Winter Moon

bravery than any two other cops in the entire department, and he was

the best natural-born leader of men that Jack had ever encountered.

"How you doing?" Crawford asked.

"My serve has improved, but my backhand's still lousy," Jack said.

"Don't choke the racket."

"You think that's my problem?"

"That and not being able to stand up."

Jack laughed. "How're things in the division, Captain?"

"The fun never stops. Two guys walk into a jewelry store on Westwood

Boulevard this morning, right after opening, silencers on their guns,

shoot the owner and two employees, kill em deader than old King Tut

before anyone can set off an alarm. No one outside hears a thing.

Cases full of jewelry, big safe's open in the back room, full of estate

pieces, millions worth. Looks like a cakewalk from there on. Then the

two perps start to argue about what to take first and whether they have

time to take everything. One of them makes a comment about the other

one's old lady, and the next thing you know, they shoot each other."

"Jesus."

"So a little time passes, and a customer walks in on this. Four dead

people plus a half-conscious perp sprawled on the floor, wounded so bad

he can't even crawl out of the place and try to get away. The customer

stands there, shocked by the blood, which is splattered all to hell

over. He's just paralyzed by the sight of this mess. The wounded perp

waits for the customer to do something, and when the guy just stands

there, gaping, frozen, the perp says, For the love of God, mister, call

an ambulance!"

"For the love of God," Jack said.

" For the love of God." When the paramedics show up, first thing he

asks them for is a Bible."

Jack rolled his head back and forth on the pillow in disbelief. "Nice

to know not all the scum out there are godless scum, isn't it?"

"Warms my heart," Crawford said.

Jack was the only patient in the room. His most recent roommate, a

fifty-year-old estate-planning specialist, in residence for three days,

had died the previous day of complications from routine gallbladder

surgery.

Crawford sat on the edge of the vacant bed. "I got some good news for

you."

"I can use it."

"Internal Affairs submitted its final report on the shootings, and

you're cleared across the board. Better yet, both the chief and the

commission are going to accept it as definitive."

"Why don't I feel like dancing?"

"We both know the whole demand for a special investigation was

bullshit. But we also both know ... once they open that door, they

don't always close it again without slamming it on some poor innocent

bastard's fingers. So we'll count our blessings."

"They clear Luther too?"

"Yes, of course."

"All right."

Crawford said, "I put your name in for a commendation--Luther too,

posthumously. Both are going to be approved."

"Thank you, Captain."

"Deserved."

"I don't give a damn about the dickheads on the commission, and the

chief can take a hike to hell too, for all I care. But it means

something to me because it was you put in our names."

Lowering his gaze to his brown cap, which he turned around and around

in his brown hands, Crawford said, "I appreciate that."

They were both silent awhile.

Jack was remembering Luther. He figured Crawford was too.

Finally Crawford looked up from his cap and said, "Now for the bad

news."

"Always has to be some."

"Not actively bad, just irritating. You hear about the Anson Oliver

movie?"

"Which one? There were three."

"So you haven't heard. His parents and his pregnant fiancee made a

deal with Warner Brothers."

"Deal?"

"Sold the rights to Anson Oliver's life story for one million

dollars?"

Jack was speechless.

Crawford said, "The way they tell it, they made the deal for two

reasons.

First, they want to provide for Oliver's unborn son, make sure the

kid's future is secure."

"What about my kid's future?" Jack asked angrily.

Crawford cocked his head. "You really pissed?"

"Yes !"

"Hell, Jack, since when did our kids ever matter to people like

them?"

"Since never."

"Exactly. You and me and our kids, we're here to applaud them when

they do something artistic or high minded--and clean up after them when

they make a mess."

"It isn't fair," Jack said. He laughed at his own words, as if any

experienced cop could still expect life to be fair, virtue to be

rewarded, and villainy to be punished. "Ah, hell."

"You can't hate them for that. It's just the way they are, the way

they think.

They'll never change. Might as well hate lightning, hate ice being

cold and fire being hot."

Jack sighed, still angry but only smoldering. "You said they had two

reasons for making the deal. What's number two?"

"To make a movie that will be a monument to the genius of Anson

Oliver,"

" Crawford said. "That's how the father put it. A monument

to the genius of Anson Oliver."

"

"For the love of God."

Crawford laughed softly. "Yeah, for the love of God. And the fiancee,

mother of the heir-to-be, she says this movie's going to put Anson

Oliver's controversial career and his death in historical

perspective."

"What historical perspective? He made movies, he wasn't the leader of

the Western world--he just made movies."