After a second, Evan hung his head. He came close to whispering, 'That's the way I feel.' Raising his eyes, he looked across the top of the desk. 'So how am I screwing up? On the job, I mean.'
In spite of military guidelines supposedly guaranteeing that police officers who got deployed to active duty from the reserves or the National Guard would be returned to their civilian work without demotion or loss of time served, Evan's assignment since he'd come back to work as a Redwood City patrolman was roving grammar school officer for the Drug Abuse Resistance Education (DARE) program. In that role, he visited classrooms of fourth-, fifth-, and sixth-graders all over the city, spreading the doctrine of clean and sober living. Though it wasn't a technical demotion and paid what he was making when he'd been called up, it still was not a job normally held by someone with three full years on the force. But it was the only opening they'd had when he was discharged and ready to go back to work, and he had taken it.
Now Lochland reached out and took a small stack of papers from his top tray. Removing the paper clip from the top, he leafed through them quickly-there were perhaps a dozen pages-then put them all down on his desk. 'I don't think we have to go over these one by one, Ev. They're pretty much the same.'
Evan sat stiffly, his back pushed up tight against the chair. He had little doubt as to what the complaints had been about. 'I just can't stand to see these kids who've got everything-I mean
Lochland sat forward, elbows on the desk, hands templed in front of his mouth. 'You're not there to yell at them, Evan. You can't let yourself lose your temper.'
'They don't listen, Lieutenant! They don't listen to a word I say. They've got everything going for them in the whole world and they don't give a good goddamn!'
'Still…' Lochland pushed the papers around in front of him. 'The point is, school's out soon enough anyway. Anywhere you get assigned next, I solemnly promise you'll have more aggravation than these kids could give you on their best day. Serious aggravation. You can't go out there on the streets half-cocked and ready to explode. That just can't be any part of the job.' He pulled himself up in his chair, lowered his voice. 'Look, Evan, we're all proud as hell of you, of what you've done, of the fact that you've come back at all. You're our poster boy too. But you've got to get yourself under control. You've got to let this stuff go.'
'Yes, sir. I know I do. I'm sorry.'
'Sorry's a good start, but I'm thinking maybe you want to think about anger management, maybe take a class, maybe talk to somebody, some professional. I'm afraid that if I get any more complaints after this little talk, it won't be a request. And next time we'll have an HR person in here with us. Understand?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You think you can do this?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I think you can, too, Evan. But get some help. And some sleep.'
'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'll try.'
He wasn't supposed to engage in any sports that had a physical risk or contact element for at least another year and, depending on his follow-up neurological examinations, maybe forever. This left out his favorites, softball and basketball-he'd been active at least a couple of nights every week on a city-league men's team in both sports before he'd been deployed. But the police department had a bowling league and while it wasn't much in the way of exercise, it was something to do to get out of the apartment at night and mix with some of his colleagues, even if they were generally from a somewhat different subset-heavier, slower, and older-from the softball and basketball guys.
The positive aspect of this population was that it included men who had attained seniority or rank-Evan's three teammates included two sergeant detectives and a lieutenant. All of whom were more than happy to have recruited a returning young war hero with an average of 191-they all thought the kid had a chance to seriously turn pro. He was a natural. Tonight his three-game score of 621 was fifty points better than any of them individually, and more than enough to ensure the Totems' victory over their opponents, the Waterdogs.
'So here's to the Totems,' intoned robbery-division sergeant Stan Paganini, hoisting a gin and tonic in the Trinity Lanes bar after the games, 'and their upcoming undefeated season.'
Lieutenant Fred Spinoza raised his glass of bourbon on the rocks. 'And to our own uncontested rookie of the year,
'They ought to write you up, Ev. Get your name in the sports page.' This was white-collar-division sergeant Taylor Blades, drinking a Brandy Alexander.
'Thanks anyway, guys.' Evan had acquired a taste for scotch but couldn't afford any of the single malts, so he was drinking a Cutty Sark and soda on the rocks. 'But I've been in the paper enough to last me for a while.'
'Yeah, but not as a sports hero,' Paganini said. 'You get known as a sports hero, you become a babe magnet. It's a known fact.'
'He's got a point,' Spinoza acknowledged. 'Your teammates could benefit too. We could pick off stragglers from the swarm around you. Think about that, what it could mean to us and our happiness.'
'Yeah, but you guys are all married anyway,' Evan said. 'You'd just get in trouble. And besides which I think the whole babe-magnet question in an amateur bowling league, even if it's a really good article, is going to be more or less underwhelming.'
'No!' Blades said. 'There's got to be bowling groupies. In fact, I think I see a bunch of 'em coming in right now. Maybe the word got out about your set already.' He snapped his fingers. 'YouTube. Somebody was filming you on their cell phone, and they posted it right up, and all these chicks…'
But Spinoza was holding out a hand, stopping Blades midrant. 'Ev?' he said. 'Is everything all right?'
In the bathroom, Evan threw water in his face a few times, checking his reflection in the mirror to make sure nothing showed in his expression. When he went back to the guys, he told them that he'd just gotten whacked by a wave of dizziness-an occasionally recurring symptom from his head wound. He excused himself, apologizing for raining on the postgame parade, saying he thought he'd better go home early, like now, and lie down, if he was going to be any good for work the next day.
Instead, he went outside and moved his car to the back of the parking lot so they wouldn't see it when they left. A half hour later, after he'd seen them all leave, he got out of the car and walked back into the alley, where he took a stool at the bar and ordered another Cutty Sark, a double this time, on the rocks.
Tara's lane wasn't fifty feet from where he sat. She was with three girlfriends, all of them acting animated and happy. She wore a short white polka-dotted red skirt that showed off her shapely legs, and on top, a red spaghetti-strap silk blouse that he fancied he could see shimmering to the beat of her heart.
Drinking off his scotch in a couple of swallows, he ordered another double and watched the group of young men from the next alley strike up, if not a conversation, then from the body language a running, flirtatious banter. At least, Evan thought, she wasn't here with Ron Nolan. That would have been very hard to take, far harder than seeing her alone, which was difficult enough. Was she still seeing him, he wondered, or could she in fact be unattached again? And if she was unattached…?
But what was he thinking? This was the woman who hadn't even cared about his near-death in Iraq. Whose self-righteousness made her write him off forever when he was simply trying to do his duty. Who never even wrote him one letter or returned one e-mail from the minute he left.
Looking at her now, so carefree, it suddenly seemed impossible to him that the person he'd known and loved for two years had changed so much. She had always had strong opinions, but one of her best traits, and what his mother had always loved about her the most, was her innate kindness. Tara had always been a good person. What had happened that had changed her so very much?
