Pointe face, only there I put a little weasel in it. You know, that smooth panting look. Here it’s regular John, get-a-load-of-those-gams. I save the flat nose for Cass and Mt. Elliott.”
“ ‘Gams’?” Her eyes crinkled.
“Sorry. When I’m tired I talk dirty.”
“How about Iroquois Heights?”
“Up in Iroquois Heights I just try to get in and out with any face at all. There they push them in just for something to do, like a mean kid de-winging flies when he ought to be looking up the Congress of Worms.”
“I was born in the Heights,” she said.
“A lot of nice people were. It’s the cops and their pet prosecutor you don’t show your back to if you’re fond of your head.”
The entire band, a five-man combo, had gathered on the stage and climbed into “Ebb Tide” for horns, bass, piano, and drums. She glanced that way, then nibbled at her gin and tonic. “That wasn’t your St. Clair Shores face this morning.”
Grinning, I pushed aside my empty plate and picked up my drink. I’d demolished a prime rib and all the options and hadn’t tasted a bite. “That was your fault. You went stiff old maid on me, which always brings out my thirteen-hundred face. That’s the one I show the cops at thirteen-hundred Beaubien, police headquarters. It generally gets me a lift out the back door and my hat tumbling along afterwards.”
“I was on the defensive this morning,” she said. “I didn’t know you. I’m still a long way from knowing you. What makes a halfway intelligent guy with a flashy line of gab and a nice face — this one, anyway — peek at people’s underwear for his living?”
“What makes a girl who should be a model empty bedpans for hers?”
“I get to see a lot of naked men. But I asked you first.”
“A friend died and left me the business. I don’t get to see nearly as many naked women as I’d like.”
“No, really.”
I sat back and toyed with a cigarette. “I ask myself that eight times a week. Twice on Mondays when I’m still hung over from Saturday’s sapping. A bright young fellow like me should be in high tech, except my distrust of computers borders on the pathological. I could go out West and become a cowboy. But the only time I was ever on a horse I got tossed and had the sense not to remount. You don’t get back on a hot stove. I could run for mayor only I’m not black enough or slippery enough. Law —”
“What about police work?”
“Next question.”
She ran the edge of her fork along the rim of her plate. “You’re a riddle, all right,” she said. “I’m just debating with myself whether it’s worth the trouble to solve.”
I let that one drift. The waitress came back to ask if everything was all right. I ordered a bottle of something with a cork in it and she went away. The band was playing “Stars Fell on Alabama” — slow, with the trumpet up front, the way Red Nichols used to. It was a better band than the place deserved. A few couples were prowling the floor. We watched and listened.
“Swaying to music like primitives in a National Geographic special,” murmured Karen. “Kind of dumb when you think about it.”
“Dumb.” I got up and held out a hand. She took it.
Our feet made no noise at all on the layers of varnish on the dance floor. She was wiry under a padding of deceptively soft flesh. Her head came to my collarbone. “It dances, too,” she marveled. “My father taught me, back when everyone I knew was shaking his arms and snapping his head like someone trying to swim backwards up a waterfall. Where’d you learn?”
“The hookers in Saigon only did one other thing.”
We danced some more. She felt warm.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Don’t be naive.”
“This.” She patted the Smith & Wesson on the back of my belt under my jacket.
“I thought I might have a use for it earlier. I didn’t. I forgot I was still wearing it.”
“I hate guns.”
“They’re not a thing to love or hate. They’re
“ ‘Gams’?” Her eyes crinkled.
“Sorry. When I’m tired I talk dirty.”
“How about Iroquois Heights?”
“Up in Iroquois Heights I just try to get in and out with any face at all. There they push them in just for something to do, like a mean kid de-winging flies when he ought to be looking up the Congress of Worms.”
“I was born in the Heights,” she said.
“A lot of nice people were. It’s the cops and their pet prosecutor you don’t show your back to if you’re fond of your head.”
The entire band, a five-man combo, had gathered on the stage and climbed into “Ebb Tide” for horns, bass, piano, and drums. She glanced that way, then nibbled at her gin and tonic. “That wasn’t your St. Clair Shores face this morning.”
Grinning, I pushed aside my empty plate and picked up my drink. I’d demolished a prime rib and all the options and hadn’t tasted a bite. “That was your fault. You went stiff old maid on me, which always brings out my thirteen-hundred face. That’s the one I show the cops at thirteen-hundred Beaubien, police headquarters. It generally gets me a lift out the back door and my hat tumbling along afterwards.”
“I was on the defensive this morning,” she said. “I didn’t know you. I’m still a long way from knowing you. What makes a halfway intelligent guy with a flashy line of gab and a nice face — this one, anyway — peek at people’s underwear for his living?”
“What makes a girl who should be a model empty bedpans for hers?”
“I get to see a lot of naked men. But I asked you first.”
“A friend died and left me the business. I don’t get to see nearly as many naked women as I’d like.”
“No, really.”
I sat back and toyed with a cigarette. “I ask myself that eight times a week. Twice on Mondays when I’m still hung over from Saturday’s sapping. A bright young fellow like me should be in high tech, except my distrust of computers borders on the pathological. I could go out West and become a cowboy. But the only time I was ever on a horse I got tossed and had the sense not to remount. You don’t get back on a hot stove. I could run for mayor only I’m not black enough or slippery enough. Law —”
“What about police work?”
“Next question.”
She ran the edge of her fork along the rim of her plate. “You’re a riddle, all right,” she said. “I’m just debating with myself whether it’s worth the trouble to solve.”
I let that one drift. The waitress came back to ask if everything was all right. I ordered a bottle of something with a cork in it and she went away. The band was playing “Stars Fell on Alabama” — slow, with the trumpet up front, the way Red Nichols used to. It was a better band than the place deserved. A few couples were prowling the floor. We watched and listened.
“Swaying to music like primitives in a National Geographic special,” murmured Karen. “Kind of dumb when you think about it.”
“Dumb.” I got up and held out a hand. She took it.
Our feet made no noise at all on the layers of varnish on the dance floor. She was wiry under a padding of deceptively soft flesh. Her head came to my collarbone. “It dances, too,” she marveled. “My father taught me, back when everyone I knew was shaking his arms and snapping his head like someone trying to swim backwards up a waterfall. Where’d you learn?”
“The hookers in Saigon only did one other thing.”
We danced some more. She felt warm.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Don’t be naive.”
“This.” She patted the Smith & Wesson on the back of my belt under my jacket.
“I thought I might have a use for it earlier. I didn’t. I forgot I was still wearing it.”
“I hate guns.”
“They’re not a thing to love or hate. They’re
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