Long Bright River(8)

There’s something about these new places—Bomber in particular—that draws me to them every time I pass. Something about their interiors, made of cool steel or warm and resonant wood. Something about the people inside, who seem to have been dropped into our sector from a different planet. What they’re thinking and talking and writing about, I can only imagine: books and clothes and music and what plants to put inside their houses. They’re brainstorming names for their dogs. They’re ordering beverages with unpronounceable names. Sometimes I just want to be off the street for a second, to be around people with worries like these ones.

When I pull up in front of Bomber Coffee, Lafferty looks at me. Skeptical.

—You sure about this, Mike? he says. It’s a reference to The Godfather. One that he probably doesn’t expect me to recognize. What he does not know is that I have seen the entire Godfather series several times, not by choice, and that I have disliked it profoundly each time.

—You ready to pay four dollars for your coffee? he says.

—I’d be happy to treat you, I say.

I’m nervous when we walk in, and I’m annoyed with myself for feeling this way. In unison, everyone inside pauses briefly to note our uniforms, our weapons. An up-down glance I’ve gotten very used to. Then they return to their laptops.

The girl behind the counter is thin and has bangs that go straight across her forehead and a sort of winter hat that holds them in place. The boy next to her has hair that’s dark at the root and dyed a faded platinum toward the end. His glasses are large and strigine.

—Help you? says the boy.

—Two medium coffees, please, I say. (I note with some satisfaction that they’re only two dollars and fifty cents.) —Anything else? says the boy. He has his back to us now, pouring the coffee.

—Yeah, Lafferty says. Throw some whiskey in there while you’re at it.

He’s smiling as he says it, waiting for recognition. It’s a particular brand of humor I recognize from my uncles: corny, expected, harmless. Lafferty is tall and mildly handsome and probably used to being liked. He’s still grinning when the boy turns around.

—We don’t sell liquor, says the boy.

—It was a joke, says Lafferty.

The boy hands us our coffee solemnly.

—Do you have a restroom I could use? says Lafferty. He’s dropped his friendliness by now.

—Out of order, says the boy.

But I see it there, a door along the back wall of the place, clear as day, with no sign, nothing indicating it’s in disrepair. The other employee, the girl, won’t meet our eyes.

—Is there another one? asks Lafferty. With many places, members of the PPD have an understanding: we don’t have an office, and we’re in our vehicles all day. Public restrooms are an important part of our routine.

—Nope, says the boy, and he hands us the cups. Anything else? he asks again.

I proffer my money silently. I leave. We’ll go back to Alonzo at the corner store for our afternoon coffee. Alonzo lets us use his dim, filthy little restroom even when we don’t buy anything. He smiles at us. He knows Kacey. He knows my son’s name and he asks after him.



* * *



—

—Real nice kids, says Lafferty, outside. Sweethearts.

His voice is bitter. His feelings are hurt. For the first time, I like him.

Welcome to Kensington, I think. Don’t pretend, yet, that you know anything about it.





At the end of our shift, I park our vehicle in the lot—I inspect it even more thoroughly than I normally would, making sure that Lafferty is watching—and the two of us walk into the station to turn over our activity log.

Sergeant Ahearn is back in his office, a tiny closet of a space with concrete walls that sweat whenever the air-conditioning is on—but his own, something that belongs to him. He has a sign on the door that says Knock First.

We do.

—Inside, he’s sitting at his desk, looking at something on his computer. Wordlessly, he accepts the log, not looking at us.

—Night, Eddie, he says as Lafferty leaves.

I linger for a moment on his threshold.

—Night, Mickey, he says. Pointedly.

I hesitate for a moment. Then I say, Can you tell me anything about our victim?

He sighs. Looks up from his screen. Shakes his head.

—Not yet, he says. No news.

Ahearn is a small slight man with gray hair and blue eyes. He’s not bad looking but he’s insecure about his stature. At five-eight, I look down on him by at least two inches. The difference sometimes sends him up on his toes, hovering there while he talks to me. Today, sitting at his desk, he is preserved from this humiliation.

—Nothing? I say. She hasn’t been IDed?

Again, Ahearn shakes his head. I’m not sure if I believe him. Ahearn is strange: he likes to keep his cards close to his chest, even when he has no reason to. A habit meant mainly to emphasize the relatively insignificant amount of power he wields over us, I believe. He’s never liked me. I attribute this to a mistake I made once, shortly after he was transferred into this district from another one: he gave out some misinformation during roll call about a perpetrator we were looking for, and I raised my hand to correct the record. It was a silly, thoughtless move on my part—the kind of thing, I realized too late, I should have told him after the fact, to preserve order and rank—but most sergeants would let this small infraction slide, would say thank you and perhaps make a joke about it. Ahearn, on the other hand, gave me a look I will not soon forget. Truman and I used to joke that Ahearn had it out for me. Beneath the lightness of these exchanges, I believe that both of us were actually concerned.