sneaking the call on her.
'He was a good man, Detective. Such a good man.'
'Yes, I know he was.'
Abelera stopped by and told her to take a few days off. She agreed.
Zamorra appeared at five-thirty. 'I went to the market. I'd like to make dinner for you and Tim and Clark.'
She looked at him, a little surprised. 'Great. Tell Kirsten to come.'
'Okay. Let Frank know, too.'
She wondered why her old affection for Zamorra hadn't drawn him closer but her recent affection for Wildcraft apparently had. Or was it simple sympathy? Either way, it wasn't the kind of question that really riveted you after watching a fellow deputy fall five thousand feet because he had a bullet in his brain and missed his wife. Or talked to a guy just blinded by road flares.
Mike came quietly into the homicide pen, like a man unwelcome. He shook Zamorra's hand and then offered it to Merci. She shook it while she looked into Mike's clear blue eyes and saw the gears of his heart grinding away behind them.
'I was hoping to drop by this evening with Danny,' he said. 'Bring some meal worms for the alligator lizard.'
'Okay,' she said.
'We've got plenty of food,' said Zamorra. 'Bring some wine if you'd like, stay for dinner.'
Mike released her hand and nodded at Zamorra like the boy he was, competent in the male world but largely ignorant of the female. He looked at her with an inquisitive expression.
'Fine with me,' she said. 'Lynda's welcome, if you want.'
'No.'
When they had gone, Merci picked up her mail, crammed it into her purse and walked out.
Home at six-ten on a warm August evening, Merci slinging her purse onto the little breakfast table while Tim clunked across the floor meet her: red shorts, black cowboy boots, skinned knees showing between them, a plastic gladiator's vest and an Angels baseball cap.
Her heart lightened when she saw him. Purity. Innocence. The Man. No amount of violence could smother the love; it was always; there, like a sweet bolt of lightning crackling through the dark.
Clark hugged her, regarding Zamorra and his groceries for an extra second before nodding. 'The Weber's on the patio.'
Tim stared frankly at dark Zamorra.
'Good to see you again, Tim. Nice vest.'
The boy nodded. Paul gravely shook his hand then headed for the barbecue.
Merci swung her son up onto her shoulder and mouthed the word
Wildcraft to her father, a big silent question mark at the end.
'No, I figured that was for you.' He turned to watch Mike's pick come up the drive. 'Oh, I see you invited Mike too.'
'More or less.'
'You okay, honey?'
'I'm okay, Dad.'
'I'll run these guys off if you just want to be with us tonight.'
'I'm okay.'
He looked at her with his bottomless calm. His glasses caught the light and magnified his eyes into faux astonishment. She leaned in her father and hugged him with her available arm. He smiled, then ambled to the front door.
'And how about you, little man?' she asked. 'How are you today'
'Good,' said Tim. 'I'm fine. Is Awchie in the heckilopter?'
'He's done with the helicopter.'
'And the flowers?'
'And the flowers.'
'Because he loves his wife.'
'Yes, he… does.'
'Danny's here!'
He struggled off her shoulder and she set him to the floor with a thud of boot heels. He ran to Danny and Mike as they came through the door. Danny dropped the tub of meal worms and the top popped off, leaving a pile of meal and worms on the floor.
'I'll get that,' said Mike. 'Here.'
The boys bolted off for the backyard, Clark behind them. Mike set down a heavy plastic grocery bag and knelt, using the lid to sweep the worms back into the container. 'Thanks for the invite,' he said.
'You're welcome.'
'Three or four of these a day,' he said.
She hesitated, uncertain.
'For the lizard,' he said.
'Ah. Got it.'
'Keep the container in the freezer but warm the worms in your hand before feeding. If the worms are too cold, the lizard could get indigestion.'
'Okay.'
'And fresh water at least once a week.'
'We can do that, sure.'
Mike stood and held up the plastic bag. 'I brought a box of wine so there'd be plenty for all of us.'
'I'll get that, Mike,' said Zamorra, coming through, coat gone, tie loosened. 'Cocktails?'
'Definitely,' said Merci.
'Make mine light,' said Mike.
All three of them turned when Damon Reese, a big bouquet of flowers in his hand, stepped onto the porch and up to the screen door. He wore a Hawaiian shirt brighter than the sun.
'Damn, I'm sorry to interrupt, Merci,' he said. 'I just wanted to drop these off.'
Mike looked somewhat confusedly at her.
Zamorra opened the screen door and handed Reese the boxed Chablis. 'Put this in the kitchen sink and shoot a hole in it with your service weapon.'
'And I'll take those,' said Mike, ears reddening, reaching for the flowers.
He looked at Merci as his attempt at competitive gallantry backfired and he was left standing with a bouquet of flowers in one hand the container of meal worms in the other.
Reese clapped him on the shoulder on his way by.
Merci smiled. A sit-com. But what a feeling. She felt like she hadn't been amused in a couple of centuries.
She sat in the shade of the backyard patio, increasingly plastered the Adirondack chair by Zamorra's martini. It made her usual scotch and water seem feeble, and the lemon gave it a bright flavor. She changed her slacks and boots for shorts, an ancient blue dress stolen from her father and a pair of clogs that a salesman said flattered her legs. She divided her attention three ways: part to Tim and Danny and Mike playing in the grove beyond the fence; part to Zamorra and Reese differing on the best placement of coals for indirect cooking the Weber; part to the awful memory of Archie Wildcraft and hapless blue wings.
Clark creaked into the chair beside her. 'These drinks are strong.'
'Very.'
'I heard he'd built some wings or something.'
She looked at him. Her father's pipeline for department information never failed to surprise her. She imagined geezers cawing into their telephones all day.
'Not or something, Dad. They were wings.'
'Wow. Did they work?'
