Night As We Know It Read online

  “He became a high-priced lawyer. Moved to New York. Has fancy schmancy clients, including one of the Walshes from Walsh Publishing.”

  “Must be doing good.”

  “Must be.”

  “Sounds like you want me to help you with an article.”

  “You’re probably the most popular guy on the whole police force. Who else would I turn to?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Well…how about you take me on a ride tomorrow, show me around town, what your day is like? I can get a feel for the job, what it’s like to be a cop, how you view your work and its importance to the community.”

  Johns smiled. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  “You have no idea.” Nick smiled. “Later on, we can sit down for an interview. I’ll ask you specific questions about good deeds, other officers I can talk to, people you’d like me to see.”

  Johns dropped his eyes to the table, away from Nick.

  “Sure…”

  “And one more thing. Thanks for letting me stay at your place. I can get this article done much faster if I’m with you while I’m here.”

  Johns looked back up into Nick’s eyes. They were as penetrating and unreadable as ever.

  While Nick hadn’t spoken with Johns Mayweather in many years, there was someone from their school that he had kept in contact with, who had also stayed in Philadelphia.

  “Rod, it’s me Nick Fullwood.”

  There was a beat before Rod Tomes spoke. “What’s up?”

  “You got my text message last night that I’m in L.A.?”

  “Yeah,” Rod answered quickly, but then he was quiet again.

  “You got somebody around and can’t talk,” Nick asked as he was walking around Johns’s living room, full of morning sun glared by Los Angeles fog. His voice was low, despite the fact that he could hear Johns in the bathroom showering.

  Nick was already dressed and sipping coffee. During the night, while Johns was snoring off a deep sleep fueled by too much alcohol, Nick had been up and snooping around the apartment. He had found nothing of note.

  “Yeah, just getting my kids ready for soccer,” Rod said loudly into the phone. Then he said more softly, his voice in the distance. “Baby…can you put Shemar and Tori in the car? I’ll meet you outside in a sec. Thanks.”

  “Look, I’m sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but I don’t know when I’m going to get a chance to talk to you again,” Nick eyed the bathroom door. “Did you find what I needed?”

  Rod sighed heavily. “Yeah, I found it. I’ll send it to your email address. But let me tell you…this needs to stop right now.”

  Nick frowned. “What are you talking about? We’re close.”

  “You’re close,” Rod said, his voice lowered. “I am out.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Nick said. “You can’t back out on me now. I need you. You’re hooked up. You do security. You have access to police records, databases—”

  “I also have a family now.”

  “So…”

  “So? What do you mean, So? I can’t get them involved in this shit.”

  “You already did when you agreed to help me.”

  “I did not agree to help you. I was forced to help you.”

  “I didn’t force you to do anything. This was all your idea.”

  “Nick,” Rod said. “You and I have very different recollections of our conversations together.”

  “Let me tell you what I remember,” Nick hissed into the phone. “I came to you seeking an interview for my newspaper, because I found out the friend I went to high school with now owns a firm that provides security for the African-American family whose unarmed teenaged son was recently killed by police. He’s providing security for this family because they’re secretly afraid that the officer who shot their son is somehow linked to a White nationalist group, and if they testify at this officer’s trial they’ll wind up with a bullet in the back of their skulls. Am I stuttering?”

  Rod was silent.

  “It was you who asked me to find out if it was true. And guess what? I did.”

  “And you should’ve stopped there!” Rod yelled.

  “But the trail led to something bigger. Not just in the suburbs of Philadelphia, but all across America. It led to cops linked to White nationalist organizations. Possibly hooked up with politicians connected to White nationalist organizations. This doesn’t affect just Blacks. This could affect Jews. Gays. Muslims. Everybody! And God knows how high it goes. Local politics? Congress? The White House? Can you imagine what’s under all these rocks that I could turn over? Redistricting scandals. Politicians on their payroll. Rigged courts. Crooked legislation.”

