Neon Nightmare

Neon Nightmare

Larry Kerr

Book Title

Larry Kerr

© Copyright 2014 by Larry Kerr

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This novel is a work of fiction. The characters (with the exception of public historical figures), incidents, settings, dialogue, and situations depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

For the purpose of writing this novel in as realistic a sense as possible, the use of trademarks has occurred. Use of the Brand or Trademark is minimized in use as to make the point or connection necessary. All use of trademarks is intended to be non-derivatives, and is used without permission of the brand owner(s), and therefore unendorsed by the various rights holding individuals, companies, parties, or corporations herein.

Copyright

Author’s Statement

I have not asked my family or friends to review this book and put inflated responses on the Internet. I appreciate all honest reviews—favorable or otherwise—that readers post. You can direct comments or criticism directly to me at my email address, which is located on the last page of this book Thank you for buying this book. I hope you got your money’s worth.

Biography

Larry Kerr spent four years in the United States Marine Corps and three years working in construction before beginning a 25-years career on the Los Angeles Police Department. He took advantage of the G. I. Bill to attend college, graduating from California State University, Fullerton, with a degree in English literature. Larry has always been fascinated by how the great novelists from Tolstoy to Tom Wolfe made their characters so timelessly believable. And while only a gifted few can play in their league, there is no excuse for anyone who puts pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) not making the effort. Character is what makes the plot work. In his next lifetime, or perhaps in tonight’s dream, he plans to create a Hamlet or a Falstaff.

.

Set in the 1980s when mail still came in envelopes, Veteran LAPD cop Carlyle Phelps had to do things the old-fashioned way. It was a time when cell phones were clunky and rare. Google was a character named Barney in a 1940s comic strip. Investigations relied even more on shoe leather than they do today. Still, it was the guys in the white hats against the guys in the black hats. Phelps knew how to deal with the black hats. He wasn’t sure he knew anyone with a really sparkling white hat. As is the case today, the police action played out almost exclusively among infinitely subtle shades of gray.

Officer Neon Miller’s worst nightmare comes true when his efforts to help a young boy are misread as abuse. It’s up to Carlyle Phelps to get to the truth and keep Neon out of prison—not to mention saving his reputation and career. Some investigators in Internal Affairs are set on making an example of Neon regardless of the facts. But Phelps believes all the resources at their disposal are not as powerful as the truth. If he can prove it.

CHAPTER 1

This was a rare Saturday off for Neon Miller, a police officer who worked LAPD's 77th Street Division. Located in South Central Los Angeles, 77th Street was one of the busiest divisions in the city. But to Neon the suffering and violence of the inner city seemed light years away from El Dorado Park in this peaceful Long Beach neighborhood. The late morning sun felt good on his back as he sat at the picnic table and savored the smell of freshly cut grass. Lazing away a few hours while his Realtor prepared his house for a horde of looky-loos was something he took with equanimity. He may as well enjoy it. The Saturday open house had become a ritual. Neon's wife, Jane, had decided they should try to sell now. He didn't question her wisdom. She was a nurse at Kaiser Hospital and was working today, leaving Neon with nothing better to do.

His hand was a blanket of freckles wrapped around the can of Coca Cola as he poured the last of its contents down his throat, his Adam's apple bouncing like a pogo stick. Neon absentmindedly wadded up his cellophane peanut bag and stuffed it in the empty can as he read about the Dodger's come-from-behind win over the Giants last night. The sports page was the only part of the paper he read. He was content to be oblivious to the world around him.

Cracking his knuckles as he finished the paper, Neon saw a softball game starting on the nearest diamond. No doubt it was part of the big get-together that was underway when he arrived. Probably some sort of family or ethnic community event, he surmised; everyone had a similar look. They were all so dark, the exact opposite of Neon. Though he was in superb shape for someone in his late forties, Neon hated the way he looked—like a big, rawboned country boy with orange hair, a cauliflower ear, and dime-sized liver spot freckles covering his whole body. And his continual blushing was a never ending source of embarrassment, especially since it earned him the nickname Neon. His real name was Ray. He could have lived with Red. But Neon sucked.

