Picking the Ballad's Bones by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough Page A

asked
blearily.
    "Where are the cops?" he asked. "They
were thick as crabgrass at that last stop. You s'pect we've been
cleared since then? Or maybe they only do terrorists on alternate
Thursdays and this is the day everybody goes after bank-robbers or
kidnappers instead?"
    Well, wasn't that Willie MacKai all
over? You'd swear he was dead between the ears and find out he was
way ahead of you. And he was right, of course. Not a single uniform
was in sight except for a cluster of soldier boys standing next to
the station. She tugged a little on his arm. "Let's just count our
blessings."
     
    * * *
     
    Brose Fairchild didn't even see the
cops through the haze of smoke in the lounge car until they were
almost on top of him. Since the car had no exit, he wouldn't have
been able to escape anyway. The cops spotted him with no
difficulty. Willie had the banjo, but Brose, as the only largish,
freckled, red-haired black man on the train, was easily the most
conspicuous. The cops had been perfectly polite, but he heard them
say "nigger" every time they said "sir" and when they started
questioning him, he wondered if the police were as careful not to
be overtly accused of brutality over here as they were in the
States. Of course, all that meant was they shouldn't leave scars,
but the whole affair had him sweating up a storm even without the
help of the traditional bright interrogation lights.
    The hell of it was that he was
entirely innocent of any crime he could think of except declining
to aid the lawmen with their "inquiries," which he would be
delighted to do. If circumstances were a little different, he would
have given them the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth, but they'd think he was fuckin' nuts if he told them that
and he couldn't think up any real good lies that wouldn't get him
busted in the mouth. Things being the way they were, he shrugged a
lot and kept quiet.
    That strategy did not exactly endear
him to the police either. "Are you deaf, sir?" the woman officer,
who looked as if she'd be hell on the soccer field, asked him
politely.
    "No, ma'am. That's the Widah Martin,"
he said without thinking about it.
    "And who is she? Is this Julianne
Martin you're referring to? One of the other passengers who arrived
with you on flight ninety-one twenty-two?"
    "Yeah. That's her. Listen, do I get a
phone call?" Brose asked, remembering what all the crooks on TV
said (right after saying "ya can't pin nothin' on me") when faced
with police harassment.
    The woman cop raised a sandy eyebrow
at him. "And just whom would you like to call, sir?"
    Brose didn't know, exactly, though the
SPCA naturally came to mind. Brose had devoted his scrubby ranch to
caring for animal dropouts from the local humane society shelter
where he worked. He wished some Lassie dog, Flipper, or Flicka
would come break him out now. "I'll think of somebody," he grunted
to the woman, and urgently wished he could.
     
    * * *
     
    "DD?"
    "What is it now, boss?"
    "What have I been telling you all
along about these people?"
    "Oops. I forgot. No jail."
    "That's right."
    "Shit. Okay, okay. I'll take care of
it."
     
    * * *
     
    As Brose was trying to
decide who he could phone who might help him—maybe the American
embassy? he doubted if they'd be any big help, but it was worth a
try—someone knocked on the frosted pane of the door to the
interrogation room. The woman officer flicked her eyes to one side
like she'd been watching way too many reruns of Miami Vice. Her partner, who looked
as if he should still be driving a skateboard, answered the knock.
There was a little intense whispering back and forth, then the
fellow stepped outside the door. After a moment, he stepped back
inside the door and motioned for the woman, who joined
them.
    When she returned they put Brose in a
cell. About fifteen minutes later, they took him out
again.
    "What the hell's going on?"
    "You're being released," the
skateboard jockey told him. "But the attorney from the