Monk Addison lay propped up in bed, holding the hand of a very pretty Mexican American woman named Sandy. When Crow came in to visit him and asked who his guest was, Monk introduced her as his girlfriend. It came out so naturally, but hearing it aloud seemed to surprise him and the woman. She kissed him for that.
“Can I have a minute with your, ah, boyfriend?” asked Crow.
“Sure,” said Sandy, “but Monk … if he bothers you, just call me and I’ll throw him out. Badge or no.” She gave Crow a ninja death stare and then left the room. Both men watched her go. Everyone in the hall watched her go.
“Wow,” said Crow.
“I know,” said Monk and laughed. Then winced because every damn thing hurt. Except holding Sandy’s hand. That hadn’t hurt at all.
Crow lowered himself carefully onto the guest chair. He had been discharged from the hospital four days ago. But there was so much to do that this was the first time he’d been by to see Monk.
“World’s stupidest question … how are you?”
“They tell me I’ll live,” said Monk.
“Nice to hear. Has anyone brought you up to speed yet?”
Monk nodded. “Mike Sweeney was here for a couple of hours this morning.”
“So you know how it played out.”
“Yeah. All of it.”
They sat with that for a while.
“I’ve been all over the world,” said Monk finally. “And there’s this nasty bit of folk wisdom. You hear it in movie dialogue sometimes and there’s a tendency to dismiss it as melodrama, but.…” He shrugged very carefully. “If a tribe or village captures someone, an enemy—a real son of a bitch, or someone from an army who thinks rape is a perk of being a soldier—if the community is merciful they cut the prisoner’s head off or hang him. If they are not merciful, they gave him to the women.”
“Yeah,” said Crow, “I heard that.”
It was all that really needed to be said.