The Artist and The Bum

...

May 2008

...

He'd played the part of a homeless guy so often while doing surveillance that it had become almost second nature to him and somewhat boring, if he were being honest. This particular assignment for LAPD had been going on for four days, five hours and give or take a few minutes, not that he was checking a watch or anything, but the large clock on the building across from the park made him all too aware of the digital passage of time. Keeping his mind occupied while watching for the anticipated meeting between an unknown businessman and the head of a local white collar gang had grown wearisome as well, his only source of entertainment lately being a group of artists who had set up around the pond at the same time for the last three days. There were six of them and one man in particular with an impressive head of curling grey hair, had never failed to acknowledge him, always nodding a hello, and who today had handed him a latte from the Starbucks up the street, surprising the hell out of him. The man had even asked his opinion about one of his watercolors yesterday, and worrying him that the man was drawing too much attention his way, causing him to move his location to where he was now. Apparently he hadn't moved far enough, since the man had walked around the pond until he found him, delivering the coffee and motioning for the group to set up right next to his location. Shit!

As uncomfortable as the situation made him, he was definitely enjoying the latte and the genial conversation between the artists was a welcomed distraction from the incessant boredom. He had always thought of painting as a solitary experience, done in cold drafty studios or in an isolated garret like they wrote about in books or showed in old movies, the artist suffering for his art in long, unrelenting silence. These men however, laughed and shared ideas and funny stories about their experiences like the one his benefactor had been asked to tell just now.

"Hey Diego, tell the one about the dog," one of the older men asked.

"I know I've told this one a hundred times, but okay. I was a teenager and my dad invited me to paint with his watercolor group down by the ocean. Most of the people were older and pretty much amateurs, especially this one guy who used more water than paint," he said, obviously warming to his story, hardly able to keep from laughing as he spun his tale. "When we were finished with our paintings, the instructor asked us to line them up against the cars for a critique. He made several constructive comments about each one until he came to this guy's painting, which was so faint you could barely tell what it was. He didn't want to hurt the guy's feelings, but you could tell he had no idea what to say. As he stood there trying to come up with something positive to comment on, a dog trotted up, stopped in front of the painting, lifted his leg and peed all over it and then trotted off. Best critique ever."

Deeks couldn't help laughing along with the group, Diego still obviously finding it hilarious after all these years. The man could tell a story and he envied the response he received from his friends. As he finished the last of his latte, his earwig suddenly crackled to life and the voice of his undercover partner jerked him back to his particular reality.

"Got eyes on our gang leader," Pete Archuleta advised. "He's heading your way and carrying a briefcase. Must be payoff time. See an anxious businessman that might be our guy?"

"Nope," he whispered in response, his eyes flicking across the late lunchtime crowd strolling along the path around the lake.

His position just off the main path with his back against a large sycamore tree, afforded him a wide field of vision and he soon spotted the man Pete was following. Marcus Ross didn't look like a typical gang leader, his dark hair was styled, and he was wearing an expensive rust colored shirt under a deep gray jacket, his shoes shiny black leather. His gang was suspected of pulling several vicious high profile robberies over the last six months, but there wasn't enough evidence to prove it. The gang had killed a couple in their home and had beaten a corporate attorney almost to death on their last job. They suspected he was being tipped off about possible targets by someone who knew the victims or the businesses who were vulnerable. That was the person they were waiting to make an appearance. They didn't know his name or even what he looked like, but they had information Ross was meeting a contact in the park sometime this week, which was the reason Deeks had been stuck here for the past four days.

"He's slowing down," Pete said in his ear. "I'm dropping back. Don't want to spook him."

Deeks saw a well-dressed businessman nod to their suspect and rise from a park bench to join him as he walked. If they didn't stop to talk, Deeks knew he would have to try and stall them, maybe plant a bug on one or the other. As they came near his position, he eased himself up to his feet, ready to intercept and hoping his actions would get them what they needed to arrest these guys.

"Scott Donahue? It's been awhile. How've you been?" Diego said, startling Deeks to a standstill as he stepped away from his easel to greet the businessman, extending his hand with a broad smile. "Still going to Rotary?"

