back in, saying, “Not so fast, Bozo.” She put down the phone and told him, “Missing girl over on the waterfront, general location of our stalker the other day, family member’s an MOS. Let’s hit the road.”
He punched his big fist into his big hand. “ Shit. My stomach he is volcano of hunger.” She was used to his heavy Russian accent and had long ago stopped treating him like someone with a brain defect, though she wouldn’t swear on a Bible that he didn’t have one. Sooner or later, every detective’s brain got warped.
“Yeah, and my stomach she is hurricane. Come on,this is New York City; you got a deli open twenty-four-seven on practically every block.”
“In my dreams.”
“That’s right, baby, in your dreams.”
He picked up his leather cap from the corner of his desk, put it on and followed her out of the detectives’ squad room.
“Don’t think about that corned beef on rye,” she razzed him as they walked along the buffed linoleum to the staircase leading down into the lobby of the Eighty-fourth Precinct. “Don’t think about that hot coffee and cream. Do not think about that piece of coconut cake. ”
“Loopy, you are going to kill me one of those days.”
Man, she loved this guy, just loved him, the way he mashed up the American language.
In the little bitty police parking lot right out front, they got into the gold sedan that was their specially designated unmarked car. She let him drive, figuring all guys liked the ego boost. Personally, she didn’t need the wheel in her hands to know who was boss.
At twenty-eight, Lupe Ramos understood herself. She was young enough to call herself a girl and old enough to know better. She knew when people looked at her they labeled her in a thousand ways — girl, woman, girlfriend, cop, partner, bitch, fashion diva, life of the party, single mother, irritant — the list went on and on. She didn’t much care. In her relatively short life she’d been through it all, on the streets and off; these days, when she sipped her coffee, she paused to taste it. She paused because your thoughts were clearest when you took the time. And she tasted it because she knew that in her line of work every sip could be your last one.
Mother at fifteen from dating some kid who was dead before their baby was born. Hector; okay, she’d loved him. Cop at twenty while working on her college degree. Detective at twenty-four while getting her master’s in criminal justice. Couldn’t have done it without her own mother, a “premature grandmother” she called herself, like all the other grannies on the bench watching their grandkids while their own kids finished growing up. Lupe hoped she wouldn’t be a grandmother at thirty, but if she was, so be it. She’d learn to knit and make the booties herself.
She checked her watch: It was a little after two a.m. Most of the other detectives hated working the eight-to-four night shift, but she had requested it; it was a crazy schedule but it worked for her life. At home in the wee hours, she’d catch up on her e-mails and surf the Internet or do her nails or read a magazine to unwind, then have breakfast with her mother, Chiquita, and son, Orlando, before he went off to school. She’d sleep until about four, hang out with Orlando if he came straight home from school, then shower, pretty up, and eat her mother’s dinner before hitting the road for another night of Chase the Criminals. Wednesdays and Sundays were her days off, and today she and Orlando had a date to work on his social studies project after school. Ancient Mesopotamia, trade on the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, early family life — the works. She’d looked forward to skipping her primping routine, throwing on some sweatpants and hitting the books with her son; and still did, if there was any chance of this call wrapping itself up neatly.
She hoped the missing girl turned up soon, but as she was a family member of an MOS it could easily get
He punched his big fist into his big hand. “ Shit. My stomach he is volcano of hunger.” She was used to his heavy Russian accent and had long ago stopped treating him like someone with a brain defect, though she wouldn’t swear on a Bible that he didn’t have one. Sooner or later, every detective’s brain got warped.
“Yeah, and my stomach she is hurricane. Come on,this is New York City; you got a deli open twenty-four-seven on practically every block.”
“In my dreams.”
“That’s right, baby, in your dreams.”
He picked up his leather cap from the corner of his desk, put it on and followed her out of the detectives’ squad room.
“Don’t think about that corned beef on rye,” she razzed him as they walked along the buffed linoleum to the staircase leading down into the lobby of the Eighty-fourth Precinct. “Don’t think about that hot coffee and cream. Do not think about that piece of coconut cake. ”
“Loopy, you are going to kill me one of those days.”
Man, she loved this guy, just loved him, the way he mashed up the American language.
In the little bitty police parking lot right out front, they got into the gold sedan that was their specially designated unmarked car. She let him drive, figuring all guys liked the ego boost. Personally, she didn’t need the wheel in her hands to know who was boss.
At twenty-eight, Lupe Ramos understood herself. She was young enough to call herself a girl and old enough to know better. She knew when people looked at her they labeled her in a thousand ways — girl, woman, girlfriend, cop, partner, bitch, fashion diva, life of the party, single mother, irritant — the list went on and on. She didn’t much care. In her relatively short life she’d been through it all, on the streets and off; these days, when she sipped her coffee, she paused to taste it. She paused because your thoughts were clearest when you took the time. And she tasted it because she knew that in her line of work every sip could be your last one.
Mother at fifteen from dating some kid who was dead before their baby was born. Hector; okay, she’d loved him. Cop at twenty while working on her college degree. Detective at twenty-four while getting her master’s in criminal justice. Couldn’t have done it without her own mother, a “premature grandmother” she called herself, like all the other grannies on the bench watching their grandkids while their own kids finished growing up. Lupe hoped she wouldn’t be a grandmother at thirty, but if she was, so be it. She’d learn to knit and make the booties herself.
She checked her watch: It was a little after two a.m. Most of the other detectives hated working the eight-to-four night shift, but she had requested it; it was a crazy schedule but it worked for her life. At home in the wee hours, she’d catch up on her e-mails and surf the Internet or do her nails or read a magazine to unwind, then have breakfast with her mother, Chiquita, and son, Orlando, before he went off to school. She’d sleep until about four, hang out with Orlando if he came straight home from school, then shower, pretty up, and eat her mother’s dinner before hitting the road for another night of Chase the Criminals. Wednesdays and Sundays were her days off, and today she and Orlando had a date to work on his social studies project after school. Ancient Mesopotamia, trade on the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, early family life — the works. She’d looked forward to skipping her primping routine, throwing on some sweatpants and hitting the books with her son; and still did, if there was any chance of this call wrapping itself up neatly.
She hoped the missing girl turned up soon, but as she was a family member of an MOS it could easily get
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