“I can’t give you her number. If you give us your information, we’ll pass it on to her and tell her you’d like to speak with her. That way, if she wants to contact you, it’s her choice.”

“I just want to talk to her.”

“I can’t give you her number.”

Clark said, “It’s a privacy issue. Our first obligation is to the officer’s family.”

“I’m his father.”

“Not according to his personnel file.”

There it was. Holman wanted to say more, but he told himself to take it easy, just like when he was inside and another con tried to front him. You had to get along.

Holman looked at the floor.

“Okay. I understand.”

“If she wants to call, she will. You see how it is.”

“Sure.”

Holman couldn’t remember the number at the motel where he would be living. Levy walked him out to the reception area where Wally gave them the number, and Levy promised to call when they knew something more. Holman thanked him for his time. Getting along.

When Levy was heading back inside, Holman stopped him.

“Captain?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Was my son a good officer?”

Levy nodded.

“Yes, sir. Yes, he was. He was a fine young man.”

Holman watched Levy walk away.

Wally said, “What did they say?”

Holman turned away without answering and walked out to the car. He watched police officers entering and leaving the building as he waited for Wally to catch up. He looked up at the heavy blue sky and at the nearby mountains to the north. He tried to feel like a free man, but he felt like he was still up in Lompoc. Holman decided that was okay. He had spent much of his life in prison. He knew how to get along in prison just fine.

3

HOLMAN’S NEW HOME was a three-story building one block off Washington Boulevard in Culver City, sandwiched between the Smooth Running Transmission Repair Service and a convenience store protected by iron bars. The Pacific Gardens Motel Apartments had been one of six housing suggestions on a list Gail Manelli provided when it was time for Holman to find a place to live. It was clean, cheap, and located on a no-transfer bus route Holman could use to get to his job.

Wally pulled up outside the front entrance and turned off his car. They had stopped by the CCC so Holman could sign his papers and pick up his things. Holman was now officially on supervised release. He was free.

Wally said, “This isn’t any way to start, man, not your first day back with news like this. Listen to me-if you want a few more days at the house you can stay. We can talk this out. You can see one of the counselors.”

Holman opened the door but didn’t get out. He knew Wally was worried about him.

“I’ll get settled, then I’ll call Gail. I still want to get to the DMV today. I want to get a car as soon as I can.”

“It’s a blow, man, this news. Here you are back in the world, and already you have this to deal with. Don’t let it beat you, man. Don’t yield to the dark side.”

“No one’s going to yield.”

Wally searched Holman’s eyes for some kind of reassurance, so Holman tried to look reassuring. Wally didn’t seem to buy it.

“You’re going to have dark times, Max-black moments like you’re trapped in a box with the air running out. You’ll pass a hundred liquor stores and bars, and they’re going to prey on your mind. If you feel weak, you call me.”

“I’m okay, Wally. You don’t have to worry.”

“Just remember you have people pulling for you. Not everyone would’ve went down the way you went down, and that shows you got a strong natural character. You’re a good man, Max.”

“I gotta go, Wally. There’s a lot to do.”

Wally put out his hand.

“I’m a call away, twenty-four seven.”

“Thanks, bro.”

Holman took his bag of clothes from the back seat, climbed out of the car, and waved as Wally drove away. Holman had arranged for one of the eight studio apartments at the Pacific Gardens. Five of the six other tenants were civilians, and one, like Holman, was on supervised release. Holman wondered if the civilians got a break on rent for living with criminals. Holman figured they were probably Section Eight Housing recipients and lucky to have a roof over their heads.

Something wet hit Holman’s neck and he glanced up. The Pacific Gardens didn’t have central air. Window units hung over the sidewalk, dripping water. More water hit Holman on the face, and this time he stepped to the side.

The manager was an elderly black man named Perry Wilkes, who waved when he saw Holman enter. Even though the Pacific Gardens called itself a motel, it didn’t have a front desk like a real motel. Perry owned the building and lived in the only ground-floor apartment. He manned a desk that filled a cramped corner of the entry so he could keep an eye on the people who came and left.

Perry glanced at Holman’s bag.

“Hey. That all your stuff?”

“Yeah, this is it.”

“Okay then, you’re officially a resident. You get two keys. These are real metal keys, so if you lose one you’re gonna lose your key deposit.”

Holman had already filled out the rental agreement and paid his rent two weeks in advance along with a one-hundred-dollar cleaning fee and a six-dollar key deposit. When Holman first looked at the place, Perry had lectured him on noise, late-night doings, smoking pot or cigars in the rooms, and making sure his rent was paid on time, which meant exactly two weeks in advance on the dot. Everything was set so all Holman had to do was show up and move in, which is the way Gail Manelli and the Bureau of Prisons liked it.

Perry took a set of keys from his center drawer and handed them to Holman.

“This is for two-oh-six, right at the top in front here. I got one other empty right now up on the third floor in back, but you look at two-oh-six first-it’s the nicest. If you want to see the other I’ll let you take your pick.”

“This is one of the rooms looking at the street?”

“That’s right. In front here right at the top. Set you up with a nice little view.”

“Those air conditioners drip water on people walking past.”

“I’ve heard that before and I didn’t give a shit then, either.”

Holman went up to see his room. It was a simple studio with dingy yellow walls, a shopworn double bed, and two stuffed chairs covered in a threadbare floral print. Holman had a private bath and what Perry called a kitchenette, which was a single-burner hot plate sitting on top of a half-size refrigerator. Holman put his bag of clothes at the foot of the bed, then opened the refrigerator. It was empty, but gleamed with cleanliness and a fresh bright light. The bathroom was clean, too, and smelled of Pine-Sol. Holman cupped his hand under the tap and drank, then looked at himself in the mirror. He had worked up a couple of mushy bags under his eyes and crow’s-feet at the corners. His short hair was dusty with grey. He couldn’t remember ever looking at himself up at Lompoc. He didn’t look like a kid anymore and probably never had. He felt like a mummy rising from the dead.

Holman rinsed his face in the cool water, but realized too late that he had no towels and nothing with which to dry himself, so he wiped away the water with his hands and left the bathroom wet.

He sat on the edge of his bed and dug through his wallet for phone numbers, then called Gail Manelli.

“It’s Holman. I’m in the room.”

“Max. I am so sorry to hear about your son. How are you doing?”

“I’m dealing. It’s not like we were close.”

“He was still your son.”

A silence developed because Holman didn’t know what to say. Finally he said something because he knew she wanted him to.

“I just have to keep my eye on the ball.”

“That’s right. You’ve come a long way and now is no time to backslide. Have you spoken to Tony yet?”

Tony was Holman’s new boss, Tony Gilbert, at the Harding Sign Company. Holman had been a part-time employee for the past eight weeks, training for a full-time position that he would begin tomorrow.