Tag Archives: Inspector Robinson

Plaster of Paris; chapter fourteen, part three

“I’m glad the bitch is dead,” Mr. Jenson shouts, spraying spit on Lyle’s face.

“You’re an evil man,” Lyle shouts back, his biceps bulging.  “She’s his mother, for god’s sake!”

“I’m his mother!”  Mrs. Jenson mewls, tears running down her face.  “I’m the one who raised him.”

“That’s right, Catherine,” my mother says soothingly.  “You’re his mother.”

“That bitch is nothing more than a baby maker,” Mr. Jenson says nastily.  “Put in a penis and out pops a kid.  Nothing but a whore.”

“Keep your voice down,” I say, furious at his histrionics.  “Do you want Paris to hear you?”

“I don’t give a good hot damn,” Mr. Jenson declares, pushing a finger in Lyle’s chest.  “She deserved what she got.”

“Listen, you,” Lyle sputters, making a grab for Mr. Jenson’s finger.

“Oh for god sake’s,” I sigh loudly, fed up with the whole scene.  “Mom, can I have the keys to your car?  I’m going to the gym to work out.”

“This late?”  My mother protests.  It’s nine-thirty, and it makes her nervous when I travel alone late at night—especially after the last few months.

“I gotta get out of here.  I want to check out the gym one more time, anyway.”  I pull my cell phone out of my duffel and wave it at my mother.  “Look, I’m armed and dangerous.”  I shove it in my jacket pocket so I have easy access.

“All right.”  She reluctantly hands me her keys.  “Be careful,” she warns.  I breeze out of the hospital and drive to the gym.  There are only two clients, both of whom are wearing headphones, and Jimmy is at the front desk.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter fourteen, part two

“We should go to the hospital,” I say urgently.  We gather our stuff, forgetting about our brainstorming session.  It’s more important we reach the Jensons and Paris before anyone else does.  As we’re rushing down the front steps, Inspector Robinson is walking up them.  She is wearing a taupe pantsuit that flatters her figure nicely.

“The Three Musketeers,” Inspector Robinson says, an edge to her voice.  “Just the trio I want to see.  Let’s go back up to your apartment, shall we?”  Despite being couched in question form, it is an order, and we all know it.  We shuffle upstairs without saying anything.

“Can I get you anything, Inspector?”  My mother asks as we enter the apartment.  Before Inspector Robinson can answer, my mom is up and in the kitchen.  Lyle and I look at the inspector, but she remains silent.  I realize that she is waiting for my mother to return, so I don’t start a conversation.  She will tell us what she wants to know, when she wants to tell us, and no amount of coercion will persuade her to do differently.  The silence is taut, but not uncomfortable.  Although the inspector is radiating anger, I don’t think it’s directed towards us.  Of course, I could be mistaken, in which case, we are in for a long night.  I look at Lyle who is staring at nothing in particular.  I look at Inspector Robinson who is perusing her notes.  I open my mouth to say something, then shut it quickly.  Now is not the time for me to be nosy or smart-assed or to use any of the  half-dozen of my usual responses.  There is one question I need to ask the inspector, however, and I voice it.

“Inspector Robinson?”  I make sure my voice isn’t tentative because I don’t want to sound like a beta dog rolling over to have my stomach scratched.  The inspector looks up at me and waits for me to continue.  “Do you think Paris is still in danger?”

“I do,” Inspector Robinson says immediately.  “Him, you, your mother, Mr. Kingston.  Possibly Ms. Meadows’ other children.  Less likely her husband or the Jensons.”

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Plaster of Paris; chapter twelve, part four

“All right, that’s enough!”  My mother says loudly.  Everyone but me is so shocked, they immediately stop what they are doing and practically snap to attention.  “You are all acting like children.  Is this the image you want to present to Paris?”  The nurses continue on their way; the cop sits back down; Lyle slowly deflates; Mrs. Jenson’s shoulders sag; Mr. Jenson continues posturing.  “I have tried to be diplomatic, but I have failed.  Catherine, Douglas, you have the right to do what you want, of course, but I think it’s a crying shame that you want to banish one of the few people who loves Paris for who he is.  Why don’t you ask Paris what he wants or don’t you care?”  From within the room, we all hear a distinct if faint, “Want Lyle.”  Mrs. Jenson has the grace to blush while Mr. Jenson continues to scowl.

