A Waif In the Alley. Be careful of those casual pickups. Adult. (standard:romance, 7566 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 21 2020	Views/Reads: 1449/1014	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Jerry, a police detective, has three days off work. Walking home from a bar, he pees on a girl lying in an alley. He takes her home with him and falls for her. Later, he finds she’s a serial killer.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“That I don't have. I spent all my cash at the bar. That's why I'm going
home so early,” I lied. I was simply tired of getting plastered at the 
bar with company and wanted to go home to finish in solitude. 

“You got anything there for a sandwich?” she asked, sounding a little
more friendly. “I haven't eaten all day.” 

“Sure. Lunchmeat, a little ham, some canned roast beef. Even my cat, if
you want?” Trying for a little levity. 

With my back still toward the alley, I could hear a slight clatter as
she rose. The sounds of high heels coming up from behind caused my back 
muscles to knot involuntarily in expectation of another attack. High 
heels for the homeless, was my silly thought. 

When she came alongside, we walked the three blocks to my apartment
house without talking. Me with one hot and one cold leg as my trousers 
dried, her clackety clacking beside me. 

Unlocking the front door, I moved aside -- remembering my manners. She
walked past with a little flounce, giving me my first good view of her 
in the hallway light. A stray thought came that I would like to eat her 
while she ate her sandwich. A yum-yum for sure. 

That's how I tend to think of women. The lowest rating being just
“women,” next up are “good-looking women,” then come “pretty women.” 
Higher are “yums” meaning I'd like to take them home to eat. On top 
comes the rare “yum-yum,” meaning don't bother wrapping them, I'll eat 
them right there. She was a yum-yum ... at least from the back. Come to 
think of it, that's why my wife left me. She's going down that 
proverbial ladder and can't stand the thought. She's found herself a 
newer, younger, more fun-loving lover -- either trying to regain her 
youth or hang on to what's left. 

It took me a couple of minutes to set all the locks on the door. By the
time I caught up with her, the stray kitty had already found the 
kitchen. Without even asking, she'd opened the bread and stood with her 
head in the refrigerator, shapely butt waving back and forth and 
shoulders dipping as she checked it out. 

“Uh, help yourself,” I told her -- somewhat belatedly. “I have to change
clothes.” 

The girl must have remembered the purse still hanging from her arm --
probably getting in her way -- and dropped it to the floor with a loud 
“clunk.” 

“Uh, huh,” she muttered, mouth full of something and helping herself to
more something. 

I had to take time to wash up as well as change clothes, making it a
full twenty minutes by the time I got back to the kitchen. The stranger 
was still stuffing her mouth, a clutter of the aforementioned beef, 
ham, and lunchmeat, along with cheese I hadn't mentioned, scattered 
around the table. She was busily engaged in trying to get that last 
olive in her mouth -- prior to chewing -- when I arrived. 

Accomplishing the impossible, she managed to close her lips,
transferring the load into both pretty cheeks. I swear I could see her 
slim little throat expanding to twice its size as she swallowed, 
reminding me of one of those boa constrictors. Whatever happened to the 
custom of chewing? I thought, shaking my head. 

“Ah, that was good.” She leaned back, chair threatening to collapse from
the sudden force of a half-pound of foodstuffs hitting her stomach in a 
single lump. Eyes on the table scraps, she encircled them with both 
thin arms. Bowing her head quickly, they were scooped into the waiting 
abyss. The human compactor leaned back with a grin and a soft “burp.” 

“You said you have a spare room I can use tonight?” She gave me an
intense penetrating gaze. “One with a good lock?” 

I noticed how she was taking charge. A really confident young lady. 

“Yeah. Right. Let me show you.” 

Still standing, I waited for her to pry herself from the chair. I showed
her to my ex-wife's old room. It hadn't been used in the past eight 
months and I still hadn't cleaned it. What the hell, if she wanted 
clean sheets they were in the closet. 

The girl pushed past me and closed the door -- without even a thank you.
Hearing locks clicking, I turned for the living room. Time to resume 
that aborted drunk, was my thought. 

Pouring a glass of straight vodka, I headed for my favorite chair.
Picking up the previous morning's newspaper from its seat, I sat down 
and took a swig. Seeing the paper still clutched in my hand, I looked 
at the headline. “Third killing in a week.” It had a photo of various 
police officials standing around an area enclosed by yellow 
barrier-tape. 