Neon watched a young woman in her twenties try to leg out an infield hit. She was two steps late, but she reached base safely when the first baseman dropped the ball. An error? Both teams laughed. What fun!

At the duck pond by the restroom, a short guy with a huge beer belly was practicing with his fly rod. He looked ridiculous with his red suspenders pulling his pants up only to the bottom of his gut. But there was nothing ridiculous about the way he handled that rod. The floating line shimmered in the sunlight as it extended out in the back cast. Then, at the precise moment its inertia loaded up the rod, the portly gent flicked it forward, forming a graceful closed loop in the line before it extended and landed in the water close to the far shore.

Neon had taken a few fly casting lessons years ago. His success with the basic cast was limited. Techniques like the double haul and shooting line required a special touch and timing that he didn't have. After all, he was a boxer, not a fisherman. As he got up and walked to the restroom, Neon decided that some people like old red suspenders must have the timing in their genes. But how could he cast so far and still get that fly to land without making so much as a ripple?

Unlike the inviting openness of the park, the restroom was a squat, menacing building. It was like an LAPD jail on the inside: dimly lighted brick and concrete set the theme for the ambiance. Dark stainless steel sinks and toilets completed the decor. The frowning gun-portal slits at the top of the walls were for ventilation, not light. City architects had adapted to the recurring waves of vandalism.

Standing in front of the metal urinal, Neon noticed a young boy go into the toilet stall to his left. The officer moved to the sink to wash his hands and smiled as he heard the frustrated youngster struggling with some uncooperative article of clothing. Then a small voice from behind him said, Hey, mister, my zipper's stuck. Can you help me? The olive skinned boy stood in front of the toilet stall with the open door; he looked about six years old. He had the bottom of his long striped shirt pinched between his chin and chest to give him access to his fly. His forehead wrinkled and his brown eyes rolled up toward Neon while his chin kept the bottom of his shirt locked in place. He pushed his belly button and zipper toward Neon.

I think we can fix that, young man, Neon said as he knelt on one knee in front of the youth to free the zipper. It was in fact jammed. Looks like you got your undershorts caught in here. A sharp tug at the zipper freed it. The youth's jeans dropped to his knees.

What the fuck are you doing? came the cry from behind Neon. He turned as he knelt and saw the overwrought third baseman from the game outside looming in the doorway. That's my son, you fucking pervert!

Neon felt himself turning crimson. This isn't what you think, he stammered. The father seemed torn between the desire to attack and respect for the redhead's appreciable advantage in size. Neon stood six feet tall and had weighed 200 pounds during his fighting career. He wasn't far from that now.

Get outta here, Joey, the irate father commanded as he continued his tentative advance toward Neon. Joey fastened his pants and skimmed around the two men out into the sunlight.

Look, his zipper was stuck. I fixed it for him, that's all. I don't want no trouble, Neon said as he held his open hands in front of him, palms toward Joey's dad. He was moving as he had in the ring, slowly circling his adversary. But now he just wanted to get to the door. This looked bad. Neon wanted out.

You cocksucker! You're the one. Our kids aren't safe anywhere, the man yelled, his voice growing louder and shriller. His parental instincts were overcoming his respect for Neon's obvious physical advantage. He was a sinewy man with dark hair and eyes, wearing a gray sweatshirt and baggy, checkered blue shorts. Neon judged him to be a welterweight.

Maneuvering his way to the door, Neon stepped out. Joey's dad followed, hurling a string of epithets at him. Neon blinked as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight. Then he saw two softball teams descending upon him, drawn by the commotion. As the mob surrounded him, he yelled, Wait a minute, listen to me. I can explain what happened in there. But no one listened. Seeing little Joey run outside and hearing what his dad was yelling told them all they wanted to know. The men moved in to grab him, while the women stayed in back, shrieking obscenities and egging them on.

