o o o
It took the rest of the afternoon to put ten seconds down on paper.
We wrote out our reports at 77th Street Station, and were questioned by the team of Homicide dicks who investigated all officer-involved shootings. They told us that the three Negroes–Willie Walker Brown, Caswell Pritchford and Cato Early–were known grasshoppers, and that the white man– Baxter Fitch–took two strong-arm falls back in the late ’20s. Since all four men were armed and harboring marijuana, they assured us that there would be no Grand Jury hearing.
I took the questioning calmly; Lee took it rough, shivering and muttering that he’d rousted Baxter Fitch for loitering a bunch of times when he worked Highland Park, and he sort of liked the guy. I stuck close to him at the station, then steered him out to his car through a throng of reporters hurling questions.
When we got to the house, Kay was standing on the front porch; one look at her gaunt fate told me she already knew. She ran to Lee and embraced him, whispering, “Oh baby, oh babe.” I watched them, then noticed a newspaper on the railing.
I picked it up. It was the bulldog edition of the _Mirror_, featuring a banner headline: “Boxer Cops in Gun Battle! Four Crooks Dead!!” Below were publicity stills of Fire and Ice crouched in gloves and trunks, along with mug shots of the dead men. I read a jazzed-up account of the shoot-out and a replay of October’s fight, then heard Lee shout: “You’ll never understand, so just leave me fucking alone!”
Lee took off running, around the driveway to the garage, Kay right behind him. I stood on the porch, amazed at the soft center in the toughest son of a bitch I’d ever known. I heard Lee’s motorcycle starting up; seconds later he peeled out on it, screeching into a hard right turn, undoubtedly heading for a brutal run at Mulholland.
Kay came back just as the cycle noise died in the distance. Taking her hands, I said, “He’ll get over it. He knew one of the guys, so that made it worse. But he’ll get over it.”
Kay looked at me strangely. “You’re very calm.”
“It was them or us. You look after Lee tomorrow. We’re off-duty, but when we go back we’re going after a real beast.”
“And you look after him, too. Bobby De Witt gets out in a week or so, and he swore at his trial to kill Lee and the other men who arrested him. Lee’s scared, and I know Bobby. He’s as bad as they come.”
I put my arms around Kay and held her. “Ssssh. Fire and Ice are on the job, so rest easy.”
Kay shook herself free. “You don’t know Bobby. You don’t know the things he made me do.”
I brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes. “Yes, I do, and I don’t care. I mean I do care, but–”
Kay said, “I know what you mean,” and pushed me away. I let her go, knowing if I pursued it she’d tell me a shitload of things I didn’t want to hear. The front door slammed, and I sat down on the steps, glad to be alone to sort things out.
Four months ago, I was a radio car hack going nowhere. Now I was a Warrants detective instrumental in passing a million-dollar bond issue, with a double shine killing on my record. Next month I would be thirty years old with five years on the job, eligible to take the Sergeant’s Exam. If I passed it, then played my cards right, I could be detective lieutenant before I was thirty-five, and that was just the beginning.
I started to get itchy, so I went inside and puttered around the living room, thumbing through magazines, checking out the bookshelves for something to read. Then I heard the sound of water drumming hard, coming from the rear of the house. I walked back, seeing the wide-open bathroom door, feeling the steam, knowing it was all for me.
Kay was standing nude under the shower. Her expression stayed fixed in no expression at all, even when our eyes met. I took in her body, from freckled breasts with dark nipples to wide hips and flat stomach, then she pirouetted for me. I saw old knife scars criss-crossing her backside from thighs to spine, choked back tremors and walked away wishing she hadn’t showed me on the day I killed two men.