No secret to me, since I'm a police detective myself. Luckily, I've
avoided being assigned to the case -- at least so far. If it went on 
much longer there would probably be a task force assigned and there 
weren't all that many of us to choose from. I preferred working by 
myself, a big frog in a little pool, to working with FeeBIes and other 
Feds – me a small cog, indeed. Those task forces were so damned 
impersonal and could stretch on forever, letting my regular caseload 
pile up while I hoofed it around to the tune of some asshole Fed broad. 


During my third -- or was it sixth? -- drink, I wondered if there was
any food left. I staggered to the kitchen and found only one slice of 
bologna in the fridge. It helped fill out a peanut butter sandwich, 
along with ketchup and a bag of potato chips the girl had somehow 
overlooked. 

On my way to the living room, I stumbled -- not unusual in my condition.
But that time caused by extraneous means. My foot had hit the discarded 
purse, feeling like kicking a rock. I picked it up and dropped it onto 
the table -- again with that distinctive "clunk." Now, I've been a cop 
for far too many years. Long enough to have heard that sound often. 
Unless she had a lead pipe in there, or a folded machete, it had to be 
a firearm. 

Looking quickly into an empty hallway, I struggled to master the clasp.
Why aren't these things standardized? I wondered, fumbling with drunken 
digits. It opened to reveal the usual supermarket, combined with drug 
store and miniature beauty-shop. Through the front entrance of a 
veritable shopping center, I could see the handle of a large pistol. 

Taking it out, I recognized -- of all things for such a little dainty
girl -- a .45cal M1911A2 Colt semi-automatic. The old army type, with a 
dull gray finish. I had been expecting ... maybe a .22cal? Since there 
was a wallet in there containing identification, following my training, 
I copied down the information in my notebook. The one I keep in a back 
pocket with my hankie. Her ID read: 

Susan Jenkins, 3353 Applegate Drive, this city. Surprising in this day
and age, no credit cards? Only a driver's license and personal papers. 
She wasn't lying, no paper money either; and I wasn't going through all 
that junk just to make sure. The rest wasn't really any of my business 
-- but the pistol might be. 

Not wanting to do anything right then, not in my current condition, I
made-do with unloading the monster and replacing it. In the morning, 
I'd see what was going on. I have a bad enough reputation at work now 
without bringing her in while I'm on a drunk. Maybe she even has a good 
reason for carrying, such as a permit? On a whim, I put the purse back 
where it had been -- on the floor. 

I went back to my drinking and, as happens a lot, soon passed out in the
comfy chair. 

*** 

"Briiinnngg." One of three alarm clocks in the living room woke me.
Following standard procedure, I rolled off the chair and onto the 
floor. Crawling down a hall to the bathroom, I filled a tall glass with 
water from the sink and drank it down. 

The water started a chain reaction, combining with remaining poisons
from the night before and ejecting the whole mess into the toilet bowl. 
About that time, I heard the second alarm clock going off. 

Not too bad last night, I figured, only a one-alarm morning. Sometimes
it took all three to wake me for work. 

Forcing myself to walk, I staggered to the bedroom and dressed in one of
four gray work suits. Not much difference, since they were all equally 
dirty and equally wrinkled. 

Only then did I realize it was an off day. I cursed those electric
clocks. I'd forgotten to turn them off the day before. 

I smelled coffee, which seemed like a wonderful idea at the moment. Wait
a minute, I didn't fill the automatic coffeepot last night? was my next 
thought. 

The morning looked better as I saw an apparition -- a mirage in my own
kitchen -- sitting at the table. It took me a moment to remember the 
stray I'd picked up the night before. With that memory came another. I 
knew I had to interrogate her -- but first, some java. 

“Mornin'.” I poured a cup and sat down across from her. Lighting a Salem
with a Zippo lighter, I tried to force a saturated brain to function. 
It usually takes two cups of coffee before I can string three 
consecutive words together in my head. 

“Good morning. I didn't introduce myself last night. The name is Susan.
What should I call you? I shouldn't have imposed on you like that, I 
apolo....” 

“Two,” I told her, bleary eyes looking down at my cup. 

“Two? Your name's 'Two'?” 

“Two cups -- no talk. Two cups.” 