  “I don’t want any part of this anymore. What part of what I’m saying don’t you understand?”

  “You want to kick me to the curb after I helped you.”

  “I asked you to look into something, and you did and that was that.”

  “I’m not talking about that, Rod. I’m talking about high school.”

  “High school?” Nick could almost see Rod frowning.

  “You wouldn’t have what you have now without me!”

  “Bullshit! Go sell that shit somewhere else!”

  “You’d never have gotten into college without me, Rod. You wouldn’t have this cushy security business you have now, the big house, the expensive cars, the beautiful family, the money, any of it!”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Who got you into college, Rod?” Nick growled. And when Rod didn’t answer, Nick continued. “Who wrote all those papers you turned in for scholarship money? Who wrote your college application essays? Who did everything but piss in a cup for you to get your athletic scholarship? I still remember the tears in your mother’s eyes at graduation, she was so happy!”

  “I’m hanging up!”

  “Don’t even think about it!” Nick spat. There was quiet a moment, and Nick could hear in the background a car horn honking. “I don’t mean to be like this, Rod. I really, really don’t. I like you.”

  “You don’t have a family!” Rod yelled, his voice shaky. He sounded near tears. “You don’t have anything. You don’t have a girlfriend, wife, kids, nothing. You have nothing! And you want me to put everything I have on the line? For what? For you? Because you did me a few favors years ago when we were kids?”

  There was silence, and Nick noticed suddenly that the shower was off. He moved further into the living room, away from the bathroom.

  Nick whispered. “I’m not asking for much. Not nearly what you asked of me. Just some info when I need it. And this should be over by the end of this week anyway. Your name doesn’t get mentioned. Everybody gets what they want. Everybody walks away clean.”

  Rod swallowed, breathed shallowly.

  “I’m going to email what you asked for. Don’t call me again, hear? Don’t email me. And keep my name outta your mouth. I’m hanging up.”

  “Are you really that scared?” Nick asked before Tomes could disconnect.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “And you should be, too.”

  “You know I’m not supposed to be doing this, right? We’re not allowed to do ride-arounds.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  “For you. Because we’re friends.”

  Nick looked at Johns from the passenger seat of the police cruiser and was silent at first. “Thank you,” he said finally, quietly. They were sitting at a light on Hollywood Boulevard. Johns was giving him a quickie tour of Los Angeles. “I really do appreciate you doing this for me. Saving my ass.”

  Johns looked over to Nick. “You don’t need saving.”

  “Hah!” Nick laughed. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Why do you say that? You’re the great Nick Fullwood. We all looked up to you in high school. And look at you now. Doing what you love, while I�
��m out here doing this.”

  “I’m not…” Nick started, then stopped. He looked down at his lap, then out of the passenger window, away from Johns. “I’m not ‘the great Nick Fullwood’. I wish I were. I have no girlfriend, no wife, no kids, only me. And I’m still trying to get that right. Get to where I want to be.”

  Johns punched Nick on his arm. Nick looked at him, and Johns offered him a smile.

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t have a wife now either. No girlfriend. No kids.”

  Nick snorted, then said, “Wanna go out on a date?”

  They burst out laughing.

  “So where are you taking me?” Nick asked.

  “First we’re going to Skid Row, because you got to see it. Homeless people in Los Angeles. People who came out here with nothing but a dream.”

  “And now that dream is deferred.”

  Johns nodded. Nick looked over at him, and suddenly realized they were not talking about Skid Row at all.

  “Skid Row has one of the largest concentrations of homeless people in the U.S.,” Johns said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And it’s right in downtown Los Angeles, where there used to be old movie stars in fur coats and fancy cars. A constant reminder of how quickly your life can change, even surrounded by beauty and great weather.”

  “I would think there’s a lot of people out here with dreams deferred.”

  Johns didn’t look at Nick, but kept his eyes on the road as he drove. He seemed to be deep in thought.

