Circle of Yellow: Mike Montego Series, #5

By Jess Waid

Mike Montego in his last days as a patrol officer in Hollywood, finds himself receiving more radio calls having to do with domestic violence. One incident tears at his soul. He risks his career to help the female victim, the mother of four including an infant. What transpires has him looking at his own recent marriage and his future with his new wife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jess Waid
• Release date: Sep 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781386697350

Book preview

DEDICATION

For all victims of domestic abuse, whether or not living in a shelter or living with their spouse

Mike Montego novels

by Jess Waid

Shades of Blue

459 - Framed in Red

The Purple Hand

He Blew Blue Jazz

Kona Gold

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

The inspiration for this novel came from my beautiful and loving wife, Barbara. Her years of experience as the director of a homeless shelter provided the purpose for this story.

Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live.

Dorothy Thompson

First Lady of American Journalism

AUTHOR’S NOTES

At the time of this story, unfortunately, there were very few services for victims of domestic violence. As Circle Of Yellow illustrates, police officers responding to family dispute calls have no idea what to expect on the other side of the closed door. Such calls are deemed most dangerous primarily because of the unpredictability of the spouses. These types of interventions are always dangerous. As such, protocol requires responding officers to separate the couple, and for one officer to take the batterer’s statement while the other takes the victim’s.

During the period of this story, most incidents saw no arrests. First, if there were an arrest, the officers often saw the arrestee back on the streets before the arrest reports were completed. Second, strangely enough, when the batterer, the husband in nearly all cases, was handcuffed and taken to the squad car, the wife would often go berserk. Usually, because the husband was the breadwinner and she saw the imminent loss of income to the household. And third, there were those officers who tended to believe the account of the abuser, sometimes agreeing she had it coming—that it most likely was her fault. The bottom line in the large majority of instances, found the officers telling the abuser that if another radio call had them returning then it would be off to jail for the abuser. The veiled threat, however, seldom prevented future occurrences.

Fortunately, things have changed in how the entire justice system views domestic violence. Also, the way law enforcement responds to such calls. Today, many law enforcement agencies have hired victim advocates who work closely with the patrol officers handling DV calls; the advocates are ready to provide immediate services to victims; this includes finding temporary shelter, medical treatment, counseling, and subsequent support during all future court appearances. The Los Angeles Police Department was among the first to develop a Victim Advocate Program.

In late 1979, the LAPD was most instrumental in launching the California Sexual Assault Investigators Association (CSAIA). The author was the charter president of this organization. It remains very active. The primary purpose of CSAIA is to provide high quality training in the fields of sexual assault—prevention, detection, investigation, evidence collection and analysis, prosecution, victim services and support, incarceration and treatment of offenders, offender monitoring, as well as other closely related areas. This Association exists to promote and increase constructive relationships between investigators throughout the state and nation in order to aid in the rapid dissemination of information, as well as to form contacts and liaisons to further assist in the apprehension of offenders. This is done through effective investigation and prosecution of sexual assault cases in order to ensure that victims receive the highest level of service and sensitivity, and that offenders procure the maximum measure of the law.

In 1981 The Domestic Abuse Intervention Program (DAIP) started in Duluth, Minnesota, largely founded by Ellen Pence and Michael Paymar. The DAIP developed what is widely known today as the Duluth Model, which illustrates the positive effects of a strong coordinated community response to domestic abuse. The DAIP has developed extensive educational materials including the Power and Control Wheel (see appendix) and has been instrumental in educating numerous communities in developing a multi-disciplinary approach to the problems of domestic abuse. For additional information go to: www.theduluthmodel.org.

In 1994, the Violence Against Women Act was drafted in the office of Senator Joe Biden and signed into law by then President Bill Clinton. It provided funding for programs that would create coordinated community responses to domestic violence as well as multiple other services for victims. It also provided funding for innovator such as DAIP to provide education and training to judges, law enforcement, and other agencies and organizations that work with victims and abusers. Most communities now have shelters and services to assist women and children who are victims as well as intervention programs for batterers. For additional information go to: www.ovw.usdoj.gov, and/or check out the Violence Against Women Act on Wikipedia.

CHAPTER ONE

Any unit available, Six-A-Five is requesting assistance at Sixty-six-twenty-five Emmet Terrace, scene of a family dispute—any unit please respond and handle code two.