We sat in silence until I finished my second cup, all the time trying to
string three-word sentences in my head. Like: “Why the gun”, “You under 
arrest”, “What goin' on”, or “Me lust you.” 

“Me lust you,” I told her, loud enough to force her back to jerk
straight-up in the chair. 

“What was that?” 

“Sorry, just thinking out loud,” I muttered, which made matters worse by
causing her to laugh. 

By then I was wide-awake, nothing like embarrassment to get that old
mind in gear. My next thought was that, following police procedure, I 
should wait until I'm in a better position before any questioning. 
We're taught to get, and keep, control of any situation. I definitely 
wasn't in control of that one. 

“My name's ... Jerry.” I sat up straight, pleased to see her relaxing
again. “It's nice to have company for a change,” I informed her. 
“You're the first in a long time.” 

“The first company, or the first female company?” 

“Both, for that matter,” I admitted. “So what's up with you? You're too
well-dressed to be sleeping in an alley.” 

Like many women, ask a simple question and open a flood-gate. 

“I broke up with my boyfriend, Terry,” she started. “It was at that bar
down the street. Didn't you see us? I remember you sitting at the bar.” 


“No, I was watching the tv.” 

“Anyway, I caught him cheating and braced him up.” 

“It's hard to imagine him cheating on you, or anyone else doing it, for
that matter.” 

“Thanks, I think. See, he was angry and told me to take a hike.” 

“In those shoes? What a heel.” I was feeling better by then -- a little
playful. 

“Quiet! You asked, now let me finish.” 

Damn, a really take-charge broad. 

“Well, we had an argument and he walked out of the bar. That was about
all there was to it. He even took back the credit cards -- they're all 
in his name -- so I guess he was serious. That damn Janet, she can have 
him.” She continued, “It wasn't until he left that I realized that 
while he was in my wallet he took my money too. 

"I was upset, couldn't think straight, broke and no way to get home. He
would have been there anyway -- maybe waiting for me. At least I have 
his gun.” 

“Which is a good point. Why do you have his gun? Or do you always carry
one around? And such a big weapon for such a little girl.” 

That caused her to sit straight again, a fiery look coming to lovely
eyes. “I was afraid he'd use it on me. Felt safer with me having it 
than him.” She looked me in the eye. “How did you know how big my gun 
was?” 

I lost control again, and just as I'd been getting it back. 

“Uh, I guessed. I heard the thud when you dropped your purse last
night,” I lied. “My wife had a small one she carried around. Nothing 
like the sound of a pistol hitting the table -- or floor in this case.” 
I added, “It certainly wasn't a makeup kit.” Whoo, got out of that, I 
thought. 

“You have a car?” She asked, thankfully changing the subject. 

“Sure, out back. If I park it on the street it gets sideswiped by drunks
from the Clink of Copper.” 

“Then you can take me home this morning, so I can get my things out.
Terry should be at work.” 

I felt like asking her who she thought she was, telling, not asking me
to do something like that. But then, a woman like her wouldn't be used 
to rejection. 

“I guess I could do that. When you want to go?” Call me “Pussycat.” 

“Just as soon as I get cleaned up.” She stood up and went back to her
... oops, my wife's room. 

*** 

“Wait outside and keep your eye open for a blue Honda Civic,” she
ordered while getting out. 

I was doubleparked in front of a three-story brownstone in the better
part of town. “Better leave him his pistol,” I told her, “so he can't 
charge you with theft. And, besides, you need a carry permit.” 

I watched her hips gyrate like a metronome as she mounted the steps,
unlocked the front door and left my sight. 

Twiddling my thumbs for twenty minutes, I took time to show my shield to
a motor patrolman who saw my doubleparked vehicle. 

“Police business,” I told him, hoping Susan wouldn't pick that time to
come out with a suitcase. It might have caused questions back at work. 
The City is big, but we're a closed fraternity and word gets around. 
Which reminded me, I still hadn't told her I was a cop. Maybe I 
shouldn't? I thought. Some people are turned off by police, especially 
women with guns. 

She finally returned, a suitcase in one hand. What was the world coming
to -- a woman with only one suitcase? 

“Okay, let's go before anybody sees me.” 

“Where to? You think of a place to stay yet? Maybe a girlfriend's?” 

“Well, uh, I thought about with you,” she almost whispered, looking
straight ahead. “Just for a little while, until I can find one of my 
own. I'll pay you for the space; after I find a job, of course. Terry 
supported me, and I don't have any close friends.” 

