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'I'll try my best to stay out of your life.' He went back behind the counter and began knocking open rolls of change and shaking them into the cash drawer. Then he stopped and slammed the drawer shut with the flat of his pudgy hand. I walked outside, my face burning, the eyes of a half dozen people fastened upon me.
Lucinda Bergeron was sanding the wood steps on the back of her house. The air was sunny and warm, and her hair looked damp and full with the heat from her body and her work. She wore flip-flops and a denim shirt that hung over her pink shorts, and blades of grass stuck to the tops of her feet. She kept glancing up at me while she sanded. The tiny gold chain and cross around her neck were haloed with perspiration against her black skin.
'You go back on duty tomorrow?' I said.
'That's right. All sins forgiven.'
'How do you feel?'
'You know, one foot in front of the other, a day at a time, all that jazz.'
I brushed off a step where she had already sanded and sat down. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and wrapped a fresh piece of sandpaper around a block of wood. She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger and smoothed the paper against the grain.
'I want you to be careful, Lucinda.'
'Worry about yourself, hotshot.'
'It's a mistake to be cavalier about Buchalter, or Schwert, or whatever his name is. There's nothing predictable about this guy or the woman working with him.'
She raised her eyes to mine while her arm and hand kept a steady motion against the step, 'I can't tell you how much I'd love the opportunity,' she said.
'When you're forced to… to pop a cap in the line of duty, something happens to you, at least if you're not a sociopath yourself. The next time it goes down, you get sweaty, you hesitate, you doubt your motivations. It's a dangerous moment.'
'You think I'll freeze up?'
'You tell me.'
'I don't have doubts about the man who hurt my child, believe me.'
'When are you going to quit calling Zoot a child?'
'When I feel like it, Mr. Smart-ass.' She smiled, then worked the nozzle loose from the hose, turned on the faucet, and drank, with her body bent over, the backs of her thighs tight against her shorts, the water arching bright across her mouth. She wet a paper towel and wiped her face and neck and dropped it into a paper sack filled with garden cuttings.
'I have some tea made. Come inside,' she said.
The porcelain and yellow plastic surfaces of her kitchen gleamed in the sunlight through the windows, and the sills rang with red and blue dime-store vases. I sat at the breakfast table and watched her twist a handful of ice cubes in a towel and batter them on a chopping board with a rolling pin, then fill two tall glasses with the crushed ice and mint leaves and tea. The straps of her bra made a hard line across the wash-faded thinness of her denim shirt.
She turned toward me with the drink glasses in each hand. Her eyes looked at mine, and her expression sombered. She sat down across from me and folded her hands.
'I think you're a good person, Dave. That means some things aren't your style,' she said.
'I look like I have a clandestine agenda?'
'I've lived single for a long time. You recognize certain things in people. Even without being told.'
'I don't know if that's too complimentary.'
'Purcel was here yesterday.'
'There's a warrant on him.'
'I'm still suspended. I should worry about a warrant on Clete Purcel?'
'Why was he here?'
'He says one of the Caluccis' greasers will testify Nate Baxter's on a pad. He told me about your trouble at home.'
'Maybe some people should stay out of my private life.'
