Loving Time

April lowered her eyes so her rage wouldn’t jump out and hurt her career. “Yeah, well, thanks for finding it. I appreciate that.”

Just then the uniform brought Bobbie back into the room. Boudreau ignored the Lieutenant and reached for the doughnut before he was even seated at the table.

“Well, you better deal with it, Sergeant,” Marsh said as he left. “Better hurry up.”

April checked her watch. It was 8:15. She was supposed to report for promotion at 10:30. One Police Plaza. She’d been through this before. It was the kind of thing that made a person crazy. Just when you were at the turning point of a case, you had to be downtown taking a test or getting a promotion or some damn thing. Mierda. She was angry, really angry. She could kill Marsh. She wanted to go downtown; she couldn’t go downtown. Mike was here all alone with their suspect—not to mention every crisis of the whole squad—and she was supposed to walk out on him and report for promotion with the wrong clothes, totally unprepared? She felt sick. She hadn’t gotten the letter in time. She was working a case and couldn’t leave.

“You all right?” Mike came in, frowned with concern.

“Sure.”

“Problem?”

“No. I’ll tell you about it later.” She put the letter in her pocket. It was her job to finish what she’d started. All that work to get ahead and now she was going to miss the glory. She felt sick, wished she could puke right there on the floor. “You all set?”

Mike nodded. She punched the button on the tape recorder. She told it the day and the date, the location of the interview and the persons present.

“Would you tell us your name and address,” she said to the suspect.

Boudreau turned his head away from her, gulped some coffee, and didn’t reply.

April waited for a moment, then tried again. “We’re beginning our interview now. Would you tell us your name and address for the record?”

Boudreau screwed up his face at Mike. “You call this an interview?”

“We’re having a conversation. How about making a contribution?” In spite of taking over command, Mike seemed relaxed, ready for a long, complicated day.

Bobbie glared at him but said, “What do you want to know?”

Mike and April exchanged glances. The suspect had some kind of authority problem with women. So, this one would be Mike’s. April thought about leaving, going downtown, having the Police Commissioner shake her hand. She thought about becoming a Sergeant. Her old boyfriend Jimmy Wong had told her he would never marry her if she made Sergeant. Sergeant Joyce’s husband divorced her when she’d joined the force. Lots of people had trouble with women in authority. Mike didn’t seem to. He must already have known she’d been promoted when he took her home to meet his mother.

Well, they had to be professional to work efficiently. Never mind the shit she’d gotten from downstairs, or this snub from a slime. She couldn’t let these things bother her.

Mike led Robert Boudreau through the preliminary questions. The suspect pushed his chair back from the table and thrust out his pelvis defiantly as he described his job at the Stone Pavilion, how long he’d worked there and what he did. When asked what he had been doing down on B3, he didn’t respond. Nor did he ask how the cops had located him there.

Bobbie did respond to the question about his previous job by giving a long, rambling account of his work as a nurse at the Centre—the faithful service he’d given for so many years all for nothing. He’d been unappreciated all along, and betrayed at the end, he told them. It happened to him over and over. Agitated, he tugged on his greasy ponytail.

An hour passed. Bobbie’s position in his chair changed as he became more intense and involved in the story of his life. One injustice after another. Another forty-five minutes passed. At ten o’clock April thought some more about leaving. Then the hair on the back of her neck prickled. She could feel Mike getting tense. She turned her watch around so she couldn’t see its face. Still, she felt each minute tick by.

Bobbie leaned forward in his seat, his sullen eyes locked on Sanchez. “We went halfway around the world for them. And you know what they did to us? They blew us to bits. You had to be there to understand. Those people were worthless trash. They didn’t appreciate what we were doing for them. They had no honor. I’ll tell you, those slope women are nothing like American women.”

Sanchez chewed on his mustache, uncomfortable with the Asian stuff.

“Those people weren’t even human. They stole our stuff. They had diseases. They killed people. One of my buddies tried to help some slope cunt’s kid—”

“Hey, watch your language.”

Boudreau kept his eyes locked on Mike. “You know what they did to him? They stole his money. They led him on a fucking goose chase, and they killed him. You know what? I didn’t give a shit when our guys raped the women, killed them. They’re worthless trash. They’re nothing, not even human.”

April’s scalp prickled. Ten-twenty. It was over. It was too late. She’d missed it. And for what, to hear this slime call Asians trash? Her stomach ached. She was tense, worried about where this was heading. She could see that Mike was bristling all over.

“I don’t know how you can stand to work with one. These slopes are shit. They used their own kids as decoys. They killed their own children. The women were prostitutes—”

“Okay, that’s enough. We heard you got into some trouble in ’Nam. Why don’t you tell us about that?”

Boudreau’s strange, pale eyes locked on Mike. “A man should work with a man.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not for you to say.”

“It just makes you wonder what kind of guy works with a slope cunt—”

There was no advance warning. No rumble, no growl, no muscle contraction. Nothing. They were in one place and then they were in another with no intermediate steps. The electrical charge hit Mike like a bolt of lightning, sudden and deadly. First he was sitting at the table listening to the suspect, sweating a little, uncomfortable. Then he was on his feet in the place beyond rage. He dragged the bigger man out of his chair and hauled him to a standing position. Then he rammed his knee into Boudreau’s groin so hard, the impact of the collision almost knocked them both over.

Gagging, Boudreau tried to double over, but Mike was out of control. He didn’t let go. He didn’t let the man buckle and vomit on the floor as nature decreed. He kept his hold on the larger man, shaking and shaking him in a frenzy.

“You sick bastard. Hijo deputa.” He held Boudreau upright by the throat so close their faces almost touched. “Culo,” he whispered. “Cagado.”

Then he smashed Boudreau backward over the table and pinned him down with one arm. His other hand was clamped on Boudreau’s Adam’s apple, squeezing so hard the man couldn’t vomit, couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t catch the breath he’d lost.

April was horrified at the pure animal rage of Mike totally lost to the world. He was crazed, didn’t know what he was doing. She’d seen this happen with other cops. Seen plenty of kicking and beating violent suspects on the street, seen cops so mad they could kill with their bare hands. The thing you did was open the door. Call for help. Subdue the cop.

Stop it. Her job was to stop it.

The suspect was choking. He was losing consciousness, was turning blue. Open the door, call for help. Subdue the cop. She couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound. The tape clicked off. Sergeant Joyce was at home, sick. The A.D.A. wasn’t coming in until they had something. There was nobody watching behind the mirror. They were alone. Mike was covered with sweat. He was at the man’s throat, out of control. And April was too shocked to move.

Then it stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Mike removed his hand from the suspect’s throat and pushed him off the table onto the floor.

“Now apologize to the lady,” he said.