“May I go in now?”  Lyle asks, his head held high.  Mrs. Jenson nods her head slightly.  Lyle disappears into Paris’s room as my mother shepherds the rest of us back to our seats.  I wait for my mother to soothe things over, but she says nothing.  Her silence jolts me into understanding that this vigilance has taken a toll on her as well.  It’s unsettling news as I count on my mother to be my bedrock when all else fails.

“I think we all need some real sleep,” my mother finally says, the indignation stripped from her voice.  “We should be celebrating instead of fighting.  Paris is going to be fine.”  She isn’t her usual charismatic self, and I have a feeling I’m not the only one disappointed.

“Susannah, don’t think we’re not appreciative of your efforts,” Mrs. Jenson says stiffly, each word wrenched from her tightly-pursed lips.  “You, too, Rayne.  But this phase of Paris’s, it has to end.  See where it’s gotten him!”  Mr. Jenson is nodding his head like an ugly Greek chorus in the background.

“What happened to Paris has nothing to do with him being queer,” I say hotly, ignoring my mother’s warning looks.  I also ignore the throbbing of my jaw as I’m pissed off.  “Don’t turn this into a platform for your agenda.”

“If Paris hadn’t taken up with that Lyle, he wouldn’t have been hit,” Mrs. Jenson continues, pursuing her own line of reason.

“Lyle has nothing to do with this!  Paris being queer has nothing to do with this!”  My voice is rising despite my attempt to keep cool.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter twelve, part two

I dress with extra care the next morning and even apply a little makeup since my face looks wan from lack of sleep.  I don’t wear any of the five outfits I had in mind last night.  Instead, I pull on a silvery-gray skirt, black tights, a black blouse and whatever accoutrements I think will match.  I brush my hair until it shines, then peer at myself anxiously in the mirror.  I’m not usually self-conscious about my looks, knowing that I’m put together in a way that is pleasing to most eyes.  Short—five-two—curvy, with glossy black hair, dark brown eyes and full lips.  I turn heads when I walk down the street, unless I’m with Paris, of course, who is truly stunning.  Thinking about him brings me down to earth and away from my romantic aspirations.  My mother nods approvingly at my outfit as I gobble down my breakfast.  I am late for work, my sleep pattern being so erratic as of late.  I arrive just in time to be pointedly ignored by my colleagues.  I plunge into my work in order to not feel the shunning so deeply.  I have an email from Libby that is so unlike her normal self, I read it twice.

Rayne,

I don’t know why I’m writing this to you except that I have no one else to talk to about this.  If any of my friends knew, they would say I’m crazy.  Any girl would be lucky to have a fiancé as wonderful as Wallace.  He is gainfully-employed, remembers important dates, treats me as an equal, and has the same ambitions as do I.  He is also sinfully handsome.  In other words, everything I’ve ever dreamed of in a man.  I know, I can hear you saying, so what’s your problem, Lib, in that snotty tone of yours you use when you think you’re so superior. 

The problem is, I’m not sure I want to get married.  Certainly not now, and maybe not ever.  I look at Wallace and think, is this it?  I mean, I’m very happy with him—don’t get me wrong.  I just wonder if I’m too young.  He’s only my first serious boyfriend.  Rayne, I don’t know what to do.  The wedding is in three months.  The reason I’m e-mailing you is because you’ve always been so damn nontraditional—like Mom and Dad.  Everyone will hate me if I stop the wedding.  Help me.  Libby.

I stop reading and look around me.  The world is still spinning on its axis.  I am still persona non grata at work making shitty money for a shitty job.  Nothing has changed except my sister is asking for my help.  I think back, trying to remember the last time she asked me for anything.  I can’t recall it ever happening, though it must have at some time.  I tap my keyboard idly, thinking of what to say to her.  Wouldn’t she be surprised if she knew that my immediate reaction was, ‘Hold on to him and never let go.’  I want to tell her that when love comes, you have to make the most of it because you don’t know when it will come your way again.  I realize, however, that the rate at which I’ve lost people from my life in the last few months has skewed my perspective, and I don’t write any of what I’m thinking.  I think more carefully before coming up with a response.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter twelve, part one

“Let’s go talk,” Lyle says, grabbing me by the arm.  With a wave at the others, he steers me to the cafeteria.

“Isn’t it great, Lyle?”  I say, a goofy smile on my face.

“I forgot to tell you about Ursula,” Lyle says as soon as we sit down.  Neither of us is hungry, but I grab a piece of chocolate pie anyway.  Lyle has a monster cookie which he is munching.  Both of us have coffee as well.

“Ursula?”  I look at him blankly.

