adrenaline in the showdown with McKenzie. It was a rare pleasure to see her this way; I closed my eyes and enjoyed it.
Let her tell me what she wants to tell me, I thought. It might have been thirty minutes, it might have been an hour, but broken snatches of her voice finally brought me out of a trance.
“You know… kind of like… tell but didn’t.”
“What?” I said, rolling over and bringing my head and ears out of the water.
Sherry made the same maneuver and looked at me.
“Sorry. I was just talking out loud, I guess.”
“Couldn’t hear you, babe.”
“The meet with Booker,” she said. “Very odd.”
We were now treading water next to each other about fifty yards from shore. We both turned toward land and did a kind of head-out-of-water stroke, slowly heading in.
“First, he tried to apologize for McKenzie and the other assholes, saying they didn’t mean anything by it, and they weren’t really such bad guys.”
If it were possible to shake one’s head in a bobbing sea, I shook my head.
“Then he said something about them being the kind of animals that see a weakness in their prey and go after it.”
“What the hell was that about?” I said.
“Well, he tried to cover then by saying it was good police tactics, knowing the street, knowing the opponent.”
“So the rest of those guys were cops?”
“I only recognized three or four of them. Mostly District Three, the area they call the danger zone,” she said.
“And that’s where Booker worked?”
“Yeah, it’s been like some competitive club atmosphere out there for years—lots of macho shit. The captain in charge tries to keep a lid on it, but he also likes the image of being rough and ready. So he lets a lot go.”
I kept stroking. Everybody knows that kind of culture exists in policing. It’s natural, and sometimes even essential. You wouldn’t want a bunch of schoolteachers trying to control a riot. You can’t have a crew of desk jockeys running into a burning high-rise to carrying people down the smoking staircase. There’s going to be a macho element in every department. You cook up a blend of testosterone, a heightened sense of authority, an emphasis on physical conditioning, and pepper it up with a dash of gun oil, and you can’t avoid it. Good police management keeps it in check. I’d seen it in Philadelphia. I’d seen it fail in Philadelphia.
After a few minutes of silent swimming, I could see the sand below us. I stopped and stood. Sherry did the same on one leg, and then continued talking.
“The scuttlebutt has always been that a pack of these lifter cops are into steroids and uppers, but internal affairs can’t—or won’t—get involved. I sure wasn’t going to get into that with Booker. So I changed the subject and asked him if he’d tried to do his physical therapy at the hospital rehab center. I told him it would be a lot more effective, that the specialists there know a lot more about range of motion and balance, instead of just muscle building.”
“And?”
“It pissed him off. He said, ‘Yeah, I could see how your range of motion helped you out back in the gym.’”
“So what are you going to report to your boss?” I asked.
“I don’t know. The guy’s got some rage, which is understandable. But he isn’t doing the ‘poor me’ gig, or the self-loathing. He is however, pulling himself under for some reason. There’s some kind of struggle going on inside, but who the hell knows what?”
As Sherry spoke, I watched her eyes. She was being more psychologically analytical with this guy Booker than I’d ever heard her be about her own situation. I caught myself thinking this might be a good thing for both her and him.
“Was he willing to talk with you again?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Yeah, maybe,” she answered, and then turned back to the east, watching the roll of the sea, bouncing lightly on her foot and waving her palms underwater to stay
Let her tell me what she wants to tell me, I thought. It might have been thirty minutes, it might have been an hour, but broken snatches of her voice finally brought me out of a trance.
“You know… kind of like… tell but didn’t.”
“What?” I said, rolling over and bringing my head and ears out of the water.
Sherry made the same maneuver and looked at me.
“Sorry. I was just talking out loud, I guess.”
“Couldn’t hear you, babe.”
“The meet with Booker,” she said. “Very odd.”
We were now treading water next to each other about fifty yards from shore. We both turned toward land and did a kind of head-out-of-water stroke, slowly heading in.
“First, he tried to apologize for McKenzie and the other assholes, saying they didn’t mean anything by it, and they weren’t really such bad guys.”
If it were possible to shake one’s head in a bobbing sea, I shook my head.
“Then he said something about them being the kind of animals that see a weakness in their prey and go after it.”
“What the hell was that about?” I said.
“Well, he tried to cover then by saying it was good police tactics, knowing the street, knowing the opponent.”
“So the rest of those guys were cops?”
“I only recognized three or four of them. Mostly District Three, the area they call the danger zone,” she said.
“And that’s where Booker worked?”
“Yeah, it’s been like some competitive club atmosphere out there for years—lots of macho shit. The captain in charge tries to keep a lid on it, but he also likes the image of being rough and ready. So he lets a lot go.”
I kept stroking. Everybody knows that kind of culture exists in policing. It’s natural, and sometimes even essential. You wouldn’t want a bunch of schoolteachers trying to control a riot. You can’t have a crew of desk jockeys running into a burning high-rise to carrying people down the smoking staircase. There’s going to be a macho element in every department. You cook up a blend of testosterone, a heightened sense of authority, an emphasis on physical conditioning, and pepper it up with a dash of gun oil, and you can’t avoid it. Good police management keeps it in check. I’d seen it in Philadelphia. I’d seen it fail in Philadelphia.
After a few minutes of silent swimming, I could see the sand below us. I stopped and stood. Sherry did the same on one leg, and then continued talking.
“The scuttlebutt has always been that a pack of these lifter cops are into steroids and uppers, but internal affairs can’t—or won’t—get involved. I sure wasn’t going to get into that with Booker. So I changed the subject and asked him if he’d tried to do his physical therapy at the hospital rehab center. I told him it would be a lot more effective, that the specialists there know a lot more about range of motion and balance, instead of just muscle building.”
“And?”
“It pissed him off. He said, ‘Yeah, I could see how your range of motion helped you out back in the gym.’”
“So what are you going to report to your boss?” I asked.
“I don’t know. The guy’s got some rage, which is understandable. But he isn’t doing the ‘poor me’ gig, or the self-loathing. He is however, pulling himself under for some reason. There’s some kind of struggle going on inside, but who the hell knows what?”
As Sherry spoke, I watched her eyes. She was being more psychologically analytical with this guy Booker than I’d ever heard her be about her own situation. I caught myself thinking this might be a good thing for both her and him.
“Was he willing to talk with you again?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Yeah, maybe,” she answered, and then turned back to the east, watching the roll of the sea, bouncing lightly on her foot and waving her palms underwater to stay
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