Six Frank One will handle, Mike Montego quickly radioed.

Upon hearing confirmation from the RTO, Radio Telephone Operator, Montego remarked to his dark-haired partner, Five must’ve caught a nasty one. So much for a quiet Sunday night.

Bobby Diaz sped their unmarked green Plymouth four-door west on Franklin Avenue, saying, I hate these kinda calls.

Yep, DV calls are too unpredictable.

At Whitley Avenue Diaz cranked the wheel to the right sending them north. A block up the grade and a sharp left turn put them on Emmet Terrace.

Just ahead, at the bend in the narrow road, Montego spotted a police unit parked alongside an ornate gray-painted wrought-iron gate tucked into a tall privet hedge. The gate guarded a small grass-covered yard fronting a two-story Spanish style residence.

Diaz braked behind the black-and-white and pulled the ignition key, killing the V8.

The pair of plainclothes cops worked the Hollywood Division Felony Car Unit, FCU, and often backed up uniformed patrol officers.

Both young men sped toward the closed gate.

Montego unlatched it and led the way to the eight-foot tall wooden entry door that stood partially open. Shouting, and a sharp sound of glass breaking, reached his ears.

Pausing, the cops eyed each other, then nodded while releasing the straps on their holstered firearms. Hands resting on gun butts, they quickly entered and moved to opposite sides of the wide dimly lit foyer.

Immediately, they spotted a blue-uniformed officer kneeling next to a distraught woman sitting on the floor, her back against the wall. An eye swollen, blood trickling from her mouth.

The uniform had his handkerchief pressed against her stomach. Blood from her torso had soaked it and now oozed over his fingers.

She held close against her other side a toddler with saucer-sized brown eyes and a quivering mouth; obviously scared. The small boy’s dark-brown hair matched his mother’s.

Montego recognized the PM watch blue-suit, Johnny Underdahl. A glance around the large living room revealed no other persons, only an overturned blue velveteen-covered armchair, some broken glass, and a frilly lampshade askew on its side.

Underdahl said, Get us an ambulance, now!

Montego hand signaled Diaz to go radio for an RA unit, a rescue ambulance. Then turning to Underdahl he asked, Johnny, where’s your partner?

Underdahl tilted his head toward a closed door across the room. Lou’s in there with the husband—don’t know his situation. We’ve been here before—that’s why we called for backup before going to the door—hearing shouting, then a scream, we busted in. Before we could do anything her old man used a damn butcher knife on her. His name’s Harry Watt.

How’d Lou’s ass get in there? Montego asked, jerking his head toward the closed door.

Harry, went berserk—without warning, he whirled on Lou—put the blade to his throat. I was down here trying to stop her gushing bleeding. Lou tried to break loose—they bumped into that chair, Underdahl head gestured. Knocked the lamp off the end table—Lou then got dragged into the other room. I felt helpless. Couldn’t let her bleed to death, then the door slammed.

Underdahl looked at the trembling woman clutching her toddler son.

No firearm seen? Montego asked evenly.

Saw only the blade. Underdahl eye shrugged.

Montego focused on the frightened mother, she looked very pale.

What’s your name, ma’am?

Stifling a sobbing catch in her throat, likely swallowing some blood, she said, Laura, Laura Watt. She squeezed the boy even closer to her. This is my son, Mikey...he’s three.

Montego, working at staying calm, bent down, and smiling widely said, Howdy Mikey. My name is Mikey, too.

The small boy snuggled closer to his mother, not making a sound.

Still kneeling, Montego eyed Laura and asked, Do you have any guns in the house?

She nodded jerkily, blood trickled from her mouth and said, Two revolvers. But none in the den where they are—at least I don’t think so. The guns should be upstairs in our bedroom...one in each of our nightstands. Her pain obvious by the straining sound of her voice.

What’s in the room where your husband took the officer? Diaz, rushing up, asked breathlessly.

We watch TV in there.

Montego, rising as he patted the kid’s head, eased out a breath. No need to tell Underdahl to keep the pressure on her stomach, he was doing the best that could be done.

The RA unit better get here damn fast, or she’s gonna bleed out!

That the only door into the den? he asked her.

Laura Watt grimacing, said, No...there’s another one...opens to the garage.

Can I access the garage from the outside?

