Saving Room for Dessert by K. C. Constantine Page A

’Cause in order to report me you’ll have to give the chief your name and address, ’cause he doesn’t
     respond to anonymous complaints. He’s good that way. And after I got your car open for you here? So you didn’t have to pay
     a locksmith? You know what they charge, huh? Call one. Ask him. You’ll find out how much money I saved you here today. And
     go ’head, tell the chief on me, that’s okay. But just remember, he’s gonna ask me for my side of it, alright?”
    She started to cry, and to whimper. “All I have is my school pension … my Social Security … both of them together don’t add
     up to seven hundred and sixty dollars a month … I wasn’t able to work long … I had to quit teaching to take care of my mother-in-law
     … my husband wouldn’t put her in a nursing home … wouldn’t even discuss it! But then what did he do? He died first. And what
     did he do, the stupid son of a … I’ll tell you what he did. He forgot to sign me up for his survivor benefits … and she lived
     ten more years, his mother … and you can talk all you want about how you took an oath to serve, but I never took any oath
     to wait on her hand and foot for nine years before the county took her in … nine years! So don’t you talk to me about how
     you took any oath, you big bully … get snippy with me, must make you feel real big, doesn’t it, huh? Pick on an old lady.”
    “Aw, lady, c’mon, don’t cry, please?” Canoza sucked in his breath and threw his head back and then dropped it on his chest
     and sighed and said, “Hey, I didn’t mean none of that, c’mon. Here, take my hanky, take it, c’mon, don’t cry, okay? What I
     said, huh? I was just blowin’ smoke, huffin’ and puffin’ there, that’s all, I shouldn’t’ve done that, I was wrong. Listen,
     you lock your keys in again? Huh? We’ll come right away, we have to, that’s our job. Don’t cry, okay, please?”
    “That’s right,” she said, sniffling. “You shouldn’t have said that. But I don’t want your hanky. I have Kleenex in the car.
     I don’t need you at all anymore, you … you big boob!”
    Oh now I’m a big boob, huh? Swell. “Okay, okay. Then here, let me help you get in—”
    “I said I don’t need your help anymore.” She crept close to him and peered intently at his shield and started to whisper his
     number to herself.
    “Okay, okay, you don’t want me to help, I won’t help. Sorry, okay? Really didn’t mean to make you cry—”
    “Oh yes you did. I was a teacher. I know a bully when I see one. It was a long time ago, but bullies don’t change.”
    “Aw Jeez, see there? I’m not a bully, ma’am, okay? I’m sure I said some things I shouldn’t’ve said, but I’m no bully, ask
     anybody in the department. I never had one complaint against me for excessive force. Sometimes I don’t have a lotta patience
     maybe, I’ll admit that, but … ah crap, I’m real sorry you feel that way.”
    “Oh stop saying you’re sorry, you don’t mean it,” she said very loudly. “I can tell by your eyes you don’t. You just wish
     I’d go away. That’s what everybody wishes. You’ll find out. You get old, people just want you to go away. It’ll happen to
     you too. Well I’m old alright, but I’m not stupid. I memorized your badge number.”
    He bit his lip and thought, well then go already, fuck you still here for? You’re drawin’ a fuckin’ crowd here. Maybe I should
     let you use my PA. Give you a hundred fucking watts of Street Thunder, you could tell the whole fucking world you think I’m
     a bully. Fucking great. People that drive Jap cars deserve every shitty thing happens to ’em. Fuckers.
    “Have a good rest of the day, ma’am,” Canoza said, giving her a half-wave, half-salute, then collecting his roll-up bag of
     Slim Jims, and taking them back to his MU before she could say anything else. Or before he did.
    In the MU, he switched on the radio, said, “Thirty-three here. I’m