Forgive Me Not
by Gerald So

Ten seconds remained in the first half. The Lakers were down by one. My first game in person and, thanks to a radio contest, I sat courtside.

Only this wasn't the Forum in Inglewood; it was the Staples Center in downtown L.A. The Lakers wore white uniforms with purple lettering and gold trim, and none of them was named Johnson, Worthy, or Scott.

The Lakers of Kobe Bryant and Shaquille O'Neal had three titles of their own, but Kobe was in Colorado, and Shaq was nursing his toe. They weren't my guys anyway.

Oh, yeah: the Lakers now shared home court with the Clippers. Dogs and cats living together...

Gary Payton and Karl Malone had joined the team that offseason, but they were out, too. There was a Kareem on the floor, rookie guard Kareem Rush, who drilled a three at the buzzer.

The crowd cheered as if they'd gotten what they paid for. The Laker Girls' routine seemed, well, routine. Until they got out of rhythm. A silence rose from the sideline to the rafters, reminding me of when Hank Gathers and Reggie Lewis dropped. Only this time, it was a cheerleader.

The squad circled, blocking my view. I heard the trainer count CPR and heard when he stopped. The circle broke to let a stretcher in and I saw her. Actually I'd stared at her all night. A new girl, she gave me flashbacks of Farrah Fawcett.

No sign of blood or bruising. No halftime show. Ten long minutes later, we heard over the P.A.: “Laker Girl Cherry Stevens has been rushed to Good Samaritan Hospital.”

I stayed for the second half, but the image of Cherry Stevens on a stretcher stayed with me.

I wandered back to my ten-year-old Maxima. Courtside, I thought, and I can't remember the final score.

I drove absently halfway to my bachelor pad. Only I didn't live there—nor was I a bachelor—anymore.

Pamela Lamont and I had been married going on five months. Her apartment was cheaper and closer to the Forum. Dr. and Mrs. Lamont knew I was a P.I. before the wedding. They were still in denial, preferring to call it “between jobs.”

Pam, meanwhile, was in grad school to become “a certified health nut.” She'd passed on the game citing a seven a.m. midterm.

I met her in our narrow entry hall, her brown hair in a bun, pencil at her ear. She tried to hide the phone behind her back. Not quick enough.

“What's wrong?”

She forced words out. “I watched some of the game. Just before halftime.”

I hugged her.

“Then I turned on the radio. They pronounced her dead. I called your cell a few times.”

I always forgot my phone. “Sorry.”

She shrugged. “What could you do from the game?”

I wanted to ask how Pam knew Cherry, but not yet. We stayed in the hug until she was ready to tell me.

“Cherry and I were roommates. Our first two years at UCLA. We were the same age, but I felt responsible for her.”

She didn't say why.

“I want you to find out what happened.”

“You want to hire me?”

“Yes.”

* * *

Pam showed me Cherry's profile in her yearbook. A Theater major at UCLA, among Cherry's credits were Desdemona in Othello and Miranda in The Tempest . In her photo, she had brown hair and needed a nose job.

“I could have sworn she was natural,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Naturally not my type.”

“Ugh.”

I glanced at the clock radio. Sooner or later I had to ask. “Did Cherry have any enemies?”

Pam hesitated. “I don't think anyone noticed her enough to be angry with her.”

“Strange thing to say about an actor.”

Then again, Cherry didn't look like an actor in her photo. Didn't have that awareness of where the camera was, which angle was her best.

“I think that's why she went into acting. You know, the chance to step out of her skin.”

“Did she have a relationship?” I asked. “Relationships?”

“Not while I knew her. Her parents were killed in a car accident when she was ten. She spent Thanksgiving with us freshman and sophomore year.”

“What did your folks think of her?”

“Cherry didn't talk with them enough to make an impression. She mostly chatted with me. Not that I minded. She joked that she was okay being single the rest of her life.”

“But?”

“It was all to cover a major crush on Justin Granville.”

“From school? Show me his profile.”

She stalled. “There's no picture with it.” She flipped to photos of The Tempest and pointed to Caliban.

“Any pictures of him out of costume?”

“He's not in costume. He was a chemistry major until...”

Pam looked at me, waiting for the quip.

I looked back innocently. Then under my breath I sang, “She's just wild about Hairy.”

The phone saved me from a beating. I get the clock radio; Pam gets the phone. Answering, her body stiffened.

She turned to me, quizzical. “Lieutenant Wong, LAPD. He says you know him.”

I nodded. George Wong and I had been friends from grade school through the Police Academy, but after six years as a cop—the length of one enlistment in the Marines—I went private. He's never fully forgiven me.

Taking the receiver, I swallowed and said, “What's up?”

“I'm at the Magic,” he said. “Had a sudden craving. You?”

“Now that you mention it.”

“What's the matter?” Pam asked when I hung up.

“Nothing. He's just looking for witnesses. He invited me to the diner.”