Dropping an assailant his own size with a sharp right cross when he grabbed his shirt, Neon struggled to keep the pack at bay. His fists were in front of him now, as the crowd encircled him like hounds in the hunt. Someone with an aluminum bat was trying to come in from behind. They weren't hearing any explanations. The mood was ugly. Neon regretted not carrying an off-duty weapon like so many of the gung-ho younger cops did.

He saw a break and tried to run toward the parking lot, but a heavyset woman who had worked her way to the front of the crowd jumped on his back. He took two steps and threw her off onto the grass. But it was too late. Neon went down under a screaming wave of cursing bodies. He felt someone kick him in the face, as he caught a glimpse of something silver arcing through the air. He rolled aside as an aluminum bat slammed into the ground inches from his head.

Okay, that's enough, a voice shouted as Neon looked up and saw two uniformed Long Beach police officers wading through the crowd, causing the wind of indignation to spill from its sails.

Boy am I glad to see you guys, Neon said as he started to get to his feet.

Stay where you are, asshole! a cop said and pushed on Neon's back with his open hand, forcing back down where he lay prone on the grass. He felt the cop's bony knee bury itself between his shoulder blades as he searched him and said, Put your hands behind your back. Neon complied. The cold steel handcuffs ratcheting closed on his wrists brought home the desperation of his situation like a shot in the solar plexus.

Lying on the grass, Neon saw the other cop talking to an older lady and writing a report. The lady had been one of the umpires. Joey's dad was standing next to her. The officer was a slim Hispanic female, young, with no more than a couple of years' experience. Both women looked toward Neon when the officer handed Joey's dad the report to sign.

All right, on your feet, sir, said the cop who had handcuffed Neon. At least asshole had changed to sir once the situation was under control.

I gotta talk to you, Neon said as the officer helped him to his feet.

Wait'll we get to the station, he replied. Then we'll talk. He didn't look like he had much more experience than his partner. Wiry, with a shock of brown hair and an aquiline nose, he had all the earmarks of a real scrapper. He was impassive as he held Neon's arm and guided him toward the patrol car at the far end of the parking lot. His female partner walked on Neon's other side and couldn't disguise her loathing. She said nothing.

As the cops put Neon in the back seat of their car, the softball game resumed, but somehow it seemed more haphazard now. An athletic man in a red tank top walked out of the restroom and crossed the parking lot with feline grace. He got into a rust-colored van at the far end of the lot.

****

Aaron Satterlee knew what he should do. But he doubted he would have the courage to do it. He should go to the police and tell them what he saw. That poor redheaded guy was getting a bum rap. Aaron had seen everything through the hole knocked in the partition between the toilet stalls. Many were the times he'd had sex in those toilet stalls where that same glory hole was the conduit for the male member. If he went to the police, though, it could lead to some embarrassing questions. And the cops would probably get to the truth without his help anyway. Perhaps Dr. Ryan could help him decide what to do; he was good at that kind of thing. His appointment was in an hour, time enough to shower and change before leaving the house.

The timing for Aaron's biweekly Saturday afternoon appointment couldn't be better. He was lucky Robert Ryan liked to take time off during the week instead of Saturday. Taking the time off from teaching to see the doctor would be difficult during the school year. As he finished dressing and walked out to the driveway, Aaron's thoughts collided with one another, careening through his mind and caroming off the inside of his skull. Maybe there was no point in telling Dr. Ryan about the incident at all. He wouldn't tell him what to do. Aaron would have to make the ultimate decision.

