Sleeping Policemen by Dale Bailey

still there, Mira, a brittle forty-something blonde in an iridescent pantsuit, and Campbell, broad-shouldered and handsome, his red hair trimmed close above a prominently boned face.
    â€œThis is my friend Nick,” Sue had said, the word she chose—
    â€” friend —
    â€”inadequate, hurtful.
    Nick blushed, suddenly sorry he had come. “I just wanted that book,” he said off the top of his head.
    â€œThe book. Right.” Coldly, she added: “I’ll get it.” They listened to her mount the stairs, Mira in her shiny pantsuit, Campbell in a summer sweater of hand-woven silk, Nick in torn Levis and a pair of beat-up work boots he had stolen from Jake last Christmas. Nick scratched his head, studied the weave of the carpet.
    Mira Thompson cleared her throat. “Where are you from, Rick?”
    He stammered, started to correct her, thought better of it. He managed to get it out at last: “Louisiana.” He coughed, abruptly conscious of his bayou accent, so different from the honeyed cadence of old Savannah.
    Suddenly he understood Sue’s reluctance to bring him here, to introduce him to such people.
    And hated himself for it.
    â€œMira and I just love New Orleans. Went down for Mardi Gras—what was it, Mira, five years ago?”
    Nick studied his boots.
    â€œWhat do your folks do down there, son?”
    â€œSales,” Nick said. It might have been the most shameful moment of his life. He smiled weakly. “Dad’s in—”
    Sue saved him. She appeared at the bottom of the stairs in a rush, thrusting a paperback at him. He shoved it in a back pocket without even glancing at the title.
    â€œI’ll be off then.”
    An awkward moment passed, everyone standing and talking simultaneously, handshakes exchanged, and then Nick found himself on the stoop alone with Sue, staring into her angry face.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll call—”
    â€œI’ll call you.”
    But she did not.
    In the days that followed, Nick blew off classes, drank beer, and studied the book she had given him—an unread copy of Sons and Lovers from the British novel class—for answers to questions he dared not ask. The third afternoon—a sullen, rainy day that reflected Nick’s mood—she showed up at his door.
    â€œWhat’s up, Nicky?” she said, dropping her coat. There was nothing underneath, just the long, slim lines of the body that haunted his dreams. He knelt before her.
    â€œNick,” she said. “Oh, Nick.”
    Neither of them ever mentioned her parents again.
    â€œHey, buddy!”
    Nick turned. The ticket attendant rested his elbows on the counter.
    â€œYou talking to me?”
    â€œYou the one with that redhead, the two fellas?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œOutside. Said they’d be in the car.”
    Nick nodded, a knot loosening in his chest. That sense of resentment—the three of them closing ranks against him—retreated a little. Waiting. “Thanks.”
    Nick hurried to the stairs, anxious to escape the bus station’s contagion of fried food and diesel fuel, the doubt spreading like infection in his mind. He glimpsed the Mercedes, an electric blue SEL 450, at the curb through the old men clustered outside the door. They turned to look at him as he passed among them, their faces inscrutable. The cold was like a wall.
    â€œHey, pal?”
    A hand touched his elbow.
    â€œHey.”
    Nick glanced over his shoulder, clasping the mailer against his chest. A seamed face leaned toward him: booze-stained eyes and stubbled jaw, teeth yellow and slick-looking in a smile that wanted something. A shit-eating grin, Nick’s father would have called it. The old man’s breath hung between them like a veil, a reek of cigarettes and cheap wine.
    â€œYou got a buck? Coffee?”
    Involuntarily, Nick’s hand clutched his jacket, the roll of bills curled there, seed of a