lights lining the walkway, and its leaves ripple in the breeze. Maybe that? That silvery shiver in the night? Joto’s growl rises then, and Boone tenses up. A fat skunk waddles out of the flowerbed not ten feet in front of them, and Joto begins to bark. Boone recoils, startled, and almost falls on his ass.
“Easy, boy, easy,” he croons, springing to his feet and tugging on the chain as the skunk disappears into the shadows.
The porch light at Amy’s place comes on, and her door opens. She steps out wearing white shorts and a yellow T-shirt that says IT’S BETTER IN THE B AHAMAS and has a drawing of a sunset on it. Her dark hair is loose and spills over her shoulders. She’s prettier every time Boone sees her.
“Jimmy?” she says, concern in her voice.
Boone raises a hand. “Sorry about the noise,” he says. “You should have seen this skunk.”
“I didn’t know you had a dog.”
“I don’t. I didn’t. It’s a temporary thing until I can find him a home.”
Amy steps off her porch and walks across the courtyard toward Boone and Joto. “What, is it a stray or something?” she asks.
“Kind of like that, yeah,” Boone replies.
“Can I pet him?”
“Sure, but be careful. I haven’t quite figured out his temperament yet.”
Joto sniffs Amy’s hand when she presents it to him, then licks it. She scratches his back.
“He doesn’t have any teeth,” Boone says.
“What?”
“I don’t know why. He looks pretty unhealthy though.”
Amy drops to her knees and runs a finger over Joto’s gums. “That’s so weird,” she says.
“Best kind of pit bull to have, I guess,” Boone says. “At least I don’t have to worry about him mauling the mailman or anything.”
“Does he have a name?”
“The people I got him from called him Joto.”
Amy looks up at Boone and says, “That’s Spanish, right?”
“It means
faggot
.”
“Nice,” Amy says with a chuckle. “Hey, wait a second, okay?”
She stands and walks back inside her bungalow, returning a few seconds later with a bottle of wine, which she holds out to Boone. “I wanted to thank you for fixing my window,” she says.
“Don’t worry about it,” Boone replies. “That’s how I pay my way around here.”
“Come on, come on, take it. Don’t make me feel stupid.”
Boone accepts the bottle and decides, what the hell, cop or no cop, might as well be neighborly. “Hey, if you’re not doing anything right now, we could open this,” he says. “Seeing as how it’s Friday night and all.”
Amy cocks her head for an instant, considering the offer, then says, “Sure. Okay. But my place is still a mess.”
“Mine’s not much better, but you’re welcome to come over,” Boone replies.
“Give me five minutes.”
“No problem.”
Boone leads Joto to his bungalow, unlocks the door, and ushers him inside. The dog sniffs his way around the place while Boone tidies up, tossing dirty socks into the closet and clearing junk mail off the coffee table. He scrubs the toilet, wipes out the bathroom sink, and, after a glance in the mirror, decides to change into a shirt he hasn’t wrestled illegals in.
When Amy knocks, he’s searching for a corkscrew, which he has, and wineglasses, which he doesn’t. Joto goes nuts, leaping at the door and barking.
“No!” Boone yells. “Sit!” Remarkably, the dog obeys.
Boone lets Amy in, and he’s suddenly aware of how impersonal his place is: no photos or houseplants or softball trophies. The bungalow is as stripped down as he used to keep his cell, like he’s still worried the guards are going to bust in any minute and toss everything in a search for contraband. It’s strange to him; he hopes it’s not strange to Amy.
“All I’ve got are these,” he says, and holds up two water glasses.
“That’s cool,” she replies. “The wine’s just something that was on special at Trader Joe’s.”
Boone notices that she’s applied fresh lipstick and run a brush through her
“Easy, boy, easy,” he croons, springing to his feet and tugging on the chain as the skunk disappears into the shadows.
The porch light at Amy’s place comes on, and her door opens. She steps out wearing white shorts and a yellow T-shirt that says IT’S BETTER IN THE B AHAMAS and has a drawing of a sunset on it. Her dark hair is loose and spills over her shoulders. She’s prettier every time Boone sees her.
“Jimmy?” she says, concern in her voice.
Boone raises a hand. “Sorry about the noise,” he says. “You should have seen this skunk.”
“I didn’t know you had a dog.”
“I don’t. I didn’t. It’s a temporary thing until I can find him a home.”
Amy steps off her porch and walks across the courtyard toward Boone and Joto. “What, is it a stray or something?” she asks.
“Kind of like that, yeah,” Boone replies.
“Can I pet him?”
“Sure, but be careful. I haven’t quite figured out his temperament yet.”
Joto sniffs Amy’s hand when she presents it to him, then licks it. She scratches his back.
“He doesn’t have any teeth,” Boone says.
“What?”
“I don’t know why. He looks pretty unhealthy though.”
Amy drops to her knees and runs a finger over Joto’s gums. “That’s so weird,” she says.
“Best kind of pit bull to have, I guess,” Boone says. “At least I don’t have to worry about him mauling the mailman or anything.”
“Does he have a name?”
“The people I got him from called him Joto.”
Amy looks up at Boone and says, “That’s Spanish, right?”
“It means
faggot
.”
“Nice,” Amy says with a chuckle. “Hey, wait a second, okay?”
She stands and walks back inside her bungalow, returning a few seconds later with a bottle of wine, which she holds out to Boone. “I wanted to thank you for fixing my window,” she says.
“Don’t worry about it,” Boone replies. “That’s how I pay my way around here.”
“Come on, come on, take it. Don’t make me feel stupid.”
Boone accepts the bottle and decides, what the hell, cop or no cop, might as well be neighborly. “Hey, if you’re not doing anything right now, we could open this,” he says. “Seeing as how it’s Friday night and all.”
Amy cocks her head for an instant, considering the offer, then says, “Sure. Okay. But my place is still a mess.”
“Mine’s not much better, but you’re welcome to come over,” Boone replies.
“Give me five minutes.”
“No problem.”
Boone leads Joto to his bungalow, unlocks the door, and ushers him inside. The dog sniffs his way around the place while Boone tidies up, tossing dirty socks into the closet and clearing junk mail off the coffee table. He scrubs the toilet, wipes out the bathroom sink, and, after a glance in the mirror, decides to change into a shirt he hasn’t wrestled illegals in.
When Amy knocks, he’s searching for a corkscrew, which he has, and wineglasses, which he doesn’t. Joto goes nuts, leaping at the door and barking.
“No!” Boone yells. “Sit!” Remarkably, the dog obeys.
Boone lets Amy in, and he’s suddenly aware of how impersonal his place is: no photos or houseplants or softball trophies. The bungalow is as stripped down as he used to keep his cell, like he’s still worried the guards are going to bust in any minute and toss everything in a search for contraband. It’s strange to him; he hopes it’s not strange to Amy.
“All I’ve got are these,” he says, and holds up two water glasses.
“That’s cool,” she replies. “The wine’s just something that was on special at Trader Joe’s.”
Boone notices that she’s applied fresh lipstick and run a brush through her
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