Somehow, I found that both hard and easy to believe. 

I was torn between conflicting emotions. Here I was, a big macho
detective, arresting big macho criminals, outwitting them in their 
nefarious criminal endeavors, and letting myself be manipulated -- yes, 
even outwitted -- by this woman. My ex-wife had been the same way. On 
the other hand, she was a beautiful manipulator and I guess I'm a 
sucker for that type of woman. 

“Okay, I guess. Only until you get on your feet,” I told her, visions of
sugarplums and bouncing beds dancing in my head. 

*** 

Later that day, I wanted to read my morning newspaper -- but it wasn't
there. One problem with living in that neighborhood was that the paper 
was stolen about a third of the time. I should get a discount on the 
damn thing -- or maybe call a cop. 

Susan, maybe to make up for not paying me -- not that I was counting on
ever getting any money -- was busily cleaning the house. All but my 
study, of course. That was my own private preserve; from my 
aforementioned louder half. I still kept it locked, with my most 
private and work stuff inside, including a twenty-year collection of 
“Big-Uns Magazines.” Bought them off a guy named Al ... Al Bundy. 

“I'm going out for a while. You need anything?” I asked. 

“No thanks. Not right now, but I want to get some things later,” she
answered from my bedroom -- an all-day cleaning job in itself. It was 
probably the reason I slept on my easy-chair. The bed was filled with 
junk, and I never felt like cleaning it off. “I'll just take a taxi,” 
she said. “I had a little money stashed at Terry's place.” 

Hell, the precinct was closer than the newsstand. I'd just stop in, hear
the gossip, shoot the shit, and save four-bits by stealing a paper from 
the lunchroom. 

*** 

Detective Sergeant Jeffrey sat at the Front Desk. He hated that job and
glared at me as I waved my way past him to the Squad Room. We're short 
on personnel -- all except us detectives, that is. Every once in a 
while, we have to man the front desk. 

It's not a very good job, having to clean up vomit from booking drunks.
Not to mention taking down civilian complaints and listening to sob 
stories from two-legged rats that crawled out of the woodwork. Now 
known for our homeless, we should give equal press to our brainless. 

Jefferson and Thompson were at their desks doing paperwork while
catching -- meaning waiting for something to happen. 

“Hey, Jerry. Thought you were off today?” from Thompson. 

“Yeah. I just can't stay away.” Don't get the idea our conversation is
always that unoriginal. “Just wanted to see if anything was happening. 
Someone stole my newspaper again.” 

“Picked up that Adamoski kid this morning. The idiot was at his mother's
house. She called us -- don't tell him, though,” Thompson told me. 

Good, that asshole had been avoiding us for weeks. A simple gas-station
robbery -- twenty-buck job -- but he'd kept a step ahead of us, taking 
up a lot of our time and resources. 

“Oh, and Trapper got called on another of those murders this morning,
four in a little over a week, all 'made men.' I hope we don't have a 
mob war on our hands. That's the surprising thing, that we don't have 
one already,” Jefferson called out from across the room. 

“Let'um kill each other off,” Thompson said, laughing, “as long as I
stay out of it.” 

We talked shop for a while before Thompson left for a Dead Body Found
call in some senior-apartment building. In our city, every unexpected 
death has to be investigated as a homicide -- even people dying of old 
age alone in their rooms. Until the cause is ascertained, every such 
death is considered a potential murder or felony. 

After swiping a newspaper from the empty lunchroom, I left and went back
home. I know, strange without even stopping for a drink. But why look 
at the bargirls with what was waiting at home? I hadn't felt that way 
since the first year of my marriage, before I discovered my wife didn't 
really enjoy married sex, only the pre-marital kind -- meaning until 
she landed me. Guess it took a year for her bait to be used up. It was 
the only thing she was ever frugal about. 

I could have taken the time, since Susan was gone when I returned. I
looked in my wife ... Susan's room and saw her suitcase open on the bed 
-- so she was probably coming back. 

I needed supplies, myself, her having cleaned out my refrigerator the
night before -- and I was down to the last ounce of a half-gallon of 
cheap vodka. Of course I had a couple more half-gallons hidden around 
the apartment for emergencies. That not being one, I went back out for 
groceries. 

