The Axeman's Jazz

the table.
    “Dad, don’t! You’ll hurt yourself!”
    Alex stepped forward and took the chair from Lamar. Once again the old man looked confused, as if he couldn’t quite remember how things had taken this turn. “You were a pretty baby,” he said. “You know that?”
    “Dad, could I ask you something?”
    “Just get out of here.”
    Alex went into his bedroom and brought back a copy of
Fake It Till You Make It
. “Do you recognize this?”
    “What do you mean, do I recognize that?”
    “Do you know what it is?”
    “You crazy, boy? Do I know what it is? What planet are you from?”
    “I know you know it’s a book. I mean, do you recognize the title and author?”
    “You gone nuts or somethin’? What are you doin’ to me?”
    Alex was sick and tired of being patient. “Who wrote the book, Dad?”
    “You got old-timers’ or somethin’, Elec? Don’t you even recognize your own damn garbage?”
    Alex threw the book into the living room, not giving a damn if he broke the spine, or a window, or a lifetime of vows. Why in hell did he have to live with the world’s only seventy-five-year-old six-year-old?
    As his rage rose, so did his libido. Damn that Skip Langdon! If it hadn’t been for her, it wouldn’t be like this. He wanted a woman and he wanted her now. Hell, he’d settle for a teenage girl if it weren’t against the law. He didn’t care. As long as she was female and ready.
    He strode out, banging his boots on the wood floor, slamming every door he could find whether it was on his way or not, and jumped on his hog.
    The white walls of Casamento’s were as soothing as Skip had known they’d be. It was a sentimental favorite of hers and Steve’s—he was crazy for the fried oysters and she liked the scrubbed tiles, the trailing philodendrons.
    “I don’t know why I didn’t come to L.A.”
    “Listen, kiddo, this is the biggest case of your career. You don’t have to apologize.”
    She stopped dead. He was right, but she hadn’t known that when she canceled her plans. She’s just felt she had to see the thing through no matter what.
    “You’re a good cop,” he said, with real admiration in his voice.
    She realized he couldn’t possibly know whether she was a good cop or not, but still … a lot of people would have gone ahead and taken their vacations. What instinct had told her not to? She couldn’t have known the case would get national attention, would terrify the town and spawn a mini-Jazzfest. All she had known was that the same asshole had killed a nice young woman and a nice old man who had a teddy bear. Maybe it was the teddy bear that got her, so forlorn on the floor beside its dead owner.
    But she wasn’t given to sentimentality. It wasn’t that. Steve was right, she thought with surprise. A good cop—a really good cop—wouldn’t have left, would have seen the case through no matter what, would have gotten the Mabus case even though it wasn’t really hers; wouldn’t have quit in the middle.
    Am I really a good cop?
    Probably.
    She was taken aback.
    Really?
    She’d never been a good anything in her life—not student, not daughter, not a damn thing. She was used to not being good.
    But there was plenty of evidence she was good at this. Joe had handpicked her for Homicide; he had chosen her for the task force; he was already urging her to take the sergeant’s exam next time it was given.
    Why did she have a tendency to listen to the likes of O’Rourke instead of to her own good sense? She didn’t know, but it was there, it was true. And she felt a sudden wave of affection for Steve for being on her side.
    She wanted to say, “Steve, I love you. I want you, I want to fuck you under the table.”
    She couldn’t even say the first part.
    “What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?”
    She shook her head. “Got a pearl.” She took the tiny gray thing out of her mouth. “Think it’s good luck?”
    He shrugged.
    “Thanks for saying I’m a good cop.” That was as far as she could go, and she hated it. Her insides were full of affection for him, love for him, that ached to get out, and she didn’t know how to release it. If they could make love, if they’d done that instead of opting for a more conventional lunch, wouldn’t he know? Wouldn’t he be able to tell? She knew the answer was no; sex wasn’t love, more often than not didn’t mean a thing to most people. She had to tell him or she’d blow apart. She had to tell him sometime, but not