“Paris’s birthmother,” Lyle prods my memory.  “I never told you about our talk.”              “Shit!  That’s right!  Dish,” I order.  Lyle spills all he knows.  As we guessed, Ursula tried to feint and dodge, but Lyle’s charm finally won her over.  To a certain extent.  She confessed that she had talked to Paris’s birthfather ‘once or twice’ since the blessed event, but refused to divulge his name or where he lived, saying it wasn’t relevant.  She admitted to discovering Paris months ago, but sat on the information because she was nervous about facing him.  Plus, she had a deadline for the book she was working on, and she couldn’t afford to let anything interfere with that.  Her husband was still out of town, or so she said.  Lyle couldn’t see any traces of him in the living room or the kitchen, the two rooms he actually saw.

“She was tense,” Lyle says, frowning as he sips his coffee.  “She tried to cover it up, but I could tell.  Everything was just a hair off.  You know, laugh a little too loud; gestures a little too broad—that kind of thing.”  I know exactly what he’s saying; it was the same way when we met her in Luna Park.  An actor in a play of her own making—Lyle and I are just bit players on her stage.  The spell she cast over me when we first met has long since dissipated.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter ten, part three

He starts to speak, then falters.  He is looking for Paris’s mother, as he doesn’t feel comfortable revealing information to anyone but the next of kin.  This doctor is short, about five-six with blond wisps that go every which way but down.  He is wearing round glasses that half hide keen blue eyes.  My mother informs him with a smile that the Jensons are at the hotel because it’s been such a hard time for Mrs. Jenson, as my mother is sure the doctor can appreciate.  The doctor’s sternness melts a little under the warmth of my mother’s smile.  Lyle presses the doctor for information, causing the doctor to look at him with a faint look of alarm.  Lyle introduces himself; Dr. Price reciprocates, looking at me questioningly.  I tell him my name, nodding at him in a friendly fashion.  The doctor relaxes, then tells us what’s happened.

“Ms. Liang reported movement as well as speech.  This is a good sign.  His vitals are stable, and his countenance is strong.  I would feel better if he would emerge from his coma for a prolonged period of time, however.”

“So you’re saying not much has changed,” Lyle says dispiritedly.

“Not at all, Mr. Kingston.  I’m very pleased that he responded to stimuli.  Keep trying to connect with him so he wants to come back to us.”  Dr. Price hesitates, then continues.  “I have a feeling that for some reason, Mr. Frantz does not want to fight his way back.  For whatever reason.  By all rights, he should be out of the coma.  I would urge you all to try to convince him to fight.  That’s about all I can tell you right now.”  He shakes each of our hands again, lingering a minute longer with my mother’s, then hurries away.

“I think he likes you,” I tease my mother, who doesn’t respond.

“So do we call the Jensons or what?”  Lyle throws the question out again, waiting for someone to make a decision.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter ten, part two

Ms. Liang,” the inspector nods at my mother, then frowns.  There is the apparent problem of confusion of address with two Ms. Liangs in the room.

“You can call me Songbird,” my mother says helpfully, drawing a raised eyebrow from the inspector and a giggle from me.  “Or Susannah,” my mother adds, anxious to make Inspector Robinson more comfortable.

“How about Mrs. Liang,” Inspector Robinson says cautiously.  In this day and age, it’s more common than not to offend women by offering to call them ‘Mrs.’.

“That’s fine, too,” my mother says cheerfully.  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Um, no, thank you, ma’am,” Inspector Robinson says, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.  My mother has that effect on people.  “Ms. Liang, would you please show me the mailbox??”  Inspector Robinson is so bewitched by my mother that she doesn’t even protest when my mother trails behind us as we retreat downstairs again.  I remember to lock the door.

“Here it is,” I say, stepping aside to let the good inspector view the remains of my mail box, which she probably saw on her way in.  She keeps her hands in her pockets as she examines the box—there isn’t much to see.

“Did you touch anything?”  She asks, her voice laced with weariness.  My mother looks at her sympathetically, which doesn’t escape the inspector’s attention.  There’s a rap on the door which startles my mother and me.  “There’s the team.  Why don’t you take your mother upstairs and wait for me there?”

“I didn’t touch anything,” I say rapidly.  “But upstairs, the front door, there are scratches.  I touched that, obviously.”  She nods, smiles briefly, then goes to let her people in.  I can hear one of them bitching loudly, probably raising his voice on purpose for my benefit.

