Vic sipped her Rainier beer and watched as the giant folded the last slice of his pizza, stuffing it into his mouth behind the impenetrable curtain of black hair, and chewed. He had eaten all of his own pie and all but the one slice Vic had picked at and the three slices I’d devoured of another. He’d chugged the liter of pop that we’d provided and finally lay back on the bunk and covered his eyes with his arm.
Vic studied him for a moment and then spoke. “So the one night I’m going to sleep in the jail, you’re going home?” I didn’t say anything. She watched me as I took a sip of my beer. “Sure you don’t want to stick around? ”
“One of us can’t leave this room.” I glanced at the prisoner, now snoring softly. “And under the circumstances . . .”
She shrugged. “This is the shittiest pizza I’ve ever eaten.”
I continued to watch the Indian. “He seemed to like it.”
“He lives under the highway; I’m not so sure his culinary sensibilities are all that refined.”
I peeled the
“That’s okay. I think you’re a slave driver.” She pushed her ball cap back; the hat was a sign that she was having a bad hair day—something that I had learned not to mention. “Why?”
“I was kind of hard on this Tuyen fellow today.”
“Really? ”
“Yep.” I looked at the glue strip where the label had peeled away. “I don’t know, maybe it is prejudice. He was in the Black Tigers and STRATA.”
She stared at me. “And for those of us who weren’t born until after the Age of Aquarius, what the fuck does that mean? ”
“Black Tigers were the South Vietnamese version of our Special Forces, and STRATA was a program that dropped these guys behind enemy lines. There were, I think, about a hundred of them and about a third never made it back.”
“So this guy’s one bad motor scooter?”
“Could be.” I took a deep breath. “His English is good, better than any Vietnamese speaker I’ve ever heard....” It was silent too long, so I changed the subject. “Anything from Quincy, over at the VA? ” She lowered her beer bottle and looked at me as I stood and gathered the detritus, setting the two empty pizza boxes and bottles on the counter.
“He’s on vacation in the garden spot of garden spots, Detroit, and won’t be back until first thing tomorrow. I told them somebody would be by.”
“Did you ask them if they were missing a seven-foot Indian? ”
“I did, but the twit I was talking to didn’t really come forth with much.”
“You want to ride over to Sheridan with me tomorrow morning?”
“No.” She stood, considering me as I stopped in the doorway, and then leaned back against the minifridge door. “Not after sleeping on the jail floor all night . . . alone.” I watched her as she approached me—the way the uniform hung in all the right places, the lush, hanging-gardens-of-Babylon quality of her general physique. “It’s the uniform, right?”
“No, it’s not the uniform.”
“I mean . . . because it’s okay. I mean some guys are freaky, and they like a woman in uniform, but you’re not.”
We were standing in the doorway, just out of the giant’s line of sight, and somehow the conversation we’d been meaning to have was even worse here. “Not what?”
“Freaky.”
“No, I’m not.” She was standing close, and my back was against the wall in more ways than one. She put a hand out and touched my sleeve, running her fingers up my arm and feeling the embroidery at the sheriff ’s patch. Those eyes turned up to me. I could smell her, all of her, and started remembering that night in Philadelphia again. “Look . . .”
Her face was about eight inches from mine. “What?”
“I just . . . I don’t know if...”
In the dim light of the hall, her eyes shone, and I found myself studying the haloed glow. “What?”
“What we did, that one time, was out of context and now we’re back...”
She slowly went up on tiptoe and her hand trailed to the back of my neck as she pulled, and the distance between our faces decreased. “What’a ya say we slip out of these uniforms and get out of context again? ”
I brought my hands up to the small of her back and felt her shiver like a colt.
Contrary to popular belief, the best kisses don’t start lip to lip. This one started at the scar at my collarbone, nibbled its way up the muscles at the side of my neck, and paused at my jaw. I was having trouble breathing when I heard her moan, and it sounded as if it were coming from somewhere else, somewhere east and not so long ago. I turned my face to allow our lips to meet, but she’d frozen and had turned her head toward the holding cells.
We both stood there breathing, and her voice caught. “I think the prisoner is waking up.”
I nodded and watched as her arm and face slipped away. I caught her and pulled her in with one hand, placing the tip of my chin on top of her head and holding her there for just a moment, not talking. I felt her sigh and then loosened my grip.
“I guess I better get back in sight.”
I watched as she moved the folding chair and sat in plain view of the Indian, who immediately quieted down.