When I returned, I parked behind the building for the night and picked
up my packages and bottles. On my way in, I noticed a trash can almost 
full of plastic and other debris from new clothing. You know, those 
flimsy little plastic clothes hangers that nobody would ever think of 
actually using and cards twenty-times the size of the products they 
contained. Those kinds of things. It looked like someone, maybe my new 
boarder, had bought out a clothing store. 

To my consternation, the refrigerator was already full. She'd also
bought food. Now we had too much for the damned thing to hold. I gotta 
give her credit though, she immediately set upon rectifying that 
mistake, fixing a meal large enough for six. 

“Wish you would have told me you were buying food,” I admonished her. 

“Same here. After all, I emptied it, thought it was my duty to fill it
back up.” 

“I see you bought new clothes?” I mentioned, pouring myself a drink,
“you want one?” 

“After dinner. I gotta cook. Yeah, one way to forget Terry -- a new
wardrobe.” She smiled, pirouetting around the kitchen, knife in hand, 
to show me her new short-shorts. She needn't have bothered, since I had 
noticed them right away. A few bumps and grinds weren't unwelcome, 
however. 

I retired to the living room to watch television while I waited for her
to prepare the meal. I don't think I'd fixed a half-dozen of those in 
the eight months I'd been living alone. 

“I want you to take me to see my sister tonight. That is, if you have
time?” Susan called from the kitchen. 

Ah, that sexy voice. She seemed to know how to add just the right
mixture of salty command and peppery dreams to her intonations. 

“All right, but I don't want to go in.” 

I didn't want to get involved with relatives. After all, we still hadn't
really gotten to that stage. Relationships with a girl's relatives are 
an important step for me. Once they find out I'm a cop the demands tend 
to start. As with doctors and lawyers, a policeman gets pestered for 
free advice. But doctors don't get asked to fix speeding-tickets and 
bail out strange two-headed slobbering relatives; that sort of thing. 

*** 

That time, I dropped her off at an apartment-house, a very expensive one
with a doorman. I was to pick her up in an hour. At least I had time 
for a couple of drinks in a bar we'd passed down the street. The bar 
was one of those dumpy kinds of places I love. The kind of drinking 
hole with activity and at least the threat of violence. 

I went inside and sidled up to a stool with a cracked top, plastic
stuffing jamming up the crack of my ass as I sat down. 

“Vodka seven,” I instructed a huge but simpering bartender. 

Wrong part of the bar. A nice-looking woman was tending the other end.
My fault for not looking first. With my luck, I figured, he'd try to 
pick me up. 

I paid and, getting my change, pocketed it. It wasn't the type of place
you lay money down on the bar. Swinging around with a squeak and drink 
in hand, I saw four bikers with two girls. They seemed happy. Not so 
with the table of wiseguys in the corner. 

At least one of the minor mobsters recognized me, not surprising since I
knew most of them, at least by sight. They seemed to be travelling in 
groups lately -- since so many of them were being knocked off. We all 
smiled at each other. Maybe they felt safer with me there? Ha-ha. 
Protect and serve is our motto. I considered it more fun to watch 
either bartender than them, and turned around to finish my drink. 

To my surprise, Susan was waiting when I got back -- me being a few
minutes late. Hell, I hadn't been in any hurry, figuring women are 
always late anyway. 

“What kept you, Jerry? I said an hour?” She was a little peeved and had
another suitcase in hand, that one bright-red. “Are you sure you can 
drive? You look a little soused.” 

“Sorry.” I ignored her on the way home. It took all my concentration to
manipulate that damned steering-wheel. The windshield seemed to distort 
traffic, and who kept moving those lights back and forth? 

We made home where I had another drink or three. The next thing I knew
was waking up, again in my favourite chair. I didn't remember, but I 
must have slept well. In fact it's unusual for me to remember deciding 
to sleep anymore, normally blanking out long before I get to that 
point. Oh, well, as long as I remember to wake up. 

I heard a radio going in the kitchen, along with the clinking of glass.
By the time I propped myself against the doorway, I remembered 
something else -- a vague memory about trying to crawl into her bed the 
night before. It had completely slipped my mind. It must not have been 
too serious a blunder though, since she was still there and I didn't 
seem to hurt anywhere. 

Well, there's always tonight. Anticipation makes the act more fulfilling
-- at least that's the theory -- and I was becoming used to being 
embarrassed around Susan. 