“Christ, Inspector, this is fucking ridiculous.  Why the special treatment?  This chick your girlfriend or something?”  Inspector Robinson’s response is immediate and scathing.

“If you object to doing your job, Donaldson, let me know, and I’ll be sure to inform your supervisor of your distaste.”  Donaldson glowers at the inspector, but stops complaining.

“I like her,” my mother said admiringly as we reentered the apartment.  I don’t bother to answer as I head for the coffee table where I keep the mail.  I leaf through it, but don’t find anything other than bills and advertisements.  “Do you think she’s a lesbian?”  My mother continues speculating.  “That comment her coworker made gives me hope.”

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Plaster of Paris; chapter ten, part one

“I’m going to see Paris,” I say defiantly, striding towards the room.  I positively itch for a confrontation, but this officer, yet a different one, lets me in as soon as I give her my name.  I sit down. “It’s a mess, Paris.  I’m no closer to finding out who did this to you, and worse yet, I quit my job today.  Sort of.”  I pour out everything, not wanting to bottle up my feelings.  As I’m talking a glimmer of something comes to my mind, but it’s gone.  I don’t try to push it because I know it’ll come to me sooner if I let it simmer.  I want more than anything for Paris to open his eyes, for him to smile at me, for him to come home.  “Oh, god,” I sob, my head dropping forward.  How much longer can I stand to see Paris like this?  I long to shake him by his shoulders until he awakes.

“Ma’am, it’s time.”  The officer carefully places her hand on my arm, her eyes showing sympathy.

“Mom, let’s get out of here for a bit,” I say to my mother in Taiwanese.  “Just you and me.”

“What about Lyle?”  My mother asks, casting a worried glance at Lyle who isn’t paying any attention to us.  “We can’t leave him here by himself.”

“That’s rude, you know,” Mr. Jenson says suddenly, interrupting our conversation.  “Talking in a foreign language in front of people who don’t speak it.  Besides, this is America.  Speak English.”

“There’s no mandate that says we have to speak English,” I say heatedly, a flush creeping up my neck.  We had been rude, but I am too edgy to apologize.

“Rayne and I are going to run back to her apartment for a bit,” my mother says evenly.  “Lyle, would you like to come with us?”

“I’ll stay here,” Lyle says, glaring at the Jensons.  Mrs. Jenson avoids his eyes, but Mr. Jenson glares right back.

“You sure, honey?”  Mom asks Lyle, squeezing his arm solicitously.  He nods, not taking his eyes off Mr. Jenson.  My mother and I reluctantly leave them.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter eight, part two

When I do return to the living room, Lyle is ready to take me to the mat.  I can tell by looking at him that he’s itching for a fight.  It saddens me because I like him very much, and I don’t want to ruin our budding friendship.  He demands to know why he has to hear from the inspector that I’ve fucked his boyfriend, and while I understand his pain, I’m not about to roll over and play dead.  If he has a beef, it’s with Paris for not telling him as I haven’t slept with Paris in years.  I hope that Lyle will let it go, but he won’t.  It’s not enough to know that Paris and I haven’t slept together in a long time; he has to know exactly when was the last time I had sex with Paris.  He also insists on knowing how many times Paris and I have slept together, which is even more of an asinine request—order.  I press my lips together; I’ll be damned if I let Lyle browbeat me into ‘confessing’ my sins.

Lyle throws a fit when I refuse to answer his questions.  I suggest that he get over himself because whatever happened between Paris and me is in the past.  Furthermore, perhaps Paris was right not to tell Lyle seeing how he’s reacted to the information.  I dress him down completely, the tension of the past few days suddenly releasing.  I know I’m not saying the right things nor am I being tactful, but I’m tired beyond belief and cannot control what I’m saying.  Lyle starts ranting that the inspector is right about me fucking anybody if I’ll fuck my own best friend.  That does it!  Any vestige of guilt or pity I have for him because he hadn’t known about Paris and me has vanished.  He’s acting like a prima donna over something that happened a lifetime ago, and it’s beginning to piss me off.  I bound across the room and slap him soundly across his face.

