Clandestine

"Don't interrupt me. He was booked on just the one count. Cadwallader. But Smith kept repeating, "This is a grand jury job, there's no telling how many dames this maniac's bagged!' The D.A. seemed to go along with it. Then the D.A. saw me and mentioned to Smith that I read potential grand jury cases. Smith notices that I'm a woman, and starts to lay on the blarney. Then he asks me what I'm doing here, and I tell him that you and I are friends. Then he goes livid and starts to shake. He looked insane."

Shaken, I said: "He is insane. He hates me, I crossed him."

"Then you're insane. He could ruin your career!"

"Hush, sweetheart. No, I've been promoted. Smith reported first, I reported afterward. I'm going to the detective bureau. To a squad room somewhere. Thad Green told me himself. Whatever Smith told Green jibes with my report to you and my official arresting officer's report, which is the truth. What Smith told the D.A. is just hyperbole. All I—"

"Freddy, you told me there was no hard evidence to connect Engels to any other murders."

"That's absolutely true. But . . ."

Lorna was getting more red-faced and agitated by the second: "But nothing, Freddy. I saw Engels. He was beaten terribly. I asked Smith about that and he handed me some baloney about how he tried to resist arrest. I kept saying to myself, Good God, could my Freddy have had anything to do with that? Is that justice? What kind of man have I gotten involved with?"

I just stared at the Hieronymous Bosch print on the wall.

"Freddy, answer me!"

"I can't, counselor. Good night."

I drove home, steadfastly quelling all speculation regarding Lorna, woman-killers, and lunatic cops. I tried out my new rank: Detective Frederick U. Underhill. Detective Fred Underhill. The dicks. At twenty-seven. I was probably the youngest detective in the Los Angeles Police Department. I would have to find out. In November, the sergeant's exam. Detective Sergeant Frederick Underhill. I would have to buy three new suits and a couple of sports jackets, some neckties and a half dozen pair of slacks. Detective Fred Underhil. But. It kept rearing its beautiful, burnished brown head. Lorna Weinberg, counselor at law. Lorna Weinberg.

Be still, I said to myself, trying to heed my own advice—just don't think.

At home, after a roughhouse session with Night Train, some kind of nameless future-fear hit me and to combat it I dug out some textbooks.

I tried to engross myself, but it was useless; the words flew by undigested, almost unseen. I couldn't stop thinking.

I was about to give it up when my doorbell rang. Not daring to guess, I flung the door open. It was Lorna.

"Hello, Officer," she said. "May I come in?"

"I'm a detective now, Lorna. Can you accept what I had to do to get there?"

"I . . . I know I convicted you of an unknown crime on insufficient evidence."

"I would have filed a writ of habeas corpus, counselor, but you would have beat me in court."

"I would have appealed, in your behalf. Did you know that you are the only Frederick U. Underhill in all the L.A. area phone books?"

"No doubt. What are you doing here, Lorna?"

"Stalking your heart."

"Then don't stand in the doorway, come in and meet my dog."

Many joyful hours later, sated and engulfed with each other, too tired to sleep or think and unable to relinquish each other's touch, I had an idea. I dug out my meager collection of corny ballads, formerly used to seduce lonely women. I put "You Belong to Me" by Jo Stafford on the phonograph and turned the volume up so that Lorna could hear it in the bedroom.

She was laughing when I returned to her. "Oh, Freddy, that's so . . ."

"Corny?"

"Yes!"

"My sentiments, too. But, needless to say, I feel romantic tonight."

"It's morning, darling."

"I stand corrected. Lorna?"

"Yes?"

"May I have the next dance?"

"Dance? Freddy, I can't dance!"

"Yes, you can."

"Freddy!"

"You can hop on your good leg. I'll hold you up. Come on!"

"Freddy, I can't!"

"I insist."

"Freddy, I'm naked!"

"Good. So am I."

"Freddy!"

"Enough said, Lor. Let's hit it!"

I scooped the naked, laughing Lorna into my arms and carried her into the living room and deposited her on the couch, then put Patti Page singing "The Tennessee Waltz" on the phonograph. When she began to intone the syrupy introduction, I walked to Lorna and extended my hands.

She reached for them and I pulled her to me and held her close, encircling her at the buttocks and lifting her slightly off the floor so that her bad leg was suspended, and her weight was stationed on her good one. She held me tightly around my back, and we moved awkwardly in very small steps as Patti Page sang.

"Freddy," Lorna whispered into my chest, "I think I—"

"Don't think, Lor."

"I was going to say . . . I think I love you."

"Then think, because I know I love you."

"Freddy, I don't think this record is corny."

"Neither do I."