She slightly shook her disheveled head; a dark tress fell onto her bruised forehead.

You need a remote switch...the door in the den leads to the garage...it’s probably locked.

We need the damn key, ma’am, blurted Diaz excitedly.

Laura instantly cringed. Little Mikey squeezed more against his mother’s side, his wide eyes now staring at Diaz.

Patting the boy’s head, Montego asked calmly, Laura. Is the key to the den handy?

She seemed to relax, then she glanced toward the kitchen.

In the first drawer under the counter...key chain with a white rabbit’s foot...the remote’s in our Buick. Another one...on a hook on the den wall...next to the door into the garage...the same key also opens the outside garage door.

Montego, not hearing any sounds coming from the den, took that as a good sign. He spied a white-tiled peninsula counter, and went to it. Sliding out the shallow top drawer he found a soiled rabbit’s foot fob with a Schlage door key attached to it.

He spun about, hurried back to the front room, and gave Diaz a questioning expression.

You or me, amigo?

Diaz immediately reached out.

Montego tossed the rabbit’s foot to him.

To Underdahl he said, Hang in there while we go speak with Mikey’s daddy. He winked at the boy, still wide-eyed. Smiling again, he added, Everything will be all right, son—you’ll see.

Montego, turning to Diaz, motioned for him to step to the den door. Diaz did so.

It’s too quiet in there, Bobby. He eyed the closed door. The guy’s up to something. We’ve got to get in there ASAP.

He pulled out his treasured Bulova pocket watch, and said, We’ll go in through both den doors at the same time—let’s synch our watches.

Diaz unstrapped his wristwatch.

They adjusted the minute hands to match.

Okay, you’ve got one minute to get to the outside den door, ’cause that’s when I’ll be busting inside from here, Montego said.

Diaz re-strapped his watch, then he rushed out the front door.

Montego slipped the Bulova, the only thing of value his dad had ever given him, into his watch pocket and yanked down on his four-inch Colt Python, freeing it from its shoulder holster. He didn’t like having to rely on the heavy revolver. In most situations a little kenpo maneuver did the trick.

But not always.

He had reached the Godan level of assistant instructor in kenpo, the Okinawan-style martial art, thanks to many years of training with Yoshi Kono and his grandson, Kenji, who went by Kenny. Montego had lived with the Japanese-American family after six long grammar school years with a strict Christian family in North Hollywood. His move to the Kono’s lush, garden-surrounded home and dojo in Torrance occurred thanks to Eagon Quinn, a lifelong friend and mentor. The then-LAPD homicide detective, after seeing the fresh cut on young Mikey’s neck, courtesy of a Mexican bully, had felt a change of scenery would do him good, on multiple levels. Eagon immediately phoned the Konos.

His free hand casually touched his chest near his pounding heart. Willing the beat to slow he opened the six cylinder chambers, even though he knew his piece to be loaded; a double-check never hurt. 

Snapping the cylinder closed, he re-holstered the blue-steel Python and brushed his fingers over the old hairline scar on the side of his neck, courtesy of a teenaged bully.

Righting the overstuffed armchair, he tugged out of his brown blazer and draped the sports coat over the chair-back. Then, while stepping toward the den door, he pulled out his pocket watch and checked the sweeping second hand.

Ten seconds to go.

A thumping noise sounded loudly from behind the door.

He paused and listened intently. Hearing no voices, he checked his pocket watch.

Two seconds.

He slid it back into its snug home, grasped the brass doorknob prepared to kick his way inside, but the handle turned. He didn’t hesitate.

A hard push swung it banging into the wall on his left.

Instantly, he spied Lou sagging to the floor, his back sliding down against a far wall. Blood flowed from his waist area just above his black Sam Browne belt. His full-flap leather holster, empty.

Harry Watt, on his knees, loomed over the wounded cop, clutching a long, serious-looking blade in his left hand.

Spying Montego, the big man whirled and scrambled on all fours across the blue-carpeted room.

When Montego realized Harry’s intention—get Lou’s Smith & Wesson revolver lying on the rug—he sprang forward. But before he could reach it, Harry, rising, spun back toward him, the S&W now in his right hand about to send a slug into Montego’s chest.

Montego’s quick keriage, a forward kick, sent the gun airborne and Harry stumbling a bit.