  “In Los Angeles everybody wears a mask, telling stories that aren’t quite the truth but aren’t quite a lie. The warm weather makes it easy to stay. The strange thing is: you can feel your soul being bought and sold, little by little, piece by piece. You feel it dying, being taken away from you, dripping out of you. Especially at night, when it’s a dark, starless sky. Night as you know it, and night as we know it…here…are two different things. No one really sleeps here. We’re just as active by night as we are in the daylight.”

  “What do you do?” Nick asked softly.

  “We live,” Johns said, pulling his eyes off the road to look at Nick. “And we die.”

  Johns drove Nick around L.A. in his police cruiser. He was off-duty, but still wore his uniform. Nick noticed Johns liked the attention he got. He was ruggedly handsome in his short-sleeved shirt, Terminator shades, and his shiny badge and holster. Women admired him. So did some men. Johns was toothy when he smiled, laying on the good cop shtick.

  “I’ve cruised all around L.A.,” Johns said after lunch. They were in San Fernando Valley, walking down the streets of Studio City.

  “What’s your beat?” Nick asked.

  “I’m in WeHo now.”

  “WeHo?”

  “West Hollywood. It’s a city in and of itself. Gay. Artsy. Lots of history.”

  “So you have a good connection with the people there?”

  “Oh, yeah. Lots of great stories I can tell you about the city, the people, the businesses.”

  “What about other cops and their beats? Would they be open to talking to me?”

  Johns slowed, then stopped. He removed his sunglasses and there was fear in his eyes. “Let me check around and get you a list of guys who’re willing to talk.”

  “How about we set something up for day after tomorrow?”

  Johns nodded, almost reluctantly.

  “You okay?” Nick asked.

  “Yeah.” Johns smiled and put his sunglasses on. “I just remembered that I need to drop you off at my house. I have to go in for my shift, but I should be home later.”

  “How about we go out after…plainclothes, no cruiser…to see L.A. at night? I want to see what it’s like after dark. My treat for dinner and drinks.”

  Johns nodded. “Sounds good.”

  “And no tourist traps. I want to see something off the beaten path. True nighttime in L.A.”

  Johns’s smile widened. “I think I can arrange that.”

  Nick logged on to his laptop as soon as he was inside Johns’s condo. He opened his email and immediately saw what Rod Tomes had sent him. He clicked on the attachment and read, his lips moving slightly, his voice barely a whisper.

  “Seven out of ten states with the most hate groups per capita are Southern states. However, there are approximately sixty active hate groups in California, most in Southern California. Anti-gay hate crimes and anti-Jewish hate crimes are down a little in the state, but anti-Hispanic hate crimes are up. Hate crimes against African Americans continue to be the most common hate crime, accounting for more than a quarter of all hate crimes reported in the state. Sexual orientation hate crimes were the second highest type of hate crime, and religious bias hate crimes are the third.

  “Of race-related hate crimes, African Americans and Hispanics were the top two, and far below that Whites then Asians. Of religion, Jews were targeted the most, then Muslims. Of genders, the transgender population far outpaced men and women. Physically- and mentally- disabled hate crimes numbers were very low, but still happened.

  “Hate groups have taken to broadcasting videos of beatings on social media, which get a high number of viewings, attracting new members. There are also physical training videos, so that followers of these hate groups can be prepared for battle at rallies (sort of like terrorist training camp videos).”

  Nick sat back in his chair and sighed. He looked at the floor as he muttered to himself. “There’s no way in hell there’s that many White nationalist groups in Southern California and they haven’t tried to infiltrate something. They’ve got a taste for this shit now. They’re recognized and want more power…legitimate power…to destroy…to take back America. They just need an in, a weak link on every level who’s open to being bought.”

  A thought occurred to Nick, and he sat straight in his chair. He looked around the dinette in Johns’s condo, the kitchen, the living room, down the hall to the bathroom and the bedrooms. He sat frozen in the silence of the condo, his eyes recording, his brain feverishly at work. He leaned on the table, thinking, remembering Johns’s words.

