The red light was flashing on the answering machine beside Brazil’s neatly made twin bed with its simple green spread. West hit the play button, looking around at shelves of brass and silver trophies, at scholastic and creative awards that Brazil had never bothered to frame, but had thumbtacked to walls. A pair of leather Nike tennis shoes, worn out from toe-dragging, was abandoned under a chair, one upright, one on its side, and the sight of them pained West. For a moment, she felt distressed and upset. She imagined the way he looked at her with blue eyes that went on forever. She remembered his voice on the radio, and the quirky way he tested coffee with his tongue, which she had repeatedly told him wasn’t a smart way to determine whether something was too hot. The first three calls on his machine were hang-ups.
“Yo,” began the fourth one.
“It’s Axel. Got tickets for Bruce Hornsby.”
West hit a button.
“Andy? It’s Packer. Call me.”
She hit the button again and heard her own voice looking for him. She skipped ahead, landing on two more hang-ups. West opened the closet door, and her fear intensified when she found nothing inside. She, the cop, went into drawers and found them empty, as well. He had left his books and computer behind, and this only deepened her confusion and concern. These were what he loved the most. He would not abandon them unless he had embarked upon a self-destructive exodus, a fatalistic flight. West looked under the bed and lifted the mattress, exploring every inch of Brazil’s private space. She did not find the pistol he had borrowed from her.
West drove around the city much of the night, mopping her face, popping Motrin, and turning the air conditioner on and off as she vacillated between hot and cold. On South College, she slowly passed street people, staring hard at each, as if she expected Brazil to have suddenly turned into one of them. She recognized Poison, the young hooker from Mungo’s videotape, undulating along the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and enjoying being watched. Poison followed the dark blue cop car with haunted, glassy eyes, and West looked back. West thought of Brazil, of his sad curiosity about bad people and what had happened to make them that way.
They make choices. West said that all the time, and it was true.
But she envied Brazil’s freshness, his innocent clarity of vision. In truth, he saw life with a wisdom equal to her own, but his was born of vulnerability, and not of the experience that sometimes crowded West’s compassion and cloaked her feelings in many hard layers. Her condition had been coming on for a long time, and most likely was irreversible.
West accepted that when one is exposed to the worst elements of life, there comes a point of no return. She had been beaten and shot, and she had killed.
She had crossed a line. She was a missionary, and the tender, warm contours of life were for others.
On Tryon Street, she was stopped at a traffic light near Jake’s, another favorite spot for breakfast. Thelma could do anything with fried steak and biscuits, and the coffee was good. West stared ahead, several blocks away, just past First Union Bank with its giant painted hornet bursting out of one side of the building. She recognized the dark car’s boxy shape and conical tail lights glowing red. She wasn’t close enough to see the tag yet, and was going to do something about that.
The light turned green and West gunned the Ford’s powerful engine until she was on the old BMW’s bumper. Her heart thrilled as she recognized the plate number. She honked her horn and motioned, and Brazil kept going. West followed, honking again and longer, but clearly he had no intention of acknowledging her as she followed his shiny chrome bumper through downtown. Brazil knew she was there and didn’t give a damn as he threw back another gulp from the tall-boy Budweiser he was holding between his legs. He broke the law right in front of Deputy Chief West, and knew she saw it, and he didn’t give a shit.