“You listen to me, Lyle Kingston, and you listen good,” I hiss at him.  I’m fed up with his pettiness.  My best friend is in the hospital, and I don’t need to dig up ancient history.  “Paris and I have slept together, yes.  It’s not something I’m ashamed of, but it’s not something that I flaunt, either.  We know we are not good partners; we know we are infinitely better as friends.  You want to know the last time I had sex with Paris?  The night he watched Brett die, that’s when!”  Lyle’s face changes, and he tries to speak, but I won’t let him.  He wants to hear the gory details, then he’s going to hear them.  “The last year was total agony, but I expect you know that.  Paris had to do everything for Brett and didn’t dare leave him for more than an hour at a time.  You remember that, don’t you, Lyle?  How absolutely draining it is to watch a lover die from AIDS?  Little things like changing the catheter?  Big things like waking up in the middle of the night afraid your lover is dead?  First the body goes, then the mind goes until he’s nothing more than a walking corpse.  He should have died six months before he did, but his body just wouldn’t give up.  Paris was there every step of the way.  I helped out as much as I could, but it wasn’t enough.”  By now, there are tears running down Lyle’s cheeks as well as my own.  It had been so hard to stand helplessly by and watch my best friend go through such excruciating pain.  I see that same pain on Lyle’s face and wish I hadn’t reminded him.  However, I knew he wouldn’t be able to understand about Paris and me if I hadn’t put it in the proper context.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter eight, part one

I have to go back to the gym tomorrow to find out more about the blond, not to mention try to find Billy.  I ask what Lyle found out about Ursula in order not to have to think about returning to the gym.  Mirabelle did a search on Ursula because she loves doing research, and she knows a few people in the biz.  Turn out, Ursula had exaggerated about her financial assets.  She’s worth about ten million, not the twenty-five or whatever she told us.  Also, she just returned from a weeklong five-state tour.  It was a Midwest swing.  Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Iowa and one of the Dakotas.  Lyle and I both shudder with the insularity of true Californians, not able to imagine why anyone would live in the Midwest.  Lyle resumes his narrative, informing me that Ursula’s latest book has been postponed twice.  Her publisher is furious with her, according to Mirabelle, and is threatening to sue her for breach of contract.

Her situation sounds grim, but far from dire.  I clarify that she has money, that she’s not broke, which she isn’t.  However, she won’t be able to spend money at the rate to which she’s rapidly become accustomed.  Lyle lowers his voice to impart the gossip that Ursula has a lover somewhere, but that’s all that Mirabelle knew.  I am taking notes as he talks because it helps me order my thoughts.  Lyle is moody as he finishes reporting because we have all this information and none of it fits together.  Ignoring his temper tantrum, I tell him that the blond girl is the key.  I am beginning to realize that he doesn’t react well under pressure and that it’s nothing personal.  A huge yawn nearly splits my mouth, making me realize that I sleep.  It’s nine o’clock.

“I think I’ll hang here a few more hours, then go home for the night,” I say to Lyle.  “I suggest you do the same.”

“Can I come over to your place?”  Lyle asks, a puppy-dog look on his face.  “I don’t want to be alone.”  I can understand that, as I am feeling the same way.  I nod, then we both go back to the waiting room.  My mom is awake and chatting with the Jensons.  Mr. Jenson is back to impersonating a martinet while Mrs. Jenson is dissolving into a ball of weepy nerves.  Mr. Jenson is patting her stiffly on the back, obviously uncomfortable with attempting to console her.

“Why don’t you guys go home?”  My mother says, shooting me a meaningful look.  When I don’t budge, she adds in Taiwanese, “They’re ready to snap.  You need to get Lyle out of here.”

“Let me just see Paris really quick first,” I say, slipping away.  The officer looks up from the magazine he’s leafing through and nods.  It’s a different officer this time, so I have to give my name again before he lets me inside.  I take my accustomed chair and gaze at Paris for a minute.  Open your damn eyes, I urge him silently, but there isn’t even a flicker.  I vaguely remember something about the chances of recovering being reduced drastically if the victim does not open his eyes in the first forty-eight hours following his trauma.  It’s been about that much time, which means we’re entering the danger zone.

“Don’t you dare leave me,” I whisper, unsure if I’m speaking loud enough for him to hear.  Even if I’m not, I have things I need to say.  “Paris, you’ve been my best friend forever.  I love you more than almost anyone on this earth.  I can’t thank you enough for having my back.”  I pause, not wanting to be melodramatic.  I am stroking his hand which has no feeling to it.  “I promise you, Paris.  I’m going to get the bastard who did this to you.  If it’s the last thing I do.”  I sit, not saying anything else.  My heart is speaking to his, and I’m sure he can hear that message better than any I might vocalize.  I allow myself to feel the pain of his pain.  I relinquish the death grip I’ve had on my control for the last few days.  It’s only in his presence that I feel safe enough to be vulnerable, knowing he won’t take advantage of it.

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