“How’d you get to be a cop,
Jesse?”
“I was going to be a baseball player,”
Jesse said.
“Shortstop. Dodgers drafted me out of high school, sent me to Pueblo. I was doing okay and then one night a guy took me out on a double play at second base. I landed funny, tore up my shoulder, ended the career.”
“Oh, how awful,” she said. “Does
it bother you still?”
“Not if I don’t have to throw a
baseball.”
“Couldn’t you have played where it
didn’t matter?”
“No. I hit okay for a shortstop, but I was going to make it on my glove.”
“Glove?”
“I was a much better fielder,” Jesse said,
“than I was a hitter.”
“And you couldn’t just field?”
“No.”
“How old were you?”
“Nineteen,” Jesse said. “I came
home, worked con-stmction for six months, joined the Marines, got out, took the exam for fir department, police, and DWP. Cops came through first.”
“Do you miss baseball?”
“Every day,” Jesse said.
“Isn’t it kind of depressing being a
policeman?” she said. “You know, seeing all that awfulness.”
Again he was aware of how skillfully she turned the conversation to him. He enjoyed her interest, but more than that he admired her skill.
“I like police work,” he said.
“You’re with a bunch of guys, but the work is mostly, one on one. Sometimes yott get to help people.”
“And the awful things?”
“There’s not as much as you
think,” he said.
“But there is some,” she said.
“That’s just how it is,” Jesse
said.
“That’s all?” ‘
“What else,” Jesse said.
“Life’s hard sometimes.”
“So you don’t let it bother you.”
“I try not to,” Jesse said.
a guy named Fusco that he met at the gym in Somerville.
“Guy I know,” Fusco said, “is
looking to smurf some cash.”
Jo Jo was sitting spread legged on the floor doing lat pullbacks.
“Whaddya mean smurf?” he said.
“You know, go around to banks,” Fusco
said. “Deposit cash for him so he can wire transfer it later.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why the whole thing,” Jo Jo said.
His movements as he pulled the cables and raised the weight were smooth and appeared effortless. His muscles moved like huge serpents under his pale skin.
