you.”
“I need you to find the U.S. Patent Office on the Web and see
who has patented an optical scanning device.”
“Everybody?”
The Lincolns appeared to be in their late forties.
“Everybody in, oh, say, the last twenty-five years.”
“And while I’m doing that,”
Molly said, “you’ll be in here
oiling your baseball glove? Thinking of spring?”
“Hey,” Jesse said,
“I’m the chief of police.”
Molly smiled and saluted.
“Of course you are,” she said.
“I’ll see what I can
find.”
68
Jesse sat with Marcy Campbell in the Indigo Apple drinking coffee.
“Rita Fiore never called me back,” he said.
“Maybe she’s decided she won’t
waste any more time with
you.”
“Even though I’m a sexual
athlete?”
“It sounds like Rita wants, excuse the phrase, a relationship” Marcy said.
“And she’s thinks I’m not a good
candidate?”
“You’re not,” Marcy said.
“I know.”
“And she knows.”
Jesse nodded.
“She wants a husband,” Jesse said.
“Or the equivalent,” Marcy said.
“I think she’s had several of those
already.”
“Give her credit,” Marcy said,
“for fierce
optimism.”
“There are women who need a mate, I guess.”
“People,” Marcy said.
“People?”
“Men and women,”
Marcy said, “who feel incomplete
unless they are mated.”
“You’re not one of them,” Jesse
said.
“No. I like sex and I like companionship, but not at the expense
of my freedom or my self.”
Jesse broke off a small piece of orange cranberry muffin and ate
it. When he had swallowed, he said, “Maybe I’m one of
them.”
“Well,” Marcy said.