Driving his old Volkswagen van, Aaron was glad the weekend traffic was light. He didn't mind the drive up Pacific Coast Highway to Dr. Ryan's office except for negotiating the infamous traffic circle near Long Beach Community Hospital. Several major thoroughfares radiated out from the circle like spokes on a wheel. Aaron decided that either a drunken engineer or the mayor's brother-in-law must have designed the thing, as he swerved to avoid a yellow Toyota pickup bent on entering in front of him from the Lakewood Boulevard spoke. Three years of jockeying his van through the Southern California traffic had not inured him to the kamikaze stress.

The muscles in his neck and shoulders started to relax only after he wheeled into a parking space and walked into Robert Ryan's waiting room. As usual, no receptionist greeted him; instead, he found a hand-lettered sign on the counter saying Dr. Ryan would be with him in a few minutes. The doctor must be with another patient.

Curling himself into a corner of the sofa, Aaron began to thumb through a two-month old copy of Newsweek. Not quite thirty years old and not quite six feet tall, Aaron Satterlee was a handsome young man. Strikingly handsome is how Sonja Svensson, the Swedish exchange student at the university, described him the semester she was his chemistry lab partner. His wavy black hair and intense blue eyes had worked their magic on her. He was attending on a gymnastic scholarship and looked like a poster boy for a box of Wheaties. He pretended not to notice Sonja's infatuation.

As Aaron finished an article on Alzheimer's disease, Dr. Ryan opened his office door and filled the doorway. Aaron, me boy, step right into my office. It's time we had a chat, he said. Robert Ryan put a beefy arm around Aaron's shoulder and walked him to a plush leather chair; the doctor settled his heavy frame into an identical one facing him. Aaron knew the doctor adopted this bluff Irish manner to put him at ease.

How long has it been, lad, that we've been talking? he asked as he filled his pipe and lit it. It's been over two years since Dr. Vogler referred you to me, hasn't it?

Two years? Yeah, I guess it has, Aaron replied. Dr. Ryan was moving into his pipe-smoking analytical mode that Aaron had come to know well. He wasn't sure if it was the doctor himself or the ambiance of the office that had allowed him to make Robert Ryan his sole confidant. The doctor's square head perched atop his portly body was comical, more like a caricature than a breathing person. Spears of brown hair stood at attention around his bald pate like an army of cut straw sentinels. His eyes, two brown wafers stitched on his florid face, seemed to radiate his empathy. Dr. Ryan was a big avuncular teddy bear. And the office looked more like a well used study than a psychiatrist's office—not that Aaron was an expert on psychiatrists' offices. Several shelves of books graced the walls, and a globe, three feet in diameter, rested in a mahogany stand next to the oversized desk. He never saw the doctor sitting at his desk. The furniture was massive pieces of wood and leather. All very masculine. A haze of Latakia tobacco blended the elements together.

You've done yourself proud in those two years, me boy, Dr. Ryan said as he tamped the tobacco down in his pipe with a tool that looked like a Swiss army knife for pipe smokers. But as much as I enjoy talking with you, these little chats of ours shouldn't go on forever. You've got to make some decisions.

I thought that's what I was paying you to help me with, Aaron replied. He knew what he said was true, but not the whole truth.

That's true, but we both know I can't make the decisions for you. Now you're welcome to come in and brighten my afternoons as long as you want, he said, as tiny wrinkles formed at the corners of his wafer eyes. I've got a new Mercedes that I'm making payments on. Your visits can really help me out with that.

I see what you mean, Aaron said.

The way I see it, the doctor continued, you had the courage to face up to your fear so that you control it instead of vice versa. Not everyone can do that. And you'll notice that once you got control, the headaches stopped, too. Pausing for a moment to lean back in his chair and blow a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, Dr. Ryan then rocked forward as he studied Aaron. So what's your problem? That you're gay?

I think that sums it up pretty well, he said. But it was more than that. What if someone were to find out? He wasn't the only gay high school teacher, that was true. It was also true that life for those who chose to be out of the closet was easier than it had been ten years earlier. But what about Mother? It wouldn't be any easier for either of them if she were to discover his secret. And getting involved with what happened at the park today would put that little secret in jeopardy.