The two suspects stopped and the businessman smoothly introduced the gang leader, calling him an associate and giving Deeks time to focus on a way to attach bugs to both men. Diego began to tell another story about an acquaintance they knew in common and Deeks could see the gang leader getting antsy as the story lengthened, and that made him nervous. The thought of the kind artist getting caught in middle of this operation was tying his insides in knots. Diego obviously knew a lot of people and asked after seemingly every one of them. When he turned to ask Marcus Ross about what business he was in, Deeks knew he had to move before this whole thing went to hell.

"Listen Donahue, I gotta get going," Ross said, ignoring the question as he looked around nervously. "Here are the papers you need to look over. Call me."

The businessman looked surprised as Ross shoved the briefcase into his hands and quickly turned to leave, only to come face to face with Deeks.

"Hey man, you got any change?" He drawled, slurring his words slightly as he appeared to stumble forward, trying to keep him there as other undercover officers slowly moved in for a possible arrest.

The man wrinkled his nose at the smell of him and shoved him away, and Diego reached out to steady him. It was in that instant that officers shouted LAPD, rushing towards them with guns drawn. Ross quickly pulled a weapon, his face fierce with rage and Deeks made a grab for it, but Ross was too quick and slashed him across the cheek, sending him sprawling. When he looked up, the angry gang leader had his arm wrapped around Diego, holding him in front of him as a shield, the barrel of his gun pressed against the base of his skull, shouting to the approaching officers to back away. The lunch crowd and the other artists had scattered, leaving an eerie vacuum around the tense scene. Deeks slowly rose to his feet, his arms spread out in front of him, looking quickly at Diego to see how he was dealing with the situation. He saw abject fear in his eyes and heard his labored breathing as Ross pulled him back toward the pond. Deeks felt a slow anger building, cussing silently to himself at the shitty situation, his eyes now locked on the suspect.

"I'm LAPD. You've got nowhere to go, man," he said softly. "It's over."

"Shut up," Ross growled. "I'll kill him if anyone comes closer."

"And then what?" Deeks asked, slowly inching forward, trying to cut off any escape, but afraid to pull his gun and cause the situation to escalate.

"How 'bout I kill you first." Ross threatened, moving the gun so it was pointed directly at him.

He blinked slowly, letting the air slowly leave his lungs as he watched Ross's eyes. He never liked to see a weapon pointed in his direction, but he was glad it was no longer pointed at the artist. The man looked like he hadn't taken a breath since his ordeal had started, and his eyes couldn't seem to leave the gun.

"Diego?" He said softly. "We'll get you out of this. Okay? Just breathe, buddy."

The circle of police officers slowly tightened, but Ross's eyes and gun stayed on Deeks.

"Pete? What's in the briefcase?" Deeks suddenly asked. "Our businessman up to his eyeballs in shit?"

"Oh yeah," he answered. "I got payoff money and a couple of possible new targets. I think this guy will roll over on his buddy Ross in a heartbeat."

"Time to make a deal, Ross," Deeks said coolly. "You want door number one or do you pass to your partner here? First one gets the best deal."

"You're starting to annoy me," Ross said venomously.

"I've heard that before," Deeks answered lightly.

"I usually shoot people who annoy me," Ross said quietly as the muscles in his arm tensed.

Deeks saw his eyes narrow and he knew he was going to fire and he braced himself for what was surely coming. He had run out of time and out of cocky retorts and he sucked in his breath as the sound of the gun going off exploded in his ears. In the movies, the bullet moving towards him would have been shown in slow motion, but this was real life and in real life it happened in a split second, the roaring in his ears accompanying the searing, white hot pain as the bullet ripped through the layers of filthy clothing and sliced through his upper left arm sending him to the ground. He thought he should be dead, and was suddenly euphoric that he wasn't, struggling to sit up as he heard another gunshot and then shouts all around him.

"Deeks? Talk to me," Pete yelled in his face. "Where you hit, man?"

"Is Diego okay?" He asked tonelessly, his head spinning a little as he tried to find the man in all the chaos.

"The hostage? He's good, man. You'd probably be dead if he hadn't grabbed the gun," Pete said as he began to pull his jacket off searching for the wound.

"Did you get Ross?"

"I shot him in the head," Pete said softly, his eyes stormy as he put pressure on the shallow wound in his arm.

"Are you okay?" Diego asked breathlessly, looking down at him while one of the officers held on to his arm as if he was afraid the man might pass out.

