“What deal?”
“My deal,” Brazil continued to stare sullenly out the window.
West tried to change lanes but the jerk next to her wasn’t cooperative. She gestured angrily back at him.
“Same to you, drone!”
She stopped at a red light and looked at Brazil.
“What do you mean, deal?”
“I wanted the cop shop, told them I’d make it worth their while.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I want to know cops. So I can write about them. I want to get it straight.”
West didn’t believe him. Reporters always said shit like that, lied with pretty tongues, no different than people in general, really. She drove on, got out a cigarette, and lit it.
“If you’re so curious about us, how come you didn’t become a cop for real?” she challenged him.
“I’m a writer,” Brazil said simply, as if this were his race, his religion, or family name.
“And we all know cops can’t write.” West blew out smoke.
“Can’t even read unless there’s pictures.”
“There are pictures.”
She threw up her hands and laughed.
“See?”
Brazil was silent.
“So why do you live way the hell in Davidson?” she asked.
“I went to school there.”
“I guess you must be smart.”
“I get by,” he told her.
The gleaming Crown Victoria turned onto Main Street, which was what its name suggested in this charming college town. Homes were genteel, white frame and brick, with ivy and sprawling porches and swings. West had grown up outside of Charlotte, too, but heading a different direction, where there wasn’t much but red clay and fathomless farmland. She couldn’t have afforded to go to a college like Davidson, and doubted her SATs would have impressed anybody in a positive way.
Brazil’s college was sort of like Princeton and other places West had only read about.
“While we’re on the subject,” she said, “I don’t remember any police stories by you.”
“This is my first day on the beat.”
She couldn’t suppress her growing dismay over what she had been saddled with this night. A dog barked and began chasing her car.
Suddenly, it was raining hard.
“So what’d you do for a year?” she investigated further.
“The TV magazine,” Brazil added to his resume.
“A lot of overtime, a lot of stories nobody wanted.” He pointed, releasing his shoulder harness.
“It’s that one.”
“You don’t take your seatbelt off until I’ve stopped the car. Rule number one.” West pulled into a rutted, unpaved driveway.
“Why are you making me change clothes? I have a right…” Brazil finally spoke his mind.
“People wearing what you got on get killed out here,” West cut him off.
“Rule number two. You don’t have a right. Not with me. I don’t want anyone thinking you’re a cop. I don’t want anyone thinking you’re my partner. I don’t want to be doing this, got it?”
Brazil’s house hadn’t been painted in too long to tell the color. Maybe it had been pale yellow once, maybe eggshell or white. Mostly now it was gray and flaking and peeling, like a sad old woman with a skin condition. An ancient, rusting white Cadillac was parked in the drive, and West decided that whoever lived here didn’t have taste, money, or rime for repairs and yard work. Brazil angrily pushed open the car door, gathering his belongings as he got out, and halfway tempted to tell this deputy chief to get the hell out of here and not come back. But his BMW was still in Charlotte, so that might pose a problem. He bent over, peering inside at her.
“My dad was a cop.” He slammed the door shut.
tw West was typical brass, typical anybody who had power, Brazil fumed as he strode up the walk. She didn’t give a shit about helping somebody else get started. Women could be the worst, as if they didn’t want anybody else to do well because no one was nice to them when they were coming along, or maybe so they could pay everybody back, persecute innocent guys who’d never even met them, whatever. Brazil imagined West at the net, a perfect lob waiting for his lethal overhead smash. He could ace her, too.