You know, of course, that homosexuality is only a problem for you if you choose to make it so, don't you lad? the doctor said as he laid his pipe in the ashtray. What you're doing now, though, is going to cause you a big problem sooner or later.

I know, I know, Aaron said as he stood up and began pacing between the doctor's globe and the door. It's just that I'm afraid to let anyone who knows me also know that I'm gay—except for you, that is.

Dr. Ryan took off his bifocals and polished them with his handkerchief. "Do you think what you're doing makes sense? These anonymous encounters you have in public restrooms have the potential to cause a lot more problems than if you took out an ad in the LA Times and told the world that you're gay. And we're not even talking about the risk of disease."

Aaron dropped back down into his chair. I just keep thinking that if I have a relationship with someone, I'm really vulnerable if it goes sour.

That brings up another interesting possibility, lad. Do you think you may be more afraid of a relationship itself than of having someone know you're gay?

Dr. Ryan's suggestion brought old images to the surface of Aaron's mind. No one confused his parents with Ozzie and Harriet when he was a boy in Jackson, Mississippi. Although his father's job kept him away from home more than he liked, there was no question of his love for Aaron and his mom. But Mother was another story. She missed no occasion to ridicule her husband, regardless of who was present. Worse yet, Dad's business trips gave her an opportunity to cuckold him that she rarely allowed to pass. That was stuff between a man and a woman, though. Could it be at the root of his problem, too?

Well, the only example I was close to was my folks, and things weren't so great with them. So you may have a point there, Aaron admitted to the doctor.

Let's look at this a minute, Dr. Ryan said. If you don't want the world to know you're gay—no problem, it's no one else's business. Let's assume that anonymity is a legitimate goal. Tell me, lad, how long do you think you can keep up what you're doing without getting caught. Your anonymous little gay encounters in public toilets are not socially acceptable. The police department frowns on that sort of thing, you know. Undercover vice cops arrest people for what you've been doing every day. Dr. Ryan studied his pipe as he tamped down the ashes in the bowl before lighting it again. Sooner or later you're going to be in a big mess if you keep up what you're doing. Now compare that with the risk of committing yourself to someone you care about.

It doesn't make much sense, does it? Maybe staying in the closet isn't what it's all about, is that what you're saying? he asked.

I think we should look at that possibility, me boy. And don't forget, your partner may not want to advertise his sexuality to the world either. So having a relationship doesn't mean you have to share your private life with the world. Why don't you give yourself a couple of weeks to think about what we've talked about, Dr. Ryan said as he sucked rapidly on his pipe three times, causing a blue fog to envelope the room. I'll see you again two weeks from today, if that's okay with you. Then we can decide what way to go from here.

As usual, what you say makes sense, Aaron said. He was too emotionally drained to mention anything about the redhead and the kid in the bathroom. He could think about that later. For the next two weeks he had to make some decisions about his own life. Leave it to Robert Ryan to forge a sense of order out of chaos. Things weren't so bad, he told himself, as the doctor walked him to the door where they shook hands. But the pangs of guilt didn't subside.

****

Crab-like, the patrol car tiptoed over the curb and crept across the grass into a copse of trees, where it stopped and waited fifty yards from the public restrooms. Killing the engine, Carlyle Phelps squirmed in his seat to get comfortable. We ought to have a plain car to do this right, he said as he squinted into the sun and watched the children playing on the swings across the park.

The Department's just going through the motions to cover its ass, Richard Matsuda said as he unbuckled his seat belt and settled in with his partner to wait.

You learn fast, Phelps replied, still surprised at how fast young cops grew cynical in Los Angeles.

Rubbing his eyes, Phelps thought about the special crime prevention detail they were working. The actual problem was still confined to the city of Long Beach, next door to LAPD's Harbor Division. That city was in a state of near panic over a series of kidnappings. The suspect was snatching five and six-year-old boys