repeated. She managed, somehow, by the tiniest trick of inflection, to make it sound more like the actual flower and less like the plain girl seated before her. “Well, Rose, it’s lovely to meet y—”
Before she could finish her sentence, the door that led to the precinct’s little holding jail burst open and an elderly wino ripe with body odor swayed wildly into our midst. The Lieutenant Detective, I noticed, stepped ever so slightly closer to Odalie, as if to shield her. But contrary to everyone’s expectations, she did not require shielding. The buzz of activity around the precinct fell quiet and everyone looked on as Odalie composed herself and strode very calmly toward the escapee.
“Sir,” she said in an unfazed, smooth purr while linking arms with the wino in a friendly manner, “you seem to have slipped away from your accommodations, and I’m afraid the establishment isn’t quite ready to part with your company.” The wino, a man who was perhaps in his sixties and was dressed in a badly tattered brown suit, looked at the arm that had so smoothly looped itself through his own and, with the combination of extreme confusion and intense concentration that is unique to the very, very drunk, followed the arm’s length up to its owner’s face. What he saw there shocked him into an awed, docile sort of submission. Odalie moved as though to imply great deliberate care of his person, and, unaccustomed to such treatment, he was caught off guard. He allowed her to lead him back to the holding cell as naturally and happily as if she were leading him to a dance floor or to a next hole of golf. Once there, she let go of his arm, patted his shoulder, and gave him a wink. Meanwhile, two deputies quickly stepped in and locked him back up safely behind bars. In spite of his reimprisonment, the old man grinned at Odalie euphorically as she walked away and did not appear to regret having allowed himself to be tricked.
When she reemerged from the hall that led to the holding cell and returned to the main floor, the officers and other typists collectively held their breaths for a moment, and then suddenly the whole room erupted with applause. Odalie smiled in a pleased way and nodded her head modestly, but—as I noted—did not blush.
“Well done,Miss Lazare,” the Sergeant called in an approving bass from across the room.
The Lieutenant Detective walked over to her, extracting a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket. He shook the handkerchief out, snapping it once through the air, then took Odalie’s hands in his own and gently wiped away a few smudges of sooty dirt that had been transferred from the wino onto Odalie’s own person during the course of her escort.
“Well, it certainly appears you are not above getting your hands a little dirty,” he said to her, giving her a wink and allowing the corners of his mouth to curl up devilishly. I am not the sort of woman to whom men often utter double entendres, but I know one when I overhear one. To her credit, Odalie appeared uninterested. She smiled politely at the good-looking detective while he cleaned the soot off her hands, but then looked away absently, as though her attention had been caught by something more fascinating just over his shoulder.
As for our own aborted introduction, it appeared it had already been long forgotten. After the fuss over Odalie’s smooth handling of the rowdy wino died down, the Lieutenant Detective handed Odalie off to Marie, whereupon she was shown to a desk and given her first police report to type up. For the remainder of the day, I watched her closely from my side of the precinct floor, but she seemed utterly impervious to my existence and did not look up or glance my way a single time. So much the better, I decided. I remember thinking at the time, aside from the simple fact of our gender, we did not appear to have much in common.
4
O f course, the mistakes seemed entirely genuine and unintended at first, and had very
Before she could finish her sentence, the door that led to the precinct’s little holding jail burst open and an elderly wino ripe with body odor swayed wildly into our midst. The Lieutenant Detective, I noticed, stepped ever so slightly closer to Odalie, as if to shield her. But contrary to everyone’s expectations, she did not require shielding. The buzz of activity around the precinct fell quiet and everyone looked on as Odalie composed herself and strode very calmly toward the escapee.
“Sir,” she said in an unfazed, smooth purr while linking arms with the wino in a friendly manner, “you seem to have slipped away from your accommodations, and I’m afraid the establishment isn’t quite ready to part with your company.” The wino, a man who was perhaps in his sixties and was dressed in a badly tattered brown suit, looked at the arm that had so smoothly looped itself through his own and, with the combination of extreme confusion and intense concentration that is unique to the very, very drunk, followed the arm’s length up to its owner’s face. What he saw there shocked him into an awed, docile sort of submission. Odalie moved as though to imply great deliberate care of his person, and, unaccustomed to such treatment, he was caught off guard. He allowed her to lead him back to the holding cell as naturally and happily as if she were leading him to a dance floor or to a next hole of golf. Once there, she let go of his arm, patted his shoulder, and gave him a wink. Meanwhile, two deputies quickly stepped in and locked him back up safely behind bars. In spite of his reimprisonment, the old man grinned at Odalie euphorically as she walked away and did not appear to regret having allowed himself to be tricked.
When she reemerged from the hall that led to the holding cell and returned to the main floor, the officers and other typists collectively held their breaths for a moment, and then suddenly the whole room erupted with applause. Odalie smiled in a pleased way and nodded her head modestly, but—as I noted—did not blush.
“Well done,Miss Lazare,” the Sergeant called in an approving bass from across the room.
The Lieutenant Detective walked over to her, extracting a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket. He shook the handkerchief out, snapping it once through the air, then took Odalie’s hands in his own and gently wiped away a few smudges of sooty dirt that had been transferred from the wino onto Odalie’s own person during the course of her escort.
“Well, it certainly appears you are not above getting your hands a little dirty,” he said to her, giving her a wink and allowing the corners of his mouth to curl up devilishly. I am not the sort of woman to whom men often utter double entendres, but I know one when I overhear one. To her credit, Odalie appeared uninterested. She smiled politely at the good-looking detective while he cleaned the soot off her hands, but then looked away absently, as though her attention had been caught by something more fascinating just over his shoulder.
As for our own aborted introduction, it appeared it had already been long forgotten. After the fuss over Odalie’s smooth handling of the rowdy wino died down, the Lieutenant Detective handed Odalie off to Marie, whereupon she was shown to a desk and given her first police report to type up. For the remainder of the day, I watched her closely from my side of the precinct floor, but she seemed utterly impervious to my existence and did not look up or glance my way a single time. So much the better, I decided. I remember thinking at the time, aside from the simple fact of our gender, we did not appear to have much in common.
4
O f course, the mistakes seemed entirely genuine and unintended at first, and had very
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