Earth Angels (10 page)

Stepanovich felt cop fatigue, a tiredness that does not allow rest. For the life of him, he still couldn't get Gloria Soliz out of his mind. It wasn't that she reminded him of anyone, he told himself. There was something about her he couldn't put his finger on. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was shortly after midnight.

He carried his beer to the pay phone near the door, dialed information, and asked an operator for Gloria Soliz home telephone number. The operator gave him the number and he wrote it down on a cocktail napkin. Then he dropped change into the coin slot and dialed.

After three rings Gloria came on the line.

"Gloria, this is Joe Stepanovich."

"Hi, Joe."

"I know it's late, but I have this mental problem I thought you might be able to help me out with."

"Have you been drinking?"

"A little."

"I'm listening," she said.

"I have this overpowering desire for Chinese food. It's a compulsion."

"I see."

"And I can't stop myself from heading to Chinatown."

"So what's the big problem?"

"I can't stand to eat alone."

"It's midnight."

"I know a place that's open all night," he said.

"Thanks for giving me so much notice."

"Sorry, but I've been tied up with a case."

"It really is kind of late," she said.

"Tomorrow is your day off."

"I guess you're not going to take no for an answer."

"I'll pick you up in ten minutes."

Outside, Stepanovich crossed the street and climbed into his car. As he drove down the street he passed Black's car, parked near the corner directly under a streetlight. Grinning fiendishly while leaning against the driver's door with one leg over the front seat Black noticed him and waved as Brenda's ponytail bobbed between his legs.

There was little traffic as he made his way the short distance on the freeway to the City Terrace off ramp. He wound up a grade past homes perched precariously on hillsides, then down past some dying business establishments to a line of newly built apartment houses leading to Wabash Avenue. He checked curbside addresses until he reached a brown stucco apartment house across the street from a mini mall. The apartment house sign read: "TAHITIAN VILLAGE." Parking in front, he made his way past a cement block planter lit by the kind of wrought iron Hawaiian ceremonial torches sold in every hardware store in Southern California.

He climbed steps to the second floor and knocked on the apartment door. Gloria opened it immediately. She was wearing a curve hugging black knit dress and pearls. Stepanovich suddenly felt a sense of anticipation and excitement welling in his loins, a feeling he hadn't experienced in years.

"Nice outfit," he said as she retrieved her purse from a chair near the door.

"I wear it on all my midnight dates," she said, moving past him.

"Sorry about not giving you more notice."

"You're forgiven."

A jumble of neon lit pagodas and tiny Oriental gift shops nestled just below the Hill Street freeway off ramp, L.A.'s Chinatown had deteriorated in recent years. Stepanovich had childhood memories of Chinatown as a thriving tourist area, but like much of the rest of downtown, it had been choked by overdevelopment and lack of parking.

The Jade Tree Inn, a cavernous, newly refurbished restaurant, was open and packed, even though it was a weeknight. The owner, Charlie Fong, leapt up to meet them as they walked through the door. He was a tall, crew cut Chinese who'd served as a sergeant in the Taiwanese Marine Corps. He greeted Stepanovich warmly and Stepanovich introduced him to Gloria. Fong led them to a booth that provided a view of neon lit Hill Street.

"May I bring you a drink?" Fong asked. Gloria ordered white wine, and Stepanovich said he'd have the same. Fong bowed slightly and rushed toward the bar.

For an awkward moment they found themselves staring at each other.

"I apologize for pestering you into going to breakfast with me the other day," Stepanovich said.

"I'm not sorry I joined you."

"You probably think all cops are weird."

She hung her purse on the back of the chair. "Not weird. Just different."

"I guess the job changes people."

"People choose their professions."

"I guess that means you think all cops are different to start with. That the chicken came before the egg."

"Something like that."

Charlie Fong returned to the table with drinks, set them down, and moved away.

"The man you asked about at the hospital, Mr. Estrada, is doing better. He's going to live."

Stepanovich nodded, sipping his drink.

"I'm sure you'd be more interested if he were cooperating with your investigation," she said wryly.

During a dinner of steamed fish in a garlicky black bean sauce, beef with scallops, and sautéed shrimp, he learned that she'd been a member of the woman's volleyball team when attending UCLA, had graduated with a 3.8 average, and she lived alone.

"The Army and the police department, that's the story of my life."

"Where did you meet your wife?"

"Her car was burglarized when she was working downtown at the Design Center. I was the officer sent to take the report. I asked her out and things took off from there. She moved in three weeks later and after a couple of months we decided to get married. But it was a bad match from the beginning. Nothing in common. We were never friends."

"I don't think I would live with a man unless I was married. I mean, it's great for the man, but I'd want more."

"That's why men and women don't get along anymore. They want different things."

"They don't get along when they lie to each other. When they misjudge each other. That's when the problems start."

Charlie Fong came to the table with a small plate of almond cookies and set the plate between them.

"You've been letting me do all the talking," she said as Fong moved away. "I'd like to know something about you."

"I've told you - "

"I don't mean where you went to school. What are your goals, your dreams?"

"Goals? I'm in a new specialized anti gang unit that has a chance of hitting the gangs like they've never been hit before. I like the guys I'm working with. They're solid cops. I'm excited about the new job."

"Always back to police work."

"The gangs are running wild."

"They don't bother me," she said, closing the subject. "What do you do in your spare time?"

