didn't really figure I needed the exercise."
"And you didn't want to run into them again."
"I never even thought about it," I said, "but maybe that was in the back of my mind. Not the idea of meeting up with them specifically, but the sense that the streets weren't a safe place all of a sudden."
I hadn't planned on saying anything to her, not right away. But when I walked into the apartment she took one look at me and knew something was wrong.
"So you're done working for Mick," she said now.
"I was done anyway. In the movies the best way to keep a detective on the job is to try scaring him off, but that's not how it works in the real world. Not this time, anyway. Mick wouldn't let me give the money back, but he didn't try to talk me out of resigning, either. He knew I'd done what I set out to do."
"Do they know that, honey?"
"The two heavies? I told them so, and I think they believed me. Punching me out was part of their deal, so the guy took his best shot, but that didn't mean he didn't believe me."
"And now?"
"You think he changed his mind?"
"In his mind," she said, "you were quitting the job because he'd managed to intimidate you."
"And that was partly the case. Although it would be more accurate to say he'd reinforced a decision I'd already made."
"But then you fought back," she said. "And won."
"It was a lucky punch."
"Whatever it was, it worked. You sent one scampering and left the other writhing in agony. What's so funny?"
"'Writhing in agony.'"
"Rolling around and trying to put his liver back together? That sounds to me like writhing in agony."
"I suppose."
"What I'm getting at is you weren't acting intimidated. Though I suppose you must have been afraid."
"Not while it was going on. You're too much in the moment to have any room left for fear. Afterward, walking across Fifty-third Street, I started sweating like the guy in Broadcast News."
"The guy in... oh, Albert Brooks. That was a funny movie."
"And then of course I had to stop and vomit. In the gutter, of course, because I'm a gentleman. So I guess we can say I was scared, once it was over and there was nothing to be scared of. But for a few critical seconds there I was Mister Cool."
"My hero," she said. "Baby, they didn't see you afterward, did they? They missed the shakes and the flop sweat. All they ever saw was Mister Cool."
"You're concerned they're going to turn up again."
"Well, aren't you?"
"I can't rule out the possibility. But why should they? They'll see for themselves I'm not chasing out to Jersey or hanging out at Grogan's. I went there tonight, but I won't be going there again until all of this blows over."
"And you don't think they'll want to get even?"
"Again, it's possible. They're pros, but even a pro can let his ego get caught up in his work. I'll keep my eyes open the next couple of weeks, and I'll stay out of dark alleys."
"That's never a bad idea."
"And you know what else I think I'll do? I'll carry a gun."
"That one?"
I'd put it on the coffee table. I picked it up now and felt the weight of it on my palm. It was a revolver, a.38-caliber Smith, with hollow-point shells in five of the cylinder's six chambers.
"I carried one a lot like this," I said, "when I was on the job. They always weigh more than you think they're going to, even a stubby one like this. It's got a one-inch barrel. The piece I mostly carried had a two-inch."
"When you came up to my apartment," she said, "the first thing you would do was take off your gun and set it aside."
"As I remember it, the first thing I would do was kiss you."
"The second thing, then. You made a ritual of it."
"Did I?"
"Uh-huh. Maybe it was a way of showing you felt safe with me."
"Maybe."
When we met, I was a married cop and she was a sweet and innocent young call girl. Ages ago, that was. Another lifetime, two other lifetimes.
I said, "A few years ago they realized the cops were outgunned by the bad guys, especially the drug dealers. So they called in the
"And you didn't want to run into them again."
"I never even thought about it," I said, "but maybe that was in the back of my mind. Not the idea of meeting up with them specifically, but the sense that the streets weren't a safe place all of a sudden."
I hadn't planned on saying anything to her, not right away. But when I walked into the apartment she took one look at me and knew something was wrong.
"So you're done working for Mick," she said now.
"I was done anyway. In the movies the best way to keep a detective on the job is to try scaring him off, but that's not how it works in the real world. Not this time, anyway. Mick wouldn't let me give the money back, but he didn't try to talk me out of resigning, either. He knew I'd done what I set out to do."
"Do they know that, honey?"
"The two heavies? I told them so, and I think they believed me. Punching me out was part of their deal, so the guy took his best shot, but that didn't mean he didn't believe me."
"And now?"
"You think he changed his mind?"
"In his mind," she said, "you were quitting the job because he'd managed to intimidate you."
"And that was partly the case. Although it would be more accurate to say he'd reinforced a decision I'd already made."
"But then you fought back," she said. "And won."
"It was a lucky punch."
"Whatever it was, it worked. You sent one scampering and left the other writhing in agony. What's so funny?"
"'Writhing in agony.'"
"Rolling around and trying to put his liver back together? That sounds to me like writhing in agony."
"I suppose."
"What I'm getting at is you weren't acting intimidated. Though I suppose you must have been afraid."
"Not while it was going on. You're too much in the moment to have any room left for fear. Afterward, walking across Fifty-third Street, I started sweating like the guy in Broadcast News."
"The guy in... oh, Albert Brooks. That was a funny movie."
"And then of course I had to stop and vomit. In the gutter, of course, because I'm a gentleman. So I guess we can say I was scared, once it was over and there was nothing to be scared of. But for a few critical seconds there I was Mister Cool."
"My hero," she said. "Baby, they didn't see you afterward, did they? They missed the shakes and the flop sweat. All they ever saw was Mister Cool."
"You're concerned they're going to turn up again."
"Well, aren't you?"
"I can't rule out the possibility. But why should they? They'll see for themselves I'm not chasing out to Jersey or hanging out at Grogan's. I went there tonight, but I won't be going there again until all of this blows over."
"And you don't think they'll want to get even?"
"Again, it's possible. They're pros, but even a pro can let his ego get caught up in his work. I'll keep my eyes open the next couple of weeks, and I'll stay out of dark alleys."
"That's never a bad idea."
"And you know what else I think I'll do? I'll carry a gun."
"That one?"
I'd put it on the coffee table. I picked it up now and felt the weight of it on my palm. It was a revolver, a.38-caliber Smith, with hollow-point shells in five of the cylinder's six chambers.
"I carried one a lot like this," I said, "when I was on the job. They always weigh more than you think they're going to, even a stubby one like this. It's got a one-inch barrel. The piece I mostly carried had a two-inch."
"When you came up to my apartment," she said, "the first thing you would do was take off your gun and set it aside."
"As I remember it, the first thing I would do was kiss you."
"The second thing, then. You made a ritual of it."
"Did I?"
"Uh-huh. Maybe it was a way of showing you felt safe with me."
"Maybe."
When we met, I was a married cop and she was a sweet and innocent young call girl. Ages ago, that was. Another lifetime, two other lifetimes.
I said, "A few years ago they realized the cops were outgunned by the bad guys, especially the drug dealers. So they called in the
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