“I don’t do this any more for a reason.”
She climbed in, yanking the seatbelt across her chest, cranking the engine.
Both of them were excited and trying not to show it. Brazil held together his ruined
uniform shirt, which was missing half its buttons.
West noted that he had a very well-developed chest to go with those shoulders and arms
and legs. She instantly stopped transmitting any and all signals,
such as body language or glances or words or heat.
Where was all this coming from, anyway? Outer space. Not from her. No sir. She
opened the glove box, and rummaged until she found the tiny stapler she was sure was in
there somewhere.
“Hold still,” she said to him, as if it were an order.
She leaned close because there was no other way to correct the situation, and gathered his
shirt together, and began stapling.
Brazil’s heart picked up speed. He could smell her hair, his own seeming to stand on end.
He did not move. He was terrified to even breathe as her fingers brushed against him.
He knew she could tell what he was feeling, and if he as much as twitched and
inadvertently touched her somewhere, she would never believe it was an accident.
She’d think he was just one more prick out there who couldn’t keep it in his pants. She’d
never see him as a person, as a sensitive human being. He’d be reduced to this thing, this
guy-thing. If she leaned half an inch closer to the right, he would die right there, on her front seat.
“When was the last time you had to do something like that?” he managed to ask.
West covered her repair job with his clip-on tie. The more she tried not to connect with
his person, the clumsier her fingers got, fumbling, and touching. She nervously tried to
put the stapler away, and dropped it.
“I use it for reports.” She groped under the seat.
“Don’t think I’ve ever used it on someone’s shirt.” She slammed shut the glove box on the third try.
“No,” Brazil said, clearing his throat again.
“I mean, what you did in there. That guy must weigh two hundred and fifty pounds, and
you decked him. All by yourself.”
West shoved the car in gear.
“You could,” she said.
“All you need is training.”
“Maybe you … ?”
She held up a hand as if halting traffic.
“No! I’m not a goddam one-person police academy!” She tapped the
MDT.
“Clear us outa here, partner.”
Brazil was tentative as he placed his fingers on the keyboard. He started typing. The
system beeped as if it liked him.
“God, this is so cool,” he said.
“Small minds,” West commented.
“Unit 700,” Radar, the dispatcher, said.
“Missing person at five-fifty-six Midland.”
“Shit. Not again.” West grabbed the mike, and tossed it to her partner.
“Let’s see what they’re teaching volunteers these days.”
‘700,” he said on the air for all to hear.
“We’re ten- eighteen five-fifty-six Midland.”
V) Missing person reports were so much paperwork, it was unbelievable.
Such investigations were almost always fruitless, for either the person really wasn’t missing, or he was and dead. Radar’s preference was that West had gotten her butt
kicked at Fat Man’s. At least Radar could ensure that she would be filling out forms the
rest of her life, and Midland was government subsidized housing, definitely not a nice
place for a female or her reporter ride-along.
Vy Luellen Wittiker lived in a one-bedroom unit. Her number, 556, like all others in Midland Court, was painted in huge numbers over the door. The city had done this free
of charge so the cops could find places fast when out at night with searchlights sweeping
and K-9 dogs panting. Luellen Wittiker had just moved here from Mint Hill, where she
had worked as a checkout clerk in Wal-Mart until she hit her eighth month of pregnancy
and got tired of Jerald coming around. How many times did she have to tell him no. N-
0.
She paced, wringing her hands, her four-year-old daughter, Tangine, watching from the
bed, which was close to the front door. Boxes were still stacked against a wall, although