South Phoenix Rules by Jon Talton

pants suit. If asked where she worked, she would say, “the Department of Justice.” But she really worked for what I kidded her was the “fun agency”: The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. The joke had been spoiled somewhat when the feds added “explosives” to the title.
    I met her when she first moved into the neighborhood and had stopped by to ask if a homeless person was camping behind our house. The answer was no—the camper had temporarily bedded down behind the overgrown back yard of a nearby house, owned by an elderly couple whose kids I had gone to school with. But that was how we met. It took a long time to realize that her businesslike restraint was not just because she was the supervisor of an elite federal law-enforcement unit, but also because she was shy.
    â€œDavid. My God, are you all right?”
    I told her I was and took a seat on one of the mission-style chairs in her perfect Pottery Barn living room.
    â€œI guess not completely, since you’re packing.”
    I had the Python under my windbreaker. I said, “An armed society is a polite society.”
    â€œYeah, yeah. I read about what happened. Did you know this…person? The story only said it was an unidentified male.”
    â€œIt was Robin’s boyfriend. You never met him.” I turned down her offer of wine. “He claimed to teach at NYU and was in town writing about sustainability. It’s the latest fad in academia.” I paused. “Unfortunately, it all seems to have been a scam.” I continued: Now the cops had an entirely different assumption, all based on the man’s ring that I had found in the death house. I described the design.
    â€œEl Verdugo.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “He’s been on the radar for several years.” She added, “If he’s real. Some analysts think he’s an amalgamation of different hired killers, but the myth is more powerful to the cartel.”
    â€œThe bogeyman.”
    Her eyes were still. “Something like that.”
    Amy was circumspect, even though we both worked in law enforcement. At one time, I would have been inclined to think: typical fed. Now I was more willing to accept that she had secrets she had to keep. We didn’t talk shop and I had never asked her for a professional favor.
    â€œAre you still staying at home?” she said. “I’m surprised. Robin might be a target—I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. PPD’s providing protection, I assume.”
    â€œI don’t count on it. The lead investigator is Kate Vare.”
    â€œAh, Ms. Professional Jealousy. Surely she wouldn’t let that get in the way.”
    â€œI wish I could say that.”
    The talk stoked my anxiety about Robin. But she knew the drill: if the alarm went off, she would immediately get in the safe space behind the steel plate, with the Chief’s Special, and dial 911. “Tell the dispatcher,” I had drilled her, “it’s a break-in that is in progress. They respond to those words, ‘in progress.’ ”
    Amy sipped from the glass of white wine on the table beside her chair. The calm normality I felt in her house was so at odds with the intensity of our lives on Cypress that it broke my stride, diverted me from my mission. Then I heard Bruce Springsteen’s “Tunnel of Love” album softly playing in the background. Just the kind of thing I had banned from my life lately. The Boss sang “Cautious Man” and the weights on my heart swelled. “Weights” was probably the wrong word. They were compartments in which I had placed recent disasters and sorrows — stuffed them full and heavy and tried every waking moment to keep the lids on. It was a learned skill and I was still learning. Fortunately she filled the silence.
    â€œHow do you like working for the new sheriff?”
    â€œI’m not going to stay.”
    I