You would not have known they were cops, except for the manner and the drawn guns. They were dressed in gun belts, shoes, and skimpy breech clouts—little more than straps. A second glance showed their shields clipped to their belts. “Now,” the same one went on, “Off with those pants, buddy.”
I did not move quickly enough to suit him. He barked, “Make it snappy! There have been two shot trying to escape already today; you may be the third.” “Do it, Sam,” Mary said quietly. I did it. My shorts were a one-piece garment, with the underwear part built in; without them, I stood dressed in my shoes and a pair of gloves, feeling like a fool—but I had managed to keep both my phone and my gun covered up as I took off my shorts.
The cop made me turn around. His mate said, “He’s clean. Now the other one.” I started to put my shorts back on and the first cop stopped me.
“Hey! You looking for trouble? Leave ’em off.”
I said reasonably, “You’ve searched me. I don’t want to get picked up for indecent exposure.”
He looked surprised, then guffawed and turned to his mate. “You hear that. Ski? He’s afraid he’ll be arrested for indecent exposure.”
The second one said patiently, “Listen, yokel, you got to cooperate, see? You know the rules. You can wear a fur coat for all of me—but you won’t get picked up for indecent exposure; you’ll get picked up DOA. The Vigilantes are a lot quicker to shoot than we are.” He turned to Mary. “Now, lady, if you please.”
Without argument Mary started to remove her shorts. The second cop said kindly, “That isn’t necessary lady, not the way those things are built. Just turn around slowly.”
“Thank you,” Mary said and complied. The policeman’s point was well taken; Mary’s briefies appeared to have been sprayed on, and her halter also quite evidently contained nothing but Mary.
“How about those bandages?” the first one commented. “Her clothes sure can’t cover anything.” I thought, brother, how wrong you are; I’ll bet she’s packing at least two guns this minute, besides the one in her purse—and I’ll bet one of them is ready to heat up quicker than yours! But what I said was,
“She’s been badly burned. Can’t you see that?” He looked doubtfully at the sloppy job I had done on the dressings; I had worked on the principle that, if a little is good, more is better, and the dressing across her shoulders where she had been burned the worst undoubtedly could have concealed a slug, if that had been the purpose. “Mmmm . . .” he said, “If she was burned.”
“Of course she was burned!” I felt my judgment slipping away; I was the perfect heavy husband, unreasonable where my wife was concerned. I knew it—and I liked it that way. “Damn it, look at her hair! Would she ruin a head of hair like that just to fool you?”
The first cop said darkly, “One of them would.”
The more patient one said, “Carl is right. I’m sorry, lady; we’ll have to disturb those bandages.”
I said excitedly, “You can’t do that! We’re on our way to a doctor. You’ll just—”
Mary said, “Help me, Sam. I can’t take them off myself.”
I shut up and started to peel up one corner of the big dressing, my hands trembling with rage. Presently the older, more kindly one whistled and said, “I’m satisfied. How about you, Carl?”
“Me, too. Ski. Gripes, girlie, it looks like somebody tried to barbecue you. What happened?”
“Tell them, Sam.”
So I did. The older cop finally commented, “I’d say you got off easy—no offense, madam. So it’s cats, now, eh? Dogs I knew about. Horses, yes. But cats—you wouldn’t think the ordinary cats could carry one.” His face clouded. “We got a cat and now we’ll have to get rid of it. My kids won’t like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Mary told him and sounded as if she meant it.
“It’s a bad time for everybody. Okay, folks, you can go—”
“Wait a minute,” the first one said. “Ski, if she goes through the streets with that thing on her back somebody is likely to burn her.”