Clandestine

"'Our Seattle correspondent contacted the victim's father, Wilhelm Engels, a pharmacist in suburban Seattle. "I can't believe that God would do such a thing," the white-haired old gentleman said. "There must be an investigation into the policemen who arrested my Edward. Edward was a gentle, lovely boy who never hurt anyone. We must have justice." Mr. Engels told our correspondent that Walter Canfield has offered his services, free of charge, in filing suit for false arrest against the Los Angeles Police Department. "Mr. Engels will have his justice," Canfield told reporters shortly before he learned of Engels's death, "the justice his son was denied. This is clearly a case of a quick-on-the-trigger young cop out to make a name for himself."'"

Milner paused. My vision was starting to darken at the edges, but I shook my head and it cleared.

"Go on," I said.

Milner coughed and continued. "'Officer Frederick U. Underhill, canonized within the L.A.P.D. and by Los Angeles newspapers earlier this year for killing two holdup men, brought the 'same rash justice to his investigation of Eddie Engels. Veteran L.A.P.D. Detective Lieutenant Dudley Smith told our reporter: "Fred Underhill is an ambitious young man out to make chief of police in record time. He caught myself and several others up in his crusade to get Eddie Engels. I admit I went along with it. I admit I was at fault. Last night I lit a candle for poor Eddie's family. I also lit one for Fred Underhill and prayed that he learns a lesson from this tragedy he perpetrated."'"

I started to laugh. My laughter sounded hysterical to my own ears. Milner and Quinn didn't think it was funny. Quinn snapped: "This article, which was in the L.A. Daily News, goes on to call for your resignation and an investigation into the entire department. What do you think about that, Underhill?"

I calmed myself and stared at my inquisitors. "I feel that that article was written in a very poor prose style. Convoluted, hysterical, hyperbolic. Hemingway would disapprove of it. F. Scott Fitzgerald would turn over in his grave. Shakespeare would be dismayed. That's what I think."

"Underhill," Milner said, "you know the department takes care of its own, don't you?"

"Sure. Witness that lunatic Dudley Smith. He'll come out of this thing smelling like a rose and probably make Captain. Ahhh, yes. Grand!"

"Underhill, the department was prepared to stand by you until we did a little checking up on you."

I started to go cold in the hot, smoky room. The traffic noise on Los Angeles Street sounded alternately very loud and very soft.

"Oh, yeah?" I said. "Come up with anything interesting?"

"Yes," Quinn said, "we did. Let me quote. 'Sarah had high full breasts with cone-shaped dark brown nipples. Coarse hairs surrounded them. She was an experienced lover. We moved well together. She anticipated my motions and accommodated them with fluid grace.' Want some more, Underhill?"

"You filthy bastards," I said.

"Did you know that Sarah Kefalvian is a Communist, Underhill? She's listed in the rolls of five organizations that have been classified as Commie fronts. Did you know that?" Milner leaned over me, his knuckles white from grasping the table. "Do you fuck a lot of Commies, Underhill?" he hissed.

"Are you a Communist, Freddy?" Quinn asked.

"Go fuck yourself," I said.

Milner leaned over further; I could smell his tobacco breath. "I think you are a Communist. And a filthy pervert. Decent men don't write about the women they fuck. Decent men don't fuck Commies."

I stuck my hands under my thighs to control their shaking and to keep myself from hitting someone. My head was pounding and my vision blurred from the blackness throbbing behind my eyes. "You forgot to mention I've got red upholstery on my car. You forgot to mention I also fuck Koreans, Republicans, and Democrats. When I was in high school I had a redheaded girlfriend. I've got a red cashmere sweater, you forgot to mention that."

"There's one thing you didn't forget to mention," Quinn said. "Listen: 'I told Sarah about dodging the draft in '42. She is the only person besides Wacky to know that. Telling her made me feel strangely free.'"

Quinn spat on the floor. "I served in the war, Underhill. I lost a brother at Guadalcanal. All good Americans served. Anyone who dodged the draft is a no-good Commie traitor, and not worthy to carry a badge. You have brought disgrace to the department. The chief himself has been told of what we found in your diary. He ordered this investigation. We only had a little time to search your apartment. God knows what other Commie degeneracy we would have found, if we had had more time. You have two choices: resign, or face departmental trial on charges of moral turpitude. If you don't resign, we will take your diary to the feds. Draft-dodging is a federal offense."

Milner took a typed form out of his suit coat pocket. He placed on the table along with a pen; then he and his partner walked out of the room.