She looked luscious that morning, wearing a green robe. Wasn't that the
universal color for “go ahead”? Of course she was eating again, what 
else? 

I walked up behind her and poured some java. Her coffee was better than
mine. I never measured, simply dumped it in and added water. A man 
thing. I needed a woman thing -- being in a sexy mood that morning. 
Maybe she was feeling that way herself, or sensed my testosterone 
jumping around down there? 

As I sat, jerking the java, I heard the radio saying something about
another mobster biting the dust the night before. The address caught 
me. It was near where I had dropped the girl that same night. No 
details, though. 

I sat, trying to string my thoughts together again, too much to think
about at one time so soon after waking. Love, lust, murder, coffee ... 
yes, coffee. I'd think about coffee. My mind most mornings was akin to 
a bad auto-transmission. It would try to shift gears, sometimes 
grinding while going from third to reverse, back to first, thumping all 
the way as it drank it's coffee while looking slyly at the pretty girl 
across the gearbox. About the time it hit first for the fifth time -- I 
finished my second cup. 

“Done with the second coffee, Jerry?” Susan asked with a sly grin while
getting to her feet. 

She had obviously been watching me and my facial contortions as I
attempted to fight lingering sleep and residual alcohol while keeping 
that pink elephant in its cage. 

I swear I felt warmth as she approached the back of my chair. I know
damn well I felt a wet tongue on my left ear. 

“You ready?” she whispered. “Don't you remember I promised you something
last night -- something for after breakfast when you were sober?” 

Her arm snaked around my head, turning it to the left until our lips
met, side-wise. It was hard to get two tongues to work right from that 
uncomfortable -- did I say uncomfortable? -- angle. We managed. 

Without trying to stand, I swung my chair around as her robe seemed to
drift down, a soft green cloud settling onto a spotted linoleum floor. 
Exposed were a pert little body, breasts like two cups of honey, 
nipples akin to hardened sugar cubes waiting for my mouth to melt them. 
Susan's hard body and flat tummy pressed against my middle-aged flabby 
shoulders. It was something I noticed right away, with a measure of 
surprise. How did she get all that food in there and stay so slim? 

We made it to her room where my semi-alcoholic state from the night
before enhanced our lovemaking. I don't remember getting undressed, but 
the rest of the occasion has a special place in my memory. Every 
movement, ever nuance, is burned indelibly into the convolutions of a 
pickled brain. 

The feel of her skin sliding over mine, mine sliding into the warmth of
the waiting receptacle, internal organs pounding in a mixture of 
frantically synchronizing heartbeats, felt through intimate 
sub-molecular contact. The sweet tender odors of love, merging with 
animistic grunts and whines of fulfilment. 

A final blaze as consummation forced a spiraling collusion of burning,
cascading luminescence in colors never before, or nevermore, 
experienced. 

Arms entwined in sated exhaustion, we slept. 

*** 

We spent the rest of the day at the beach. Susan looked scrumptious in
an orange bikini. Already, I was feeling possessive. It was the first 
time I'd been to that beach in many years. I looked over at the 
boardwalk, trying to make out the bullet holes from my last visit. It 
involved a shootout with a perp. Thankfully, there weren't too many of 
those. Shootouts I mean. Plenty of perps though. 

A tip had brought my partner and me to this part of the beach. Who would
have thought the guy would have a gun in his bathing suit. I guess -- 
like a roll of socks -- it made him look a little over-endowed. Maybe 
more macho than socks, for that special effect? Such as shooting cops. 
I dreaded it, but I had to tell her I was a cop -- soon, anyway. That 
wasn't something you could keep a secret forever. 

Susan came back from the water. Unlike dogs, some things were made to be
lovely even when wet. She was smiling as she deliberately dropped and 
rolled in the sand before plopping down beside me. 

“Lick it off, lover,” Susan commanded, looking like a pretty piece of
sandpaper. 

“No way, honey,” I declined, brushing her off with my hand instead,
“only the packaged parts if you unwrap them.” 

“Better not, at least in public.” She laughed, punching me playfully.
“The police would be all over us.” 

“What do you think about cops?” I said, grinning back at her. “Are they
your favorite people?” 

Her face took on a serious look. 

