Night Passage by Robert B. Parker

civilians. Here you’re a town employee. Everybody knows everybody. The civilians are in our face twenty-four hours a day. For crissake you have to attend Rotary Club meetings.”
    “Rotary Club?”
    “Yeah. They didn’t mention that to you? Chief of Police here is automatically a member of the Rotary Club, meets every Wednesday at the Paradise Inn.”
    “How’s the food?” Jesse asked.
    “You like chicken pot pie?”
    Jesse shrugged.
    “That’s how the food is,” Burke said.
    “Well,” Jesse said, “we’ll see about Rotary.”
    A big yellow cat came silently into Jesse’s office and jumped up onto the window ledge and curled up on himself and went to sleep in the sun.
    “Who’s this?” Jesse said.
    “Captain Cat,” Burke said. “Wandered in here five years ago. We feed him.”
    “Cop house cat,” Jesse said.
    Burke nodded.
    “Tell me about the town legal counsel,” Jesse said.
    “Abby? She works for the firm in town. Big firm for a small town, ten, twelve lawyers. Real estate, wills, estate planning, that kind of stuff. Gives the town about ten hours a week pro bono.”
    “You like her?”
    “Sure.”
    “What do you like best about her?”
    “She’s got a nice ass,” Burke said.
    “I noticed.”
    “And she’s usually got a hair across it.”
    Jesse grinned.
    “You’re not too careful, are you?” Jesse said.
    “No,” Burke said. “I ain’t.”
    “Good,” Jesse said.
    “You didn’t ask me about Hathaway or any of those people,” Burke said.
    “Thought that might be pushing you a little hard this early in the game,” Jesse said. “I’ll find out about them myself.”
    Burke nodded.
    “Selectmen get elected by the town,” Burke said. “Town and the police don’t always agree on how things get done.”
    “Lou,” Jesse said, “no cop counts on elected officials.”
    Burke grinned.
    “Well,” he said. “You ain’t as young as you look.”
    “Maybe I’m not,” Jesse said.

12
    Lou Burke sat with Hasty Hathaway on the bench outside the meeting house on the town common. Hathaway had a bag of popcorn which he was feeding to some pigeons that had gathered.
    “You got any pets, Lou?” Hathaway said.
    “No.”
    “I’d like to have some animals, but Cissy …” He shook his head and held out a piece of popcorn on his upturned palm. A pigeon circled it, hesitated, feinted once, then darted in and grabbed the corn. “I guess Ciss just isn’t an animal person.”
    “Sure,” Burke said. “They’re not for everybody, I guess.”
    “You know Ciss, used to having her house just so. God knows what she’d have been like if we’d had kids.”
    “Easy to get set in your ways,” Burke said.
    The common was a small green triangle at the intersection of three streets. There was a white eighteenth-century meeting house set on it, where at Christmas the women’s auxiliary of something or other, Burke had never really known what, sold greens and fruitcake and handmade satin bows.
    “So what do you think of Stone?” Hathaway said.
    He took a handful of the popcorn and scattered it on the grass in front of the bench.
    Burke was silent a moment, watching the pigeons hop and flutter after the popcorn.
    “Well,” Burke said finally, “it’s too soon to say, I guess.”
    “I realize that, but what’s your impression.”
    “He might not be the answer,” Burke said.
    “Really?” Hathaway seemed surprised. “Why do you say so?”
    “I don’t know exactly, there’s just something … he’s got more iron in him than I was expecting.”
    “Lou, he’s a lush,” Hathaway said. “He was fired for drinking on duty. His personnel file said he was unfit for police work.”
    “Yeah, I know,” Burke said. “But he doesn’t give me that feeling. He was a homicide cop in L.A., remember.”
    “And he was half gassed when we interviewed him in Chicago,” Hathaway said.
    Burke shrugged.
    “Well, let’s keep our eyes open,” Hathaway said. “What we don’t want is