Justice at Risk by John Morgan Wilson Page B

editors to stitch it together. No actors or narrator to pay, no script, not much in the way of production costs. With almost fifteen years’ worth of shows, it’s got to be a gold mine in syndication.”
    “You seem to know a lot about it.”
    He shrugged it off.
    “Everybody in the business knows about On Patrol . It’s a TV landmark.”
    “And Callahan was one of the original editors?”
    “That’s what he told me. Said he hooked up with them the first year, lasted into the second season.”
    “Did he say why he left?”
    “He didn’t talk about that.” Graff was standing. “I should get going. Thanks for letting me stop by. I guess you figured out I needed to talk to somebody.”
    “What about Cheryl?”
    “Yeah, she’s good about it. But, I don’t know, I just wanted to talk to you, I guess. You’ve been really good to me. The way Tommy was.”
    “Time heals, Peter.”
    “Yeah, I’ve heard that.”
    I found myself saying something to him I’d said to Oree Joffrien only a few evenings before. Even as I spoke the words, I felt foolish doing it.
    “You have to go so soon?”
    “I really should.”
    “It’s Friday. No work tomorrow.”
    His hands were back in his pants pockets, finding the bottoms.
    “I’ve got to move in the morning. Cheryl’s going back to Minnesota, to a teaching job. I can’t afford to keep the apartment on my own, not with what I make.” He laughed, and moved toward the door. “L.A. prices, they’re insane.”
    “You have a new place?”
    “Not yet. I’ll probably take a cheap motel for a few days, till I find something I can afford.”
    He opened the door. One of the cats darted in, heading for the kitchen. Maggie trotted out to pee on the front lawn. My mind was moving at lightning speed, in a furious tug-of-war with itself.
    “Listen, Peter—”
    He stopped on the front steps, bathed in the overhead porch light.
    “There’s an empty apartment out back above the garage. My place, actually. I won’t be using it until Maurice and Fred get back from Europe in a few weeks. My landlords.”
    “I couldn’t do that.”
    “Why not?”
    “I don’t know, I—”
    “Then it’s settled. The place is yours, at least for a week or two.”
    “You sure?”
    “It’ll give you some time to find a place, get some money together. It’ll be convenient while we’re working on the show.”
    “They won’t mind, Maurice and Fred?”
    I shook my head, and he glanced around the yard.
    “I could help out around here. Cut the grass, pull some weeds, things like that.”
    “You noticed I’ve been neglecting it.”
    He flashed a smile. God, he was good to look at.
    “OK, I’ll take you up on it. Just until I find another place.”
    “You need help moving?”
    He turned his eyes toward his vintage Volkswagen at the curb.
    “Actually, I could use a little help. A bigger car. Can’t get too much into the bug.”
    “There’s a pickup truck in the garage. Doesn’t get much use. What time?”
    “Noon, I guess.”
    “Noon it is.”
    “You’ve really been terrific, Ben. I mean it.”
    He laid a hand on my arm, left it there a moment, then shuffled down the steps and the front walk, stopping along the way to say good night to Maggie. I watched him climb into the VW, heard it sputter as the engine caught, and stood on the porch as it putted off down the street, thinking about the line I’d just crossed.
    Inside, the phone rang. I dashed in and grabbed it in the kitchen. It was Oree Joffrien returning my call.

Chapter Eight
     
    Peter Graff and his girlfriend lived on one of the narrow walk-through streets that run perpendicular to the beach in Venice, lined on either side by quaint cottages and aging apartment houses filled with surfers, artists, graying hippies, and monied yuppies eager to rub up against bohemia and pretend they’re part of the counterculture, as long as they don’t have to give up their new BMWs and five-hundred-dollar cappuccino machines.
    Peter’s