“Consider yourself lucky,” I said, clicking my Glock onto safety.
“Who the hell were you expecting, anyway?” he said as he massaged his ribs. “The Rock?”
“That doesn’t matter. What does matter is just what you’re doing here.”
He sniffed guiltily. “I’m definitely starting to pick up, Buttercup, that you might not be entirely thrilled to see me?”
“I don’t know that I am. Are you sick?”
His blue eyes sparkled. “Can’t a guy check up on his firstborn without his motives being called into account?”
I studied the lines on his face. “I haven’t seen you in ten years, and you act like it’s been a week. You want an update? I was married, now I’m divorced. I got into Homicide. Now I’m lieutenant. I know that’s a bit sketchy, but it brings you up to date, Dad.”
“You think so much time has passed that I can’t look at you as a father?”
“I don’t know how you look at me,” I said.
My father’s eyes suddenly warmed, and he smiled. “God, you do look beautiful… Lindsay.”
His expression was that same twinkling, guiltless mug I had seen a thousand times as a kid. I shook my head in frustration. “Marty, just answer my question.”
“Look.” He swallowed. “I know sneaking up on you didn’t win me any style points, but do you think I could at least talk my way into a cup of coffee?”
I stared incredulously at the man who had left our family when I was thirteen. Who had stayed away all the time my mother was sick. Whom I had thought of as a coward or a cad or even worse for most of my adult life. I hadn’t seen my father since he’d sat in the back row on the day I was sworn in as a cop. I didn’t know if I wanted to slug him or take him in my arms and give him a hug.
“Just one…,” I said, holding out a hand and hoisting him up. I brushed some loose gravel from his lapel. “You talked yourself into one cup of coffee, Buttercup.”
Chapter 53
I MADE A POT OF COFFEE for my father and a cup of Red Zinger for me. I gave him a quick tour, introducing him to Martha, who almost against my silent i
nstructions took a liking to dear old Dad.
We sat on my white canvas couch, Martha curled up at my father’s feet. I gave him a damp cloth, and he dabbed at a scratch on his cheek.
“Sorry about the bruise,” I said, cradling the hot mug on my knees. Kind of sorry.
“I’ve earned worse.” He shrugged with a smile.
“Yeah, you have.”
We sat facing each other. Neither of us knew quite where to begin. “So, I guess this is where you bring me up to date on what you’ve been up to for the last twenty-two years?”
He swallowed and put down his mug. “Sure. I can do that.” He took me through his life, which seemed more like a sputtering spiral of bad luck. He had been an assistant chief, which I guess I knew, down in Redondo Beach. Then he left to go into private security. Celebrities. Kevin Costner. Whoopi Goldberg. “Even went to the Oscars.” He chuckled. He’d gotten married again, this time for only two years. “Found out I was underqualified for the job,” he quipped with a self-effacing wave. Now he was back in security, no celebrities, doing odd jobs.
“Still gambling?” I asked.
“Only mind bets. In my head,” he replied. “Had to give it up when I ran out of funds.”
“Still root for the Giants?” When I was a kid, he used to take me after his shift to this bar called the Alibi on Sunset. He’d prop me up on the counter where he and his buddies would watch the afternoon games from Candlestick. I loved being with him back then.
He shook his head. “Nah, gave them up when they traded away Will Clark. I’m a Dodger fan now. I would like to go to the new park, though.” Then he looked at me for a long time.
It was my turn now. How to relate the past twenty-two years of my life to my father?
I took him through as much as I could handle, leaving out anything related to Mom. I told him about my ex, Tom, how it hadn’t worked out. (“Chip off the old block.” He snickered. “Yeah, but at least I stayed,” I replied.) How I pushed for Homicide and finally got it.
He nodded glumly. “I read about that big case you worked on. Even down south, it was all over the news.”