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“I did that?”
“Yes, you did that.”
“What’s Mommy going to think when you come in the house flopping all over?”
“I’ll keep my coat on.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“The bra? Throw it away. It’s beyond repair.”
“Can I have it?”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Make a trophy out of it. A little foam rubber, so it looks lifelike, and a brass plate reading, ‘Susan, 34B, Hotel Hershey,’ and the date. Then I’ll mount it on the wall, with all the others.”
“Damn it, I’m serious.”
He met her eyes.
“I don’t know why I want it,” he said. “I just do.”
She held it out to him. When he put his hand out, she caught it and kissed it.
“For the record, it’s a 34C,” she said.
She let go of his hand, and he took the brassiere and stuffed it in his trousers pocket.
“Thank you, honey, for wanting it,” Susan said.
When Phil Chason came home from Captain Karl Beidermann’s retirement party, it was half past two in the morning and he was half in the bag, and he almost didn’t go into his basement office to see if there were any messages for him on the answering machine.
Phil and Karl Beidermann had gone through the Academy together, had had their first assignment—to the Central District—together, and had done a hell of a lot of things together on the job, although Karl had liked working in uniform (he retired as commanding officer of the 16th District) and Phil had decided he’d rather be—and stay—a detective, who with overtime took home as much money as a captain anyhow.
And it was good to see a lot of the people at the party. Once you went off the job, you didn’t see people very much, and that was sort of sad. On the way home, Phil had thought that if he had to do it all over again, he still would have become a cop. He had had a good twenty-six years on the job, and no real complaints.
As he started up the stairs to his bedroom, he remembered about the answering machine downstairs in the office, and decided, fuck it, even if there was something on it, it would most likely be somebody trying to sell him a house in Levittown or just begging for money, and not somebody who needed the professional services of Philip Chason, retired Philadelphia Police Department detective.
But halfway up the stairs, he decided that he might as well check the son of a bitch, or otherwise he would stay awake all goddamn night wondering what might be on it.
He stopped, turned around on the stairs, and went back down them and then into the basement.
When he opened the door, the little red light indicating that somebody had called was flashing, so he flipped on the light switch, waited for the fluorescent light fixtures to take their own goddamned sweet time to come on, then sat down at the desk and pushed the Play switch.
“Phil, this is Joe Fiorello.”
Fuck you, Joey Fiorello. Now I’m sorry I came down here.
“I’m really sorry to call this late, but at least, since I got your answering machine, I didn’t wake you up, right?”
Get to the fucking point, Fiorello!
“Well, I guess you can guess why I’m calling, right, Phil? I got another job for you.”
I figured you called me because you love me, asshole.
“So as soon as you get this message, you want to give me a call, Phil?”
