Panesa stopped in Fourth Ward, in front of Hammer’s house, at twenty minutes past one a. m.
“Well, congratulations on your award,” Panesa said again.
“And to you,” Hammer said, gripping the door handle.
“Okay, Judy. Let’s do this again one of these days.”
“Absolutely. Award or not.” Hammer could see the TV flickering through curtains. Seth was up, and probably eating a Tombstone pizza.
“I really appreciate your allowing Brazil to be out with your folks.
It’s been good for us,” Panesa said.
“For us, too.”
“So be it. Anything innovative, I’m all for it,” said Panesa.
“Doesn’t happen often.”
“Rare as hen’s teeth,” Hammer agreed.
“Isn’t that the truth.”
“Absolutely.”
Panesa controlled his impulse to touch her.
“I need to go,” he said.
“It’s late,” she completely agreed.
Hammer finally lifted the door handle, letting herself out. Panesa drove off in the direction of his empty house and felt blue. Hammer walked into her space, where Seth lived and ate, and was lonely.
West and Brazil were working hard and unmindful of the time. They had just pulled up to the federally subsidized housing project of Earle Village and entered apartment 121, where there were suspicious signs of money. A computer was on the coffee table, along with a lot of cash, a calculator, and a pager. An elderly woman was composed on the couch, her raging old drunk boyfriend dancing in front of her, his finger parried at her. Police were in the room, assessing the problem.
“She pulled a.22 revolver on me!” the boyfriend was saying.
“Ma’am,” West said.
“Do you have a gun?”
“He was threatening me,” the woman told Brazil.
Her name was Rosa Tinsley, and she was neither drunk nor excited. In fact, she didn’t get this much attention except once a week, when the police came. She was having a fine time. Billy could just hop around, threaten away, like he always did when he went to the nip joint and lost money in poker.
“Come in here doing all his drug deals,” Rosa went on to Brazil.
“Gets drunk and says he’s gonna cut my throat.”
“Are there drugs here?” West asked.
Rosa nodded at Brazil, and gestured toward the back of the house.
“The shoe box in my closet,” she announced.
Chapter Fourteen.
There were many shoe boxes in Rosa’s closet, and West and Brazil went through all of them. They found no drugs, the boyfriend was evicted, and Rosa was rewarded with instant gratification. West and Brazil headed back to their car. Brazil felt they had accomplished a good thing. That rotten, stinking, besotted old man was out of there. The poor woman would have some peace. She was safe.
“I guess we got rid of him,” Brazil commented with pride.
“She was just scaring him, like she does once a week,” West replied.
“They’ll be back together by the time we drive off.”
She started the engine, watching the old boyfriend in her rearview mirror. He was standing on the sidewalk, carrying his things, staring at the dark blue Crown Victoria, waiting for it to disappear.
“One of these days he’ll probably kill her,” West added.
She hated domestic cases. Those and dog bite reports were the most unpredictable and dangerous to the police. Citizens called the cops, and then resented the intervention. It was all very irrational. But perhaps the worst feature of people like Rosa and their boyfriends was the co dependency the inability to do without the other, no matter how many times partners brandished knives and guns, slapped, stole, and threatened. West had a difficult time dealing with people who wallowed in dysfunction, and went from one abusive relationship to the next, never gaining insight, and hurting life. It was her opinion that Brazil should not live with his mother.
“Why don’t you get an apartment, and be on your own for once?” West said to him.
“Can’t afford it.” Brazil typed on the MDT.
“Sure you can.”
“No, I can’t.” He typed some more.
“A one-bedroom apartment in a decent neighborhood is about five hundred a month.”
“So?” West looked over at him.
“And your car is paid for, right? You owe any money to Davidson?”