  Wife took me to the cleaners. I turn over half my paycheck to her.

  “Johns, no. No, no, no, no, no. You’re not on the take. Please don’t be on the take.”

  Nick scooted his chair closer to the computer, and began typing. He Googled first: cop salaries Los Angeles. Then: condo prices Santa Monica California. His stomach fell as he read the screen. He looked toward Johns’s bedroom, the only place he hadn’t searched the night before. He stood up and walked inside. It was a typical man’s bedroom, unmade bed, clothes strewn about, but nice all the same. Nice bed, nice furniture, large flat screen television hanging on the wall.

  Nick pulled open a night table drawer. When he didn’t see anything interesting, he walked to the dresser. It was beautiful, espresso colored. He rooted through the drawers, and found a monthly bank statement. He didn’t have time to go through it as thoroughly as he liked, but everything seemed normal. He saw a list of deposits and withdrawals from his bank, on his debit card, also copies of checks written. Every now and again there was a cash deposit of hundreds of dollars. But not often.

  Nick returned the statement and closed the drawer. He went over to the walk-in closet and opened the door. He rooted behind clothes, shoes, and boxes. After a few minutes he found a gray lockbox with a number pad on the door. He lifted it and shook it slightly. Something knocked around inside, something soft as well. Nick put it back where he found it. He went to his computer and wrote Rod Tomes an email.

  Can you get me a list of all the police officers in the L.A. area involved in shooting and/or killing an unarmed suspect? Also: if any of them were fired, arrested and/or convicted, and the name of the judge who heard the case. I know it sounds like a lot, but I really need this.

  Nick pressed send, and closed his laptop. When Johns walked in later that evening, Nick was sitting on the sofa reading a no
vel. Persephone in Hell, by J.K. Watson.

  “How’s things going?” Johns asked him.

  “Good. Just catching up on some reading. Waiting for you. I did some writing today on my article. You want to see?”

  “Sure.”

  Nick went to the table and opened his laptop. He stepped aside and allowed Johns to read.

  “Wow. This is great.”

  “I think it captures your beginning and connection to Philadelphia, your work as a police officer and connection to the West Hollywood community. All I need are some stories from you to fill in the blanks.”

  Johns stepped back and smiled. He was quiet. Meditative.

  “Thanks, Nick. This…this really helps me out a lot.”

  Nick pat Johns on his shoulder and whispered, “Now we feast.”

  Except for the West Hollywood bits that he wrote this afternoon, Nick had written most of the article two weeks ago, long before he boarded a plane to head out west.

  They fell into the darkness of the night. Food, drink, more drink, driving around the city. Los Angeles was black, full dark no stars, hills everywhere. There were long stretches of road and sidewalks, on either side neon signs, overhead street-lamps, standing in protest to the overwhelming blackness of the night. The town’s lighting seemed powerless against it. Houses were darkened, some hidden on back roads, behind gates and walled gardens. No one seemed to walk anywhere at night. Only sports cars could be seen on the streets, tinted windows, driving fast, a thumping bass inside. And yet, the city seemed alive. Not like New York, not like a live wire, a town hopped up on electricity. Los Angeles was different, like a cobra in the grass, creeping, coiling onto itself in the night, watching from the shadows, looking down from dizzying heights. Its quiet was unnerving, because one sensed that in its wide open darkened spaces there was movement all around. Tiptoeing. Creeping.

  Johns drove Nick past the outskirts of Compton, where Johns pointed out that some of the most popular rappers had come from the city, including Dr. Dre and Ice Cube. He drove Nick past the male prostitutes who walked the streets of West Hollywood, looking for tricks. Johns pointed out suits from the movie studios, executives, producers, actors, musicians, in search of easy sex. He drove him past the Mexican food trucks lined up by the side of the road serving authentic Latin cuisine to lines of customers being entertained by a trio of percussionists. Next was L.A.’s most popular gay club, which attracted celebrities of all types for its drink and drag shows.