papers and pick up his things. Holman was now officially on supervised release. He was free.

Wally said, "This isn't any way to start, man, not your first day back with news like this. Listen to me--if you want a few more days at the house you can stay. We can talk this out. You can see one of the counselors."

Holman opened the door but didn't get out. He knew Wally was worried about him.

"I'll get settled, then I'll call Gail. I still want to get to the DMV today. I want to get a car as soon as I can."

"It's a blow, man, this news. Here you are back in the world, and already you have this to deal with. Don't let it beat you, man. Don't yield to the dark side."

"No one's going to yield."

Wally searched Holman's eyes for some kind of reassurance, so Holman tried to look reassuring. Wally didn't seem to buy it.

"You're going to have dark times, Max--black moments like you're trapped in a box with the air running out. You'll pass a hundred liquor stores and bars, and they're going to prey on your mind. If you feel weak, you call me."

"I'm okay, Wally. You don't have to worry."

"Just remember you have people pulling for you. Not everyone would've went down the way you went down, and that shows you got a strong natural character. You're a good man, Max."

"I gotta go, Wally. There's a lot to do."

Wally put out his hand.

"I'm a call away, twenty-four seven."

"Thanks, bro."

Holman took his bag of clothes from the back seat, climbed out of the car, and waved as Wally drove away. Holman had arranged for one of the eight studio apartments at the Pacific Gardens. Five of the six other tenants were civilians, and one, like Holman, was on supervised release. Holman wondered if the civilians got a break on rent for living with criminals. Holman figured they were probably Section Eight Housing recipients and lucky to have a roof over their heads.

Something wet hit Holman's neck and he glanced up. The Pacific Gardens didn't have central air. Window units hung over the sidewalk, dripping water. More water hit Holman on the face, and this time he stepped to the side.

The manager was an elderly black man named Perry Wilkes, who waved when he saw Holman enter. Even though the Pacific Gardens called itself a motel, it didn't have a front desk like a real motel. Perry owned the building and lived in the only ground-floor apartment. He manned a desk that filled a cramped corner of the entry so he could keep an eye on the people who came and left.

Perry glanced at Holman's bag.

"Hey. That all your stuff?"

"Yeah, this is it."

"Okay then, you're officially a resident. You get two keys. These are real metal keys, so if you lose one you're gonna lose your key deposit."

Holman had already filled out the rental agreement and paid his rent two weeks in advance along with a one-hundred-dollar cleaning fee and a six-dollar key deposit. When Holman first looked at the place, Perry had lectured him on noise, late-night doings, smoking pot or cigars in the rooms, and making sure his rent was paid on time, which meant exactly two weeks in advance on the dot. Everything was set so all Holman had to do was show up and move in, which is the way Gail Manelli and the Bureau of Prisons liked it.

Perry took a set of keys from his center drawer and handed them to Holman.

"This is for two-oh-six, right at the top in front here. I got one other empty right now up on the third floor in back, but you look at two-oh-six first--it's the nicest. If you want to see the other I'll let you take your pick."

"This is one of the rooms looking at the street?"

"That's right. In front here right at the top. Set you up with a nice little view."

"Those air conditioners drip water on people walking past."

"I've heard that before and I didn't give a shit then, either."

Holman went up to see his room. It was a simple studio with dingy yellow walls, a shopworn double bed, and two stuffed chairs covered in a threadbare floral print. Holman had a private bath and what Perry called a kitchenette, which was a single-burner hot plate sitting on top of a half-size refrigerator. Holman put his bag of clothes at the foot of the bed, then opened the refrigerator. It was empty, but gleamed with cleanliness and a fresh bright light. The bathroom was clean, too, and smelled of Pine-Sol. Holman cupped his hand under the tap and drank, then looked at himself in the mirror. He had worked up a couple of mushy bags under his eyes and crow's-feet at the corners. His short hair was dusty with grey. He couldn't remember ever looking at himself up at Lompoc. He didn't look like a kid anymore and probably never had. He felt like a mummy rising from the dead.

Holman rinsed his face in the cool water, but realized too late that he had no towels and nothing with which to dry himself, so he wiped away the water with his hands and left the bathroom wet.

He sat on the edge of his bed and dug through his wallet for phone numbers, then called Gail Manelli.

"It's Holman. I'm in the room."

"Max. I am so sorry to hear about your son. How are you doing?"

"I'm dealing. It's not like we were close."

"He was still your son."

A silence developed because Holman didn't know what to say. Finally he said something because he knew she wanted him to.

"I just have to keep my eye on the ball."

"That's right. You've come a long way and now is no time to backslide. Have you spoken to Tony yet?"

Tony was Holman's new boss, Tony Gilbert, at the Harding Sign Company. Holman had been a part-time employee for the past eight weeks, training for a full-time position that he would begin tomorrow.

"No, not yet. I just got up to the room. Wally took me up to Chatsworth."

"I know. I just spoke with him. Were the officers able to tell you anything?"

"They didn't know anything."

"I've been listening to the news stories. It's just terrible, Max. I'm so sorry."

Holman glanced around his new room, but saw he had no television or radio.

"I'll have to check it out."

"Were the police helpful? Did they treat you all right?"

"They were fine."

"All right, now listen--if you need a day or two off because of this, I can arrange it."

"I'd rather jump on the job. I think getting busy would be good."

"If you change your mind, just let me know."

