Not delicate, but fascinating, powerful, compelling, like a collector’s car, an older BMW, in mint condition, with chrome instead of plastic. She had character and substance, and Brazil was certain that her husband was quite the contender, a Fortune 500 man, a lawyer, a surgeon, someone capable of holding an interesting conversation with his wife during their brief, busy interfaces together.
Chief Hammer pushed the swing again and sipped her wine. She would never be completely devoid of street sense, no matter her station in life. She goddamn knew when she was being watched. Abruptly, she stood, feet firmly planted on her porch. She searched the night, detecting the vague silhouette of someone sitting in that annoying little park right slam next to her house. How many times had she told the neighborhood association that she didn’t want a public area adjacent to her domicile? Did anyone listen? To Brazil’s horror, she walked down porch steps and stood amidst pachysandra, staring right at him.
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
Brazil could not speak. Not a fire or a Mayday could have pried a word loose from his useless tongue.
“Who’s sitting there?” she went on, irritable and tired.
“It’s almost two o’clock in the morning. Normal people are home by now. So either you’re not normal, or you’re interested in my house. Police live in this house. They have guns and shoot to kill. And you still want to rob us?”
Brazil wondered what would happen if he ran as fast as he could. When he was a little boy, he believed that if he sprinted full speed, he would disappear, become invisible, or turn to butter like in “Little Black Sambo’. It wasn’t so. Brazil was a sculpture on his bench, watching Chief Judy Hammer step closer. A part of him wanted her to know he was there, so he could get it over with, confess his intensity, have her blow him off, laugh, dismiss him from her police department, and be done with him, as he deserved.
“I’m going to ask one more time,” she warned.
It occurred to him that she might have a gun on her person, perhaps in a pocket. Jesus Christ, how could any of this happen? He had meant no harm driving here after work. All he’d wanted was to sit, think, and contemplate his raison d’etre and how he felt about it.
“Don’t shoot,” he said, slowly bringing himself to his feet, and holding his hands up in surrender.
Hammer knew for a fact she had a wacko in her midst. Don’t shoot? What the hell was this? Clearly, this was someone who knew who she was. Why else would the person assume she might be armed and wouldn’t hesitate to shoot? Hammer had always nurtured the unspoken fear that in the end, she would be taken out by a loony tune with a mission.
Assassinated. Go ahead and try, was her motto. She followed the brick walk through more pachysandra as Brazil’s panic level crested. He cast his eyes toward his car on the street, realizing that by the time he raced to it, got in, and drove off, she would have his plate number. He decided to relax and feign innocence. He sat back down as she, in her white robe, floated closer.
“Why are you here?” she asked, hovering mere feet from him now.
“I didn’t mean to be disturbing anyone,” he apologized.
Hammer hesitated, not getting quite what she had expected.
“It’s almost two o’clock in the morning,” she repeated.
“Actually, it’s a little later than that,” Brazil said, chin in hand, face in shadows.
“Love this place, don’t you? So peaceful, great for thinking, meditating, getting into your spiritual space.”
Hammer was entertaining second thoughts about this one. She sat down on the bench, next to him.
“Who are you?” she asked, and the indirect light was an artist lovingly painting her face as she studied him.
“Nobody special,” Brazil said.
Oh yes he was. She thought of her own horrible life, of the husband in there, where she lived. This one on the bench next to her understood.
He appreciated her for who and what she was. He respected her power and wanted her as a woman at the same time. He was deeply interested in her thoughts, her ideas, her memories of childhood. Brazil traced her neck deep down into her plush white terry-cloth robe, slowing down, taking his time. He kissed her, tentatively until he was sure she was kissing him back, then he worked on her lower lip until their tongues became acquainted and were friends.