Girls Like Us(2)

Dad’s was a rough sort of justice. He taught lessons you wouldn’t soon forget. Dorsey’s favorite story about Dad was the time he made Anastas lie down on a gurney under a sheet at the medical examiner’s office. There was a rookie fresh out of the academy named Rossi. His dad was a judge and Rossi thought that made him a big shot. He liked to wear designer clothes to work—Armani and Hugo Boss—and that rubbed Dad the wrong way. Dad took Rossi down to the ME’s and had him pull back the sheet. Anastas sat up screaming and Rossi pissed himself, all over his six-hundred-dollar pants. After that, he shopped at JCPenney like everybody else.

Dorsey’s told that story a hundred times, but he tells it again, and we all laugh like we’ve never heard it before. It feels good to remember my father as funny because he was, he really could be. He’d be quiet all night and then pipe up with one perfect, cutting remark. Dorsey and I exchange smiles. I nod, grateful. This is the way I want to remember Dad today. Not for his temper. Not for his sadness. And not for the alcohol, which had finally taken him out on a quiet stretch of wet highway in the early hours of the morning.

Eventually, the sun dips low on the horizon. The sky turns an electric plum-toned blue. Dorsey decides it is time to head home. We’re carrying well more than our quota of sea bass, but with three cops on board—especially these three cops, who, like my father, were all born and raised and will probably die inside county lines—no one’s going to say squat about fishing limits. These men, Dorsey especially, are the closest thing Hampton Bays has to hometown heroes.

The guys are good and sauced. They talk loudly and repeat themselves; they hug me hard in the parking lot, not once but twice, three times. Anastas invites me home for dinner. I beg off, saying I’m tired, I need some time alone to decompress. He seems relieved. Ron has a wife, Shelley, and three kids. He doesn’t need a dour-faced twenty-eight-year-old hanging around his house. DaSilva is in the middle of a divorce. My guess is he’ll head to a bar once we’re done here.

After another round of jokes, Anastas and DaSilva stumble off in separate directions. They both drive away in minivans, cars built for booster seats and lacrosse sticks and car pools. Dorsey points to the silver Harley-Davidson Sportster that I rode over here. It was Dad’s favorite. He bought it cheap years ago; restored it himself over time. Dad had four motorcycles, or he did, before the accident. Now, I guess, there are three. His babies, he called them. Each one meticulously restored and cared for, swallowing up his off-duty hours like hungry fledgling birds.

“Nice ride.” Dorsey drops his arm around my shoulders and gives me a paternal squeeze. Dorsey married his high school sweetheart. He lost her in a car crash just a few years later. He never remarried or had kids. Dad made him my godfather, a job he took seriously. All four of my grandparents have passed. Both my parents were, like me, only children. It occurs to me now that Dorsey is the closest thing I’ve got left to family. I feel a pang of sadness. I wish we’d kept in better touch.

“Yeah,” I say, tilting my head against his arm. “It’s a good-looking bike. I miss riding.”

“You don’t have one in DC?”

“I’m not there enough to take care of it.”

“You move around with every new case, huh.”

“I’m a great packer. Been living out of a suitcase since the academy.”

“Your dad was like that. I think that’s why he liked camping so much.”

“He taught me well.” I take a step toward the bike.

“You sure you’re okay to operate heavy machinery? I can give you a lift home if not.”

I wave him off. “Don’t worry about me.”

“The road might be wet.”

“I’m okay. Really.” I know what he’s thinking. He’s drunk, and I’ve had enough to put me over the limit. I have a wooden leg, though, and unlike my father, I know when it’s time to stop. I never drink the way Dad used to, well past the point of sloppiness. At least, not in public. Like a lot of agents, I save my drinking for the privacy of home.

“You know I always wanted to ride this bike.” I smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Dad used to make me work on it on the weekends, but I was too afraid to ask to try it out.” We both laugh.

“Marty loved those bikes of his.”

“He sure did. If there was a fire, I’m pretty sure he would’ve saved them first and come back for me afterward.”

“Don’t say that.” Dorsey shakes his head, a reprimand. “Your dad loved you more than you know.”

“Do you know what happened to his bike? The one he was riding, I mean.” It’s something I’ve wanted to ask but haven’t quite found the right moment. It seems like a relatively shallow thing to consider, having just lost my father and all. But it’s one of the many small loose ends I know I need to tie up before I leave Suffolk County for good.

Dorsey frowns, thinking. “It went to impound. I guess it’s still there. I can check.”

“Not the crime lab?”

“Nah. Pretty clear it was an accident. I signed the release form for it. I didn’t think about getting it to you. It’s basically junk metal now.” He winces, realizing how that sounds. “Sorry. I just meant—”

“I know what you meant. It’s okay. Should I pick it up from impound, then?”