Montego side-glancing at Lou, saw the cop’s back propped against the wall by the garage doorway. Turning back toward Harry, Montego saw him rolling to his left, while still holding the butcher knife.

Back on his feet Harry waved the blade before him, his quickness and agility surprising Montego who quickly said in an authoritative voice, Harry, you don’t want to do this. Think of your little boy—Mikey looks up to you. He doesn’t want to lose his daddy.

His hope, by using the man’s first name and reminding him he had a son, it might make him pause, sober him a bit, maybe even consider putting down the knife.

During the wait, the wafting stink of booze accosted Montego’s nostrils.

He flash-thought about his words to Mikey: Everything will be all right—you’ll see.

Now he feared it would be impossible to keep that promise.

The glazed look in Harry’s red-rimmed eyes confirmed what he’d just said had not registered.

The guy apparently had lost it—a reasonable man wouldn’t have disarmed and stabbed a uniformed officer, after all. Montego couldn’t tell, at a glance, how badly Lou had been wounded, but he appeared to be fading fast—hopefully, from shock rather than blood loss.

Drop the knife now, Harry—I can shoot your ass and end this right now. No fuss, no muss. You really want little Mikey going through life without his daddy?

He doubted his words would have any more impact than his last attempt, but he wasn’t keen on shooting the deranged father with the wild eyes and military crew cut, and he sure as hell didn’t relish the thought of getting slashed and gashed, either.

Knowing he couldn’t wait any longer, he made slow side-to-side moves, drawing the long blade like a magnet. Harry quickly switched the bloodstained knife to his right hand and made two wide slashing arcs, followed by reverse arcing moves. They definitely weren’t clumsy.

Just as the second movement ended, Montego dived feet first and scissor-kicked Harry’s left leg, twirling violently as he did so.

Harry landed on his right knee, hard. His knife-wielding hand struck the carpet heavily, but he managed to hold onto the handle.

Twisting up, Montego grabbed Harry’s left wrist and wrenched it clockwise, forcing him to his right. His flailing hand gripping the knife caught only air, inches from Montego’s chest.

Harry, instantly spinning to his left, countered. His right hand swiped back toward Montego’s head.

Forced to let go of the wrist, Montego ducked. He could tell the blond man had some decent training in hand-to-hand combat—key word: some.

Before Harry could follow through with a second back-slash, Montego drove an uppercut into the guy’s stubbly chin.

Harry, stunned, fell back a half step before catching his balance. Shaking his head, he spun low to his right while bringing his right hand and blade in a wheelhouse move toward Montego’s mid-section.

Leaping back, the blade barely missing; just then a noise from behind alerted Montego. Bobby D had entered the room.

Call another RA unit, then check Lou—gotta stop the bleeding! yelled Montego, not taking his eyes off of Harry’s glinting blade.

He couldn’t see Diaz’ reaction but imagined he was torn—

Help Montego, or help Lou.

Without glancing at his partner, Montego said, Don’t worry, Bobby—I’ll handle this asshole—go!

Montego focused on two things: saving the life of his fellow cop, and making sure he didn’t end up with blood spilling from his own gut.

Spying a peripheral movement to his left told him Diaz had gone into the other room to make the call.

Then Harry, likely pissed at the word, asshole, lunged at Montego, his knife now held straight out in front of him.

Mistake.

A second upward keriage kick nailed Harry’s elbow. The knife flew free. The man howled in pain.

Montego’s follow-up kick caught the man’s chin, snapping his mouth shut, likely breaking teeth while knocking him back against a wall.

Montego figured it would finish off the big lug.

Wrong.

Bellowing like a bull, Harry pushed off the wall and charged at Montego.

Sidestepping as Harry rushed past, Montego’s callused, bladed hand chopped the back side of Harry’s neck.

The hard blow sent Harry crashing into the curved wooden arm of a sectional sofa. Blood spattered from his nose.

Instantly, he grasped a cushion and flung it back toward Montego, then he scrambled to his feet.

Montego, batting the cushion aside, dropped into a horse stance, prepared for another bull-charge.

Harry, instead, went all prizefighter. Dancing on his feet like Rocky Marciano, he moved toward Montego, his anger-distorted face blanketed by blood.

Montego, amazed at the man’s bullish tenacity, reluctantly fisted his hands realizing Harry apparently had been in the boxing ring more than a few times.