“I have to tell you something, Jerry,” she started. “My father was in
the mob. I grew up to hate police.” Her eyes became misty. “He was shot 
dead, not by police but by his best friend. He wasn't Italian -- only a 
Greek -- so he couldn't be 'made' but he had a good business going. 

“I don't hate the police anymore, at least not as much as I do mobsters,
but they're not my favorite people. My mother and I spent too many 
years alone, trying to scratch a living while he was in prison.” 

Oops, I better hold off on telling her? I decided. Not a big problem,
since I'm good at procrastination. The rest of the day was a blast. To 
celebrate our altered status, we acted like any new lovers. The city 
was our plum, from the beach to a movie -- the latter remaining unseen. 
It'll be on television sooner or later. 

I splurged on dinner in a fancy restaurant, where we again acted like
teenagers, laughing, throwing toothpicks at each other and, in general, 
disturbing other customers. That night, we both ended up in the same 
bed -- of course. It was the first night in quite a while that I 
remembered sacking out, and quite an experience to feel a warm body 
rubbing against me for a change. 

*** 

All things have to end. For the first time in ages, I woke before the
first alarm clock from the living room. Getting out of bed slowly -- so 
as not to disturb Susan -- I stood and took a mental snapshot of her 
lying there. I still see it in my dreams -- both drunk and sober. A 
picture of dark hair spread over ivory shoulders and yellowed 
pillowcase, one slim leg half-covering a patch of fur between 
lighter-colored thighs. A picture painted, if not by Rembrandt, hardly 
by Van Gogh. 

I didn't want to wake her. She would be sure to question my rising and I
still wanted to pick a better time to tell her of my job. Cluck, cluck 
... I know. 

Turning off the clocks, I dressed quickly and quietly. I could get
coffee on the way. I left her a note that I was going to work and 
didn't want to wake her. 

*** 

“You're early, and what's that on your face?” Thompson was at his desk,
they all were. Well, I didn't see Trapper around, though. 

“What you talking about, man?” I asked, sitting down at my own
paper-strewn desk. 

“That smile, like you just got laid.” He laughed. “Oh, and the
lieutenant wants to see you. Guess you screwed up again.” 

I shuffled papers for a few minutes. Counting a new one, I had six cases
going. We were supposed to handle only four, max. Well, not all of them 
were active. There was the one where the perpetrator supposedly fled to 
Arizona. It had to sit quietly in its slot until we got a line on the 
guy. Sooner or later, someone would turn him in or he'd be stopped for 
running a red-light and we'd get him back. 

I was trying to think if I had screwed up recently or not, but couldn't
think of anything offhand. But then, my mind was on personal problems. 
I had to get organized before seeing my boss. The best way was to 
review my work. It was always that way after a day or two off. I tended 
to compartmentalize my work and home life. It was the only way to 
survive in a job like mine. 

A knocking on glass pulled me from my revelry. I looked up to see the
lieutenant motioning to me from a glass cage in the corner of the room. 
Stepping around desks and filing cabinets, I went in to see him. 

“What's up, Lou?” I asked as I casually took a seat. Lieutenant Samson
was a large black man. He'd been a terror on the street, always in 
trouble with more staid upper ranks. After a particularly bad shootout 
during which he hosted a bullet in the leg he made lieutenant and was 
transferred to a desk job. Now he was the opposite -- a spit-and-polish 
guy who hated mavericks. I could never figure that one out. 

“I know you hate it, but you and Trapper have been assigned --
temporarily, now -- to a new task force. Us, Sheriff's Department, and 
even FeeBIes about those mob killings.” 

“Look, Lou. Man, I got more cases than I can handle now. Pick someone
else. Come on, you owe me a favor?” 

“Not that big a favor. We want to get this one finished. I was ordered
to put my most experienced men on it. That's you, Jerry buddy.” He 
shook his head. “Give your cases to Jefferson until you're done. Cheer 
up. With all the heavy weight on this, it shouldn't take long.” 

I argued, but he commanded. Nothing for it, I turned my cases over to
Jefferson and went down the hall to room #313 -- an apt number. Trapper 
was already there, scarfing up free donuts. That was why he hadn't been 
in the squad room. 

“You don't look too happy, Jerry?” Trapper fixed me with his trademark
glare. Only five-eight, and thin to boot, he was still intimidating 
with that graveyard stare. We always had trouble with our “Good cop, 
bad cop” routine. He glared and I never smiled. Who could play the good 
guy? 

