Finders Keepers by Sean Costello

Memphis where Liz was born—you could still hear the trace of an accent when she got excited or annoyed—started her off when she was five. He’d spent his life teaching karate, and though he’d trained Liz himself, he’d always encouraged her to learn from the source. Her longest stint over there, which began when Steve was eleven, lasted two-and-a-half years, with brief trips home for birthdays and holidays. Following the divorce and his father’s descent into alcoholism and depression, Steve had lived with his maternal grandmother, a wily old gal who at the time had employed Aretha as a housekeeper. The job advancement had been Liz’s doing, in appreciation of Aretha’s help raising Steve. And though Steve had missed his mother mightily during her absences he’d never resented her for it, often in spite of his best efforts. Bottom line, she loved him and she always did her best. And she was just so damned much fun to be with, who could stay mad at her? He’d never tell anyone this, but his mother was his hero.
    The show over, the other detectives went back to their coffees. Liz let the rookies down gently, telling them a bit about herself, then came over to join Steve. She smiled at him like a school girl, arms wide open for a hug.
    “There’s my big copper.”
    “Hi, Mom,” Steve said, returning the hug briefly, then backing away. Why did the women in his life insist on embarrassing him? “People still fall for that routine?”
    “All the time, sweetheart. You saw it yourself.”
    “What do you do with the money?”
    “Cigarettes.”
    “I thought you quit.”
    “Yeah, but I got tired of it. So what’s on your mind?”
    “What do you mean?” Steve said, acting innocent. Christ, she knew him so well.
    “I mean, that’s about as much small talk as I’ve gotten out of you since you were nine. So what’s on your mind?”
    As Steve composed his opening line Liz asked him if he wanted a coffee and Steve said no thanks. She suggested they talk in her office and Steve said okay. They were barely out the coffee room door when one of the detectives who’d been watching fell in beside them, matching their stride. He put his arm around Liz’s shoulders and smiled. Steve could tell right away she didn’t like it.
    “Want me to show you how I’d get your skirt up?” the detective said.
    Steve realized he was witnessing something he’d never seen before, his mother intimidated.
    “No thanks, Al,” Liz said. “You know all my tricks.”
    “Yes, I do.” He took his arm away and looked at Steve. “This your boy?”
    Liz made the introductions as they reached her office door. “Al Raybould,” she said, avoiding his eyes, “this is my son, Steve. He’s a constable with the O.P.P. now.”
    Steve accepted the man’s handshake, surprised by his gentle, almost effeminate grip. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” he said.
    “You too, son. And call me Al.” He cocked his head at Steve. “O.P.P., huh? Why not Metro like your mom?”
    “Nicer cars.”
    Raybould laughed. “Nicer cars. I love it.” He winked at Liz, saying, “If you change your mind, Liz…” and walked away.
    Steve said, “Creepy guy.”
    “You have no idea,” Liz said and left it at that.
    Steve followed her into the office. Liz lit a smoke and Steve told his tale, doing his best to downplay his feelings for Kate, making it sound all business, one cop to another.
    When he was done, Liz said, “And you believe this sad story?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    Liz said, “Okay, let me put it this way,” the Memphis accent coming through. “Are you thinking with your head right now or your johnson?”
    Steve gave his neck a twist, like he was working a crick out of it, the way his old man used to show his irritation. “Okay, yes, I like her. But I believe her, too, and I’d like to help.”
    Liz squinted up at her son, a big strappy guy of six-foot-one, six-two in his Prospectors, towering over her. She planted her fists on her hips and