After a flurry of flying fists, all barely blocked, Montego dipped and sent a pile-driving blow into Harry’s mid-section. Quickly stepping behind him, he threw his right arm across Harry’s throat and pulled him back and down hard. With his left arm locking onto his right wrist, he squeezed his right forearm against Harry’s carotid artery for what seemed an eternity until the man stopped resisting.

The fact that sleeper holds were no longer authorized by the LAPD as being too dangerous hadn’t stopped Montego. He felt he simply had no choice.

Sometimes you gotta bend the rules.

He released his hold and let Harry lie back, then he rolled him onto his stomach so he wouldn’t drown in his own blood; his nose bleeding profusely.

Gathering up the S&W and butcher knife, he placed them out of sight on an upper shelf. He then rushed over to Lou.

Bobby Diaz had yet to return from calling for an ambulance.

Montego pulled a folded handkerchief from his rear pocket, unbuttoned Lou’s uniform shirt, instantly sickened by the blood oozing from the gash, soaking what had been a white T-shirt at the beginning of the cop’s shift.

He pressed his clean kerchief firmly against the wound, while murmuring, please don’t let him die.

Moments later, Diaz rushed into the room, revolver in hand.

Bobby, throw your bracelets on Harry before he comes to—then grab Lou’s piece off the shelf over there. Montego head gestured.

Diaz homed his firearm, yanked free the Peerless handcuffs hanging over his waist belt, and did so. He then scooted over and shoved the S&W into Lou’s full-flap holster, the suitcase as many cops called it.

Keeping pressure on Lou’s wound seemed to be stemming the blood flow, to Montego’s relief.

It felt like forever before he heard the welcomed ululating siren dying in front of the Watt’s residence.

Once the emergency medical team had taken over, Montego joined Diaz and Underdahl watching Harry Watt, now conscious but groggy as he sat out on the front porch steps.

You want the EMTs to check him? Diaz asked Underdahl.

Nah, they gotta take care of Lou—if one of you guys will ride shotgun for me, I’ll take him to Hollywood Receiving for an MT (medical treatment), then book his fucking ass.

Bobby’s wheelman tonight, said Montego. So I’ll get little Mikey and ride with you, Johnny.

That’s cool, Mike. Then, I’ll get the missus’ statement while at the hospital.

Following emergency surgery, Montego and Underdahl were allowed to speak to Laura Watt. They took Little Mikey into the recovery room with them.

Laura gave them a weak dimpled cheek smile and a slight nod, then spoke softly to her boy before glancing back at Montego.

He shrugged and returned the smiling gesture.

Underdahl’s method of getting her to open up and explain what had caused her husband to explode impressed Montego. Perhaps, the heavy medication had helped. It soon became apparent that she needed to talk. The woman had plenty to get off her chest, and skillfully encouraged by Underdahl, that’s exactly what she did.

Harry’s a Korean War veteran. He fought at the Kumsong River in July ’fifty-three—one of the last battles in the war...

She brushed her hand against a persistent fallen tress, fighting a losing battle.

That same month the armistice agreement got signed.

Montego, in junior high school at the time, had followed the war in the Citizen News. Every day after classes he would check the newspaper’s front page. Almost always he found a major story from the fierce fighting occurring on the frigid Korean peninsula.

Harry lost too many friends over there. One was a high school buddy, Fred. She paused and glanced about. Looking back at Underdahl she continued, I knew Fred, too. I didn’t tell you, but Harry and I both went to McPherson high back in Kansas. He was a couple of grades ahead of me. He came back to McPherson after the war. I worked at a soda shop on Main Street. He came in a lot. We talked, and eventually he asked me out. We dated for several years before getting married.

A happy expression flooded her face, quickly followed by one of concern.

I’m sorry—you officers don’t want to hear all this.

Montego stepped over and placed a hand on her shoulder.

Laura, we do need to hear this, for our report. It helps us to better understand your husband. It’ll help him, too. Please keep talking.

She sighed. I don’t really know. For a long time, everything was fine...until the night we went to the movies and saw Pork Chop Hill.

Montego remembered the film. It starred Gregory Peck and Woody Strode. Not a big spirit-lifter if you happened to be a Korean War vet, he imagined.

