Lawton Collins had been a cop in Miami for thirty years. He’d been an excellent police officer, decorated, with steady raises. And he had lots of buddies. A slew of them had gone to his retirement party at Dinner Key Yacht Club, and a year or two later, the same crowd had attended her mother’s funeral. Though these days, they’d stopped coming around – two or three visits were all any of them could stand.
At first, her dad knew what was happening to him. He listened carefully to the doctor, understood the diagnosis. He told everybody that he was going to fight this thing. He’d taken on worse shit in his life. Everyone cheered him on.
With piles of books around him, he’d studied what the researchers knew and what his most likely prognosis was. He decided to put himself on a regimen of high protein and lots of exercise. Almost immediately, he was full of energy and seemed to be more alert and focused than ever. Then a few weeks later, he started getting lost on his jogs. Awhile after that, he abandoned the meat and eggs and started focusing on breads and pastries and beer. In six months, he went from a muscular, funny man to this bloated, unpredictable kid strapped beside her in the Toyota Camry. Like the innocent citizens in Invasion of the Body Snatchers, he fell asleep one night and the pod grew outside his window, and now this. Still the same face, but his eyes were tuned to a new channel. Static white noise for hours at a time, then suddenly long stretches of perfectly good reception. The father she’d always loved.
These days, he was lucid about half the time. But it was still early in the cycle, the doctors warned. No telling how steep the slide would be or when it would start. ‘Take pleasure in the time he’s still himself,’ they said. And she tried.
She was at a light near Ludlum when he unfastened his seat belt and reached out for the door latch. But Alexandra had child-proofed it a month ago, and Lawton strained at the latch for a moment, then gave up.
‘Door’s broken.’
‘Where are you trying to go, Dad?’
‘Need to buy some luggage. I’m blowing this town.’
‘You’ve got good luggage now. Your initials on it and everything.’
She started across the intersection.
‘What are my initials, anyway? I forget.’
‘L.A.C. Lawton Andrew Collins.’
‘Where are we going? Where you taking me?’
‘To Harbor House, Dad.’
He tapped on his window and gave a wave to the driver of the car beside them. The young woman frowned and accelerated away. Warmhearted Miami.
Lawton turned back to Alexandra.
‘Is Stan a cop?’
She let go of a long breath.
‘No, he’s not.’
‘But he dresses like one, that uniform he wears.’
‘He drives a truck,’ she said, ‘an armored truck.’
‘The ones full of cash? Those big square ones? Steel-reinforced, bulletproof windshield.’
She said yes, eyes on the rearview mirror, a tailgating asshole in a black Camaro. Testosterone in the tank, nothing between the ears.
‘It’s a dangerous job, driving an armored truck. You worry about him?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Just like your mother used to worry about me. But see, I got through it just fine. Like I tell her. All your worry didn’t change a thing.’
The tailgating asshole swung around her, burned some rubber, his windows impenetrably dark. He was gone in a blur.
‘Dad, what you did this morning, shooting the gun like that, it was wrong. You know that, don’t you?’
Lawton reached into the pocket of his red-and-black-plaid shirt and came out with an old scrap of newsprint. He unfolded it, flattened it against the dash, got all the wrinkles out of the paper, then held it out to Alexandra.
‘Something from my files.’
She took a couple of quick looks but couldn’t make out the article. Finally, she got a red light at 124th. She read it quickly. Took a second look at the photograph. And Jesus, it did look like Stan!
‘Frank Sinatra,’ he said. ‘I caught him, sent him up the river. Late seventies, just like I said.’
Alexandra had to chuckle.
‘What? You thought I was talking about the singer? That Frank Sinatra. Hey, I’m not some loon. I got an excellent memory for names. Names and faces. That’s my expertise. Never was any good with directions. Ask your mother. She’ll tell you. I never could tell north from south. Hand me a compass, a map, I’m lost in a minute. But names and faces, those I can remember. It’s a cop skill. Ask your mother; she’ll confirm everything.’
‘Okay, Dad.’
‘You know, your mother blames me for getting you involved with police work. She doesn’t understand why her little girl would want to do something like that. One awful scene after another. All that grim business. All night, every night. She doesn’t understand that.’
‘But you do, Dad. Don’t you? You understand me.’
‘Sure I do. You’re my girl. I know you through and through.’
Alexandra glanced over at him. He was smiling sadly.
‘But, Alex,’ he said, staring straight ahead at the windshield, ‘nobody should have to do penance their whole life.’
‘What?’
‘There’s such a thing as time off for good behavior.’
‘What’re you talking about, Dad?’
‘You know what I’m talking about, Alex. The thing that happened back a long time ago. The reason you do the kind of work you do.’
She slowed for a light, looked over at him.
‘And another thing while I’m on a tear,’ he said. ‘I know how goddamn annoying I can be, repeating things, going off like I do. I hear myself doing it, but I can’t shut up. It’s like I’m way down underwater and there’s another guy floating up on the surface and I can hear him saying all that nonsense, and I try to yell up at him to shut the hell up, but when I open my mouth, only thing that comes out are bubbles. Bubbles and more bubbles. Because I’m way down there underwater, you know, like a frogman.
‘I know it’s awful to listen to. And Stan’s right. I’m an old fool. But I can’t make myself stop yammering to save my life. I’m trying, though. I want you to know that, Alex. I’m down here trying to be good. Hanging on. Trying not to get on your nerves, or Stan’s. But it’s hard. It’s damn hard. A frogman, down on the bottom. Blowing bubbles. Glub, glub.’
He looked over at her. For a moment, his eyes fluttered between the two worlds where he lived. Then they lost their grip on her face and slid away. A foolish smile took possession of his lips.
‘We don’t see much of your mother anymore, do we?’
Alexandra drew a long breath and pulled into the parking lot of the Harbor House. Some of the other daughters were delivering their mothers and fathers. Twice as many mothers. Even though most of the women were twenty years older, Lawton liked those odds. He had six or seven girlfriends at Harbor House and was always bringing home tins of cookies.
‘Your mother died, didn’t she?’
‘Years ago, Dad. Years ago.’
‘You shouldn’t