“Okay,” she said, yawning.

I kissed her forehead. “Try to sleep.”

“I will.”

Pam had enough on her mind. She didn't need to know Wong worked Homicide.

* * *

The Magic Diner is three blocks from our apartment and a time warp to the ‘80s, the Lakers' Showtime era: purple padded booths, yellow tabletops.

When I arrived, George was standing by the cash register. Four inches shorter and slimmer than I, he was a point guard to my small forward. We hadn't spoken or seen each other in more than a year, but he looked the same. Ready to arrest someone.

When we sat, his gun peeked out of his sports jacket. Only a second before folding out of view.

“Snappy,” I said.

“Always.”

I saw his finger coming up and beat him to it. “I need a haircut.”

He smiled.

We were served by a gum-popping co-ed in a gold blouse and purple vest. “What can I get you, chums?”

“Chicken gyro,” George said, “and water with a slice of lemon.”

Not fazed by Mr. Healthy Living, I said, “Grilled cheese and chocolate milk.”

George waited for our server leave before he said, “Not listening to the wife, are we?”

He hadn't come to our wedding.

“Actually, I am. She hired me to look into Cherry Stevens's death. College roommates.”

George's deluxe water hadn't arrived, but he reacted like he'd bitten into a lemon. I waited for him to admonish me. He didn't, so I forged ahead.

“When you're through questioning me, mind if I question you?”

George shook his head, but the sour look had left his face. “You question me first. Or rather, you can guess.”

I put up a hand. “Are we chums?” I asked.

“Guess.”

George had never shared information or brought me in on a case. But back when I started as a P.I., when he was a sergeant with Inglewood SID, he would let me guess. I think he was humoring me, hoping I'd reconsider the cops.

Anyway, this chance was too good to pass up. “Cherry Stevens's death is suspicious.”

“You're good.”

“She lives—lived in Inglewood.”

“Amazing,” he said.

“There's more,” I said as it hit me. “You were seeing her.”

He had no comeback. I was right. “We just started.”

“That's why you invited me here.”

George was looking at the salt shaker when he said, “I sure as hell can't look objectively into—”

I cut him off. Hell of a thing for him to admit.

* * *

Pam was asleep when I got back, and I woke up at seven, too late to see her off.

It was easy enough to get Cherry's address from the local directories. She lived on Victor Avenue—two streets over from us—but George would have her place sealed by now.

Pam left me another lead: her three-year-old alumni directory. It listed Cherry at an apartment in Lynwood. A better start than walking through all the Stevenses in the Greater L.A. phone books.

I drove to Victor. The second house from the intersection was cordoned off with police line. I thought about interviewing the neighbors. There was a black Pontiac, complete with firebird, parked in the driveway of the first house. Cops have the clout to get people out of bed; I find them more willing when they've had their Wheaties. I circled the block and proceeded to Lynwood.

There was no sign of police activity at the apartment. I parked to the rear and walked around. I was waiting for an answer at Cherry's old door when a woman in gray warmups finished her run.

Her hair was dyed blonde, a pageboy cut. Her teeth looked large and sparkling white. Her face showed signs of thirty. I saw all of this before she noticed me.

“Hey! Who are you?”

Her voice was girlish and too loud for the neighborhood.

“I'm looking for the tenant,” I said.

“Which one?”

“Any.”

“I'm one.” She climbed the steps to meet me. “Who are you?”

“Chris Harvey. I'm a detective.”

“Police?”

“No, private.”

I went for my wallet and she flinched. “How'd you get ‘em?”

“What?”

“You got photos of me and the Senator, right? Did his wife hire you?”

I showed her an empty hand. “I'm investigating Cherry Stevens.”

Her face softened. “I heard about her.”

I nodded. “Did you know her?”

“She moved out two years ago.” She looked away. “We didn't keep in touch.”

“You know where she moved?”

“Inglewood. She was looking to settle down. I have the address somewhere.”

“That would be a big help.”

It would have been, if it weren't the same Victor Avenue address I'd just visited.

I pocketed the sheet of steno paper she'd written on. “Thanks.”

“Sure. She was a good girl.”

* * *

Approaching Victor, I realized I'd had such a good feeling about Pam's lead that I didn't expect to be back. I thought of the job ahead: talking to neighbors, friends, significant others... The truth is I listen more than I talk, and the bulk of what's said bores me.

I put the interviews off a bit longer and pulled up to Cherry's house. The police line was broken and a red Toyota Celica halfway up her driveway.

The driver's door was open, the engine running.

Careless. In a hurry.

The surrounding houses didn't offer much cover. No telling how much time I had to hide. Then it registered: no black Pontiac. Its tracks looked fresh. I backed up the driveway to the first house, hoping a careless, rushing person wouldn't notice me.

It was maybe two minutes before the intruder dashed from Cherry's house. Holding something under his jacket, he almost forgot to shut the front door.

