Valley of the Lost by Vicki Delany

from the trees; young men strutted their stuff. A few people shied away from the watching police officers but most smiled and nodded.
    A man left the bar, taking swigs from an open can of beer. Evans walked up to him, and ordered him to pour it into the gutter.
    Smith put her hands on her belt. Her bra itched against the skin of her chest. She wanted to dig inside, root around, find the source of the itch and scratch it out.
    Which would not be a very professional thing to do.
    “Hey, sweet thing. Wanna have some fun?”
    Sure , Smith thought, after I blow my brains out . The man standing in front of her was young, his black hair cut almost to the scalp. His body formed the perfect male triangle of strong shoulders, compact stomach, thin hips. She’d never seen him before.
    He held a homemade cigarette between his fingers. “Nice bruise you got there. Like it rough, do you? What a coincidence, so do I.” He lifted his right hand to his mouth, and blew smoke into her face.
    Coffee and skunk.
    “Are you trying to provoke me?”
    “Perish the thought. Aren’t you just the cutest thing? Whatca doin’ after work?”
    Another puff of fragrant smoke.
    She grabbed his arm. “Get rid of that, fast.”
    He drew a deep breath on his cigarette. “No way, sweet thing.”
    “Let’s see some ID.”
    His eyes opened wide. “What?”
    “ID. Now. Move it.” She grabbed the cigarette out of his hand.
    “What the hell? Back off, lady. That belongs to me.”
    She pinched off the burning end and put the cigarette into her shirt pocket. “You can’t produce identification, then I’m taking you in. What’s your name?”
    “Okay, okay.” He dug through his pockets. Pulling out an Illinois driver’s license he held it in front of her face. She grabbed it and read the information into the radio at her shoulder.
    “Thank you, Mr. McIntyre. We’ll continue this conversation down at the station.” She took hold of his arm.
    “What the hell?”
    She spoke into the radio. “Trafalgar five-one. Outside The Bishop. I need a pickup.” Dispatch cracked affirmation. “I’m taking you in for possession of an illegal narcotic. I strongly advise you not to resist.”
    Evans turned from watching the crowd leaving the bar. “You need some help, Constable Smith?” This time she didn’t take offense at his offer of assistance. She would have done the same for him.
    The curious were beginning to gather. Two men, also strong and fit with shaved heads, watched but said nothing.
    “Can you believe this shit?” McIntyre said to them.
    “You going to come nicely, or add to the charges?” Smith said, watching the friends out of the corner of her eye.
    They shrugged and looked away, melting into the crowd beginning to gather. Smith saw her old enemy, Meredith Morgenstern, watching them.
    “Damn it,” McIntyre said.
    “We’re good here, Constable Evans,” Smith said.
    A marked car pulled up, and McIntyre, still protesting, but offering no physical resistance, was briefly searched, handcuffed, and loaded into the back. Smith got in the passenger seat, and they drove the few blocks to the station.
    Smith did the paperwork. McIntyre had no record, no outstanding warrants, so was released with orders to return tomorrow.
    He spat on the floor, barely missing the toe of Smith’s boot. “Fascist police state,” he said. “I’ll tell everyone back home what Canada’s really like. I thought you were supposed to be so goddamned liberal.”
    Ingrid, the night dispatcher, laughed as the door slammed. “B.C. tourism’ll be after you, Molly.”
    “I might set up my own tour company: jails of the Kootenays.” She took advantage of the stop at the station to use the washroom before going back onto the streets. Trafalgar had the reputation of being lenient on minor marijuana infractions, but the police didn’t take too well to having it flaunted in their faces.
    On her way to the door, she walked behind Ingrid’s desk to have a look at the