I wish we’d never seen it, she swiped at the fallen tress. Afterwards, Harry started having quiet periods. He changed from drinking the odd beer, to whiskey and soda—too much whiskey. I became afraid he might lose his job at the machine shop.

She sighed again and worked the fingers on her left hand. The IV tube on that wrist hung in there and remained intact.

When Mikey came, Harry seemed happy, he cut back on his drinking. She paused, letting out a breath. That lasted for a couple of years, then something happened at his job, I don’t know what. He wouldn’t tell me—but he went back to the bottle.

She began fisting her hands. He stopped going to church, and when I told him I wanted the pastor to come talk to him, he blew up. She glanced over at Montego. That’s the first time he struck me...about a year ago.

Tears welled; soon they streamed down her cheeks. She dabbed carefully at her swollen eye.

Tonight, he blew up over nothing. I can’t even tell you what got him so upset—all I recall saying was that I wanted to go to the evening services at the Presbyterian Church on Gower. Reverend Blackstone was giving a sermon. I like his preaching...makes me feel comfortable.

Montego pulled a tissue from a two-toned blue Kleenex box on the nearby stand and handed it to her.

She took it and smiled a thanks, then a fearful expression crossed her bruised face. What’s going to happen to Harry? Do you think that poor officer is going to be all right? She began sobbing. Oh dear God, please make everything Okay.

––––––––

Bobby Diaz sat behind the steering wheel as Montego settled onto the gray-vinyl passenger seat. Their unmarked Plymouth two-door parked in the breezeway separating the police station from the small hospital. Montego lifted the hand-mic from its clip on the dashboard as he let out a satisfying sigh, glad his body had survived the tussle with Harry Watt. Tonight had been his first shift back in the field since being shot several times and nearly killed. Whatever lingering doubts he might have had about his body’s readiness for extreme physical activity had gone poof with the first kick.

Six Frank One, clear, he voiced into the mic, realizing a bit too loudly.

The RTO handling Frequency One, which included Hollywood, the Sixth Division, responded Frank One, clear, in her sweet, distinctive voice.

He re-hooked the microphone onto the dash-mounted clip, smiling at a distant memory, the time early in his career when a sergeant had taken him downtown to Communications Division, and told him to sit in a cubicle with an RTO, one of many small stations forming a horseshoe around an open area where the dispatcher operated. His job: feed the paper slips, each a request for police service filled out by one of half a dozen or more officers sitting in an adjacent room, to each RTO. Upon getting a phone call, the officer on the Complaint Board would fill out a form indicating the type of service requested; then he’d drop the slip into a narrow slotted trough with a continuous running belt. It, in turn, sped the slip to the dispatcher. A half-glass wall separated the two rooms and acted as a noise barrier.

He’d been a rookie when he sat beside Momma Mary, the Sixth Division’s RTO, on that occasion. Sweet-voiced Mary Bloom had overseen his anxious efforts to handle incoming calls while scratching out the proper forms to pass to the dispatcher when a general broadcast to all frequencies was required. All forms were saved for record-keeping purposes along with all radio transmissions.

The sergeant had told Montego that spending an hour or so in the cubicle would give him an appreciation of the RTO’s tough task, while serving to remind him always to be courteous whenever communicating over the radio.

Often, patrol cops got rude with the RTOs. It occurred, usually, when a field cop was in a hurry to receive a result to his request for wants-and-warrants on a suspect, and the RTO did not get back to him in what he considered to be a timely manner.

The officers’ oral requests, documented on appropriate forms, once received by the dispatcher, got sent via a pneumatic tube upstairs to R & I, Records and Identification Division, on the second floor in the Police Administration Building, PAB. This meant the RTO had no control of the time it took for a records clerk to look up a suspect’s file, jot down the necessary info on the form, then return it via the tube to the dispatcher who would slip the information-filled paper back through a slot into the designated RTO’s cubicle.

Bobby Diaz wheeled the four-door out of the breezeway and onto Wilcox Avenue. He headed north toward the Boulevard of Renown.

So, where does Señor Tonto want to patrol for the remainder of the watch?

The Tonto tag had started when Montego was a pre-teen, thanks to the Lehmans, his weekday foster parents. Whenever they caught him cussing, a piece of green Palmolive soap found a home in his mouth; then they made him lay on his back with his mouth shut for fifteen minutes. He wasn’t even allowed to say gee or gosh as they sounded too much like Jesus and God to the strict couple.

