good.”
“It’s a hard bike to ride. And I’m out of shape.”
He looked at the bike and then at me. Both things I said made sense to him. He walked to the rear of the cruiser, opened the trunk, and started shifting things. “There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts just up the road. I’m going to drop you off, and you’re going to figure out the rest from there.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t care how you get yourself back to East Falmouth. But what you’re not going to do is bike or walk or roller-skate or anything on Route Twenty-eight. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Because if I let you go, and you get picked up by someone else further up the road . . . you don’t want that.”
“I won’t.”
“Or if, God forbid, I pick you up again . . .”
“You won’t.”
“Good.” It took two normal tries, then a more serious one to close the Crown Vic’s trunk. “You’re going to have to sit in back. All my radar’s up front.” I got in the cage. The sound of him auto-locking the doors had an opposite effect on my sense of security. “Seat belt on,” he said.
As we were merging back onto 28, another cruiser pulled up and blocked our path. This cop was older. He looked like Boris Yeltsin. A large chief’s badge was painted in gold on his door.
“What he do?” asked Captain Kickass.
“Just biking in the wrong place. He didn’t know.”
“Biking?”
“That’s what I said to him.” They shared a quick laugh about it.
“He’s not Colombian, is he?”
My cop looked back at me, wordlessly passing along the question.
“Irish,” I said. “American Irish.”
“He’s Irish.”
“I’m looking for a Colombian—about his age—who likes to beat up on his pregnant wife. Knocked her to the floor and kicked her across the room.”
“Scumbag.”
“Real scumbag. This guy married?”
I leaned forward, right up against the cage and spoke directly to Captain Kickass. I wanted to eliminate the possibility of any miscommunication that might land me in the tank. “Separated, sir.”
“Where’s your wife?”
“She lives in New York.”
“You ever hit her?”
“I’ve never hit anyone in my life.”
“Nobody?”
“No, sir.”
“Never been in a fistfight? Not a single time?”
“Never, sir.”
He spent about a month looking through that cage, into my eyes. “Yeah, well I have.” He smiled. “Plenty of times.” Without lifting his foot off the brake, he shifted the cruiser into drive. It made a false start. “Let’s keep the bikes on the back roads.”
“I will, sir.”
“And if you see any Colombians . . .” He winked and peeled out of the dirt road. We stayed put until the rooster tail of dust settled.
The cop turned to me. “That’s not really true about never hitting anyone before, is it? ”
“It is.”
“Wow.”
THE COP HIT the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through before letting me out.
“You want anything? Guys on the force don’t pay.”
“No, thanks.”
The drive-through girl’s spiel came through the tiny speaker.
“Who’s that? Brenda? ” the cop asked into the menu board.
“Tommy? ” she answered.
“Ten-four.”
“No, it’s me, Georgette.”
“Chripesakes,” Tommy said. “You sound more like each other every day.”
“Looking like her, too,” Georgette said, not too pleased about it.
“Hey, hey, enough of that,” Tommy said. “You could do worse. A lot worse.”
“I don’t know about that,” Georgette said. She yelped when an offended hand—presumably Brenda’s—slapped a naked, fleshy part of her. “See what I have to put up with, Tom? ”
Brenda overrode her: “You mean see what I have to put up with? ”
“You could both do a lot worse,” Tommy said.
“We’ll see about that,” Georgette said. “Large with milk and two Sweet’N Lows? ”
Tommy turned to me. “You sure you don’t want anything? ”
“I’m sure.”
“That’ll do it. Large with milk and two Sweet’N Lows.” He drove around to the
“It’s a hard bike to ride. And I’m out of shape.”
He looked at the bike and then at me. Both things I said made sense to him. He walked to the rear of the cruiser, opened the trunk, and started shifting things. “There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts just up the road. I’m going to drop you off, and you’re going to figure out the rest from there.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t care how you get yourself back to East Falmouth. But what you’re not going to do is bike or walk or roller-skate or anything on Route Twenty-eight. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Because if I let you go, and you get picked up by someone else further up the road . . . you don’t want that.”
“I won’t.”
“Or if, God forbid, I pick you up again . . .”
“You won’t.”
“Good.” It took two normal tries, then a more serious one to close the Crown Vic’s trunk. “You’re going to have to sit in back. All my radar’s up front.” I got in the cage. The sound of him auto-locking the doors had an opposite effect on my sense of security. “Seat belt on,” he said.
As we were merging back onto 28, another cruiser pulled up and blocked our path. This cop was older. He looked like Boris Yeltsin. A large chief’s badge was painted in gold on his door.
“What he do?” asked Captain Kickass.
“Just biking in the wrong place. He didn’t know.”
“Biking?”
“That’s what I said to him.” They shared a quick laugh about it.
“He’s not Colombian, is he?”
My cop looked back at me, wordlessly passing along the question.
“Irish,” I said. “American Irish.”
“He’s Irish.”
“I’m looking for a Colombian—about his age—who likes to beat up on his pregnant wife. Knocked her to the floor and kicked her across the room.”
“Scumbag.”
“Real scumbag. This guy married?”
I leaned forward, right up against the cage and spoke directly to Captain Kickass. I wanted to eliminate the possibility of any miscommunication that might land me in the tank. “Separated, sir.”
“Where’s your wife?”
“She lives in New York.”
“You ever hit her?”
“I’ve never hit anyone in my life.”
“Nobody?”
“No, sir.”
“Never been in a fistfight? Not a single time?”
“Never, sir.”
He spent about a month looking through that cage, into my eyes. “Yeah, well I have.” He smiled. “Plenty of times.” Without lifting his foot off the brake, he shifted the cruiser into drive. It made a false start. “Let’s keep the bikes on the back roads.”
“I will, sir.”
“And if you see any Colombians . . .” He winked and peeled out of the dirt road. We stayed put until the rooster tail of dust settled.
The cop turned to me. “That’s not really true about never hitting anyone before, is it? ”
“It is.”
“Wow.”
THE COP HIT the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through before letting me out.
“You want anything? Guys on the force don’t pay.”
“No, thanks.”
The drive-through girl’s spiel came through the tiny speaker.
“Who’s that? Brenda? ” the cop asked into the menu board.
“Tommy? ” she answered.
“Ten-four.”
“No, it’s me, Georgette.”
“Chripesakes,” Tommy said. “You sound more like each other every day.”
“Looking like her, too,” Georgette said, not too pleased about it.
“Hey, hey, enough of that,” Tommy said. “You could do worse. A lot worse.”
“I don’t know about that,” Georgette said. She yelped when an offended hand—presumably Brenda’s—slapped a naked, fleshy part of her. “See what I have to put up with, Tom? ”
Brenda overrode her: “You mean see what I have to put up with? ”
“You could both do a lot worse,” Tommy said.
“We’ll see about that,” Georgette said. “Large with milk and two Sweet’N Lows? ”
Tommy turned to me. “You sure you don’t want anything? ”
“I’m sure.”
“That’ll do it. Large with milk and two Sweet’N Lows.” He drove around to the
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