"Lift a few weights, some jogging - "

"To stay in shape for your job."

"I guess you could say that. What about you?"

"On Sundays I usually go to Raider games with the other nurses. I've tried my hand at writing a textbook on nursing supervision, but gave it up. I found out I'm not much of a writer. Do you have any hobbies?"

"I put in thirty hours a week in overtime. That doesn't leave much time."

"Unpaid overtime," she said, unimpressed.

"You don't like cops, do you?"

She bit into an almond cookie. "I was raised in the barrio. Policemen weren't exactly the local heroes."

"The gang members were the heroes."

"Chicanos don't like to see their own get arrested, if that's what you mean."

"That kind of sticking together is why the gangs are ruling East L.A. and children are getting killed at weddings. Sticking together for the wrong reasons."

"You'll never stop it by arresting people," she said.

"You have a better answer?"

"Better schools and more jobs so that people can maintain their dignity," she said, looking him straight in the eye.

He met her gaze. "I'll drink to that," he said rather than pursue an argument.

On the way out of the restaurant Stepanovich shook hands with the owner, and Fong patted him on the back. "Don't stay away so long."

"I notice you didn't pay the bill," Gloria said as they walked down the street toward his Chevrolet.

Stepanovich nodded toward a small group of young Asian men loitering across the street in front of a bar. All wore styled hair, baggy trousers, and three quarter-length silk jackets. "You can thank the Viet Ching Street gang over there," he said. "They were extorting three hundred a week from Charlie until my partner and I locked a few of them up. Now Charlie's off their collection list."

She laughed. "And on yours."

"It pays to support the local police," he said, opening the passenger door.

He drove Gloria to Monahan's bar in Pasadena, a crowded singles hangout with walls decorated with Irish kitsch and framed collages of Polaroid snapshots of the bar's yuppie habitués posing with arms around one another. They found a booth in the corner and ordered Irish coffees.

"Why haven't you ever married?" he asked.

"For a long time I was caught up in my nursing career and didn't care about anything else. And I have family responsibilities. My father passed away two years ago."

"You know, as I sit here talking to you, I feel there's a glass wall between us."

"I guess we are, uh, different."

"Is it because I'm a cop?"

"Only a police officer would ask such a question," she said without rancor.

"I guess we cops are all a little paranoid."

"As a nurse I don't try to analyze everyone I meet. But you policemen do. Your job comes first and you see the whole world in a peculiar way. It's more than an occupation for you. It's a way of life, a refuge."

"It's a matter of survival. If you don't learn the street, then the street learns you."

"That's what I mean. You never let down. I bet you have a gun on right now."

"All cops carry guns off duty."

The waitress set their drinks on the table and moved away. Stepanovich picked one up.

"I wish things were different in the world," Gloria said as she reached for hers. "I wish East L.A. were a safe place to live."

"So do I."

"I'm glad we agree on something."

Back at her apartment, they walked arm in arm to the door. Gloria pulled a ring of keys from her purse and unlocked it.

"Look," Stepanovich said, feeling embarrassed. "I guess I haven't been the most scintillating conversationalist this evening. It's probably because I have a lot on my mind, and frankly, having been married and all, I think I've forgotten how to act on a date."

"I enjoyed myself. You didn't have to say that."

"I said it because I got the feeling that you and I just aren't ... cutting it. And I don't want that to happen. Because I think you're a nice person."

She took his hand. "I think you're a nice person, too, Joe. And I really did have a wonderful time. Thanks."

He took her in his arms and kissed her. As his tongue found hers, he could feel her delicate hands grasp the back of his neck and prayed she wouldn't let go.

Their mouths parted. "I'd better go in," she whispered. "And you said you have to be back on the job at five.

"I don't want to leave."

"I'm not ready to go to bed with you," she said softly without looking him in the eye.

"Is there someone else?"

"No."

"I'm not much of a mind reader, Gloria. If you don't want to see me again, just say so."

She looked at him for a long, tantalizing moment. "I want to see you again."

****

EIGHT

Stepanovich woke early the next morning, feeling more rested than he had in months.

It was Wednesday, his mother's day off from the Dolly Madison Bakery, where she'd worked as a cake-icer for as long as he could remember and after shaving and showering he drove straight to her house.

His mother lived near the end of the block on Vega Street, a narrow dead end street that abutted a steep, grassy hill that Stepanovich, Howard Goldberg, Freddie Mascorro, and the other neighborhood kids used to climb. At the top they would race back down full speed, finally tripping and tumbling. The downhill race had been even more exciting on bicycles. Oddly, the hill looked even steeper to him as an adult than it had as a child.

He pulled in the driveway of the tiny, well kept home. Like the other one and two bedroom houses on the street it was unique, having been built shortly after World War II by family and friends rather than contractors or tract developers. Stepanovich's father, some of his fellow railroad employees, and Stepanovich’s maternal Uncles Pete and Hector Elizondo, who were master carpenters, had built the place in one summer. Like all the other houses on the block, it had steel bars covering the windows. Some families had even invested in wrought iron screen doors and burglar alarms.

His mother was waiting for him on the front porch wearing a simple flower print blouse and skirt. Standing with her patent leather purse hooked over her arm, she was a rangy woman whose tanned Latin complexion contrasted starkly with the white hair pulled back sternly in a bun. She had piercing dark eyes and wore neither lipstick nor makeup.