“This is a pile'a bullshit.” I retrieved my own donuts and free coffee,
sitting down next to Trapper. Assigned seats no less, with little 
plastic name-tags. You could tell the FBI was involved. At least with 
them along we didn't have to worry about overtime pay. 

“Might as well get up to snuff,” I mentioned to Trapper, reaching for an
expensively-bound printed notebook in front of me. I had been 
subconsciously avoiding the case, hoping it would go away. Now I had to 
read and memorize all that crap. People were drifting into the room, 
mostly to the donut table. It seemed the entire station house knew 
about the free snacks. 

Opening the folder, I saw a page of photos; the deceased rat-pack. A
chronology started on the flip-side. I knew some of the names, others 
were new to me. If you would ask, I didn't give a shit if they killed 
each other off. 

An address caught my eye. The guy had been stabbed, found in his car
near the alley where I'd found Susan. And his address was nearly the 
same as where I'd taken Susan. Among the particulars were his favorite 
hangouts. One was the Clink of Copper Saloon. I had found Susan in an 
alley there. 

No! I shook my head, unbelieving. Only a coincidence? Of course he had
taken her there, it was one of his favorite places. And he could have 
been killed later -- long after we were gone. Sure. That had to be it. 
And pigs could fly if they tried hard. 

The fifth body had been found the morning after I took her to her
sister's. The high-rise next door to where I had driven her. How could 
I explain that? Coincidence again? 

“Jerry, the meeting's starting.” Trapper nudged me. 

“Shut up. Leave me alone,” I snapped at him, continuing my reading. One
of the first mobsters killed was also in his apartment, with a .25cal 
-- which made me feel a little better. That is until my deductive brain 
realized something. I had found the .45 on the top of her large, full, 
purse. No way it could have made that “clunk” on hitting the floor. She 
could have had another gun in there. God knows it had been heavy 
enough. 

Hands shaking, I continued, ignoring the lecture in front of us. The
second guy was shot with a .45 automatic. She was from a mob family and 
Susan's name was the same as the first victim. His wife? No, he was in 
his seventies -- his daughter. 

“Mr. Edwards, Detective Edwards?” A voice made me look up. The
expensively dressed lecturer -- probably FBI -- was talking to me. “We 
would appreciate your attention. It's the only way to get this problem 
resolved.” 

He and the rest of the room were surprised as I stood, holding a
sweat-stained plastic folder. I ignored both comments and stares as I 
walked to the front of the room, up to the podium. 

*** 

The FBI supervisor insisted on being present, but I wouldn't let him in
my door. He was acting officious, as they are wont to be. As I unlocked 
the front door, he tried to push past me. Being both larger and 
heavier, I jerked him by the back of his collar and whispered in his 
ear. 

“I swear to you on my mother's grave, that if you come into my home I'll
kill you. You wait out here with your asshole friends. We'll bring her 
out,” I told him with a smile on my face -- no need to alarm the others 
clustered around us in the corridor. A blank look on his face, he 
backed up a pace. 

The rest of the task force had quietly surrounded my building, to the
astonishment of a few of the neighbors. I had managed to talk them out 
of evacuating the entire area. The only reason I let Trapper in was 
that I didn't trust myself to make the arrest. Not hers. 

Susan was cleaning the kitchen as I walked in with Trapper. 

“Who's your friend, Jerry?” She ran over to hug and kiss me on the
cheek, bringing tears to my eyes. “What's the matter? Why're you 
crying?” 

I motioned to Trapper and turned away, shaking. I didn't see but heard
the rest. 

“Susan Jenkins, you're under arrest for murder. Please turn around and
put your hands behind your back.” 

There was a sob from Susan. Then a yell from Trapper, “Don't!” 

I started to jerk around, cursing myself for my cowardice. I turned just
enough to get Susan all over one side of my face as she blew her brains 
out with a concealed pistol. As it turned out, a .25cal. 

*** 

I'm still on the force, technically at least. I see a shrink once a
month now. It was weekly for a long time. That is, after I got out of 
the nuthouse. Right now, I'm on a forced vacation with half-pay. The 
new captain said they'll give me sergeant if I agree to retire on 
three-quarter pay. I don't know, but have a few weeks to decide. I'll 
probably take it. It should buy one hell of a lot of vodka. 

The End.


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