photograph was named Thomas Pryce. The plate beneath the photo said: IN MEMORIUM JUNE 12, 1952- DECEMBER 1, 1984.
Two weeks ago.
Louis turned to see McGuire staring at him.
“Is there something wrong?” Louis asked.
McGuire smiled. “No, nothing. Would you like a cookie?”
Louis nodded and picked up a cookie, munching on it as he completed the forms.
“L-17 to Central, we’re back in service.”
The sound of the officer’s voice on the radio drew Louis’s attention to the dispatch desk in the corner. The dispatcher was a walrus of a woman with a jet-black bouffant and Fifties-style cat-eye glasses. With a sigh, she lowered her paperback and keyed the microphone.
“Ten-four, seventeen. I have a message for you. Your wife requests that you stop and pick up egg nog on the way home.”
“Ten-four, Central.”
McGuire nodded toward the dispatcher. “That’s Edna.”
Edna gave a wave from behind her Danielle Steel novel without looking up at Louis.
More calls trickled in and Louis listened as he filled out the forms. A lost dog. An officer stating he was checking in on an elderly woman who lived alone. Another requesting jumper cables for a stranded motorist.
All his life, Louis had set his sights on working for a big city department with plenty of action. But here he was. What did this town even need cops for?
He glanced at Dale McGuire, who was re-taping the tinsel around his computer screen. Still, there was something about this place. Something in the air, something…sweet and clean that was more than just pine and gingerbread. He had felt it the moment he drove into town. He remembered something his foster mother Frances once said, something about people having places on earth where their souls felt comfortable. Places where, as soon as you set foot in them you felt at home. He had never felt that special pull to any one place.
“You know,” McGuire said, interrupting his thoughts, “the Chief hasn’t found anyone he liked yet. When you get done with that he’ll want to see you.”
“He’s anxious to fill the job. Doesn’t like working short-handed,” McGuire said.
Louis glanced at the Chief’s door. He saw his cold ugly apartment back in Detroit and felt the sting of lonely nights there.
God, he wanted this job. He wanted it bad.
“The Chief will see you now.”
Louis looked at his watch. He had been waiting for two hours. He had read every flyer and wanted poster on the bulletin board and thumbed through the four old
There was no one in the office. Louis was wondering where the chief was when he heard the flush of a toilet behind a closed door to his right. Taking a breath to relax, he looked around.
He was standing on blood red carpeting, vacuum tracks visible around the perimeter. The walls were covered with framed photographs, certificates, plaques and newspaper articles. On the credenza behind the large desk was a handsome pewter chess set. Louis’s eyes were drawn to two swords mounted over the credenza. One was gleaming steel with gold cording. The other was old, foreign looking. Louis stared at it. Good God, was it a samurai sword?
The sound of running water came from the bathroom. The man was taking his time. Louis went to the credenza and picked up one of the chess pieces. It was a pawn, in the shape of a soldier.
“You play?”
Louis turned. The man was about six feet, trim but broad-shouldered in his starched baby-blue shirt. His short hair was silver-blond and his ruddy clean-shaven face was that of man in his late thirties.
“Some,” Louis said with a smile. “But I’m no good at it.”
“Maybe because you think of it only as a game,” the man said. “It’s more than that. It’s science, poetry, mystery. Just when you think you are solving its secrets, it thwarts you.”
“I never learned the strategy, I guess,” Louis said.
The chief came forward to take to pawn from Louis. “Anyone can learn strategy,” he said. “Courage is what really counts, courage to use original moves that surprise your opponent.”
Louis nodded, as if he understood.
“Like a Marshall swindle, or a Lucena position,” the chief went on. He saw the blank look on Louis’s face and smiled. “Or a gambit. You know what a gambit is, don’t you?”
Louis shook his head.
“The gambit is when you sacrifice one of your pieces to throw an opponent off,” the chief said. “There are many different kinds — the Swiss gambit, the classic bishop sacrifice, the Evans gambit. These moves are what elevate the game to artistry.”
Louis nodded, half expecting the man to ask him to play as part of the interview.
The chief picked up Louis’s application from the desk. Louis found himself staring directly into the man’s face. It was chiseled, with a jutting jawline, broad forehead and strong brows shielding eyes the color of pale sapphires. Louis thought of a photograph in the
Louis’s eyes dropped to the desk, looking for a nameplate. There was none.
“So why’d you leave your last job?” the chief asked, looking up.
“It was personal. It didn’t work out.”
“I called down there, you know, to your little town in Mississippi.”
Great, Louis thought. “Who did you talk to?”
“A man named Junior Resnick.”
Louis kept his face impassive. What a reference.
The chief gave an odd smile. “The man’s obviously an idiot but he likes you. Says that you’ve got no sense of humor but you’re a smart guy.”
“I’m surprised. We had our differences.”
The chief gazed at Louis, as if taking his physical measure. “Investigator,” he said, tossing the application on the desk. “Impressive title for someone who hasn’t seen his thirtieth birthday yet.”
“That’s all it was, a title.”
“Well, when we give titles here it means something. That’s why we have so few.” He held up the pawn and smiled. “But even a pawn can win a promotion, maybe become a knight or a bishop, right?”
Louis nodded. The chief put the pawn back in its place.
“Tell me,” he said, turning, “did you get the respect you deserved down there or was it as hard as I suspect?”
Well, that was a unique way to ask if being a black cop in the South was a problem. “Respect doesn’t come automatically with the uniform down there,” Louis said.
“It does here,” the chief said. He went to his desk and pulled a pack of Camels from a drawer. He lit one and took a quick drag as he hefted a hip on the desk. Louis noticed how sharply creased his pants were. You could cut bread on them.
Louis stared at him.
“Do you speak French?”
Louis shook his head.
“It’s Baudelaire. ‘There exists only three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the soldier, the poet. To know, to kill, to create.’” He smiled. “We’re neither priests nor poets. That leaves soldiers.”
He blew out a stream of smoke. His eyes seemed to turn cooler as he considered Louis. “I can train a man to
