took a massive bite from his hot dog and chewed it noisily. “I
just don’t like it. There’s plenty of people you just think…why bother? They make all
their own problems.”
Ben was very much afraid he knew where this was going. “Like who?”
“Like those Negro bastards in Alabama boycotting the buses. Like the ones here
trying to move into all the decent neighborhoods. Sure as shit they’ll be moving from
Central Avenue to Hancock Park next. Those people just gotta make trouble. We got the
Jews and the queers thinking they run the place. I say give ’em what’s coming to them.”
Ben’s stomach lurched. He wondered if his hot dog was going to stay down, but it
didn’t stop him from eating the rest of it casually, as if what Calhoun said wasn’t
getting to him. It was hard to keep his cool, to hide what he was thinking. But as a cop,
he’d had a lot of practice.
“Sometimes I think maybe we shoulda let Hitler keep on going. He’d have saved us
a lot of trouble.”
“Sh-shit,” Ben sputtered. Now that was… Damn . “That’s a helluva thing to say, even
for you.”
“Aw, quit whining. Just on account of your master-race faggot with the dog, you
been all sensitive lately. Boohoo. He should have stayed in his own country and died
like a man. Now he’s here, living large, and we gotta pull in a couple of American kids
for a damned prank. It ain’t right.”
“Like I said. If nobody told you, the only dinosaurs left are in the La Brea tar pits.”
Ben got hold of himself. He finished up his dog—leaning over so he didn’t end up
wearing half of it like Calhoun usually did—and chewed. “Think what you like, but
don’t cross the line again, you hear me?”
“What does that mean?”
Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
53
“Do your job, Calhoun. That’s all I’m saying.”
Ben finished his food and wiped his hands carefully with a number of napkins. He
threw his trash out and came back to find Jim making a mess.
“Ah, shit.” Jim dabbed at his shirt. “Every damned time.”
“Get a cup of water and see if that will take the stain out. I gotta make a call.” Ben
started toward the phone booth on the corner.
“It’s fine.” Calhoun’s paper napkin disintegrated as he rubbed it along the coarse
fabric. “It doesn’t show.”
“Right,” Ben muttered, digging a coin from his pocket. He knew he shouldn’t call.
He knew he should leave it alone, but for the life of him, he couldn’t get Rafe Colman or
that tender, aching kiss from his memory.
He closed the door behind him, put in his dime, and dialed Paradise Realty. When
the pleasant-voiced girl answered, he once again asked for Rafe.
“Paradise Realty. Rafe speaking. How may I help you?”
“It’s Ben.”
Silence.
“I know what you said. But I called to ask you if you would come to dinner at my
mother’s house tomorrow.”
“Your mother ?”
“Yes.” Ben crossed his fingers. “I told her about you and Mooki, and she asked if
you would like to come for church and supper.”
“She did?”
“She likes having my friends over. She says it keeps her busy.” He prayed God
wouldn’t strike him dead for lying. His mother would be delighted to have Rafe over,
but he’d never discussed inviting anyone with her. “Mamãe likes to cook, and I’m only
one person, so—”
Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
54
“Your mother would like to cook…for me?” There was clear hesitation in Rafe’s
voice, but there was another emotion—something that sounded like longing. Ben
wondered if Rafe ever got a home-cooked meal he didn’t have to fix for himself.
“She would. Very much. We can take my mother to mass and have supper after. Is
tomorrow okay?”
More hesitation. Ben began to marshal other arguments—like the fact that his
mother was certainly an adequate chaperone—when he heard Rafe sigh.
“I’m sorry. I’ve already accepted an invitation for a party tomorrow.” Rafe’s
just don’t like it. There’s plenty of people you just think…why bother? They make all
their own problems.”
Ben was very much afraid he knew where this was going. “Like who?”
“Like those Negro bastards in Alabama boycotting the buses. Like the ones here
trying to move into all the decent neighborhoods. Sure as shit they’ll be moving from
Central Avenue to Hancock Park next. Those people just gotta make trouble. We got the
Jews and the queers thinking they run the place. I say give ’em what’s coming to them.”
Ben’s stomach lurched. He wondered if his hot dog was going to stay down, but it
didn’t stop him from eating the rest of it casually, as if what Calhoun said wasn’t
getting to him. It was hard to keep his cool, to hide what he was thinking. But as a cop,
he’d had a lot of practice.
“Sometimes I think maybe we shoulda let Hitler keep on going. He’d have saved us
a lot of trouble.”
“Sh-shit,” Ben sputtered. Now that was… Damn . “That’s a helluva thing to say, even
for you.”
“Aw, quit whining. Just on account of your master-race faggot with the dog, you
been all sensitive lately. Boohoo. He should have stayed in his own country and died
like a man. Now he’s here, living large, and we gotta pull in a couple of American kids
for a damned prank. It ain’t right.”
“Like I said. If nobody told you, the only dinosaurs left are in the La Brea tar pits.”
Ben got hold of himself. He finished up his dog—leaning over so he didn’t end up
wearing half of it like Calhoun usually did—and chewed. “Think what you like, but
don’t cross the line again, you hear me?”
“What does that mean?”
Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
53
“Do your job, Calhoun. That’s all I’m saying.”
Ben finished his food and wiped his hands carefully with a number of napkins. He
threw his trash out and came back to find Jim making a mess.
“Ah, shit.” Jim dabbed at his shirt. “Every damned time.”
“Get a cup of water and see if that will take the stain out. I gotta make a call.” Ben
started toward the phone booth on the corner.
“It’s fine.” Calhoun’s paper napkin disintegrated as he rubbed it along the coarse
fabric. “It doesn’t show.”
“Right,” Ben muttered, digging a coin from his pocket. He knew he shouldn’t call.
He knew he should leave it alone, but for the life of him, he couldn’t get Rafe Colman or
that tender, aching kiss from his memory.
He closed the door behind him, put in his dime, and dialed Paradise Realty. When
the pleasant-voiced girl answered, he once again asked for Rafe.
“Paradise Realty. Rafe speaking. How may I help you?”
“It’s Ben.”
Silence.
“I know what you said. But I called to ask you if you would come to dinner at my
mother’s house tomorrow.”
“Your mother ?”
“Yes.” Ben crossed his fingers. “I told her about you and Mooki, and she asked if
you would like to come for church and supper.”
“She did?”
“She likes having my friends over. She says it keeps her busy.” He prayed God
wouldn’t strike him dead for lying. His mother would be delighted to have Rafe over,
but he’d never discussed inviting anyone with her. “Mamãe likes to cook, and I’m only
one person, so—”
Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
54
“Your mother would like to cook…for me?” There was clear hesitation in Rafe’s
voice, but there was another emotion—something that sounded like longing. Ben
wondered if Rafe ever got a home-cooked meal he didn’t have to fix for himself.
“She would. Very much. We can take my mother to mass and have supper after. Is
tomorrow okay?”
More hesitation. Ben began to marshal other arguments—like the fact that his
mother was certainly an adequate chaperone—when he heard Rafe sigh.
“I’m sorry. I’ve already accepted an invitation for a party tomorrow.” Rafe’s
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