The bulge in his jacket looked like a bottle. Plastic and empty, the way he was running.

He wore jeans and boat shoes with the jacket, but nothing to disguise his face or build. Still, I wouldn't have recognized him if not for several shaving nicks on the side of his face.

Hairy.

He peeled out of Cherry's drive. Coming out of a residence, there were no cars to hide me, but I couldn't let him go.

We made three quick turns: left, right, left. Finally, on North La Brea, I was able to drop back.

What was his name?

Remembering my cell, I switched it on and called home. “Hey, how was the midterm?”

“Aced it.”

“Great. Remember Cherry's friend Hairy?”

“Ugh. Justin Granville.” She emphasized each syllable of his name.

“Right. You said Cherry had a major crush on him. How did that turn out?”

“Unrequited. He was steady with a girl from USC.”

“What was her name?”

“Um... She had one of those unisex names... My brain's kinda fried right now.”

“I know.”

“Toni, Teri, Ronnie, Jeri...? We weren't friends.”

On West Century Boulevard, Granville pulled into the In-N-Out Burger. He didn't order. He stopped at a trash receptacle, threw out a plastic bottle, and drove on.

I could have kept following, but something stuck in my mind.

He was a chemistry major.

“Chris?”

“I'm here. Granville just tossed a bottle in the trash. Aside from your memory, it's my only hope.”

“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi—”

“Pam.”

“Wait, that's it! Bobbi—”

The click of call-waiting cut her off. “Hang on.”

While waiting, I thought back to the game. The trainers carried the stretcher past me...

Pam came back on the line. “Lieutenant Wong again—”

“Give him my cell number. I'll fill you in later. Promise.”

I ended the call with Pam, and George's name flashed on the display. I pressed SEND and said, “The body isn't Cherry.”

George confirmed my guess. I relayed my suspicions and what I planned to do.

After the call, I dug around the glove compartment for my mini-flashlight and a fresh pair of latex gloves. Good for room-to-room searches and sorting through garbage.

Granville's bottle stood out among the paper cups, containers, and wrappers. A few drops clung to the inside.

We all know the stories: people believing a loved one is dead, suddenly learning they're alive. Not the case here. The woman George knew was still dead; Granville's old girlfriend: Bobbi Jansen.

* * *

Two hours later Granville's Celica was parked in front of the apartment in Lynwood. On my report of the break-in, George sent a second team to Victor Avenue. He also promised backup here, but marked or unmarked, I didn't see any.

George Wong himself was good at hiding, not to mention fighting. Still, if he were here on his own, anything could happen.

I parked to the rear again and walked to the door. The same woman answered my knock, giving me the same dense stare. This time I saw the nose job, Clairol, colored contacts.

“Hello, Cherry.”

Her eyes focused on me in a hurry. “You dick.” She put more spite behind it than I'd ever heard.

“I prefer ‘private detective.'”

She made room in the doorway for Granville. He was shirtless, facial hair already thick. I saw the barrel of a bat on his shoulder.

“Whassa matter, babe?”

She whispered something to him, but I was already running. I didn't go for my car. Didn't want him taking a swing at it. The last thing I needed was a dead-end alley, but that's exactly what I found.

No time to turn back. I took the lid off a trash can. Granville tore into the alley. He got into batting stance. I raised the lid, guarding my face.

“Freeze, police!”

Granville turned from me to George Wong. In that second, I pictured George with his gun out, choosing revenge over the plan.

Instead of shots, I heard the bat drop and roll. Then a crack of bone and a gurgle. As far as I could see, Granville bounced off George's body onto the pavement.

* * *

“Can you understand me?” George asked.

“Yeah,” Granville said, waking to the feel of handcuffs.

“You are under arrest for destruction of evidence and attempted assault.”

George and I had gone over the charges, but still I wondered: What brought Granville back for the bottle? It was his only connection to the crime. The police had logged the bottle on their primary inspection. I'd seen Granville toss it. He'd come after both of us. That was the best we had until a chemical analysis.

Much as I loved exposing Cherry, she wasn't impersonating anyone of status. Bobbi had impersonated Cherry freely, so maybe they made an agreement. Both had no family left. Maybe when Bobbi moved on from Granville she wanted to move on from her life; and Cherry still wanted them both.

Then, at some point, having them wasn't enough. I guessed Bobbi took a drink before the game and felt the effects about an hour later. I couldn't prove she drank, or that Cherry gave her the bottle.

George helped Granville to his feet. Granville twisted, only to look at me. His anger was down to a seethe. His expression told me Cherry had done it, and sent him after the evidence.

Right after she talked to me.

What if she didn't want happiness with Granville? What if she never forgave him the slight in college?

We couldn't charge her with anything unless...

“You have the right to remain silent—”

“I waive it,” he said. “No way she gets off.”

END

"Forgive Me Not" originally appeared in Issue 5 of SDO Detective, which ran April-June 2004