Cat's Claw by Susan Wittig Albert

setting up the scene. She turned right on Crockett and a couple of blocks later, stopped in front of Cavette’s Market, a small family-owned shop with wooden bins and wicker baskets of locally grown fruits and veggies lined up under the sidewalk awning. She rolled down the windows a couple of inches and left Rambo to guard the Impala (not that anybody would be stupid enough to mess with a police car with a Rottweiler in the front seat) and went into the store. She usually made it a point to stop in one or two shops every day. It was good community relations—another part of her job. The more facetime she could put in with the community, the more trust was created. And trust was a valuable commodity.
    “Hello, Chief.” Young Mr. Cavette—nearly seventy and bald as an onion—put a hand on his back as he straightened up from a basket of acorn squash he was putting out on the produce counter. His father, old Mr. Cavette, who was perched behind the old-fashioned cash register, had recently celebrated his ninetieth birthday. Junior, in his forties and the youngest Mr. Cavette, made deliveries on his red motorbike. Sheila always had the feeling that the shop and all three of its owners ought to be registered as historical landmarks.
    “Hello, Mr. Cavette,” Sheila said, picking up a wire basket. “How’s it going today?”
    “’Bout as good as expected when you get to my age,” old Mr. Cavette wheezed from his stool. “But it’s allus good when you can get up and get your pants on in the mornin’.”
    Young Mr. Cavette raised both scrawny eyebrows. “Met that new gal o’ yours this morning, Chief. Real nice, she is.”
    “New gal?” Sheila picked up a bottle of wine and scanned the label. Texas wine, local winery. “Oh, you must mean Officer Kidder. Stopped in to say hello, did she?”
    Taking the rookies around to meet the local merchants had been Sergeant Clarke’s idea. Sheila liked and supported it. The drop-in visits looked spontaneous and casual, but they served two purposes: introducing the merchants to the new officer and giving the rookie a look into the stores and shops. From her own street experience, Sheila knew that prior knowledge came in handy when an officer had to respond to a burglar alarm on a dark, rainy night. Most of the alarms were false. It was the one that wasn’t that could get you killed. PSPD had not lost an officer in her time as chief. She wanted to keep it that way.
    “Kidder.” Young Mr. Cavette pursed his lips deliberately. “That’s the one. Nice smile. A real looker, too. But if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, Chief, she’s just a little thing. I gotta wonder how she’s gonna handle a drunk cowboy in a dark alley.”
    Sheila chuckled wryly. Every woman cop got the dark-alley question, over and over again, in a dozen different forms. How would she deal with a rabid gorilla, a seven-foot seaman, a three-hundred-pound sumo wrestler, all of them drunk or high on crack? There was no point in getting your hackles up. It was just something that every civilian (and some male cops, as well) had to ask. She had developed a stock answer.
    “I pity the drunk cowboy,” she said with a laugh. “Officer Kidder has some pretty convincing take-down moves.” For good measure, she added, “She was first in her class in Defensive Tactics at the academy. We’re glad to have her on the force.” To the wine in her basket, she added a package of fresh ravioli and a jar of tomato sauce and the makings for a spinach salad—tonight’s supper for herself. For Rambo, she picked up a pound of beef liver and a package of dog treats. Old Mr. Cavette checked her out and she paid the bill.
    “Y’all give us a call if you need anything,” she called as she headed for the door.
    “Hope we won’t have to,” young Mr. Cavette said. “But if we do, be sure and send that young’un. I’d like to see some of them moves.”
    Back in the Impala, still chuckling, Sheila looked at the clock on the