Startled, Brazil stopped, and stared at both of them. In the first place, he didn’t
understand why two of the most prominent people in the city would eat in such a dive.
Nor could he fathom how they could continue with lunch when lives were in danger not
fifty yards away, and they had to have known. West was carrying her police radio.
“Andy.” Hammer nodded her greeting to him.
West shot him a glance that dared him to ask questions. He noted that both were in
handsome business suits, and that the chief’s black leather handbag included a secret
compartment for her pistol. He supposed her badge was somewhere in there, too, and he
liked the way her calves knotted as she briskly walked off. He wondered what West’s
legs looked like as he hurried on to the bus station. Cops were busy taking statements,
and this was no small chore. Brazil counted forty-three passengers, not including the
driver, who proved to be a pretty great interview.
Antony B. Burgess had been a professional bus driver for twenty-two years and had seen
it all. He had been mugged, robbed, hijacked, and stabbed. He’d been shot at the Twilight
Motel in Shreveport when he picked up a she who was a him (shim) by mistake. He told
all this to Brazil, and more, because the blond dude was nice as hell, and discerning enough to recognize a raconteur when he met one.
“Had no idea they was cops,” Burgess said again, scratching under his cap.
“That one never would have entered my mind. They come on board all in black, and red
and blue, like Batman and Robin. And next thing Batman’s kicked the fool out of the
little bastard and’s about to blow his fucking brains all over my bus while Robin cuffs ‘im.
Holy smoke.”
He shook his head, as if he’d seen a vision.
“And that’s the police chief. That’s what I heard. Can you believe it?”
By five p. m. ” the story was in the bag and destined for 1-A above the fold. Brazil had already seen the headline in the composing room:
POLICE CHIEF AND DEPUTY FOIL ABDUCTION OF BUS BATMAN AND ROBIN
IN
HEELS?
West got a preview a little later when Brazil, in uniform, hopped in her car for another
night out on the town. He was full of himself, and thought this story was his best yet. He
was thrilled over what Hammer and West had pulled off, almost wanted their autographs,
or a poster of the two of them to hang in his room.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” West exclaimed again as they sped along South Boulevard, not
going anywhere in particular.
“You didn’t have to put in the Batman shit.”
“Yes I did,” Brazil insisted, his mood sinking like the sun, as his world got dark and stormy.
“It was a quote. It’s not like I made it up.”
“Fuck.” West would be the laughingstock of the entire department tomorrow.
“Goddam son-of-a-bitch.” She lit a cigarette, imagining Goode laughing.
“This is an ego thing.” Brazil didn’t like his work criticized and could take but just so much of it.
“You’re just pissed because you don’t like being a sidekick, Robin instead of Batman,
because it reminds you of your real situation. You aren’t Batman. She is.”
West gave him a look that was heat-seeking, like a missile. He would not survive this
night, and probably should have remained silent. ”
“I’m just being honest,” he added.
“That’s all.”
“Oh yeah?” She launched another look.
“Well let me tell you honest for a minute. I don’t give a flying fuck what someone quotes
to you, okay?
You know what quotes like that are called in the real world? They’re called bullshit.
They’re called perjury, hearsay, impeaching a witness, slander, disfucking-respect. ”
“How do you spell that last one? I guess it’s hyphenated?” Brazil was trying not to
laugh, and pretending to take notes as West gestured with her cigarette and got
increasingly ridiculous.
“Point is, just because someone says something, Sherlock, doesn’t mean it’s gospel, worth
repeating, worth printing. Got it?”
He nodded with mock seriousness.
“And I don’t wear high heels and don’t want anybody thinking I do,” she added.