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SHOULDERS SLUMPED, HANDS DIGGING in his pockets, Billy tossed his head in Becky’s direction in greeting as he meandered by.
“Don’t you walk past Becky without stopping,” Becky barked at Billy’s back.
He halted as if he had been caught by a hook and reeled in. “Sorry, Becky.” His gaze shifted to the powder doughnuts on Becky’s desk. “You have...” he brushed his fingers over his lips, “white powder...”
Becky brushed at her lips. “They’re good. Want one?”
He shook his head.
“That’s not like you, Billy. What’s got you down?” She hacked out a cough.
Two uniformed men were approaching, towing a handcuffed prisoner between them. “I ain’t did nothing. I want my lawyer. I want my phone call,” the cops’ catch was screeching.
“Yeah, yeah. We hear you,” one of the officers said.
“You really should lay off those cancer sticks,” Billy said to Becky as he watched the progression of the officers and prisoner.
“Never mind Becky. Sit. Tell Becky what’s going on.”
Billy reached across the desk. “On second thought, let me get one of those.” He plucked a doughnut and sat across from her. “It’s awfully dead in here tonight.”
Becky leaned in, gesturing with a rapid backward wave. Billy complied, leaned closer. With their heads together in conspiracy, Becky’s hushed voice gave him the lowdown.
“It was a zoo in here earlier, all the bigwigs falling all over themselves.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
Becky put her palm to her cheek hiding her lips. “Something to do with that coach up in Marston.”
“Shit!” Billy was shocked.
“Shhh.” Becky’s hands flapped away in the air like a bird taking flight. “It’s hush-hush.”
“Well, how do you know what’s going on?”
Her head hiked to the side. Rolls of dough in her face and neck followed. Her eyelids were done up in sandy seafoam, her lashes caked thick like tar. They fluttered. Her strawberry lips snapped.
“This girl has her ways.” She flashed a humid smile. “Irresistible charm. No one can resist the Becky spell.”
Billy guffawed. “The Becky spell!”
“Never you mind.” She waggled a finger at him. “I see you watching Becky when you come in.” She tossed her hair and her head. “Becky’s spoken for,” she said in her thick cigarette voice. “You’re too late.” A tiny sound of satisfaction escaped her. “Hmm.”
Redness emitted from the phone like lightening, followed by the ringing.
“Marston Police Department. This is Becky. How may Becky assist you?” She listened. “Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Billy watched as Becky listened. The whites of her eyes boiled over. “Zowie!...oops, sorry, sir. Okay, Becky’s on the job.”
“Zowie? Becky’s on the job?” Billy had left his chair and taken up residence on Becky’s desk with half a cheek. “Why do you refer to yourself in third person?”
“Never you mind.” She swiped a hand at Billy. “Unass my desk!”
“Zowie! Becky swore,” Billy said jovially.
“Hey, stop playing around. The chief said for you to go and roundup Romero and Copeland.” She ripped a tissue from the dispenser, covered a doughnut, picked it up, and offered it. “Here, for strength.”
“Huh?”
“Strength you skinny rascal. They’re lassoing the bulls for a rodeo showdown.” One hand whipped around with the imaginary lasso, the other leaned against the hillside of her waist. She whipped the lasso back with her catch. “Go get 'em, Cowboy.”
****************
DETECTIVES ROMERO AND Copeland were preparing to leave the office. They had just finished their paperwork on a robbery at a thrift store. Surprisingly, even second-hand goods are subject to pilferage. The thrifty thieves escaped with CDs, DVDs, and video games. The store not only sold thrifty goods, they indulged frugality as a means of running their business. No security cameras. No security guards. Now they were paying the price in stolen goods.
Romero put the reports in a manila folder which he then secured in a file cabinet. Copeland waited at the door.
“Have you heard anything from Billy?” Copeland asked.
Romero gave a sideways glance toward Copeland. “Who is Billy?”
“Billy, the kid.”
“Good one,” Romero chuckled. “Billy the Kid.”
“Oh.” Copeland tittered as the pun crept up on her.
