Blunt Darts

night.”
    Dexter and the big boys stopped dead and looked from me to the chief. Smollett said, “I said bring him up here,” this time all in one sentence.
    Just as the troops resumed their advance and I searched futilely for another delaying line, a car came barreling down Swan Street from the direction opposite the way I’d come. The troops halted again as Smollett looked over to the car. It stopped on the bridge and two car doors opened and closed.
    “Afternoon, Will,” said a welcome voice.
    “Your car is blocking traffic,” growled Smollett in reply.
    Chief Calvin Maslyk’s short, sturdy frame came into view. “Oh, there’s never much traffic along here this time on a Saturday.” A uniformed Bonham cop slightly larger than the biggest of Smollett’s men loomed into view behind Cal. Maslyk looked down at me. “Afternoon, John.”
    “Chief,” I said, smiling.
    Cal didn’t smile back, so I dropped mine.
    “This is none of your affair, Cal,” said Smollett, an officious tone replacing the angry one. “You’re out of your jurisdiction.”
    Cal shrugged, unbuttoned a shirt pocket, fished for something in it. “Mr. Cuddy and I have a date at our pistol range. When one of my boys picked up Dexter’s transmission to you over the radio, I thought I’d come out and pick him up for it.” Maslyk found a cigarette and resumed his fishing, this time for a match.
    “Since when did your men start monitoring my radio frequency?” snapped Smollett.
    Maslyk smiled soothingly as he came up with his light. “Nobody was monitoring anybody, Will. One of the boys was just scanning and picked it up.” Maslyk struck the match off his side-turned shoe. I hadn’t seen that in years. “You know how it is, Will,” said Maslyk as he cupped his hands around the match and tilted his face forward to light the cigarette.
    Smollett fumed silently, then gestured to his troops with his head toward the cars. Dexter looked relieved and scampered back up. The two big ones looked disappointed and went sulkily back up, one stumbling to a knee to add insult, and dust, to injury. The four got into their cars, backed out, and gunned their engines down the road toward Meade.
    I was sweating a bit more heavily than my flannel shirt and the rock’s radiant heat could account for. “Thanks, Cal,” I said quietly as I stood up.
    “This time you were lucky. I can’t have a man assigned to listen in on Smollett’s transmissions, and hell, next time they’ll use phones anyways.”
    I was halfway up the bank. “I agree,” I said.
    “This is not a good town for an outsider. Not when he’s poking into old deaths, important deaths.” Cal Waved his hand at the bridge and river.
    “I agree,” I repeated as I reached the top.
    “So, you got any questions?” Cal asked.
    “Just one,” I said. “Where do you get those matches? They’re impressive as hell.”
    Cal tossed his cigarette and stomped toward his car, jerking a hand for his driver to follow. “Goddamned wise-ass private eyes.”
     
     
     

     
     
    Smollett’s umbrage at my being in his town gave me a coward’s way out for Val’s dinner. I decided instead to drive there directly and settle things.
    I turned into Fordham Road and stopped in front of Number 17. I climbed the steps and rang her bell.
    “John!” It was barely five-thirty, and she was dressed in a blue terrycloth robe. She threw her arms around my neck and hugged hard. She smelled of scented soap.
    “Does tenure protect small-town teachers against charges of moral turpitude?”
    She gave a little laugh and released her grip. Her eyes were bright as she smiled. “Just got out of the tub. You’re early but I forgive you. Come in.”
    She took my hand and led me in. I swung the door shut. Her living room had a sunny bay window. Living in Back Bay and Beacon Hill, I’d grown used to fireplaces. There was none, but the room had a nice dining alcove under a beam near the kitchen. A half-closed door on the other side of the living room showed the foot of a bed.
    She took me to the couch, and began talking as we sat down. “Aren’t you dying in that heavy shirt?”
    I wondered if I smelled rancid after the bridge encounter. “It’s a little warm.”
    She released my hand and leaned forward to get up. As she did, her robe bowed forward and back. I was very much aware of her right breast and the tan line around it.
    “Take it off,” she said, smiling.
    I blinked up at her. “Your shirt,” she