Finally, no longer wishing to suffer the nasty taste of green soap, he’d decided one day that a trip to the library in North Hollywood Park was called for. He intended to search in an English/Spanish dictionary for a word or words that would sound like he wasn’t swearing when actually doing so.

His search resulted in finding, tanto peor, a Spanish term meaning so much the worse. Not all that vulgar sounding, but it would have to do. He had tired of searching.

It took a while to get the words to roll off his tongue whenever he got pissed, but his foster parents thought his verbal outbursts amusing, and, thanks to their ignorance, not that it mattered, he kept at it. After a few weeks, he mostly blurted out Tanto! Short and simple. His Anglo friends inevitably heard it as Tonto.

And so the tag was born.

Mike Montego shrugged his eyes. You’ve got the wheel, amigo mio.

CHAPTER TWO

The noon sun looked like a light bulb glowing through a dirty shade, courtesy of the combo of smog and dense fog crowding the shore in Manhattan Beach.

Montego, glad to be heading inland, glanced sideways at Julie. He enjoyed driving her forest-green Austin-Healey. The black canvas top currently up, but he anticipated bright sunshine once they crested the camel-colored hilltop at Mulholland Drive. Then, instant top-down weather. Once there, only a short trip down the other side to Mulholland Terrace and Buckingham Palace, actually a ranch-style house.

His attractive blonde mother, Helen, after eight or so years of so-called dating, finally had married Steve Buckingham a fireman. Last year, after he had promoted to captain, they had purchased the hillside house. It overlooked Studio City from the southwest edge of the San Fernando Valley. On a clear day, the northern view across the valley to the mountains of the Angeles National Forest became a magnificent sight.

Montego knew Steve’s Platoon A had the 72-hour duty this Christmas Day. A holiday gift as far as Montego cared, as Steve would not be home. Over the years Montego had learned to ignore his stepfather—so-called, because the man had not legally adopted him—whenever possible, also, to tolerate the way he endlessly fussed over the property. Thus the tag, Buckingham Palace.

While the rather large property lacked a moat, it did boast a nearly Olympic-sized pool surrounded by Kool Deck, a mottled-beige cement coating laid over wet concrete that stayed cool enough to walk barefoot on, even in the not uncommon 100 degree-plus summertime weather.

Julie had brought along her new two-piece bathing suit. Hot pink like her body, and he wasn’t necessarily thinking of her skin tone. He had a pair of neon-blue Speedo’s stashed in a hall closet at the house, ready to slip into whenever he dropped by to swim laps. His last time in the seventy-two-degree water had been several weeks previous, when he’d first tested his body after being released from hospital. Doc had told him it would be okay to swim as long as he didn’t over-exert himself.

Finally feeling close to fully recovered from the three bullets that had slammed into him, he planned to jump back into his weekly 75-lap regimen. He enjoyed swimming in the ocean, catching a wave or three and bodysurfing back to shore, but something about the pool drew him to the chlorinated water. It reminded him of his days on the Hollywood High Sheiks swim team. He had been a four-sports athlete in high school: football, track, baseball, and swimming. This, however, made for some awkward scheduling—if he hadn’t been so damn good at hitting the long ball, the baseball coach, Guy Wrinkle, might’ve sacked his brown ass, given all the practices Montego had missed juggling his other sports commitments.

His grades also had suffered accordingly.

These days, he attended a three-hour Monday night class at L.A. City College, working toward his Associate Arts degree in Liberal Arts. After barely passing his first exam, he realized he needed to learn how to study—so he did. Now, he had his sights set on a Bachelor of Science degree in criminology at UCLA, or possibly even USC, assuming he had the necessary bucks by then.

Julie would soon have her Masters of Art degree from UCLA. He had to admit that her gung-ho approach to higher education probably had more than a little to do with motivating him to go to night school. But it would take him over a dozen years to attain her academic level.

He tried not to think about that endeavor, too depressing. After all, he wasn’t in some sort of egg-headed competition with her. Hell, maybe he wanted to impress her father. Good luck there, amigo.

