Self-Defence

Another glance at his watch. "Well," he said, "good to meet you. If there's anything I can do-"

He turned to leave.

"How long will you be in L.A.?"

"I was supposed to fly back tonight. Do you think- is there a chance Lucy would want to meet me?"

"Hard to say, right now. She's pretty out of it."

"Yeah, I understand," he said sadly. "I wonder where Puck is, why he didn't show. Here."

Pulling out a crocodile billfold, he removed a business card and gave it to me.

THE ALPHA GROUP

Kenyon T. Lowell

Senior Vice President,

Acquisitions

(415) 547-7766

"I've got meetings all day, but I probably can stick around till tomorrow morning. If she does want to meet me, or if you hear from Puck, I'm staying at the Westwood Marquis."

"Do you have Puck's number handy?"

"Right here." An identical card came out of the wallet. On the back was a Valley exchange, written in blue ballpoint.

"Let me get some paper and copy it down," I said.

"Take it," he said. "I know it by heart."

10

He left and I returned to Lucy's room. She was still sleeping, and I gave my name to the ward clerk along with a message for Dr. Embrey. Then I phoned West L.A. Detectives and got Milo at his desk.

"What's up, Alex?"

"Lucy tried to kill herself last night. She's out of danger, physically, but still pretty knocked out. I'm at Woodbridge Hospital, out in the Valley. They'll be keeping her here."

"Fuck. What'd she do, cut her wrists?"

"Stuck her head in the oven."

"You find her?"

"No, her half brother did. Lucky for her he stopped by looking for the other brother and saw her through the window, on her knees in the kitchen. Talk about Providence."

"Her drapes were open and she's got her head in the oven? What was it, a cry for help?"

"Who knows? She never dropped any hints to me. Still, I'm trying hard not to feel like an idiot."

"Jesus, Alex, what the hell happened?"

"It's complicated. More than you could ever imagine."

"And you can't tell me."

"No, in fact, I need to. But not over the phone. When can we get together?"

"Coming back into the city?"

"Yup."

"Gino's in forty-five."

Gino's Trattoria is on Pico, not far from the West L.A. station: checkered tablecloths, hanging Chianti bottles, rough wines.

Even during the day, the place is murky, lit by table candles in amber globes that are never washed. The one at Milo's rear corner table illuminated him from the bottom, accentuating every crater and lump, giving him the look of a gargoyle with chronic back pain.

He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and dark tie. Even at that distance I could tell his hair was freshly cut- military clip at the sides, long and shaggy on top, to-the-lobe sideburns that were hip, now, and against department regulations.

Two beers sat in front of him. He pushed one over to me. In the dirty glare his green eyes were gray-brown.

"How come all of a sudden you can talk to me?"

"Because Lucy asked me to. She said someone was trying to kill her, and she wants you to protect her. I'm sure it's some sort of gas-induced delusion- or massive denial because she just can't face the fact that she tried to kill herself. But I'm taking it as a formal instruction."

"How does she figure someone tried to kill her with gas? Dragged her to the stove and jammed her head in?"

"She's nowhere near coherent enough to discuss details."

"Remember those four calls she put in? Seems she's been getting some hang-ups."

"She told me. Said you didn't think it was serious."

"I didn't because she didn't. She told me it might be some technical problem with her phone; the line goes out all the time. Kind of casual about the whole thing, made me wonder if she just wanted to talk."

"I'm sure she did. That's part of what I have to tell you. She's got a major crush on you. Admitted it to me during yesterday's session."

He was silent and still.

"She wanted approval from me, Milo. I couldn't tell her you were gay because I didn't want to violate your privacy. And I couldn't warn you about the way she felt because of confidentiality. She got really upset and left. Now this. I feel like I've really screwed up, but I don't know what I could've done differently."

"You coulda told her about me, Alex. I'm not your patient."

"I didn't think it was appropriate to get into your personal life. She was the patient; I was trying to keep the focus on her."

"Jesus." His cheeks turned to bellows and he blew out beery air.

"Has she ever shown any romantic feelings?"

"I don't know," he said furiously. "I guess looking back… I mean, she hung around, phoned, but I figured it was a cop-victim thing. Looking for big brother." Rubbing one eye. "Pretty fucking dense, huh? Goddammit! I'm an asshole to let it get this far. All these years I've been careful not to get personal with victims or their families. So why her?"

"You didn't do anything wrong," I said. "You gave her support, and when it became clear she needed something more, you referred her to me."

"Yeah, but there was more. In my head. She probably picked up on it."

"More what?"

"Involvement. I'd find myself thinking about her. Worrying. Couple of times I called her, just to see how she was doing."

He slammed a big hand down on the table. "How else could she take it? What am I, brain dead?"

He shook his head. "For chrissake, she was only a juror. I've dealt with thousands of victims who had it a helluva lot worse. I must be losing it."

"You didn't put her head in the oven."

"Neither did you, but you still feel like shit."

Both of us drank.

"If I hadn't tried to help her," he said, "I wouldn't know about her head being in the oven, would I? And you and I would be sitting here talking about something else."

His glass was empty and he called for a refill, looking at me.

"No, thanks."

He said, "Ignorance is bliss, right? All the talk about insight and self-understanding, but far as I can tell, being a good ostrich is the key to psychological adjustment. Christ, now I have her sitting on my shoulder… So what do I do, tell her, Gee, honeybunch, if I went for women you'd be at the top of my list? Might as well shove her head back in the oven."

"There's no need to do anything right now," I said. "Let's see how she handles the seventy-two hours. If the psychiatrist at Woodbridge is good, she'll know how to deal with it."

"Seventy-two hours… praise the law."

"There's more you need to know about." I told him about Lucy's summer as a prostitute.

"Oh, man, it keeps getting better. Just a summer fling, huh?"

"So she says. She confessed right after she told me how she felt about you. Asked me if I thought she wasn't good enough for you. As if she was giving me a reason to reject her."

"Not good enough for me." He gave a scary laugh. "Remember I told you she reminded me of a girl in high school who became a nun? Someone else who convinced herself I was wonderful."

This time he rubbed his face. Hard.

"Prom night back in Hoosierville. All the little virgins and would-be virgins from Our Lady on the arms of us pimpled lads from St. Thomas. I was eighteen and knew I was gay for a couple of years, no one to tell it to. Her name was Nancy Squires, and when she asked me to be her date I said yes because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Orchid corsage, tux, Dad's car washed and waxed. Doing the Twist in the gym. Mashed Potatoes and the fucking Hully Gully. Drinking the fucking spiked punch."