fingers at me. “But you write your memoirs, or go online or come to Jesus where anyone but Jesus can hear you, I will personally react with shock and dismay tempered by sorrow and compassion and then prosecute you till the end of days. Understand that, Detective. If you tell anyone about this, you will go to prison. The NYPD does not perform executions in the field. And we don’t cover them up. It just doesn’t happen. It never happened. Hear me?”
“I hear you.”
He stood up. I stood up. He shook my hand again. “And like I said: good job. I hope you let that evil bastard suffer before you double-tapped him.”
I shook my head. “I don’t remember.”
“Shame. It’s memories like that that warm the lonely evenings of our golden years. Have a good life, Champion.”
So yeah, Bethany was right. There were things I wouldn’t say—actually couldn’t say—about my past. Maybe that made me wary of story-swapping around the table, especially after a drink or two.
“I mean it’s not just swapping war stories in the bar,” Bethany went on—and it was as if she had read my mind and was speaking directly into my thoughts. She could be a genuine pain in the ass that way. “I mean, I don’t care what perp you had to slap around or how bedbug-crazy some evildoing so-and-so was.”
“You do listen in, don’t you.”
“You and I have been in and out of bed together almost a year.” She was talking low, looking up from my chest, her lips near my jaw. “You know how I feel about you . . .”
“Bethany . . .”
“No, I’m not gonna get off on all that. I’m just saying. I’ve got no complaints about the way you treat me, God knows.”
“Well, after all, I am a stone funky love machine . . . Ow!”
“I’m not just talking about that, thank you,” she said, removing her knuckle from my ribs. “I know you’re the big bad lawman of the world and all that, but I swear I never met a man so naturally sweet-natured behind closed doors.”
“Of course, now that you know that, I’m gonna have to kill you.”
She reached up and touched my lips with her finger, I don’t know whether to shut me up or simply to do it. She said, “It’s just: I don’t know the first thing about you. When I think about it. I don’t know one damn thing.”
“Oh, come on, that’s not true.”
“It is.”
“I’ve told you things.”
“Your resume. ‘Then I went to Afghanistan, then I joined the police . . .’”
“And growing up in foster homes and all that. I don’t discuss that with just anybody.”
“Mm,” she said.
“How come women don’t have to make a logical argument? How come women just get to say, ‘Mm,’ like that?”
“I don’t know. That’s how God made it. You don’t want to mess with God, do you?”
“Well, all right, what is it you want to know?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Something personal, something about yourself.”
“Like what?”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“ That’s what you want to know?”
“Well?”
“I never thought about it. Chartreuse.”
“Oh, you don’t even know what chartreuse is.”
“Sure I do. It’s purple.”
“It’s green.”
“Oh. Well . . . brown then. I have a brown jacket I like. Kind of orange-brown. It’s nice.”
“What kind of things are you afraid of?”
“Conversations like this, for one.”
“Not like guns or dying or something like that. Something stupid. Something you’re embarrassed by.”
“Let’s see. I never liked spiders much.”
“Hate spiders.”
“Ugly little bastards, aren’t they? And they can jump at you, some of them.”
“What’s your earliest memory?”
“Oh, Christ . . . Playing catch in the backyard with one of my foster fathers. He coached Little League, you know. Wanted me on the team. He was shocked I’d never even played catch before so he taught me.”
“Was he a good guy?”
“Yeah, he was.”
“Did you have to leave him?”
“Yes. He got sick or something.
“I hear you.”
He stood up. I stood up. He shook my hand again. “And like I said: good job. I hope you let that evil bastard suffer before you double-tapped him.”
I shook my head. “I don’t remember.”
“Shame. It’s memories like that that warm the lonely evenings of our golden years. Have a good life, Champion.”
So yeah, Bethany was right. There were things I wouldn’t say—actually couldn’t say—about my past. Maybe that made me wary of story-swapping around the table, especially after a drink or two.
“I mean it’s not just swapping war stories in the bar,” Bethany went on—and it was as if she had read my mind and was speaking directly into my thoughts. She could be a genuine pain in the ass that way. “I mean, I don’t care what perp you had to slap around or how bedbug-crazy some evildoing so-and-so was.”
“You do listen in, don’t you.”
“You and I have been in and out of bed together almost a year.” She was talking low, looking up from my chest, her lips near my jaw. “You know how I feel about you . . .”
“Bethany . . .”
“No, I’m not gonna get off on all that. I’m just saying. I’ve got no complaints about the way you treat me, God knows.”
“Well, after all, I am a stone funky love machine . . . Ow!”
“I’m not just talking about that, thank you,” she said, removing her knuckle from my ribs. “I know you’re the big bad lawman of the world and all that, but I swear I never met a man so naturally sweet-natured behind closed doors.”
“Of course, now that you know that, I’m gonna have to kill you.”
She reached up and touched my lips with her finger, I don’t know whether to shut me up or simply to do it. She said, “It’s just: I don’t know the first thing about you. When I think about it. I don’t know one damn thing.”
“Oh, come on, that’s not true.”
“It is.”
“I’ve told you things.”
“Your resume. ‘Then I went to Afghanistan, then I joined the police . . .’”
“And growing up in foster homes and all that. I don’t discuss that with just anybody.”
“Mm,” she said.
“How come women don’t have to make a logical argument? How come women just get to say, ‘Mm,’ like that?”
“I don’t know. That’s how God made it. You don’t want to mess with God, do you?”
“Well, all right, what is it you want to know?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Something personal, something about yourself.”
“Like what?”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“ That’s what you want to know?”
“Well?”
“I never thought about it. Chartreuse.”
“Oh, you don’t even know what chartreuse is.”
“Sure I do. It’s purple.”
“It’s green.”
“Oh. Well . . . brown then. I have a brown jacket I like. Kind of orange-brown. It’s nice.”
“What kind of things are you afraid of?”
“Conversations like this, for one.”
“Not like guns or dying or something like that. Something stupid. Something you’re embarrassed by.”
“Let’s see. I never liked spiders much.”
“Hate spiders.”
“Ugly little bastards, aren’t they? And they can jump at you, some of them.”
“What’s your earliest memory?”
“Oh, Christ . . . Playing catch in the backyard with one of my foster fathers. He coached Little League, you know. Wanted me on the team. He was shocked I’d never even played catch before so he taught me.”
“Was he a good guy?”
“Yeah, he was.”
“Did you have to leave him?”
“Yes. He got sick or something.
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