“So, Cope,” Romero said as the metal drawer slammed to a close. The drawer rattled as he gave it a security check. “I’m heading down to SUDS for a brewski.” He caught her eye. “You want to join me?”
Her hand rested on the knob. “Not tonight, maybe another time.” She was being polite. She didn’t cavort in places like SUDS.
Romero parked his buns on the desk's edge. “I’ll bet my bottom dollar, if you released that ponytail it would breathe a sigh of relief.” He reached into his shirt pocket. Retrieved a toothpick and pointed it at her. “Why so stiff all the time? I know under that tough facade, there’s a damsel struggling to get free.”
Copeland’s eyes settled on Romero. “As in damsel in distress?” Her hands were resting on her gun belt, her lips a thin strip of red ribbon.
“Nah. That’s not what I meant at all.” His lips curved sheepishly upward.
Copeland was tapping her foot with her hands pressed against her hips. “Tell me, Romero, just what did you intend to say?”
“I was just saying that you don’t have to play hard ball all the time. You’re a beautiful woman. No harm in flaunting it once in a while.”
“Okay, I see. I should play the helpless, beautiful woman with empty space between her head, and go down to a bar with you that has a name that sounds like you’re about to do your laundry.” She was royally insulted. She stood. Lips pursed. Forehead wrinkled from the upward strain of her eyelids. She had the appearance of a mannequin posed in a shop’s window. Fists jabbed into her waist, elbows pointing east and west, and one foot in front of the other.
“No, Cope.” He was chuckling. “You’re taking this—”
The chuckles and explanation were interrupted by a fast tapping at the door. It opened and the kid huffed in.
“Hey, Kid.” Romero hopped up off the desk. “Did you get anything on the stakeout?”
“Not really, but I was hanging out with Becky—”
Romero didn’t let the kid finish. “Well that sums it up. She’s been bending your ear about doughnuts.”
“Oh, lay off her.” Copeland’s fuse was a bit short since his dissertation of her attributes which in truth were none of his business.
“Something big is going down.” The kid seemed breathless with excitement. The Chief wants the two of you in his office pronto.” The kid heard the words as they escaped, but they came out too forceful, bossy, he thought as he wished he could reclaim them and stuff them back from whence they came. A quiver of a smile accompanied the rise of color in his face. “Um, those were the Chief’s words. Not mine. I was just repeating what he said.” The poor kid was rambling like a child, standing before his parents trying to explain why what he had done was not wrong.
This news erased Copeland’s indignant mood. She moved to stand in front of the kid. “Did he tell you what’s going on?”
“Hey, I’m just a little fish in this pond. He’s not going to blab anything to me, but I’ve heard some heavy-duty faces have come through, and lots of paper trading hands.”
Romero eased his toothpick out and tossed it in the tiny trash can in the corner. “Guess we had better head on down the hall.”
“Bummer. No SUDS tonight,” said Copeland working overtime to restrain the mirth in her voice. She strode to the door. The kid held it open as she passed. Romero followed with the kid in his wake.
Romero and Copeland scanned the precinct. All the hustle and bustle the kid was describing seemed to have passed. Becky was sitting at her desk, staring into the computer screen, as were other officers. Two officers in uniform stood in a corner huddled at the coffee maker talking and sipping the stay awake liquid. Phones rang and were answered. The kid stopped at Becky’s desk and reclaimed his seat. The two detectives continued on, following the yellow brick road to see the wizard.
Romero knuckled the closed door. At the prompt of come in, they did so.
“Take a seat.” The chief was getting right down to business. No standing for a handshake. No good evening. How you doing? Can I offer you something? His pudgy face was beat red, his eyes hollowed out as if he had missed a week of sleep. Thinning blond strands of hair were slicked to his head. The long sleeve, white shirt he wore was rolled up to his elbows. A circle of sweat peeked from under each armpit. His black banned watch lay on the desk face down, legs sticking up in the air as if dead. Next to the deceased watch was his wire rimmed glasses.
“Detectives, we have ourselves a situation here.”