summer. He got on the Santa Monica Freeway and turned on the air conditioning.
Work had been uneventful. National elections were coming up in November and there was the usual feeding frenzy as the candidates turned up the heat on each other by plumbing the depths of negative campaigning. He had been given a piece to write on a city councilman who had been caught in a police sting. A policewoman had posed as a hooker, and, within three hours, twelve men had been arrested for offering her money. The councilman, one of the twelve arrested, claimed that he had known it was a sting and was doing his own investigative work on police procedure. Writing it up would be a snap, he thought. Nobody believed the guy, but his audacity was so great and his political entrenchment so solid that no one questioned his re-election.
He took the 405 north to Wilshire and headed west again. He pulled over and parked just past Bundy drive, locked his truck, and put some money in the meter.
The Bicycle Café was one of his favorite places to eat. It was typically Californian, all wood and hanging plants, but he liked the bicycle motif. An antique bike with a huge front wheel hung suspended by wires above the table he chose.
He looked around the restaurant: there were a few power lunchers—men in suits, briefcases at their feet. At a table nearby four businessmen were receiving drinks from the waitress. Ron wondered how they could start drinking in the middle of the day and then walk away from it, go back to work without needing another, and another.
The waitress came over to his table. She was attractive, healthy looking with freckles and chestnut hair.
“Hey, Ron, how are you?” She smiled.
“Really good, Leanne. How about you?” He always liked seeing Leanne. She radiated a quality he liked, a contagious optimism that he was convinced was real and fundamental to her nature.
They talked about running. She was training for a marathon but had a problem with her ankle. Taking some classes at night, history and philosophy; really liked it. She took his lunch order and walked toward the kitchen. He watched as she left; she had runner’s legs, long and slender with powerful calves.
He took pleasure in his meal and decided not to review his notes on the suicide files while he was eating. He had long ago learned that his intuitive faculties worked best when he was feeling balanced—his mind seemed to work more efficiently if he kept things simple.
After he had finished and paid, Leanne came back as he was standing to leave. “I miss our runs together,” she said.
“Yeah, me too,” he replied.
She pressed her lips together and looked down for a moment. “Sometimes I wonder if you ever think of calling.” She looked up at him, her eyes clear and gray, and held his gaze.
“I’m thinking it would be crazy not to,” he told her, and she put her fingertips briefly to his chest to say goodbye.
He drove south on Bundy Drive. Everything north of Wilshire Boulevard was pretty upscale. By the time he got to Santa Monica Boulevard and turned he could feel the change in ambience. A wild-haired man in a pea coat clutched a sleeping bag as he sat at a bus bench and stared at his fingers. Ron wondered if the guy even felt the heat or if he was too removed from sensation to even register discomfort.
Traffic was thick and people were impatient. He stopped at a light; there was one at every block and he seemed to be stuck in an endless line of cars. He heard a loud horn blast directly behind him. A woman in a seedy older Cadillac pulled up on his bumper and the back half of her car blocked the cross traffic. The driver of the first northbound car that couldn’t get past the Cadillac leaned on his horn. Two more horns added to the noise. The woman in the Cadillac inched up behind Ron until her bumper made contact with his. He looked in his rearview mirror and watched her as she honked in short repetitive bursts and motioned to him to move
Work had been uneventful. National elections were coming up in November and there was the usual feeding frenzy as the candidates turned up the heat on each other by plumbing the depths of negative campaigning. He had been given a piece to write on a city councilman who had been caught in a police sting. A policewoman had posed as a hooker, and, within three hours, twelve men had been arrested for offering her money. The councilman, one of the twelve arrested, claimed that he had known it was a sting and was doing his own investigative work on police procedure. Writing it up would be a snap, he thought. Nobody believed the guy, but his audacity was so great and his political entrenchment so solid that no one questioned his re-election.
He took the 405 north to Wilshire and headed west again. He pulled over and parked just past Bundy drive, locked his truck, and put some money in the meter.
The Bicycle Café was one of his favorite places to eat. It was typically Californian, all wood and hanging plants, but he liked the bicycle motif. An antique bike with a huge front wheel hung suspended by wires above the table he chose.
He looked around the restaurant: there were a few power lunchers—men in suits, briefcases at their feet. At a table nearby four businessmen were receiving drinks from the waitress. Ron wondered how they could start drinking in the middle of the day and then walk away from it, go back to work without needing another, and another.
The waitress came over to his table. She was attractive, healthy looking with freckles and chestnut hair.
“Hey, Ron, how are you?” She smiled.
“Really good, Leanne. How about you?” He always liked seeing Leanne. She radiated a quality he liked, a contagious optimism that he was convinced was real and fundamental to her nature.
They talked about running. She was training for a marathon but had a problem with her ankle. Taking some classes at night, history and philosophy; really liked it. She took his lunch order and walked toward the kitchen. He watched as she left; she had runner’s legs, long and slender with powerful calves.
He took pleasure in his meal and decided not to review his notes on the suicide files while he was eating. He had long ago learned that his intuitive faculties worked best when he was feeling balanced—his mind seemed to work more efficiently if he kept things simple.
After he had finished and paid, Leanne came back as he was standing to leave. “I miss our runs together,” she said.
“Yeah, me too,” he replied.
She pressed her lips together and looked down for a moment. “Sometimes I wonder if you ever think of calling.” She looked up at him, her eyes clear and gray, and held his gaze.
“I’m thinking it would be crazy not to,” he told her, and she put her fingertips briefly to his chest to say goodbye.
He drove south on Bundy Drive. Everything north of Wilshire Boulevard was pretty upscale. By the time he got to Santa Monica Boulevard and turned he could feel the change in ambience. A wild-haired man in a pea coat clutched a sleeping bag as he sat at a bus bench and stared at his fingers. Ron wondered if the guy even felt the heat or if he was too removed from sensation to even register discomfort.
Traffic was thick and people were impatient. He stopped at a light; there was one at every block and he seemed to be stuck in an endless line of cars. He heard a loud horn blast directly behind him. A woman in a seedy older Cadillac pulled up on his bumper and the back half of her car blocked the cross traffic. The driver of the first northbound car that couldn’t get past the Cadillac leaned on his horn. Two more horns added to the noise. The woman in the Cadillac inched up behind Ron until her bumper made contact with his. He looked in his rearview mirror and watched her as she honked in short repetitive bursts and motioned to him to move
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