One thing he knew for certain, his class at LACC was excellent prep for the day, coming soon, when he’d tackle the Big Blue Bible, the LAPD manual, a three-ringed tome; loose-leafed because the desk jockeys in Planning and Research Division were continuously amending it. Those fifth-floor boys in the PAB cranked out Special Orders like they were confetti to be tossed by the bagful at a New Year’s Eve party. On top of all this, there were the cartoon-illustrated Department Training Bulletins designed to explain the Special Orders.

Enough said.

All Montego knew: be up on all the detailed crap the material contained if he ever expected to pass the Sergeant’s Exam; foremost to becoming a detective-sergeant and working Homicide. Meanwhile, there were basic-rank slots in the Detective Bureau, and he hoped to fill one, sooner rather than later, even though it meant being low man on the totem pole. Having three white chevrons on your navy blue sleeve mattered, not that detectives ran around with stripes sewn on their suit-coat sleeves. But their flat badges read: Detective.

He chuckled inwardly as he wheeled the sports car up the hill, curving through the tree-lined shadows of Laurel Canyon, passing the Preston’s rather secluded manor. Moments after passing Willow Glen Road, they broke out of the layer of coastal fog.

At last, sunshine, he said cheerily. There’s something to be said for living high on a hill.

Yes, but it’s way too chilly for me to be jumping into the pool.

By the time I’m done chasing you around the patio, babe, you’ll be ready for a cool dip.

Julie squeezed his inner thigh, something she was wont to do, bless her horny little heart.

My wavy black-haired, blue-eyed lover man probably would, too, she said, teasingly.

Pulling into the curved, used-brick driveway and coasting up to the overlapping dark wood-planked-and-cream-colored-stucco house, he spied his blonde mother as she peered out the kitchen’s bay window. He knew she’d already prepared something for them to eat and drink. Likely, something Christmassy, he mused.  Inside the kitchen, sure enough, he whiffed and then spied a tin of frosted cupcakes with decorations resembling fir trees, snowflakes, and angels. He gave her a hug and pecked her lightly powdered cheek.

Julie did likewise, before asking, Can I help you with anything, Helen?

No dear, I’m about done in here, and please call me Mother. Since the weather is so pleasant, why don’t you kids make yourselves comfortable out on the covered patio? She dried her hands on her pale-blue apron. I’ll be right out with a pitcher of lemonade and cupcakes.

His mother, always the gracious hostess, had Montego smiling. She didn’t like to be called Mom so it was Mother to her face, but she would always be Mom in his mind.

He paced to the hall closet, retrieved his black racing-style swimsuit from the overhead shelf, and headed for the bathroom.

It never ceased to amaze him how everything inside the house had its own space. Nothing ever seemed to be out of place. His mom always had been one to keep her previous small home neat and clean, but since her marriage she, or likely Steve, maintained the house like a museum. Montego expected to see everything under glass before too long.

He snickered, as much at himself as at the thought. He knew he had trouble cutting Steve any slack, having never allowed himself to get close to the big guy. Steve was Mom’s husband, nothing more. Oh, on the occasional Saturday he’d gone to the racetrack with Steve, who fancied himself a handicapper, while Montego simply studied the horses as they paraded on the track pre-race, and silently picked the mount he liked. Every now and again, his horse won. Rarely did his picks run totally out of the money.

He made a point of never telling Steve what horse he’d selected, after learning the hard way. The guy loved to rub it in mercilessly if his pick didn’t win. Besides, Steve had won his share, being careful to never lose more than $48 on any given Saturday, and usually less. He claimed he only took that amount to gamble on the ponies. He was a $6 a race bettor, unless he was winning. Then, feeling lucky, he might risk the track’s money on an across-the-board wager.

Grabbing a large white towel, Montego left the guest bathroom, leaving his Levi’s and blue sweatshirt rolled and piled atop the garnet-colored woven-reed hamper. Out on the flagstone patio he bummed a sip of lemonade from Julie’s tall, flowery glass, and headed for the pool.

I’ll warm up the water with my hot bod just for you, babe, he called back before jumping feet-first off the mottled coping.

A chilling shock, even at 72 degrees, briefly caught his attention, but it felt damn good. He rose to the surface, and then stretched into a slow Australian crawl, eventually increasing his stroke tempo. After thirty-seven laps he realized he’d need to do a lot more cardio-conditioning before he’d be able to complete seventy-five again without dying of exhaustion.