"Listen, I want to get to the DMV. It's getting late and I'm not sure of the bus route. I gotta get the license so I can start driving again."

"All right, Max. Now you know you can call me anytime. You have my office and my pager."

"Listen, I really want to get to the DMV."

"I'm sorry you had to start with this terrible news."

"Thanks, Gail. Me, too."

When Gail finally hung up Holman picked up his bag of clothes. He removed the top layer of shirts, then fished out the picture of his son. He stared at Richie's face. Holman, not wanting to pock the boy's head with pinholes, had fashioned a frame out of maple scraps in the Lompoc woodworking shop and fixed the picture to a piece of cardboard with carpenter's glue. They wouldn't let inmates have glass in prison. You had glass, you could make a weapon. Broken glass, you could kill yourself or someone else. Holman set the picture on the little table between the two ugly chairs, then went downstairs to find Perry at his desk.

Perry was tipped back in his chair, almost like he was waiting for Holman to turn the corner from the stairs. He was.

Perry said, "You have to lock the deadbolt when you leave. I could hear you didn't lock the deadbolt. This isn't the CCC. You don't lock your room, someone might steal your stuff."

Holman hadn't even thought to lock his door.

"That's a good tip. After so many years, you forget."

"I know."

"Listen, I need some towels up there."

"I didn't leave any?"

"No."

"You look in the closet? Up on the shelf?"

Holman resisted his instinct to ask why towels would be in the closet and not in the bathroom.

"No, I didn't think to look in there. I'll check it out. I'd like a television, too. Can you help me with that?"

"We don't have cable."

"Just a TV."

"Might have one if I can find it. Cost you an extra eight dollars a month, plus another sixty security deposit."

Holman didn't have much of a nest egg. He could manage the extra eight a month, but the security deposit would bite pretty deep into his available cash. He figured he would need that cash for other things.

"That sounds steep, the security deposit."

Perry shrugged.

"You throw a bottle through it, what do I have? Look, I know it's a lot of money. Go to one of these discount places. You can pick up a brand-new set for eighty bucks. They make'm in Korea with slave labor and damn near give'm away. It'll be more up front, but you won't have to pay the eight a month and you'll have a better picture, too. These old sets I have are kind of fuzzy."

Holman didn't have time to waste shopping for a Korean television.

He said, "You'll give back the sixty when I give back the set?"

"Sure."

"Okay, hook me up. I'll give it back to you when I get one of my own."

"That's what you want, you got it."

Holman went next door to the convenience store for a Times. He bought a carton of chocolate milk to go with the paper and read the newspaper's story about the murders while standing on the sidewalk.

Sergeant Mike Fowler, a twenty-six-year veteran, had been the senior officer at the scene. He was survived by a wife and four children. Officers Patrick Mellon and Charles Wallace Ash had eight and six years on the job, respectively. Mellon was survived by a wife and two small children; Ash was unmarried. Holman studied their pictures. Fowler had a thin face and papery skin. Mellon was a dark man with a wide brow and heavy features who looked like he enjoyed kicking ass. Ash was his opposite with chipmunk cheeks, wispy hair so blond it was almost white, and nervous eyes. The last of the officers pictured was Richie. Holman had never seen an adult picture of his son. The boy had Holman's lean face and thin mouth. Holman realized his son had the same hardened expression he had seen on jailbirds who had lived ragged lives that left them burned at the edges. Holman suddenly felt angry and responsible. He folded the page to hide his son's face, then continued reading.

The article described the crime scene much as Levy described it, but contained little information beyond that. Holman was disappointed. He could tell the reporters had rushed to file their story before press time.

The officers had been parked in the L.A. River channel beneath the Fourth Street Bridge and had apparently been ambushed. Levy told Holman that all four officers had holstered weapons, but the paper reported that Officer Mellon's weapon had been drawn, though not fired. A police spokesman confirmed that the senior officer present--Fowler--had radioed to announce he was taking a coffee break, but was not heard from again. Holman made a soft whistle--four trained police officers had been hammered so quickly that they hadn't been able to return fire or even take cover to call for assistance. The article contained no information about the number of shots fired or how many times the officers were hit, but Holman guessed at least two shooters were involved. It would be difficult for one man to take out four officers so quickly they didn't have time to react.

Holman was wondering why the officers were under the bridge when he read that a police spokesman denied that an open six-pack of beer had been found on one of the police cars. Holman concluded that the officers had been down there drinking, but wondered why they had chosen the riverbed for their party. Back in the day, Holman had ridden motorcycles down in the river, hanging out with dope addicts and scumbags. The concrete channel was off limits to the public, so he had climbed the fence or broken through gates with bolt-cutters. Holman thought the police might have had a passkey, but he wondered why they had gone to so much trouble just for a quiet place to drink.

Holman finished the article, then tore out Richie's picture. His wallet was the same wallet that had been in his possession when he was arrested for the bank jobs. They returned it when Holman was transferred to the CCC, but by then everything in it was out of date. Holman had thrown away all the old stuff to make room for new. He put Richie's picture into the wallet and walked back upstairs to his room.

Holman sat by his phone again, thinking, then finally dialed information.

"City and state, please?"

"Ah, Los Angeles. That's in California."

"Listing?"

"Donna Banik, B-A-N-I-K."

"Sorry, sir. I don't show anyone by that name."

If Donna had married and taken another name, he didn't know. If she had moved to another city, he didn't know that, either.

"Let me try someone else. How about Richard Holman?"