This had not occurred to West. She never called Raines. For that matter, she did not call guys, and never had, and never would, with the occasional exception of Brazil. Now why the hell was that, and why had she suddenly gotten weird about dialing his number?
“I figured you’d get in touch with me when you had something on your mind,” she replied.
“It’s been hectic.
Niles is driving me crazy. I may turn him over to the juvenile courts.
I don’t know why I haven’t gotten around to calling you, okay? But a lot of good it’s going to do for you to punish me for it. ”
“You want to play tennis?” he quickly asked.
West still had a wooden Billie Jean King racquet, clamped tight in a press. Neither were manufactured anymore. She had an ancient box of Tretorn balls that never went dead but broke like eggs. Her last pair of tennis shoes were low-cut plain white canvas Converse, also no longer made. She had no idea where anything was, and owned no tennis clothes, and didn’t especially enjoy watching the sport on TV, but preferred baseball at this stage in her personal evolution. There were many reasons she gave the answer she did.
“Forget it,” she said.
She hung up the phone and went straight to Hammer’s office. Horgess was not his usual informative, friendly self. West felt sorry for him.
No matter how many times Hammer had told him to let it go, he never would. He had picked up the radio instead of the phone. Horgess, the sycophantic duty captain, had made sure all the world knew about the embarrassing shooting at the chief’s house. That’s all anybody talked and speculated about. The expected jokes were ones West would never want her boss to hear. Horgess was pale and depressed. He barely nodded at West.
“She in?” West asked.
“I guess,” he said, dejected.
West knocked and walked in at the same time. Hammer was on the phone, tapping a pen on a stack of pink tele phone messages. She looked amazingly put together and in charge in a tobacco-brown suit and yellow and white striped blouse. West was surprised and rather pleased to note that her boss was wearing slacks and flats again. West pulled up a chair, waiting for Hammer to slip off the headset.
“Don’t mean to interrupt,” West said.
“Quite all right, quite all right,” Hammer told her.
She gave West her complete attention, hands quietly folded on top of the neatly organized desk of someone who had far too much to do but refused to be overwhelmed by it. Hammer had never been caught up, and never would be. She didn’t even want to get to all of it. The older she got, the more she marveled over matters she once had considered important. These days, her perspective had shifted massively, like a glacier forming new continents to consider and cracking old worlds.
“We’ve not really had a chance to talk,” West proceeded delicately.
“How are you holding up?”
Hammer gave her a slight smile, sadness in her eyes before she could run it off.
“The best I can, Virginia. Thank you for asking.”
“The editorials, cartoons and everything in the paper have been really terrific,” West went on.
“And Brazil’s story was great.” She hesitated at this point, the subject of Andy Brazil still disturbing, although she didn’t understand it, entirely.
Hammer understood it perfectly.
“Listen, Virginia,” she said with another smile, this one kind and slightly amused.
“He’s pretty sensational, I have to admit. But you have nothing to worry about where I’m concerned.”
“Excuse me?” West frowned.
X? Brazil was out in bright sunshine, walking along the sidewalk in an area of the city where he should not have been without armed guards. This was a very special juncture known as Five Points, where the major veins of State, Trade, and Fifth Streets, and Beatties Ford and Rozzelles Ferry Roads, branched out from the major artery of Inter state 77, carrying all traveling on them into the heart of the Queen City. This included the thousands of businessmen coming from Charlotte-Douglas International Airport, and those bad dudes waiting, including the serial killer, Punkin Head.