him that he knows what to do.
Curtis? Veronica says. You still with me? You doing okay?
Curtis takes a deep breath, lets it out. I been better, he says.
I’m not gonna shoot you. Okay? I have to pat you down. Do not move at all.
He’s scared she’ll search him with the gun in her hand, but she knows what she’s doing: it goes away, and there’s a swish as she secures it at her waist. She reaches under his arms, unclips his revolver from his belt, sets it on the deck behind her and pushes it away with her foot, off the tile,onto the carpet. Then she works front to back, top to bottom, crushing and twisting each pocket before she reaches into it. She finds the speedloader in his jacket and the wallet in his jeans, and she drops them on the deck by the revolver. Then she pats down his groin, his legs, his ankles. She does all of this while wearing a gold cat-face mask.
She’s backing off now, collecting his things, retreating farther into the suite. Leaving him there. He wants very badly to open the door, to walk down the hallway, to run. Hey, he calls to her. We finished?
Her voice, muffled a little by the walls: Yeah, she says. Sorry. Come on in. Make yourself at home.
He pushes himself upright, straightens his clothes, turns around. The reflector bulb directly overhead is lit; a table lamp glows at the far end of the room. Aside from that the suite is dark.
He steps forward. Veronica’s suite is a looking-glass version of his own: higher up, maybe a little bigger—she’s got two queens instead of one kingsize rack—but he’s got the nicer view. One of her closet doors is ajar; nothing’s inside. He looks around for luggage, but there isn’t any.
She’s on the couch in the sunken living area, with his gun unloaded on the coffee table before her, speedloader and five loose bullets beside it. Her own pistol—a black SIG, small enough to fit in a purse—is on the cushion next to her, in her shadow, about an inch from her hand.
He pauses on the steps. Her mask glitters in the dim light: gold paint and rhinestones, tufts of peacock-feather at the ears. She’s flipping through his wallet: his VIC, his TRICARE card, his Pennsylvania ID and concealed-carry permit. I thought you were married, she says.
That’s right. I am.
She closes the wallet, holds it out to him. Her eyes, dull amid the filigree, flit between his face and his left hand. No wedding ring, huh? she says. I guess what happens here stays here. Right, cowpoke?
Curtis doesn’t move, doesn’t respond.
Come on, Curtis, Veronica says. Don’t act like you’re upset. What did you expect me to do?
He steps down, retrieves the wallet. Next time you do a body-search,he says, you ought to ask your detainee if they’re carrying any needles or sharp objects.
Hey, that’s great advice. Thanks. You know, I was planning on talking to you about Stanley and Damon, but if you want to turn this into some kind of squarebadge best-practices seminar instead, then that’s just awesome. I’ll take some notes.
Curtis lowers himself into an armchair and looks at her. He sweeps a finger before his eyes like a tiny windshieldwiper. Could you take that off, please? he says.
She reaches back and unties the black ribbon knotted under her ponytail. The mask sinks to her lap. She’s wrecked. Curtis thinks of a truckload of Romany refugees he stopped one time near the Serbian border: sleepless for weeks, shot at by everyone, they’d been stealing gas when they could, hiding in barns, traveling by night, with no notion at all where they were going. Veronica’s not that bad yet, but she’s on her way.
Stanley bought this for me in New Orleans last week, she says. It’s a
gatto
. A carnival mask. We were there for Mardi Gras.
I heard you were in Atlantic City for Mardi Gras.
She gives him a cool glare. We were in AC on
Vendredi
and
Samedi
, she says. We were in New Orleans for Lundi Gras and Mardi Gras. Stanley was pissed we didn’t get to see the Krewe of
Curtis? Veronica says. You still with me? You doing okay?
Curtis takes a deep breath, lets it out. I been better, he says.
I’m not gonna shoot you. Okay? I have to pat you down. Do not move at all.
He’s scared she’ll search him with the gun in her hand, but she knows what she’s doing: it goes away, and there’s a swish as she secures it at her waist. She reaches under his arms, unclips his revolver from his belt, sets it on the deck behind her and pushes it away with her foot, off the tile,onto the carpet. Then she works front to back, top to bottom, crushing and twisting each pocket before she reaches into it. She finds the speedloader in his jacket and the wallet in his jeans, and she drops them on the deck by the revolver. Then she pats down his groin, his legs, his ankles. She does all of this while wearing a gold cat-face mask.
She’s backing off now, collecting his things, retreating farther into the suite. Leaving him there. He wants very badly to open the door, to walk down the hallway, to run. Hey, he calls to her. We finished?
Her voice, muffled a little by the walls: Yeah, she says. Sorry. Come on in. Make yourself at home.
He pushes himself upright, straightens his clothes, turns around. The reflector bulb directly overhead is lit; a table lamp glows at the far end of the room. Aside from that the suite is dark.
He steps forward. Veronica’s suite is a looking-glass version of his own: higher up, maybe a little bigger—she’s got two queens instead of one kingsize rack—but he’s got the nicer view. One of her closet doors is ajar; nothing’s inside. He looks around for luggage, but there isn’t any.
She’s on the couch in the sunken living area, with his gun unloaded on the coffee table before her, speedloader and five loose bullets beside it. Her own pistol—a black SIG, small enough to fit in a purse—is on the cushion next to her, in her shadow, about an inch from her hand.
He pauses on the steps. Her mask glitters in the dim light: gold paint and rhinestones, tufts of peacock-feather at the ears. She’s flipping through his wallet: his VIC, his TRICARE card, his Pennsylvania ID and concealed-carry permit. I thought you were married, she says.
That’s right. I am.
She closes the wallet, holds it out to him. Her eyes, dull amid the filigree, flit between his face and his left hand. No wedding ring, huh? she says. I guess what happens here stays here. Right, cowpoke?
Curtis doesn’t move, doesn’t respond.
Come on, Curtis, Veronica says. Don’t act like you’re upset. What did you expect me to do?
He steps down, retrieves the wallet. Next time you do a body-search,he says, you ought to ask your detainee if they’re carrying any needles or sharp objects.
Hey, that’s great advice. Thanks. You know, I was planning on talking to you about Stanley and Damon, but if you want to turn this into some kind of squarebadge best-practices seminar instead, then that’s just awesome. I’ll take some notes.
Curtis lowers himself into an armchair and looks at her. He sweeps a finger before his eyes like a tiny windshieldwiper. Could you take that off, please? he says.
She reaches back and unties the black ribbon knotted under her ponytail. The mask sinks to her lap. She’s wrecked. Curtis thinks of a truckload of Romany refugees he stopped one time near the Serbian border: sleepless for weeks, shot at by everyone, they’d been stealing gas when they could, hiding in barns, traveling by night, with no notion at all where they were going. Veronica’s not that bad yet, but she’s on her way.
Stanley bought this for me in New Orleans last week, she says. It’s a
gatto
. A carnival mask. We were there for Mardi Gras.
I heard you were in Atlantic City for Mardi Gras.
She gives him a cool glare. We were in AC on
Vendredi
and
Samedi
, she says. We were in New Orleans for Lundi Gras and Mardi Gras. Stanley was pissed we didn’t get to see the Krewe of
Similar Books
