A Farewell to Legs by JEFFREY COHEN

make it up to him the next time we spoke, assuming
he’d take the call.
    Meanwhile, there wasn’t much I could do today, so I
got back to work on the third act of the mystery, and was in
tantalizing proximity to the end when the door burst open and Ethan
walked in, singing to himself.
    “How’s it going, pal?” I said.
    “ Comme ci comme ça .” In sixth grade, you get
French lessons.
    “Bon,” I told him, and was about to attack the
keyboard again when Leah came in, with a grump on her face, as had
suddenly become usual.
    Before I could ask her about it, I was saved by the
phone. The voice on the other end was somewhat hushed, but I
recognized it. I’d been talking to it three minutes earlier.
    “This is Abrams.”
    “Yeah, listen, Sergeant, I didn’t
mean. . .”
    He cut me off as my daughter hung up her book bag
and slumped into the kitchen for a snack. “I’m on a cell phone
outside the building. How did you know about the arrest?”
    I stuttered for a second, trying to absorb what he
said. “There really is going to be an arrest? You have enough to do
that?”
    “Soon. And I need to know your source.”
    “I can’t do that, Abrams. You know I can’t.”
    Abrams sighed. He did know I couldn’t. “This
is from the top, Tucker. Nobody knows about it. I’m not even
sure I know about it. How do you?”
    “The fact of the matter is, Lieutenant, I’m not even
sure where I got the information from. It was from a friend of a
friend, if you know what I mean, and that’s all I’m going to say.
But, how soon? And what do they have to use for. . .”
    “Soon. And I can’t tell you anything about evidence.
You know I can’t.” He was right about that, too.
    “Thanks for the heads up,” I told him. We both hung
up.
    Stunned, I tried to call Stephanie, but got no
answer at her hotel. At least she hadn’t checked out yet. I tried
her cell phone, and got voice mail. I left a message telling her it
was urgent she call me before she left town.
    I’d like to say that Steph’s plight dominated my
every thought for the rest of the evening, but the truth is that my
mind is far too egocentric to allow such a thing. I concerned
myself with making sure Leah fed the gecko (something that had
immediately become a chore after the first time she’d done it). I
chose not to watch, since leaving live worms on a little dish and
then watching something that must, to them, look like Godzilla show
up to devour them was a little more than my delicate sensibility
could handle.
    After that, we had the daily tantrum over homework,
followed by the making-up and post-tantrum hugs, then preparing
dinner, celebrating the arrival of Abby, eating dinner, packing
Leah off to her soccer game, talking to the other parents at the
cold, damp high school field during said game (nobody there knew
anything about the stink bombs, either), then back home, baths,
showers, pajamas, brushed teeth, arguments about why one has to go
to bed at the same time as the other despite the age difference,
then a cuddle on the couch with my wife before she headed off to
bed.
    Through it all, my mind was occupied with something
else. I had to get to “THE END” of that damn screenplay, so I sat
down to complete my task at 11:30 p.m.
    By 1:30 a.m it was pretty much done, and purged from
my conscious mind. I’d pay for it in the morning, but I already
felt better. The mystery had been solved, the wicked punished, the
good rewarded, and most importantly, the words “FADE OUT” typed.
I’d print out a copy in the morning and force Abby to read it the
next night.
    The computer went off about a quarter to two, and I
headed for the stairs, with the lights out everywhere on the ground
floor. Luckily, I know where everything is in my house, so I only
stubbed my toe twice and tripped once.
    But the moment my foot hit the first stair, I heard
a jarring crash of glass and the sound of a car peeling away. Quick
as a cat, I stood transfixed on the first stair,