She finally took off the wire-rim glasses and slid them into the pocket of her work smock. She looked good with or without glasses.
Intelligent, nice, pretty.
Off-limits, out-of-bounds, off your radar charts, I reminded myself.
I could almost feel a ruler rap across my knuckles.
Faster than I would have thought possible, she slid a snubnose.38 Special out of an open drawer on the right side of the desk.
She didn't point it in my direction, but she easily could have.
Easily.
“I lived in this neighborhood for a lot of years,” she explained.
Then she smiled and put the gun away. “I try to be prepared for whatever might happen,” she said calmly 'And shit does happen around here. I knew you were there in the doorway, Detective.
The kids claim I have eyes in the back of my head. Actually, I do.'
She laughed again. I did like her laugh. Anyone with a pulse would. Say goodnight, Alex.
I had mixed feelings about civilians owning guns, but I was sure hers was registered and legal. “You learn to use that revolver in the neighborhood?” I asked.
“No, actually, I learned at the Remington Gun Club out in Fairfax. My husband was, is, worried about my coming to work here, too. You men seem to think alike. Sorry, sorry,” she said and smiled again. “I try to catch myself when even I say outrageous sexist things like that. I don't like that. No how, no way Sorry.”
She stood up and flicked off the Mac laptop on her desk. “I'll walk you to the front door,” she said. “Make sure you get out safely, since it's well after four.”
“That's a good idea.” I went along with her little joke. She had me smiling some, anyway That was pretty good, under the circumstances of the past few days. 'Are you always this funny?
This loose?'
She tilted her head again. It was something she did often. Then she nodded confidently. “Always. At least this funny Those were my two vocational choices: comedienne or educator. Obviously, I chose comedienne. More laughs here. Honest laughs. Most days, anyway”
The two of us walked down the deserted halls of the school together. Our footfalls made clapping sounds that echoed loudly The “Shoop Shoop” song played inside my head, the tune she'd been humming in her office. There were lots more questions I wanted to ask her, but I knew I shouldn't be asking some of them.
They had nothing to do with the murder case.
When we got to the school's front door, a husky, middle-aged security guard was there to let me out. He surprised me. I hadn't seen him on my way in.
He had a thick wooden nightstick and a walkie-talkie. It was the look and feel of D.C. schools that I knew all too well.
Guards, metal detectors, steel-mesh screens covering every window.
No wonder the people of the neighborhood hate and fear all established institutions, even their own schools.
“Goodnight, sir,” the school guard said with a most congenial smile. “You be leaving soon, Mrs. Johnson?”
“Pretty soon,” she said. “You can go home if you want to, Lionel. I have my Uzi inside.”
Lionel laughed at her joke. She had very good delivery, good timing. I'll bet she could have done some stand-up work if she'd wanted.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Johnson,” I said. I couldn't help adding, “Please be careful until this case is over.”
She stood just inside the heavy wooden door. She looked so wise, and she was attractive, in my way of viewing the world. “It's 'Christine,'” she said, “and I will be careful. I promise. Thank you for stopping by.”
Christine! Jesus! It was the same name I'd made up for her.
Probably I'd heard it somewhere before, from Damon or Nana, but it seemed so strange. Kind of magical, actually. Would have made James Redfield happy as hell.
I went home that evening thinking about the two child murders, and Jack and Jill, but also about the principal of the Sojourner Truth School. She was wise, funny, and pretty, too. She could take care of herself-- even handle a gun.
Mrs. Johnson.
Christine.
Shoop. Shoop. Shoop. Shoop.
IN THIS DANGEROUS AGE, everybody needs to think, It won't happen to me. Not to me. What are the odds of it actually happening to me?
The motion picture actor Michael Robinson thought it was absurd and more than a little self-absorbed for him to be concerned or afraid of the maniac killers on the loose in Washington.
What did the malicious Jack and Jill threats have to do with him, anyway? The answer, it seemed clear to him, was nothing at all.
Still, he was a trifle skittish and jumpy, so he tried to enjoy the adrenaline rush, to go with the nasty flow of the moment, of the times we live in.