"Yeah, no. It just grazed my arm thanks to you," the words rushing out, before fading softly at the end.

"So, you're a cop?" Diego asked and then laughed with relief as Pete Archuleta helped Deeks to his feet as the paramedics arrived.

"What gave it away?" He quipped, earning a faltering smile from the man.

"Well it wasn't the uniform," he shot back shakily.

Deeks could tell shock was setting in as Diego stumbled back against the officer next to him with a stunned look on his face as he stared at Deeks' bloody arm. He nodded to the officer who was trying to take Diego over to the waiting ambulance, but the man resisted.

"I'll be fine," he said unconvincingly, "I just need to sit down for a minute."

"Me too," Deeks said.

Diego sat down heavily on one end of the gurney, while Pete lowered Deeks down on the other. By this time, both men were breathing hard as the paramedics checked them over.

"I thought he was going to kill you," Diego said softly as they checked his heart.

"He would have if you hadn't grabbed the gun," Deeks hissed as the medic cleaned the wound. "You'll have a great story to add to your repertoire."

"Yeah, but no one will believe it," he laughed. "I don't even believe it."

"You've got witnesses," Deeks said, pointing over to his friends standing behind the yellow police tape.

"Do you do this a lot?" Diego asked, looking over at him.

"It's what I do," he answered quietly. "Not always as a homeless guy, but undercover as whatever character is needed."

"But it's so dangerous. How does your family deal with that? They must be afraid for you all the time," the artist said with genuine concern on his face.

"It's just me," he said, turning away to stare out over the placid pond.

"It must be hard to deal with something like this on your own," Diego said. "Do you have someone to talk to?"

"I'll be debriefed and probably take a couple of days off," he replied, starting to feel a little uncomfortable with the man's attention.

"That's not what I meant," Diego said kindly.

"I'm used to it," he replied.

"To being shot, or to being alone?"

Deeks turned to look at the man, wondering if he was a psychologist or a doctor of some kind.

"I don't get shot very often," he told him, eliciting a snorted laugh from Pete. "And I've been alone a long time and I like it just fine."

He was instantly sorry for speaking so sharply to the man who had just saved his life, but he wasn't feeling all that well and he didn't need the added scrutiny from a man he had barely met and who didn't know anything about him. Diego stood up and started to walk away, but hesitated and then turned back to look at him, his face open and kind.

"Well, if you ever just want to talk, come by the house," he said. "I'll show you some of my paintings. If you come around dinner time, I'm known as Mr. Barbecue, so bring an appetite and maybe a bottle of wine."

"Okay," he conceded, his face finally softening into a crooked grin. "I may do that, buddy. Thanks, Diego."

"That's just a nickname," he told him. "Took it for my name in high school Spanish. I'm not too good with languages and knew I could at least pronounce San Diego and it kinda stuck."

"What's your real name?" Deeks asked.

"It'll be in the police report," Diego said he started to walk away. "You're a good cop, so you should be able to find me."

"Wiseass," Deeks called after him.

"You sound like my wife," he said as he was surrounded by his friends.

Deeks sat quietly as the paramedic finished bandaging his arm and wondered what it would be like to spend a normal evening with the man. He was sure he still had plenty of stories to tell and he might even share a couple of his own. It might be nice to talk to someone who wasn't a cop or a bad guy. He spent way too much time with sleaze bag drug dealers, dirty hookers and jaded cops who never seemed to appreciate his sense of humor. Maybe he would look this guy up, after a shower of course, and a change of clothes. Hell, the guy wouldn't even recognize him. The more he thought about it, the more he realized the guy was probably just being nice and in a couple of days would forget all about the invitation he'd made in the heat of a dramatic and frightening moment. No, Deeks was pretty sure in a few days the guy wouldn't want to be reminded that he was the hostage of a dangerous criminal and could have been killed, that the homeless guy he had been so nice to was really the one who had put him in danger. No. Sometimes you just make a brief connection with a person and then go on with your life. He was fairly certain that's what the artist would come to realize. He might make what happened into one of his funny stories, but Deeks knew it hadn't been funny for either one of them and getting together would only bring that harsh reality back in full force.

"You want to grab a couple of beers tonight?" Pete Archuleta asked.

"Sure, why not," he said. "I can celebrate not being dead."

...

...